Is that normal? Perhaps for some the emotions run forever. Not yours, at least. Sometimes it seems like hers do. Burning bright for ten billion years like the fire of the sun. For you, time passes. Things end. Life continues.

Just as well, she continues the routine, of course. Stuffs you into a pretty dress. Petticoat holds up pink flower patterns. Corset tied tight until any motion rings a reminder. Cutesy tiara tucked into hair so you move your head slowly. And after showing you your new reflection, she takes you out on a walk.

As you cross the door to outside, you look up and see the yellow gem hanging in the sky over the lake. Clouds pass over it, but its light pierces right through them. Unavoidable realities.

“You know, pretty soon winter's going to start,” she says. “Either I'll have to stick you in a different genre of outfit or we won't be able to go outside anymore.”

At one point she tried taking you around by a leash, but it was a bit past your tolerances. And then the next time she asked, you pre-emptively vetoed it. Too much, too far. Always another time. Or maybe it's just not precisely the fantasy you're after. She's still having you wear the collar out, at least.

“Actually, I have quite a few more outfits planned that I don't think we'll have the weather for. Not for a while,” she says, then tightens her grip around your fingers. “How was your week?”

Where once your steps were timid and careful, now you walk with confidence. Click clack of heels against the pavement. The path is set out before you. Your footsteps occasionally faster than hers, even as her hand is the one guiding you forward. Weaving between leaves that crunch and rocks that children kick.

“It was pretty good, miss,” you say. “I mean, not the best, work still kinda sucks. Remember that old lady who thought I was cis? She's quitting soon.”

These days you spend more time seeing nature than seeing yourself. Once your eyes were turned inward, sneaking glances at your own dress as you looked fearfully around for strangers. Unable to meet their gaze, you'd turn away. Hide behind trees, make yourself small, act normal. It's not an act anymore.

“Aw. I'll miss your stories of her angry ramblings and incomprehensible politics,” she says. “You look really cute today, by the way.”

Now, you're simply smiling. Enjoying the world. Look out towards the lake and see how red and orange infects it. Spreading out across the surface, floating and covering it. Not quite hidden in the leaves, you can see the sun's reflection in the waters.

“I wonder if we'll ever see the lake's surface totally covered by leaves,” you say. “Or will the trees run out first.”

At the end of the lakeside walk lies a strip of shops and a grocery store. A year ago, you outright refused to go inside any of them. A few months in, she would take you into them as a punishment of sorts. Refusal to comply met with forcing you to order yourself ice cream. She chose a new “favorite” flavor you would never have picked for yourself. It tastes like her.

“Do you ever think about how much we've changed?” she asks right before you enter.

You're regulars now. The woman sees you arrive and begins preparing your regular order before she can ask for it. A weekly tradition carved into the world. Two children passing by stare at your dress outright but you don't even look at them. They're the oddity here, not you.

Inside the shop, the sun and its reflection are truly hidden. Can a reflection still be said to exist if it can't be seen? On your work days, are you still the girl in the elaborate dress? Waiting for the ice cream in silence, you ponder how to respond.

Talking in front of strangers while dressed up is still taboo. She never pushed you on that front. Something about cute dolls not talking. Paying only takes her a few seconds, then the two of you are heading to the table. Outside, in celebration of the warmth of distant sunlight.

“I've been thinking about it more recently, miss,” you say as you walk. “Most of the time it feels like it's always been like this. Then I remember to look back, and it feels so strange. Do you ever feel that way, miss?”

Tongue swirls over chunks of strawberry. Catch every last drip before it can fall. On the third visit, the “punishment” was for a drop landing on the dress on the second visit. By the third month, it was simply part of the ritual. Ice cream in a pretty dress. You learned clean eating habits quickly.

“I always try to have a plan for these kinds of scenes,” she says. “Then somewhere along the way I got used to it. I started looking forward to it just as our weekly dates. Power gives way to just wanting to see you.”

You notice her looking at her tongue and smile at her. See the sun in her eyes. Make a teasing face, stick out your tongue further, give an obscene gesture, and watch her turn away in turn. Where your own boundaries expanded, inevitably you found hers. Lines criss cross. ‘Who's really in charge?’ She is, of course.

“Yes, miss? Tell me about it, please.”

The breeze picks up and catches your dress. Hair tossed every which way. Hand held tight on the cone and down on the skirt. She teased you about your first upskirt by strong winds for weeks, even between sessions. Evidently you made this really particular face. Wide eyes looking left and right, shoulders shrinking in, and just a hint of a smile. You make it again, for her amusement.

“You're adorable,” she says. “Let me think.”

Bite into the sugar cone, finish off the last of it. There's a pause. At some point when it shifted from special kink activity to regular dates, the teasing lessened. It became less of a kink thing and more something between art and showing off. Can something ordinary be erotic?

The sun is so pretty at this time of the afternoon. Beginning its descent into the lake. Soon, it'll meet its reflection, and become one with it before disappearing. The only possible conclusion to an ordinary process. Yet, it's still so very beautiful.

"I guess, I've been thinking. When we started, is this where you saw yourself ending up?” she asks. “You were so embarrassed to go out like this, and now this is simply you.

“Maybe you only dress up like this on occasion, but this is who you are to so many people now,” she says. “You're the weird girl in the collar and dress who shows up on Saturdays. I'm the weird girl walking you around.”

Once, the idea inspired fear in you. Speaking of doing this regularly occasionally led to tears. You called off weekends after work went poorly. She congratulated you, perhaps in a teasing way, for how brave you were when we went.

“Now, this is normal,” she says. “This is simply who and what you are. Is this what it is to be a doll? A thing that I dress up and show off. No longer is this exceptional, violating, or peculiar. This is simply how it is.

“And, I just want to know. Are you okay with that? We've started doing other play some other nights of the week. S/m and other kinds of exhibitionism. At some point, this ceased to be a scene, didn't it.

“And so, how does that make you feel? Are you happy with this? Is this enough?”

For a few minutes you're lost in thought. Then as the sun touches down upon the waters, you give her your answer.

.

On days that aren't Saturday, I write short things for my patreon. Somewhere between 'exploratory kink writing' and 'working on getting better at writing'. Then on Saturday I select one of the pieces from the week to share on tumblr. This is that.