The House at the End Ep. 01

So here I am, in the cold, with a dress that only barely covers my panties and no coat, ringing the door bell of a darkened house that I have never been to before. I feel like there is a stone in my tummy: It was a largish rock on the way over but now it is a full sized house brick because there is more than one car in the drive. In fact there are at least six cars parked in the drive and that is bad news, that is very, very bad news. I almost throw up, I almost turn and run. I tell myself I am going to run; I am going to run back to my car, drive to the police station in Brookville and turn myself in. But I don't even start to turn. I pause for maybe 3 seconds, look back at the black path I came along, shrug to myself and grimly reach up to the button.

The cars in the drive are big and expensive. Even in the darkness, with just the light over the front door of the house to see by, I can see that they are sparkling and clean, well cared for. I myself don't feel so sparkling and clean right now. In fact I feel the opposite of clean and there is nothing sparkling about me. I pull the hem of the cheap dress as far down my thighs as I can - not very far. If I don't keep pulling it down the dress rides up showing my panties. When I was walking the mile from the wood where I was told to park my car I had to keep tugging the hem down every few steps to keep myself covered.

Without a coat I kept my arms wrapped around myself to try and stay a little warm while I walked, it was a constant compromise between having the dress riding up or losing even the little bit of heat I managed to retain by hugging myself. Even though there was no one around and even though the unfamiliar heels made me stumble every time I reached down, I kept doing it and endured the little extra cold.

It turns out that even when you are in the process of descending into hell you still have something to lose. The difference between having your sheer nylon swathed pussy hidden and having it on display half an inch below the hem of your dress is the difference, it seems, between misery and utter despair.

This dress, these heels, these panties and nothing else. Those were the instructions. And lots of makeup - 'as much as you can get on your face' - what a lovely turn of phrase.

Oh one other thing. I had to shave my crotch before I came out. I have never given the way my pussy looks much thought before now, I keep myself trimmed enough so that no stray hairs poke out of my bathing suit and I want to look neat for my boyfriend but that's as far as it goes. It doesn't sound like much, shaving your pussy, it is not difficult or painful, I shape it with a razor all the time when I do my legs before I go out. But I wasn't doing it because I was going out, I was doing it because I was told to, because I had to, and that made a cowardly sordid capitulation. And I wasn't just shaping it I was amputating it - losing it, scraping it off and throwing it away. In the mirror, when I looked at it to see the end result, my shaved pussy in my white see through panties did not look sexy. It did not look like a source of sexual power and personal pleasure, instead it looked like what it was - a dirty cunt. I cried then, with the hem of the dress around my belly button, I did not recognise myself. This was not me, this was something nasty and cheap made out of me.

But that particular horror is behind me now. One of a string of little horrors in my recent past each worse than the last and no let up in sight.

My feet hurt, I am cold, I feel sick and increasingly scared. So I ring the doorbell of the dark house, tugging down the hem of the dress one more time before wrapping my arms again around my cold body to wait. But the coldness is all the way through me as was not doubt the intention. There is no one to hug me and tell me it will be alright.

Just these cheap nylon panties that i can't stop from peeking out from under a dress designed to make them the only thing that matters about me.