If the morning's uniforms were a fetishistic take on a classic, the evening's were a straight dive into pure, unadulterated slutty fantasy.

​The fabric was a deep, blood-red instead of blue. The "uniform" consisted of a tiny, halter-neck bikini-style top that barely contained our breasts, leaving our entire midriffs and backs exposed. The "skirt" was the same ridiculously short belt as before, but now in matching red. The shoes were strappy, open-toed stilettos that were even higher and more precarious. The new makeup kits were filled with smoky eyeshadows, glitter, and a darker, more vampiric shade of red lipstick. And in a separate box were three sets of simple, black leather cuffs for our wrists, a final, definitive layer of bondage.

​This time, the preparation was different. It wasn't a silent, fearful ritual. It was a team gearing up for battle. Gemma took charge, her voice the low, commanding tone of a coach in a locker room.

​"Right, listen up," she said as we began the transformation. "No fear. No hesitation. Ann, your eyeliner was a little shaky this morning. Let Mia do it. Mia, your lipstick bled slightly after the... luncheon. Use the liner first. We are going to be so perfect, so untouchable, that they won't know whether to fuck us or applaud us."

​We worked together, a well-oiled machine. I steadied my hand and drew a perfect, sharp, smoky cat-eye on Ann. She, in turn, helped me with the difficult clasp on my halter top. Gemma inspected our work, offering sharp, critical advice. "Ann, arch your back when you stand. Present yourself. Mia, your smile is still too soft. I want a hungry, knowing smirk."