The Demotion Ch. 02

Why did this yearning overpower my sense of discomfort at Diwa staring at me? I felt that my outrage should have inspired me to say something; to assert my rights to privacy and dignity. But my desire to look my best for Diwa and the other staff overpowered my indignation. At the time, I didn't understand why. At the time, I didn't realize that I was being systematically groomed and broken down. Broken down to be something lesser than myself.

After folding my pants on top of my tank top, I turned to take the outfit from its hanger. Diwa's eyes darted immediately to my behind.

"Oh my," Diwa said, "my girl is draggin' a wagon! No wonder you look so good in those yoga pants!"

I blushed. "Oh, it's nothing like yours. As my nieces would say, you really are 'body goals.'"

"Well don't sell yourself short, Love," Diwa motioned broadly toward my body and winked, "but I'm glad you noticed."

The tension eased a bit. And my stomach was completely aflutter from Diwa's compliment. I confidently pulled the uniform down from its hanger and started working on the buttons.

Why were there so many buttons? To make matters worse, they were slightly plush and barely small enough to fit through their holes. I spent minutes just opening the front. Eventually, I lowered the uniform by my feet so that I could step into it.

I hesitated. Though I couldn't explain it, I felt as if I was about to cross a threshold of no return. I had worn the uniform before, so why did the thought of wearing one that was custom tailored for me feel so foreboding? Why did I feel that, once I pulled this up and buttoned it, something would permanently change?

"It's okay, Hun," Diwa's voice interrupted my rumination, "I know it's hard right now, but you'll get used to it. And no matter what, my Lovely, I'm here for you."

I didn't know whether it was her disarming, empathetic tone, or her charming pet names. But I exhaled and stepped into the outfit. The fabric brushed my skin as I pulled the outfit up and onto my shoulders. Even if demeaning, at least the fabric felt expensive.

Most of my clothes at home--albeit not cheap by any means--felt much thinner and cheaper than this uniform. I had an ex-boyfriend who used to complain about 'shrinkflation,' and how consumer products were just 'not the same quality that they used to be.' I wondered if typical clothes used to feel thicker and hardier, like the uniform that I was pulling up to my body.

My hands moved toward the first of the buttons. One at a time, I struggled to push the plush little head through their tight holes.

"Fuck," I murmured, mostly to myself, "do I have to do this every fucking morning?"

"Janet," Diwa's voice was slightly more forceful, "You can do this. You must do this. And it's going to be okay. The sooner you get used to it, the sooner it feels normal, the better off you'll be."

She watched my hands intently. Why was she so invested in putting me in this uniform? At a deeper level, did it make her feel better about being relegated from working as a doctor to as a nurse (and apparently as a maid in the evening) here on the other side of the world? Did she want company in her situation? Did it make her feel powerful to help push another into the same place?

I kept working my hands, buttoning up the top of the uniform. I felt it become snugger against my body as I worked the buttons. The skirt of the uniform started to tighten against my ass and hips. The mid-section started to tighten against the small of my back, accentuating the curve of my ass. As I continued buttoning, the sides came in on my waist, moving up to the undersides of my arms. This uniform was meant to be tight.

Something fastening these buttons resonated with a sense of finality. It was as if I had assented to my demotion. All my arduous work in med school, internships, and residency seemed to slip away with every fastened button. I wasn't 'Dr. Janet Nguyen, MD.' As I fastened this antiquated, form-fitting, gendered thing, I lowered myself. I was 'Nurse Janet' now, and I had accepted this position by fastening the uniform.

I finally got to the chest. My breasts were never enormous--my body was more of a pair shape, with round thighs and a bubble butt--but my breasts still burst between the unbuttoned fabric. I had to exhale to continue buttoning up the chest. Even then, you could clearly see the outline of my tits through the white fabric.

Diwa's smile grew at my discomfort. While I appreciated her compliment earlier, her enjoyment of this borderlined predatorial. She stood up and walked toward me as I fiddled with my last button.

"Hey," I whined, "could you get this one for me? This last button is a lot tighter than the others.

"No," Diwa replied flatly, "you need to work for this. And it's important that you do it yourself."

"Well, the button head isn't squeezing through! Can I just leave this one undone? This looks good anyway, right?"

"No."

Diwa stood about six inches from me. With the slight lift in her white Mary Janes, she was looking down at me. I could feel her breath on my skin. She took my hands in hers and moved my fingers to that unruly button.

Diwa elaborated. "It sounds weird, but you're trying too hard. If you try to force this one through, it won't give. Just relax, turn it to the side a bit like this," manipulating my fingers, she slid the button on its side, "and push it through the hole. Don't push too hard; just accept your own weakness and the button will push through with ease."

She was right. I didn't understand why she felt compelled to tell me to 'accept my own weakness'--I was a med school grad, for fuck's sake. But as soon as I let up on the pressure, the button slid right through.

"Good girl," Diwa placed her forehead against mine while reaching over to the hanger, taking the shoes in her hand. Maintaining her hypnotizing eye contact, Diwa placed the shoes in my hands.

"Now put these on," she instructed.

As I knelt on the bench, I was hyperaware of our relative posture. I was on one knee in front of Diwa, with my head level with her waist. Something about this position highlighted my descent into servitude. As if to accent my descent, Diwa placed her hand on the side of my head and pushed my head to rest on her thigh. From the wrong angle, she would have looked like some guy who was about to face-fuck me in a bad porn movie.

I slid my foot into the first shoe, then fastened the little buckle. I put my knee down to prepare to put on the other shoe. For a moment, I was kneeling on both knees in front of Diwa, resting the side of my head against her thigh. I didn't know why I stayed here for a moment to breathe. Something about this felt... correct.

After a moment, I slid my other foot around and fastened the white Mary Jane shoe onto it. Diwa patted the side of my head.

"Good girl."

I tried to stand up, but Diwa's hand kept my head firmly against her thigh. She took the hat off the hanger and lowered it onto my head. In a perverse way, I felt like she was crowning me in a warped medieval story.

Diwa relaxed her hand from my head, took my chin, and turned me toward the wall mirror. I put my other knee down, just kneeling at her feet.

In the mirror, I saw the finished product. And I hated what I saw. Yet my thighs and stomach tingled at the image.

Diwa and I were wearing the same form-fitting, antiquated nurse uniform. The hems of both of our uniforms came far above the knees. The cut of the uniforms pulled in our lower backs to accentuate our asses. I had never invested in a personally tailored outfit--my ass had never looked so firm and tight. The uniform had the same effect on our tits. While I was never 'busty' per se, something about the support built into the uniform pushed my breasts up and slightly together. We looked like a couple of bombshells.

But I was still kneeling at Diwa's feet. I hadn't realized until looking at myself in the mirror, but my face was contorted in a mixture of sorrow and disgust. My inner lips were pushed up while the corners of my mouth creased down into a frown. My inner eyebrows were pointed upward, like a puppy from whom you just took a favorite toy.

By contrast, Diwa looked down at me in the mirror with a triumphant grin. Her eyes were narrowed and her crooked half-smile taunted me as if she had beaten me in some game. Her hand mockingly stroked and patted the side of my head while I knelt at her feet.

"You are perfect," Diwa announced, "I knew that you'd be perfect for this. Such a good girl. Now stand up, Darling."

I quietly obeyed. Diwa leaned forward, resting her forehead on mine.

"I cannot describe how much I'm going to enjoy mentoring you."

With that, she tilted her head, and kissed me. First, her upper lip inserted itself between mine. Then her pouty lower lip touched my jaw, sucking my lower lip into her mouth. Her right hand gripped my lower back, pulling me into her so that I couldn't get away. Her left hand gripped the back of my head, pushing me into her violation.

Diwa's action stunned me. But I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it. I didn't reciprocate, but just stood there like a zombie until she released me.

"Wh-what the fuck, Diwa!?" I was incensed. "What the fuck was that!? You can't just fucking kiss people without their permission! And y-you're my fucking boss!"

Diwa looked like a cat with the canary's feathers poking out of its mouth.

"Can't I? We both know that you've been eyeing me since you got here. We both know that you're not going to do anything about it. We both know that you liked it. And let's be honest Janet, we both know that you hope I do it again."

"Th-that doesn't fucking matter, Diwa! Arousal is not consent!"

My voice quivered in my confusion. I felt violated. But I also felt humiliated knowing that everything Diwa had just said was one-hundred percent true.

"And Janet, good girls don't use that kind of language to their mentors. If you cuss at me again, then I will get a wooden spoon from the kitchen."

"W-what? Y-you can't be serious. I'm not a child. You're not going to s-," I struggled, barely able to get the word out, "s-spank me! I'm a grown-ass woman."

"When you use that kind of language, you're a bad girl. But you and I need to be good girls for Dr. Ramos."

Occasionally, we all hear something that surprises us with our own bodily response. This was one of those moments. At the words, 'bad girl' and 'good girl,' I exhaled and inhaled sharply. Fuck, that turned me on. This woman had forced me into a uniform--a uniform that made me feel like a piece of ass. This woman had just assaulted me. This woman had just threatened to spank me. And I was ashamed to admit how much this exercise of power turned me on. Telling me that I was a bad girl, and that she would make me a good girl for Dr. Ramos, nearly put me over the edge. I worried that a growing wet spot on the front of my uniform would betray me, but I dared not look down to check.

Diwa was patient as I collected myself. "It's okay Janet. I know that this is all new to you. It was new to me too. And I want to acknowledge that all of this seems strange. But remember, I'm here for you, Darling. I care about you--I really mean that. But as nurses in this hospital, we're first and foremost to be good girls for Dr. Ramos."

What happened to her? This woman used to be an MD from Florida. But then the company demoted her to being a nurse--a less prestigious position here than the 'RNs' back home--wearing a uniform that made her look like a fuckdoll from the 1930s, talking about being 'good girls' for the doctors here. Had they drugged her? Was this some kind of hazing meant to break us like horses? What the hell was going on?

Diwa touched the side of my neck with her fingers, then slid her hand forward, resting her palm on my jaw and running her fingers through my hair. I hated myself for how much I enjoyed that. And I felt profound shame that I rested my face into her touch.

"Janet, I know that you've been living in a hotel. I know that you see this as a temporary job. And I know that you see this as beneath you. But you're not going to be happy with that mindset. I had to learn that the hard way. Let me help you."

My lips trembled and my face crumpled. I didn't want to be here. I especially didn't want to stay here. I didn't want to accept the reality that I had no control whatsoever over how long I'd be here. I didn't want to accept anything about this. But despite acting as my prison warden, Diwa's offer felt like a lifeline.

Diwa went on. "How about this. Let me talk to Dr. Ramos. I'll see if he'd be willing to swing us by your hotel to get a few things, then maybe you can stay the night at his place. You can sleep in my room if he's not willing to give you a room on your own for now. Sleeping in a real home would be so much better than sleeping in that dingy hotel, even for one night, right?"

My eyes were damp as I nodded my head.

"That's a good girl, Janet. Now we have a full day ahead of us. You'll start with changing sheets and cleaning rooms. In the next few weeks, you'll start talking to patients--the English-speaking ones anyway--and introducing them to doctors. You're going to like it here if you just give it a chance. If you just act like a good girl."

Diwa took my hand in hers and led me out of the locker room. I started to accept that Diwa was right. I started to accept that I would need to find a sense of normalcy here. I started to accept that I would be happier if, at least for now, I was a good girl.

***TO BE CONTINUED***