I don’t often participate in themed weeks, but when I saw the current Kink Of The Week was “Inspection”, I knew I wanted to write a story for it. It’s one of my favourite kinks in r/l too, and maybe I’ll write a post about that later. But for now, from year’s beginning to year’s end, a tale of uniforms under inspection:
Lizzie took it in stride when Gordon told her he had a thing for women in uniforms. Just one more kink to add to their palette. He’d waited until they were both comfortable with each other, until her submission was no longer something she negotiated within herself each time between caution and arousal, but something she could slip into at a single word from him.
She hadn’t realised how important it would become. How central. How quickly it would take over and become her focus with pinpoint precision.
He first asked for her measurements in the run-up to Christmas. She thought at the time it was for a gift and, while he did send her a sexy lingerie set, the amount of detailed measurements he’d asked for didn’t justify such an off-the-peg gift. It wasn’t until that first Monday after New Year that the real reason arrived.
There was a card attached to the box. Inside, it said, “‘Corporal’ Elizabeth. Wear this when we meet on Saturday. I want you immaculate, with a perfect march, stand to attention, and salute. Mistakes will be corrected and punished. Your Commanding Officer, ‘Captain’ Gordon.”
Lizzie tingled with delight just reading it. The whole idea of a military discipline roleplay excited her fantasies.
Sure enough, the box contained a sexualised soldier’s uniform in what she guessed was dress greens – she didn’t really know enough about the military to be sure what that meant, but this didn’t look like something you’d wear to fight a battle. She tried it on that instant, feeling how closely it hugged her curves and contours, and noting just how short the pleated skirt was. She was fairly sure the heels on the boots were far from standard issue in the army, as were the stockings and suspenders. But it was unmistakably a uniform, a precisely observed uniform that had then been adapted and altered to suit the imagination and desire of her Dom.
She didn’t know exactly what Gordon wanted from her on Saturday, but she knew she would enjoy the repercussions of that, and she would end up being fucked one way or another, so it was all good.
* * *
On Sunday, she rubbed her sore behind ruefully. She’d got nearly everything wrong (of course) and had been made to suffer (how, how delightful at the time!) and denied her orgasm (until she got home and he couldn’t stop her wanking off to the memories, her cheeks burning with the dual shame of her disgraceful appearance in uniform, and his calm assessment and dissection of her failings – and how turned on she was by it.
On Monday, a new uniform arrived.
* * *
Every week from the first Monday of the new year to the last-but-one before Christmas. 50 weeks. 50 different, unique, uniforms. Every month, re-measuring herself so he could be sure the costumes he sent her were the perfect fit.
The definition of uniform was stretched as far as it could reasonably be stretched. Elizabeth (she knew now she was always Elizabeth, with or without a rank, when she was in uniform) had been on tenterhooks each Monday to know who she would be on Saturday. She’d been every branch of the armed forces (in every variety of uniform), every emergency services, a French maid, a Playboy bunnygirl, an air hostess, a pilot, a crew member on a pleasure cruise, various types of sportswoman, a shop worker, a bank cashier, and so many more. The final one was a Christmas elf for the festive season. She’d bought an extra wardrobe just for the uniforms to go in. Just glancing through them was enough to bring back so many hot, submissive memories. And each week, there was a new one to add to the collection.
But she realised, as the year went on, that the uniforms weren’t the point. Yes, Gordon loved fucking her with her skirt around her waist and his hands on her hips, or in her hair, or gripping her tits with the uniform’s lapels spread to expose them. Yes, he got off on having her bend over to take whichever implement he was using to mark off the infractions, or displaying her chest to feel the intensity of the clamps.
But the point, the thing that got him in the mood for all that, was her arrival. The inspection.
Every week, at the same time, knock on the garden gate, wait exactly three seconds, then enter. March, arms swinging but also heel in front of toe so her hips swayed for him, up the garden path to the conservatory, which, come rain or shine, was always open to receive her. Gordon watched every step, every wobble, every hesitation, with those cool, analytical blue eyes. Then she snapped her heels and thighs together, shoulders back, a slight bend to her elbows and her thumbs parallel to the side seam in her skirt. Her chin raised and her gaze directed straight ahead to the back of the house proper. After adopting the pose, she raised her right arm to offer a stiff salute, with her elbow at the exact angle that Gordon specified. She never knew how he could be quite so precise, but it was consistent and when she got it right, she knew it was right, and exactly the same as the other times. When it was wrong, she could generally understand what was different when he pointed it out.
After exactly 3 seconds in the salute, she returned her hand to her side and remained at attention, while Gordon languidly rose from his seat.
It wasn’t just his eyes as he circled her, though that was intimate and intense enough. It was his hands. They inspected her posture and her body in just as much detail. The first circuit was purely inspection, fingertips on her arms and breasts, the back of his hand down her back, a firm grip reaching up under her skirt. She’d flinched the first time, and paid for that with her squeals and (once gagged so it wouldn’t disturb his neighbours) screams later. From ankle to peak of her hat (if the uniform included one), he explored her tense muscles and tender flesh.
Then he started again, this time those hands much firmer, not assessing but correcting. He pulled her limbs into different shapes, tilted her head to the angle he expected, made her redo the salute and adjusted that, too. He picked out the slightest flaws in how she wore the uniform, any asymmetry, anything about how she’d done her hair if it didn’t match the spirit of the uniform’s usual context, and on occasion he had even drawn from his pockets or pouch a brush, hair clips, scrunchies, hair bands or whatever he needed in order to remake her hair in a style he approved of.
In another man, she might have found it presumptuous, overbearing or irritating, and given up on the game. But the absolute attention he gave her, the focus, the tender reshaping, made it clear it wasn’t about him. It was about her being at the centre of this, the focus, the core of the scene. The feeling of being worth this much care and detail was worth every scornful accusation of slovenliness.
She liked the words he used for her. She was never a slut or a slag to him. She was a slattern, slovenly, sloppy, slipshod. She was a disgrace, dirty, dishevelled. The care he put into his language was as arousing as the detail he expected with his eyes and enforced with his hands.
She always knew the inspection was over. His whole face softened, his voice changed, and then he would say, “You can relax now. Come inside and let’s see how badly you fucked up this time, Corporal/Able Seawoman/Constable/etc Elizabeth.”
He somehow knew if she slouched too much as she followed him indoors, but now it was time for punishments and fucks, as much as she could stand, with the ratio being determined by how satisfied he was with her. Either way, it left her sore somewhere on the Sunday morning.
* * *
Christmas was less than a week away.
Elizabeth’s email pinged. It was from Gordon. A video file attachment.
She’d never really thought about the security camera fixed over the back door, inside the conservatory. Never really registered that it was angled to capture her full length when she stood to attention on the exact spot, every week. Never registered it until now.
Ten sets of five Elizabeths in five diverse uniforms, marching up the path, standing to attention, and saluting. She watched herself in amazement as she saw finally what Gordon saw. Saw the shambles she’d been a year ago, the first set of five horribly out of sync with each other. Saw how she’d developed, become crisper, neater, more precise, with each passing month, until the last set (Santa’s sexy elf included) were so exactly in unison that she couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t been all there at the same time and following orders.
There was a link to a Zoom meeting, due to start in 5 minutes. The email ended, “Choose your favourite. Choose a toy. If you pass muster, maybe I’ll get you to use it for me.”