Chapter Nine
Paradox
My wardrobe came from the finest designer boutiques in London, New York, San Francisco, and Honolulu. I imagined Mr. Sun’s hand in picking each outfit as he carefully nurtured the look he demanded I assume my every waking hour. My attire was strictly Western in design, feminine and reasonably modest, but always with a suggestive hint of sexuality—a daringly slit skirt, a low cut neckline, and a transparent blouse. I wore the finest French silk underwear, tailored to my body’s measurements so that everything fit like a glove. There were several corsets—Sun would lace these himself, drawing them tight until I could hardly breathe. I wore them for hours under my clothes, cinched so that my posture took on an elegant Victorian respectability that looked demure and passiv
