The psychologist Luna stopped in front of the cell, her heart beating slightly faster than usual.
The guard, a burly man
whose face bore the marks of years of service, looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and
suspicion. “New detainee,” he muttered, adjusting his cap. “Never seen her before today. They say
she’s cunning, manipulative. You sure you want to go in, Miss Jones?” Luna nodded confidently,
clutching her notebook and laptop against her. “I’m here for the interview.” The guard shrugged,
unlocked the door with a metallic clank, and let her p*ss. “She’s cuffed and restrained. Harmless.
You’ve got nothing to worry about.” The door closed behind her with a sinister echo, and Luna
found herself alone with the mysterious prisoner.
"What’s your shoe size?"
The question, a low murmur that seemed to slither from the dark corner of the cell, froze Luna’s
fingers on her laptop keyboard. She had been typing notes about the peeling paint on the opposite
wall.
She turned slowly, the cheap plastic chair creaking beneath her. The figure on the metal-framed bed
hadn’t moved. It was still a portrait of absolute restraint: a shapeless body in a thick canvas
str*itjacket, a bl*ck canvas hood c*mpletely obscuring her head. The silence stretched, thick and
heavy.
I... I’m sorry?” Luna finally managed, her professional composure cr*cking.
A dry, rasping laugh came from beneath the hood. “Your shoes. The bl*ck heels. They look
expensive. What size?”
A cold shiver ran down Luna’s spine. That’s why they c*ll her unhinged, she thought, shaking her
head slightly. She decided to ignore it. This was an interview, not a fashion consultation. “Let’s get
back to my questions, Naomi.”
She turned her back on the prisoner, focusing on her screen. The guard’s words echoed in her mind:
“She’s cuffed and restrained. Harmless. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Miss Jones.”
The metallic clang of the cell door closing behind her felt like it had happened an eternity ago. She
had been so eager to get the scoop on the facility’s most notorious new inmate, the woman the
papers called a cunning manipulator. Now, locked in with her, the sterile environment felt
claustrophobic.
A soft rustling sound. Then a faint metallic click.
Luna’s breathing caught. She didn’t want to turn around. It was just the bed springs, she told herself.
Just the woman shifting.
Then, a warm presence directly behind her. Breath on her ear.
“I asked you a question.”
Luna spun around, the chair screeching against the concrete floor. Her heart hammered against her
ribs. Naomi stood over her, free. The str*itjacket hung open at her waist like a bizarre apron. The
bl*ck hood lay crumpled on the floor. The ankle restraints, poorly secured by a careless guard, were
already unlocked and discarded.
And her face...
Luna’s world tilted, the air sucked from her lungs. She was staring into a mirror. The same high
cheekbones, the same full lips, the same piercing bl*e eyes. The same shade of bl*ck hair, though
Naomi’s was tangled and wild. They were perfect duplicates.
“How...?” Luna gasped, her voice a thin thread.
Naomi’s smile was a terrifying thing, all sharp angles and cold amusement. “Surprise, step-sister.”
Her eyes swept over Luna’s outfit: the tight bl*ck leather skirt, the sheer white blouse that barely
concealed her bl*ck lace bra, the fitted bl*ck leather jacket, the stockings, the impossible heels.
“Now. The shoes. Take them off.”
“No,” Luna whispered, shrinking back in her chair, but Naomi was on her in an instant. One hand
clamped over Luna’s mouth, muffling her cry. The other hand stayed free, but the threat in Naomi’s
eyes was enough. “The guard won’t hear you,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous
whisper. “And if he does, he’ll see an inmate struggling and a calm journalist. Now, we’re going to
play a game. You’re going to take off every inch of clothing. Slowly. Or I’ll make you regret not
obeying.” The pressure of her hand and the glint in her gaze were unmistakable.
Tremors shook Luna’s body. Paralyzed by fear, her mind screamed in protest, but her body, under
threat, began to obey. This isn’t happening.
Her hands shook as she reached down, fumbling with the delicate buckle of her right shoe.
Naomi watched, her mirror eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The first shoe clattered to the
floor. Then the left. Luna’s bare feet instantly felt cold against the gritty concrete.
“The stockings,” Naomi commanded, her voice a low hum of anticipation.
Luna’s fingers hooked into the tops of her stockings. She hesitated—a final, feeble act of defiance.
Naomi tightened her grip over her mouth, a silent warning. Luna rolled the sheer bl*ck fabric down,
the material whispering against her skin as she peeled it from her thighs, over her knees, along her
calves. She let them drop to her ankles and stepped out, feeling utterly exposed.
“The skirt. Undo it.”
Every movement was agony. Luna’s trembling fingers found the zipper at the back of her tight
leather skirt. She pulled it down, the sound obscenely loud in the silent cell. The skirt loosened
around her hips. She pushed it down, cool air h*tting her bare legs, and stepped out of the pooled
leather, leaving it on the floor.
“The blouse. The jacket. Everything.”
Tears welled in Luna’s eyes, blurring the image of her own face staring back at her with such cruel
intent. She unbuttoned her blouse with clumsy fingers, each button a tiny surrender. The silk slipped
from her shoulders, followed by the leather jacket. She stood in nothing but her bl*ck lace bra and
panties, her skin prickling with goosebumps and terror.
Naomi’s gaze felt like physical touch, roaming over her body, drinking in every detail.
Naomi said nothing. She simply began to dress, sliding Luna’s stockings on with sensual slowness,
smoothing them up her identical legs. She stepped into the leather skirt, zipped it with a definitive
zzzip. She buttoned the blouse, leaving a provocative gap at the top, and shrugged into the leather
jacket. Finally, she slipped her feet into Luna’s high heels. The transformation was complete. She
kept her own bra and panties, just as Luna kept hers.
She grabbed the discarded str*itjacket. “Your turn.”
“Please, no,” Luna begged, her voice hoarse.
Naomi’s response was to shove her backward onto the bed. With br*tal efficiency that spoke of
practice, she holds Luna’s arms into the thick canvas sleeves. Luna struggled, but Naomi was
disconcertingly strong, crossing the sleeves over Luna’s chest and tightening the straps firmly at the
back, effectively binding her arms. The rough material chafed her bare skin.
“No one will believe you,” Naomi murmured, her lips against Luna’s ear as she puts bl*ck hood down over her head. Darkness swallowed Luna. The world shrank to a smell:
rancid sweat, fear, and cheap canvas. She felt Naomi’s hands on her ankles, snapping the cold metal
restraints into place.
She heard the click of heels on concrete, heading toward the cell door.
“Guard” Naomi called, her voice a perfect imitation of Luna’s professional tone, tinged with just the
right amount of shaken fear. “Guard, help me .. She tried to... she almost took my clothes! She tried
to take my place ...”
The cell door groaned open. “Calm down now, Miss Jones,” said the familiar gruff voice of the
guard. “She’s restrained. She couldn’t have. I would’ve noticed.”
From beneath the hood, Luna screamed: “It’s her! She’s me! She’s pretending to be me!” But her
words were muffled, distorted by the thick fabric, emerging as desperate, incoherent gibberish.
She heard Naomi’s light, disdainful laugh. “She’s c*mpletely delusional. Raving.”
“Sounds like it,” the guard grunted. “Come on, Miss Jones, let’s get you out of here. You’ve had
quite a scare.”
The heels clicked away again. The cell door began to close with a deafening finality ...

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