It hung in a silken closet, cruel and biting, waiting for her to step into its graceful hell of bones, laces and hooks.
And when she did, it hemmed her in, unwilling to share her architecture of curves with an envious world. It twisted the pathway of her hips and torso into its own desired journey. The unyielding prison of fabric pressed and bruised her skin like selfish fingers. Covetous fashion had made a cruel pattern that claimed ownership and turned the freedom of her body into a hobbled silhouette.
She balked at the restraints of her expensive harness. But it must love her, she reasoned, because it made her beautiful. So she was patient, and suffered its petty pinches and iron-clad esteem. She accepted its grip as it clutched at her waist, making her gasp for air. She relinquished the individuality of her feminine flesh to the ownership of her greedy dress.
And she was flattered by its attentions as it held her tightly, like a velvet ruffian.