Chapter 4: The Uniform Masterclass

Victoria pointed toward the auxiliary chair Ingrid had used earlier. “Sit,” she commanded. “You will not leave this room until we have finalized the initial corrective measurements.”

Ingrid moved quickly to the chair, folding herself onto the hard surface. She tried to discreetly pull the gaping sides of the blouse together, but it was useless. The popped buttons and broken zipper were too overwhelming to conceal. She crossed her hands tightly in her lap, focusing entirely downward.

Victoria addressed her companions. “Amber, Sienna, initiate the Initial Structural Adjustment Consultation immediately. The current state of the intern’s uniform is, as noted, inadequate for even basic movement.”

Amber stood up from the table instantly. Her expression was one of clinical efficiency. She walked over to the far wall of the conference room where a sleek, recessed cabinet blended seamlessly with the wood paneling. The cabinet had been entirely invisible until that moment. She typed a short code onto a small numeric pad, and the panel slid open silently.

Inside, the cabinet contained several uniform items neatly folded on individual shelves. Amber retrieved a stack of four perfectly white blouses and four navy skirts. Ingrid noticed immediately that these were pristine, never-worn items. They also looked significantly smaller than the one she was currently struggling to contain her body within. The fabric seemed flatter, harsher, designed for a much slighter frame.

Amber returned to the table, placing the stack of blouses and skirts down next to Victoria’s portfolio. The mere sight of the new clothes made Ingrid’s stomach clench.

“We need preliminary size comparison before issuing a temporary adjustment,” Victoria stated, her eyes fixed on Ingrid. “Stand up, Ingrid.”

Ingrid pushed herself up from the chair slowly. She felt every stretched seam and stressed button fighting her. She stood rigidly two feet away from the table, facing Victoria.

Victoria picked up the top blouse from the stack. It was a crisp, startling white, still folded with sharp creases. It was easily two sizes smaller than the one Ingrid wore. Victoria held the garment against Ingrid’s chest, sandwiching it between her hand and Ingrid’s already overwhelmed breasts. The comparison was stark.

“Begin the analysis, ladies,” Victoria instructed, holding the small blouse steady. She used the garment like an architect’s measuring tool, emphasizing the extreme size difference.

Amber stepped closer, peering at the intersection of body and fabric. “The immediate failure is evident in the central dimension,” Amber started, her tone professional and detached. “The fabric is utterly insufficient to cover the apex. Moreover, note the compression lines across the sternum. The garment would achieve a binding effect rather than a covering one.”

Sienna joined the critique from the other side, circling Ingrid slowly. “Observe the necessary volume displacement. The chest requires lateral space. This sample, when applied, results in significant spillage immediately outside the established midline and excessive lateral overflow visible around the armpit and neckline areas.”

Ingrid could feel the fabric of the sample blouse pressing into her. The verbal dissection of her body’s incompatibility with standard feminine clothing was devastating. They were describing her shape as a fault in engineering, not a natural feature. The words were clinical, designed to remove any personal warmth or compassion.

“The visual confirmation is important,” Victoria added, maintaining her grip on the small blouse. “It reinforces the necessity of understanding the structural burden the intern’s body places on the standard uniform matrix. This is not a matter of comfort; it is a matter of professional presentation.”

Victoria removed the sample blouse, letting Ingrid sink relief into the slightly larger confines of her ruined uniform.

“Next, the skirt component,” Victoria decided, pushing the blouses aside.

Amber picked up one of the navy skirts. She held it against Ingrid’s waist. The zipper on the side, identical to Ingrid’s, looked far too short to accommodate her hips.

Sienna took over the detailed critique of the lower garment. “The standard issue skirt is already optimized for a high degree of tension across the hip flexors,” Sienna explained, running her hand flat against the material. “The stress points on the intern’s current skirt, specifically the compromised zipper at the closure, indicate a fundamental structural inadequacy.”

Sienna pointed at the broken zipper on Ingrid’s skirt. “Attempting to force this smaller garment over the intern’s lower torso would likely result in an immediate and catastrophic mechanical failure, likely resulting in a full seam separation even before the zipper reached the closure.”

“Indeed,” Victoria agreed. “The material is designed to stretch, yes, but only within established parameters. The intern’s dimensions exceed that parameter, requiring a new approach to uniform management.”

“We should confirm the failure rate,” Amber suggested, looking at Ingrid. “The assessment requires empirical data validation.”

Victoria nodded. “Ingrid, remove the skirt you are wearing. Try on Sample Skirt One. We will document the attempt.”

Ingrid felt her face flush again. The thought of disrobing in front of the three women was unbearable, even though only the skirt was required. She hesitated, looking toward the far corner of the room.

“There is no time for modesty, Ingrid,” Victoria said sharply, reading her thought. “We are discussing corporate visual identity. This environment requires a professional approach to physical display. Remove the skirt now.”

Ingrid unzipped her already failing skirt. The fabric slid quickly past her hips and pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of it, acutely aware that she was now standing in front of them only in her blouse, which still gaped open dramatically, her bra fully visible, and thin stockings.

Amber handed her Sample Skirt One.

Ingrid gathered the small piece of navy fabric. It felt thin and restrictive. She slipped it over her feet and began to pull it up her legs. It resisted immediately, snagging mid-thigh. She yanked it slightly, but the fabric refused to stretch past the curve of her upper leg.

“Pressure point detected one,” Amber noted, consulting her tablet. “Resistance at the upper femur.”

Ingrid fought the skirt upward, inching it higher. The fabric pulled relentlessly against her skin. She managed, with significant effort, to tug it up as far as her mid-hip.

“Attempted closure,” Victoria prompted.

Ingrid tried to get the zipper up, but the two sides of the zipper flap were nowhere near each other. She could not even gather the seam lines together to start pulling the teeth.

“Failure rate confirmed at zero percent utility,” Amber stated. “The physical dimensions prevent even partial engagement.”

Victoria instructed Amber to hand Ingrid Sample Skirt Two. This skirt was marginally larger, perhaps a quarter-size greater than the first, but still significantly tighter than the one Ingrid had arrived in.

Ingrid removed the first sample skirt and tried the second. The struggle was renewed. She fought the fabric higher, managing to get this one past her hips, but only by straining against the material until her skin felt pressed and pinched.

She reached the zipper. She strained, gripping the fabric firmly, trying to pull the two sides shut. She managed to force the two seam lines together just enough to catch the start of the zipper. She pulled the tiny metal tab upward.

The zipper moved maybe an inch. Then, with a sudden, sharp protest of stressed nylon threads, it stopped completely. She tugged harder, feeling the material on her sides pull so tightly it stung.

“Closure stalled at thirty percent vertical travel,” Amber reported.

Ingrid pulled one more time, exerting her maximum pressure. The result was not progress, but a tiny rip that sounded like a tear in paper, forming near the zipper track.

“Disengage immediately,” Victoria snapped. “We are testing utility, not performing material destruction.”

Ingrid let go of the zipper. It slid back down to the start. The slight tear remained visible.

“Failure rate confirmed at forty percent utility, with material compromise at point of extreme tension,” Amber updated.

“Sample Skirt Three,” Victoria commanded, her voice sounding irritated by the inefficiency of the process.

The third skirt felt almost identical to the second. Ingrid forced Sample Skirt Three up her body, the effort leaving her slightly breathless. Her hips and upper thighs were now flushed pink from the constant friction and pressure.

She reached the zipper again. This time, she managed to pull it slightly higher than before, maybe fifty percent of the way. She was close, but the remaining fabric compression was too intense. Ingrid could see the skin on her sides visibly puckered beneath the strained navy cloth. She pulled again, knowing this was the final attempt. The zipper did not move. It was physically impossible to shift the material further.

“Closure stalled at fifty-two percent,” Amber announced. “Maximal tensile strength of the garment has been reached.”

Ingrid stood there, half-dressed in the aggressively tight, too-small navy skirt. The zipper gaped openly along her side, providing a stark visual confirmation of the failure, highlighting the tension across her hips. She was breathing quickly, exhausted by the humiliating struggle against fabric.

Victoria and Amber exchanged sharp, disappointed glances over Ingrid’s head. This quiet moment of non-verbal assessment spoke volumes.

“The failure rate is absolute for the standard matrix,” Victoria confirmed, tapping her finger on the table. “Ingrid’s dimensions confirm a high degree of resistance to the standard uniform projection.”

Sienna, who had been documenting the attempts, lowered her camera.

“This confirms our suspicion,” Victoria concluded, looking directly at Ingrid’s exposed, struggling figure. “Remedial training cannot simply focus on presentation; it must now incorporate an entire focus on Uniform Mastery Module.”

Ingrid waited for an explanation, bracing herself for whatever fresh hell this module entailed.

“The issue is not just that your body is physically large, Ingrid,” Victoria explained in a measured tone. “The issue is the perception of ease. The audience must perceive the effort exerted to contain your form. Therefore, effective presentation is achieved not through proper sizing, but through deliberate physical inconvenience.”

Victoria paused, letting the implication settle.

“Your Remedial Femininity Training curriculum will now include an extensive Uniform Mastery Module focusing precisely on wearing garments that are deliberately too small,” she announced. “This will enhance your public visibility and compliance projection. The constant, visible struggle against the constraints of the uniform is precisely the performance we require.”

The realization hit Ingrid with cold certainty. They weren’t trying to find a uniform that fit; they were establishing the absolute smallest size she could possibly wear without catastrophic failure, purely for the visual effect of constant strain and exposure.

“For the immediate future,” Victoria continued, selecting the smallest of the navy skirts, Sample Skirt One, which Ingrid couldn’t pull up past her mid-thigh. “This will be your assigned size for all uniform changes. Though you cannot zip it fully, the goal is the visible strain.”

Victoria then pointed to the ruined uniform skirt that Ingrid had dropped earlier. “You are to remove that sample garment immediately. Put your original skirt back on.”

Ingrid quickly pulled off the aggressively tight sample skirt. Her legs ached from the effort. She stepped quickly back into her original skirt, the one with the broken zipper. It was a comparative relief, even though it still barely held on. She managed to re-zip the zipper as much as possible before the broken part derailed it entirely, leaving a clear line of exposure down her side.

Victoria picked up the damaged white blouse that she had used during the initial assessment. The two popped buttons now seemed like a minor failing compared to the total destruction of the new uniform philosophy.

“The shirt, too,” Victoria commanded. “We need the evidence of the structural failure you achieved. Put the original uniform back on correctly. That means fastening every remaining button.”

Ingrid attempted to fasten the buttons. The top button near her collarbone sealed easily. The two remaining buttons at the bottom went next. However, the section where the fourth and fifth buttons had been was now just gaping fabric. She had to press the cloth together awkwardly to achieve any semblance of closure, but the pressure was clearly unsustainable.

Her uniform now presented the full, dramatic story of her assessment: the stretched, gaping white blouse, held together by sheer friction and minimal remaining buttons, and the navy skirt with its zipper visibly split and broken along her hip.

Victoria finally looked away from Ingrid, turning her attention to the three stacks of assessment papers Ingrid had sorted earlier from the carpet. Victoria looked at the neat piles for a moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, she picked up all three stacks, gathering them up loosely in her hand.

She held the papers for a moment over the polished oval table. Then, she let her fingers slacken just enough for a few sheets—a blue-bordered one, a red-bordered one, and a blank page—to slip from the stack and flutter down to the floor, landing near Ingrid’s feet.

Victoria watched the papers settle, then spoke. “Ingrid, you will personally deliver these papers, along with the rest of the stack, immediately to Jessica’s office.”

Ingrid felt a cold dread wash over her. Jessica’s office was across the expanse of the open-plan floor, the same space filled with scores of young women in their strained uniforms. She would have to walk the gauntlet in her current state.

“Jessica’s instruction requires immediate internal delivery prior to her next hourly brief,” Victoria explained, making eye contact with Ingrid, ensuring compliance was understood. “Ensure the spilled papers are recollected. Handle the remaining documents with care; they contain proprietary information.”

Ingrid crouched down quickly, gathering the few dropped sheets of paper near her shoes. She stood up, holding the thick stack tightly against her chest, a poor substitution for the now-gaping blouse.

“Sienna, accompany the intern to the door only,” Victoria instructed. “Ensure no unauthorized stopping occurs. Ingrid, proceed directly to Jessica’s office. You know where it is.”

The humiliation was palpable. This was not a real errand; this was a purposeful display of her failure, a public shaming orchestrated for the benefit of the entire office.

Sienna gave a curt nod. She opened the conference room door, allowing the noise of the main office to flood back in. The atmosphere was a chaotic mix of clicking keyboards and muffled voices.

Ingrid stepped out into the bright, relentless light of the open office layout. Sienna closed the conference room door behind her, securing the lock with a smooth click. Ingrid stood there, exposed and alone, holding the stack of papers awkwardly.

She could feel the eyes on her immediately. It was impossible to avoid them. She had to walk the entire perimeter of the floor, past dozens of desks, to reach the far corner where Jessica’s small, designated office was located.

Every step was a struggle. The broken zipper on the skirt rubbed uncomfortably, and the slightest movement strained the gaping seam of her blouse. The weight of the papers pressed against her chest, drawing attention to the extreme visual failure of her uniform.

Ingrid began to walk, focusing exclusively on the polished white floor several feet in front of her. She tried to move with speed, hoping the journey would be over quickly, but the tight skirt restricted her stride. She was forced to adopt a short, constrained gait, almost a shuffle, which only served to slow her down and prolong the exposure.

She passed the first row of desks. The young women at their stations paused their work, some immediately, others pretending to focus on their screens for a moment before turning their heads just slightly. Ingrid could feel their assessment, the silent judgment of another failure in the corporate machine. Her own insecurity, already at a breaking point, magnified every glance and whispered comment.

One woman paused typing, leaning back in her chair with an air of casual observation. She made no attempt to hide her assessment of Ingrid’s exposed cleavage, smiling slightly as Ingrid stumbled past. The display felt brutally intentional. Ingrid gripped the stack of papers tighter, focusing on the destination.

The lighting in the office seemed designed to expose every detail, every stress line on the stretched fabric, every curve of her body that the uniform failed to contain. The two popped buttons on the blouse looked like wounds in the white cloth. The split zipper along her hip was a siren of malfunction.

Ingrid kept walking, the shame a steady, burning presence in her stomach. The knowledge that this was entirely deliberate, a measured punishment designed to break her, only increased the humiliation. She walked past another row of desks, and a different intern watched her pass. She leaned forward, whispering something to her neighbor, who immediately turned with an expression of predatory interest to observe Ingrid’s visible struggle with the uniform. Ingrid felt the pink flush across her neck and chest deepen to a painful red.

The forced walk was an exercise in vulnerability, making every imperfection of the uniform a deliberate point of public interest. They were watching her fail—not just the uniform, but her personal attempt to retain any dignity under extreme duress. The company’s philosophy was entirely visible in this moment: femininity should be performative, inconvenient, and always on display.

She was halfway across the floor now. Every step felt like walking through thick, hostile air. The papers in her hands were starting to feel heavy, and she shifted them slightly, causing the blouse to gap even wider. She instantly regretted the movement, seeing several more workers turn their heads immediately to track her progress.

The realization settled in that this was not just about control; it was also about normalization. By parading her failure, they were establishing the standard for remedial action, demonstrating the consequences of physical resistance to the company’s aesthetic demands. Ingrid’s humiliation was meant to be instruction for everyone else.

Finally, she neared the corner where Jessica’s office was located. It was a small, glass-fronted cubicle set slightly apart from the main floor dynamics. Ingrid quickened her pace, desperate to reach the relative safety of the door.

She reached the glass door, quickly raising her free hand to knock. She didn’t wait for an answer, her need for escape overwhelming the instruction to be polite.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, relieved to be out of the immediate line of sight of the main office floor. Jessica was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a tablet. She looked up slowly as Ingrid entered.

“Delivery,” Ingrid managed, her voice thick with exhaustion and lingering shame. She held out the papers.

Jessica did not move. She remained seated, fixing a neutral, assessing gaze on Ingrid’s visibly damaged uniform. Her eyes tracked the broken zipper, the gaping blouse, and the stack of papers held over her chest.

“Did you collect all the necessary documents, Ingrid?” Jessica asked, her voice calm and even.

Ingrid nodded jerkily. “Yes. They were all there.”

Jessica leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her desk. “Victoria noted that Posture Test Alpha confirmed a tendency toward self-protective posture and resistance to visual exposure. This movement, Ingrid, is intended to correct that inherent structural resistance.”

Jessica gestured toward the door opening that led into the main office floor. “The purpose of the walk is not the delivery of papers, but the public display of your current failure matrix.”

“I understand,” Ingrid whispered, looking away.

“Compliance is not achieved through simple physical proximity,” Jessica continued. “It is achieved through the internalization of the company’s aesthetic demands. Your failure to maintain the uniform integrity requires public reinforcement.”

“I should go,” Ingrid said, desperate to leave the constrained space and return to the relative anonymity of the conference room.

Jessica stood up slowly, her own uniform—perfectly fitting and impeccably controlled—a sharp contrast to Ingrid’s ruined clothing. She placed a hand lightly on the stack of papers Ingrid still held.

“You are dismissed, Ingrid,” Jessica said, her tone softening slightly, yet retaining a core of professional command. “Report back to the conference room for the final adjustments and scheduling of the module.”

Jessica took the stack of papers from Ingrid’s hands.

Ingrid turned and pushed the door open. The noisy, brightly lit office floor stretched out before her again. Now she had to walk back, navigating the return journey, knowing that every single person who saw her understood exactly what had just happened. Her failure was complete, documented, and now advertised across the entire office.

She began the slow, humiliating shuffle back toward the conference room. Her movement was still restricted by the too-tight skirt, and with every step, the gaping blouse ensured maximal visibility of her chest. The second journey felt even slower than the first, the weight of the company’s philosophy—performative femininity enforced through public display—crushing her entirely. She focused on the frosted glass doors, the last barrier before the cold, silencing world of her assessors.

She was back at the doors now, reaching out a shaky hand to push them open.

She was not sure what the "Uniform Mastery Module" would entail, but the implications were already clear: her body, her size, and her deepest insecurities were now the primary curriculum.

Ingrid pushed the door open to the conference room and stepped inside. Victoria, Amber, and Sienna were still seated around the oval table. The moment she entered, the heavy silence of the cold room enveloped her again.

“You are late, Ingrid,” Victoria observed, checking the display on her watch. “A momentary lapse in time consciousness. We will document it.”

Ingrid walked back to the auxiliary chair, not daring to look at any of the women. She stood beside it, waiting for the renewed instruction. Her whole body felt raw with exposure.

“The adjustment consultation is complete,” Victoria announced. “Amber, finalize the remediation schedule.”

Amber tapped rapidly on her tablet. “The Uniform Mastery Module, focusing on deliberate visual strain, will begin concurrently with the Remedial Femininity Training tonight at nineteen hundred hours.”

“Good,” Victoria stated. She turned her attention back to Ingrid, her expression severe. “We have established a basis for your required presentation. It is unfortunate that your body presents a non-standard challenge to the company’s visual matrix, but we will manage it.”

Victoria scanned Ingrid’s body slowly, lingering on the exposed sections of her blouse. “We will issue a temporary replacement for the most structurally compromised element until your first training session.”

Victoria pointed to the stack of blouses. She took the second smallest blouse, slightly larger than the one that had failed to cover Ingrid earlier, but still significantly smaller than the one she wore.

“Remove the damaged article and put on this temporary replacement,” Victoria ordered, handing the small, rigid white cloth to Ingrid. “The tighter fit, though still insufficient for proper closure, will serve to remind you of the necessity for control.”

Ingrid fumbled with the buttons of her current blouse, peeling the stretched fabric away from her skin. She slipped Sample Blouse Two over her arms, the fabric immediately resisting. She tried to pull the two sides shut, but they met only at the chest, creating a gap wider than a hand-span down the front. The material pulled aggressively across her shoulders and back.

“We expect maximum effort to achieve maximum closure,” Victoria stated, watching her struggle.

Ingrid strained, managing to pull the two sides closer, finally forcing the material to meet at the very bottom button. She zipped the smallest possible length. But the top four buttons remained entirely separate, exposing the full width of her bra and the upper curve of her chest, dramatically framed by the strained, insufficient cloth.

“That degree of failure is satisfactory for temporary display,” Victoria concluded. “It meets the objective of visible struggle.”

Victoria stood up from the table. The consultation was concluded.

“You may return to the general waiting area, Ingrid,” Victoria said. “Jessica will assign you minor administrative tasks until your training session tonight. Do not attempt to adjust your uniform further. The current state is your baseline until further instruction.”

Ingrid nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She felt utterly depleted, compliant, and ashamed.

“And one final item,” Victoria added, picking up the stack of papers she had retrieved earlier. She still held them loosely. She opened the conference room door and stepped out, holding the papers.

“Wait here,” Victoria commanded.

Ingrid stood rigid for a full minute, listening to the muffled sounds of the office. Victoria returned quickly, now holding the stack of documents firmly, the previously spilled pages back in the pile.

Victoria placed the entire stack of documents squarely at the edge of the conference room table, directly in front of Ingrid.

“These were the papers you sorted earlier,” Victoria explained. “Delivery to Jessica’s office was performed sub-optimally. The point of public exposure was insufficient for establishing the correct disciplinary conditioning.”

Victoria paused, then raised the stack of papers high. She gave it a small, sharp shake. The entire stack became utterly loose in her grip. Then, with a single, brutal motion, she let the entire collection of documents spill from her hand.

The papers exploded in a cloud of white, red, and blue as they scattered wildly across the polished floor and the ornate carpet, spreading far wider than the previous drop. They covered a significant area of the conference room floor.

Victoria looked at Ingrid, her face impassive.

“We need these resorted and delivered to Jessica’s office promptly,” Victoria ordered. “You will ensure that the current level of uniform exposure is maximized during the delivery. The walk must be slow, deliberate, and entirely visible to the full extent of the office environment. Proceed immediately.”

Ingrid stared at the scattered papers, then at the gaping blouse she wore, and the thought of the walk back across the office floor in this state, again, was agonizing.

Victoria stepped aside, indicating the door.

Ingrid silently lowered herself to the floor, her tight skirt making the movement difficult and awkward, ensuring the material strained even further. She began gathering the scattered sheets, her fingers trembling slightly as she organized the mixed papers into the three distinct piles.

When the papers were finally neatly stacked, she stood up, clutching the considerable stack against her already exposed chest. She did not dare to look up.

She walked toward the conference room door, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the brightly lit office floor. The tight, small blouse pulled aggressively across her body. The full exposure of her chest was entirely undeniable, framed by the white fabric strain. The partial, broken zipper on the navy skirt was an obvious line of structural defeat. Ingrid forced herself into a slow, constrained pace, ensuring the maximum visibility of her exposed cleavage and partially unzipped skirt to the working staff.