He did not sew the costume with love.
The first time he sewed it with arrogance and expectation.
To him it was unthinkable that she would ever refuse him.
Many looked upon it with disgust. Understandable.
It was a lewd thing. All fishnets and corsets and straps.
He was rather proud of the skirt. It was billowy and decidedly feminine whilst being reasonably practical.
There was a plan behind it. Men upon seeing her in it would be trapped between lust and fear. It would conjour images of the temptress. Of the seducer, the femme fatale.
The black widow.
Dangerous women had a special place in the fears of men. The idea that a being so soft, maternal and loving. The fair sex so often associated with timidity and submissiveness. Could be more of a threat than the strongest men. Was something that made the male populace shiver with fright. Which they hid behind a facade of testosterone and dominance. A facade so elaborate that it was regarded as fact. A lie that had been told so many times that society accepted. And rare women that showed there dangerous nature were penalised and opressed because of it.
Not that he cared of course. He only cared that her costume would unsettle their victims on a subconscious level.
And other women would feel threatened and inadequate. It would eat at there fears and inadequecies so that they were as disturbed as the men they pandered to.
She would be a glorious Mistress of Fear. Her life was so similar to his. The bullying the way she threw herself into her studies.
It was like looking in a mirror.
Rebecca Dorothy Albright. The girl who stood up to him.
He had to admit a grudging respect for that. She was more than the society that bound her in chains. With him she would rise above it.
She would be his and they would listen to a symphony of screams.
The second time he sewed her a costume he was smug.
He'd been grooming her for months. The words were there. He simply needed to drill them in a little harder.
He took her and attacked her psychologically. Broke her mind to the point that eventually she came running back to him.
That was the first time she wore the costume through choice.
She'd worn it before. He'd forced her to. He'd watched her with gleaming eues the whole time. Perfect.
When she wore it through choice. It seemed almost as if she filled it out more. The confidence made her seem beautiful and deadly. To him the sight had filled him with pride. Becky, Becky, Becky. His plucky little mouse was positively terrifying.
She wears the costume every day now. And his eyes watch her hungrily.
She revels in the fears of others. His perfect partner.
The Scarecrow and his Mistress of Fear.
He had never expected her to refuse. But he was glad she had. It had made it so much more satisfying when he broke her.
It had been a game. A contest between them.
And he had won.
And she looked so beautiful in her costume.