The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 03

Chapter 3: Embracing my Identity

I quickly arrived at the department store. I hadn't prepared for the oft-changing Portland weather, so when I arrived, my shirt was damp from a sudden downpour. Luckily, the women's clothing section was in the back of the first floor. I dreaded the possibility of anyone seeing me--an Asian man in his early 20s--perusing the women's clothing section. Even if it were true in my case, I did not want to reinforce that stereotype.

This was only a department store, so I doubted that I'd find anything too "interesting" re: panties or lingerie. I decided on following James's instructions to the letter. "Buy yourself some panties and lingerie," he'd instructed, "my favorite color is lime-green, so I expect several pieces in that shade. Get a few skirts and dresses as well."

In short, I needed panties, something that resembled lingerie (or whatever would be available here), some skirts, and some dresses.

I wasn't willing to take any of that to the dressing room. At least I didn't yet dare to show my items to a clerk. Nope. So I wouldn't be using a dressing room today.

As I planned my little shopping excursion, I was acutely aware that I didn't expect this to be the last time that I would be out buying outfits to wear for James. Was this acceptance of a new role? Or was this me excitedly leaning into a new identity?

I grabbed a cart and headed for the dresses first. I would shop in reverse order based on my shame tolerance. I settled on a few dresses--several in a lime-green shade--of varying sizes. I hoped that at least a few of them fit so that I could gauge for the future what sizes to buy. I picked a tight, black dress that looked like it would come to just above my knees. The top sloped down in a steep "V" shape. I wasn't sure how it would look, exposing my weak and pathetic chest, but I liked the cut. This would be my "LBD." I also picked out a red dress that exposed the chest and shoulders through a lacy pattern and a green dress with spaghetti straps. Nothing extravagant or exotic.

I then moved on to the skirts. I could tell that James enjoyed Tiffany's schoolgirl outfit from before, so I picked up some pleated skirts in various colors and sizes. I also chose some crop-tops and blouses, mostly in shades of white or black. That should give me a few 'shy school girl' looks.

Finally, I moved on to the underwear section. The part that I'd dreaded most. I quickly went through the underwear section, placing things that looked sexy in the cart. I wasn't sure what would fit me--much less accentuate my ass--so I tried to guess as rapidly as I could. I tended toward thong-style and lacy panties. Similar to what Tiffany would have worn when James fucked her.

I finally stopped at the small selection of lingerie. There wasn't much to select from. Further, I had a slender figure with no curves to speak of. Thus, I opted for two baby doll nighties; one blue and one red.

I had been lucky so far in that I hadn't run into any shoppers. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a condescending stare or giggle from some random Karen. But my gratitude was short-lived. As I fumbled through the nighties looking for something in my size, I heard the dreaded words from behind me, "can I help you with something?"

I turned around to see a cute little brunette smiling at me. She was white, slim, and looked like she was in her early twenties. Her name tag said "Amy." Amy's eyes darted from me, down to the nighties in my hands, and over to the contents of my shopping cart.

"T-thanks," I stuttered with wide-eyed chagrin, "but I'm good."

"Of course," Amy sounded suspicious as she side-eyed me and the contents of my cart. She probably thought that I was some pervert buying all of this by myself. I didn't even know if 'pervert' would be a mischaracterization.

Amy looked curious. "Is this all for your girlfriend? Is she here?"

Why was she so persistent? Did I look like a shoplifter? Or was she just enjoying herself at my expense? I wanted to lie. I wanted to make something up, however unbelievable, to ease the tension and get the hell out of there. But James's words rung heavily in my mind. "If anyone asks you what you're buying or why you're buying it," James had commanded, "you're not going to lie to them. You'll tell them that your 'Daddy' instructed you to do this."

It occurred to me that James likely intended this command to break me psychologically. I didn't know if breaking my will had been James's plan from the start, but thus far, he had succeeded wildly.

My mind raced as Amy looked at me, expecting an answer. James probably wouldn't know if I just lied to Amy. James probably wouldn't find out. It's not like James knew Amy. Though, as far as I knew, Amy could be another local notch among many in James's bedpost. But his words hung with a weighted authority in my mind. Even if James would never find out, it seemed like lying to Amy--and thereby disobeying James--would be intrinsically wrong. As if James was some god or king that I ought not to disobey.

I took a deep breath and looked Amy in the eye.

"My Daddy told me to buy these."

Amy narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth in shock before the corners of her mouth turned upward. She giggled awkwardly. "Okay then," she scoffed as her inner eyebrows went up, "have fun with that." She walked away chuckling.

Shit. Was this what I was getting into? A life of scoffing and contempt from women?

The image of Tiffany's contemptuous, condescending glare from the day prior flashed before my eyes.

'No,' I mumbled to myself, 'I already get nothing but scoffs and contempt from women. At least now I accept myself for what I am.'

I quickly moved to the self-checkout and paid for my items. More precisely, I paid with the cash that James had thrown on me as if I were a cheap whore. Not that the implication didn't fit the facts.

Avoiding eye contact with the store security officer, I bagged up my new outfits--the new expressions of my identity--and walked back to James's house. The rain subsided as the sun started to set. It was nearly dark when I opened the front door.

As I entered the house, I could see James sitting in the living room reading a finance magazine. As much of a racist and a doofus as James could be, I admired that he always kept up with economic news and current events.

James started talking without even looking up from his magazine. "Kimmy! Glad to have you back. Go up to your room and change into one of your new outfits. And bring down all of your boy clothes. You can keep a few mens' outfits for work--for now--but I want you to bring everything else down."

What did he mean, 'for now'? "Wait, what? All of my mens' clothes?"

This response got James's attention. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and set down his magazine as he stood up. As he walked toward me, our height difference became more salient. He towered over me and looked at me with a disapproving glare.

Just like before, childhood messages of inferiority weighed on me like a ton of bricks. It was as if each little jab at my masculinity, humanity, and dignity during my life was a brick, and the entire pallet of bricks weighed on my shoulders at this moment. My sister only fucked white men--a brick. The white men in her life treated her like property--another brick. My sister gleefully accepted those relationships--another brick. Tiffany, James's Asian hookup from the night before, was disgusted by my presence--another brick. That Tiffany dressed up like a schoolgirl fetish model for James, the powerful white man of the house--another brick. Brick, brick, brick.

Under the weight of every reminder of my inferiority as an Asian male, I crumbled. My shoulders dropped. I looked down at James's feet.

"S-so s-sorry!" That my crumpling posture looked like a bow made the implications of the racial dynamic even heavier. One more brick.

James laughed and reached his cocky hand over to my chin, lifting my face to look at him. "Sorry, what?" James demanded.

"S-sorry, Sir!"

"Good girl. Now go up to your room and do as you're told."

"Yes, Sir."

My outward expression of subservience reinforced my submission and weighed against my dignity. More bricks.

I scurried up the stairs and to my bedroom. I stripped out of my clothes and put on a pair of green, lacy panties and a blue baby doll nightie. I hoped that the green panties (James's favorite color) would be a sufficient gesture to show my submission. Further, I was pretty sure that James's favorite football team used those colors for their merchandise. I couldn't keep up with sports news, but I remembered that the team was out of Seattle. I hoped that James would appreciate the little gesture.

Other than the nightie and the panties, I was completely naked and barefoot.

I tore through my closet and dresser, putting my old clothes into bags. I didn't have many outfits. This was a byproduct of not being in a great financial situation. And given my slender figure, my clothes didn't take up much room. I was able to fit everything into two duffel bags and a small laundry basket. I carried it all downstairs.

I heard James call me from the back door. James's house had a sliding glass door that led to a rear patio. Behind the patio, he had a little fireplace. He often took girls out there to talk around a fire after he fucked them.

As I stepped out of the sliding glass door, I could see that James had stacked some wood into the fireplace. James stood by the fireplace, admiring his work.

"Do you have everything?" James didn't bother to look at me as I stepped out onto the patio. As the cold air hit my exposed and vulnerable skin, I was grateful that dusk had fully set and that the neighbors probably couldn't see me.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good girl." James turned around and smiled like a devious buffoon when he saw my outfit.

"My, my," James said with a low, seductive voice, "somebody went above and beyond. I can tell that you're into this. And the color scheme is a nice touch."

James didn't once look me in the face. His eyes were too busy exploring my exposed and vulnerable body.

"Thank you, Sir," was all I managed to get out.

James put out his hands expectantly, "give me the bags and the basket."

I obeyed.

James laid the bags against the woodpile and emptied the contents of the basket onto the wood. He then picked up a bottle of lighter fluid and doused the entire pile. James took a few steps back and procured a matchbook from his pocket. He pulled out a match, held it up at the level of his head, and turned to look at me.

"Kimmy," James said, "do you understand what we're doing."

"I think so, Sir."

"Do you understand that you've failed as a man?"

I wanted to run back into the house, cover myself, and curl into a little ball. But I didn't dare break James's gaze. "Yes, Sir."

"And do you understand that, frankly, you've failed as a professional?"

My cheeks burned red with shame and rage. But I couldn't deny it. Despite everything I've accomplished academically, I couldn't keep an account to save my life. James--the racist asshole that he was--wasn't wrong in his distinction between technical skills and leadership skills. And he was the leader.

"Yes, Sir."

"Now this is important," James continued as he lit the match and held it toward me, "you're going to take this and throw it on the pile. Don't get too close; I don't want that lovely skin of your getting burnt. But this is a symbol of where you're going in life. Of what you're giving up. Once you do this, you're mine."

I gulped and stepped forward, taking the match from James's hand. I looked at James, then look at the little pyre of the last vestiges of my masculinity, and I threw the match.

My throw completely missed the pyre. My match died on the ground, a foot in front of the pyre, which remained completely cool and unburnt. I stood and stared at the dead match with a shameful gasp.

James nearly died with laughter. "Here," James interrupted himself with another belly laugh, "Here you are, symbolically burning the last bits of your manhood, and you can't even throw this fucking match five feet." James busted up in laughter for several more moments.

After he was able to stand upright again, James shook his head and put his palm against his temple, as if to shield his shit-eating from the lights of the house. "I can't believe how pathetic you are, Kimmy."

James lit another match and looked at me. "Maybe this is an omen, Kimmy. You're too much of a little bitch to even take care of this yourself. You need a real man to guide you along."

He maintained eye contact with me as he tossed the match in front of him. Even without looking, he hit the pyre, which blazed brightly when the match made contact with the lighter fluid.

"That's how you do it," James smirked. James stepped toward me and put his hand around my waist as we watched my jeans, my button-downs, my running shorts, and all of my other 'masculine' clothes whither and burn.

After the fire died down, and all that remained of my outward expressions of manhood was ashy tatters (a fitting metaphor), James slapped me on the ass and turned me toward the house.

"Go inside and get ready for bed," James ordered, "you'll be sleeping in my room tonight. It's cold, and you'll be keeping me warm."

A cocktail of emotions grew in my stomach at James's command. On one hand, I was terrified of what James would do to me. Was he about to face-fuck me? Or would he just fuck me? Did I have a real choice in the matter? Or would I just crumble under that pile of shame bricks and obey any of James's orders?

On the other hand, I couldn't deny the warm excitement that grew inside of me. James had a great cock, and I felt perverse gratitude that I was the one who might be pleasing it tonight.

"And keep that outfit on," James continued, "we need to do something about how skinny you are, but you're still pretty fuckable in that."

Welp, there I had it. James was about to claim me in a big way.

**TO BE CONTINUED**