You Will Show Me Everything Ch. 04

I'm late for work. I trot into the office just as the morning stand-up meeting is about to start and I have to squeeze in between people, which brings me to their attention. There are looks, and I try to ignore them, waiting patiently for my turn to give my update. They're staring at me because I'm in a dress and stockings instead of jeans and a top as usual. As I talk, I'm trying very hard not to blush, but then I remember what I'm wearing underneath and I feel the heat begin to rise in my cheeks because I'm standing in the middle of a ring of my coworkers dressed in my only set of sexy lingerie concealed beneath my dress, in heels that sculpt my calves in a way I'd never been aware of up until now.

Like when he had told me to strip and send me a picture of myself, I'm on display again. I stumble to the end of my update and fall silent, waiting for the ground to swallow me up. People are staring still, as if somehow they can see through the dress. As if they can see the lacy basque I'm wearing and the little g-string, the straps clipped to the tops of my sheer stockings. It's like that recurring anxiety dream where I turn up to work only in my underwear, but for real. They can see that I'm a lingerie-clad bimbo slut and that I'm sopping wet between my legs having to stand there in front of them all.

The person next to me gives his update and all eyes flick to him. I blink furiously, trying to calm myself, but my mouth is dry and my pussy is wet and I need to escape. This was such a bad idea. How did I ever decide to go along with this ridiculous idea? How did I let him talk me into this?

But the answer is simple. The more of this I do, the more I agree to, the longer we go on with him putting me on display like this, the longer I delay the moment when he'll publish the picture I sent him of me, full-frontal, in the basement carpark. He's forcing me to humiliate myself in public. I have to do what he says otherwise he'll publish and then everyone will know what a slut I am.

I have to focus. I need to get him and what he's doing to me out of my head. I need to put the aching heat in my crotch out of my mind. I'm wearing a dress to work. That's all they can see. They're just curious that I've decided to wear a dress. I'm making this into so more than it is.

I get to my desk and open up my laptop. There are things I need to do but, as I shift on my chair, I can feel the straps tugging down the back of my basque as I sit on them. I cross my legs and feel the silky friction of the stockings sheathing my skin. It's like I'm dialed all the way up to ten, hypersensitive. I need to concentrate. I need to get work done.

There's a ping from my phone and my heart skips. Somehow he's been able to recruit my phone into the task of victimising me. Its screen flashes up a message and demands that I obey. Reluctantly, I tap the message and read.

It's from him: a discount code and a website link. It doesn't make any sense. I tap the link and the screen displays text. It's a story. He's sent me a short story to read, in the middle of the morning, when he knows I'm at work. I put the phone to one side, but as the minutes pass, I can feel it sitting there, insistent. I need to get on with the project update, but I can't. My concentration is shot.

I give in and pick up the phone. I read the story. I really shouldn't have done that, but I only realise that afterwards.

The story is about a new female CEO of a biotech company. They're developing a new drug. The premise is flimsy, but I suspend criticism and read it. The chief scientist is disgruntled, on the outer now that the new CEO is in place, but he has a plan. He starts to trial the new drug on her, slipping it into her coffee. She begins to react, in subtle ways at first, but then more and more she finds herself unable to handle meetings. She begins to crave sex, she discovers a liking for shorter skirts. As the story progresses, so does she, until she's booking in salon treatments to prettify herself, gym sessions to tone her body. Her work deteriorates, but he is there to help her, guide her, get her coffee. The drug is steadily turning her into a mindless bimbo, while he takes more control of the company. It ends with her delegating everything to him, content to kneel in her lingerie between his legs under the desk that she used to sit at, giving him a slow, sensual blowjob while he works.

I know why I'm reading the story. My mysterious correspondent is playing with my head. He knows that I'll read it at my desk in my lingerie and that all day I'm going to be thinking of the female character's descent from CEO to brainless bimbo. The story is stupid, a male-orientated fantasy, but I can't shake the feeling it has engendered in me. She was so happy on her knees, so content to be a mindless slut giving service. I wonder what it would feel like to be reduced to that.

The discount code had nothing to do with the story. It's for a different site. I go to it and am greeted with a pop-up on my phone that asks me to confirm that I'm over eighteen years old. What?

I click 'yes' and am taken to the homepage, and it's like I've been physically slapped. She's there, the woman with the radiant sunburst headpiece, but in a different pose, still naked but covering herself up. There is a membership login. It takes me a few seconds to understand what I'm looking at.

He has his own site. There's a paywall, but behind it is access to the member zone with galleries of the photos he's taken. I hesitate, hating myself as I tap the link to join. This is what the discount code is for, to give me a free membership. I register and find myself confronted with several of the pictures I've seen on the forums, but these are now teasers for galleries of each woman. There is so much more than he ever put on the forums. There is a link that simply says 'new' and my blood runs cold.

My finger is shaking as I tap the link and when I see myself I catch my breath. It's the picture he sent me, the one he'd worked up from my first photo in the carpark. He's cropped it more closely, cutting off my legs below the knees and the top half of my face, but I'm confronted with my breasts and my crotch on full display on his private membership site. I'm gaping, and then my phone pings in my hand so unexpectedly that I almost drop it onto my desk. I tap the message.

- What do you think?

My mind blanks for a split-second until I understand. He's seen my registration. He's been waiting.

- That's me

It's such a stupid thing to say. It's all I can think of.

- Do you like it? I'm quite pleased with the shadowing. I had to mess with the light balance, but I think it works

- Okay

I'm cradling my phone, waiting for him to say the words I'm dreading, but he doesn't. There are no pulsing dots. He's online but he isn't typing a reply. He's waiting for me.

- You've put me on a porn site

- I've put you on a private gallery site

- I'm naked. The other women are naked. It's a porn site

I feel the flush in my cheeks and my brain finally starts to kick into gear.

- You're making me send pictures to you and then you're putting them up on a porn site to earn you money. What the fuck?

- How does it make you feel, seeing yourself?

- How do you think I feel? I'm fucking angry

I'm clicking through the site. The woman is there, hers is the first gallery because it's the oldest. I click into it and see dozens of pictures of her, including the one that started it all for me, but there are others afterwards. I can see the dates: she was his first victim, years ago now, and she's still sending him material. Her last picture is dated from yesterday. My lips curl.

- You can't fucking do this. That woman, she's a mother. You said that the full frontal is the end of the journey, but it's not. She's still being forced to give you pictures. You fucking prick. She's a wife and a mother and you're exploiting her to make a buck

- I know

- Don't you think that's wrong?

- She hasn't complained

I gasp, incensed. I need to keep quiet because otherwise someone is going to ask me why I'm so upset. I desperately try to keep control.

- She can't. You're blackmailing her. She's fucking helpless to do anything about it. I bet you've threatened to send all her pictures to her husband

- It's her choice to be on the site. She could take her photos down at any time

- That's bullshit. How?

- She runs the site

- What?

- She's my wife

It's so unexpected that I just come to a halt. I'm staring at the first picture in her gallery, her hands cupping her bare breasts. It's a beautiful, sensual photo, rendered in monochrome and taken with such fidelity that I can see every nuance of her aureolae, contrasted with the diamond ring on her finger.

- You let your wife go on a porn site?

- Gallery site

- You posted naked pictures of her on the forums

- Yes

- That's so fucked up

- It's adult. It's not fucked up

- You've got kids

There is a pause, and I watch the little dots. It seems to go on a long time. Maybe he's launching into a diatribe, or just struggling to find the right words.

- I know about this from her. I know why

- But you're selling her on a website. You're making money off the mother of your children, and everyone else you have on there. Me

- Do you want me to stop?

I look around quickly, making sure no-one's watching me.

- What the fuck do you think?

- Then we can stop

- What? Just like that? You're not going to post a picture of me after all? I don't believe you

- No, I'll still post it like I said, and then we'll still be done and I'll block you from contact afterwards. We'll be done

- How is that stopping? How's that not just a sick, twisted revenge kick? You still out me in public

There is a pause and then he sends me a picture. It's the picture of me. He's been working on it again, and I can't help but stare at it. It's small on my phone screen, but I zoom in and study every detail. It's beyond my awareness that it would look to my coworkers like I'm surfing lesbian porn at work. I'm so far beyond normal at this point.

- If you passed my wife in the street, you wouldn't recognise her. Nor any of my subjects. See?

I flip back to the photo, enlarging it as far as it will go, exploring my face on the screen. He's done something to me, editing out the background until it looks like I'm up against a dark sheet. There is shadowing that wasn't on the original, airbrushing and retouching. I look absolutely gorgeous. I can't recognise myself. It's like I'm wearing a flawless mask over my face.

- So, I have two photos to post, that one, or the torso shot. If we go with the torso shot, I'll need more pictures from you

- For your site

- For your gallery

- Why would I agree to that?

- Because you can see it in that shot. You see what I see. I'm going to put you on display. I think you could be incredible

- You mean I could be lucrative. It's exploitation

I smile coldly to myself. I'm in control now, thinking rationally again. I'm not some dumb bimbo with a humiliation fetish, like he thinks I am. I've got him pinned.

- There will be eyes on you. There will be men who want to see more of your body. There will be women

Then, a strange thing happens, staring at that last word.

- Women?

- Yes. There a lot of female members. How do you feel about that?

- I don't know

- You do

My eyes are locked on the little screen in my hands and I'm trembling. I can't type anything. I can't put the phone down. I'm waiting for the coup de grace.

- You sent me your list of favourites. You have a keen eye for beauty. You only have pictures of women.

I'm frozen in place. I can't breathe.

- I'm giving you the opportunity to be anything you want, to show the world who you are underneath

- I'm not gay

- You're whoever you want to be. Think about it

- I need to come back to you

- Take your time. One more thing. If we do proceed, I've got a view of where I want to take this. I'll book some appointments for you

- For what?

- We can discuss. But, that's what the money is for. My wife earns five times what I do in her normal job. The site isn't there for income. It's there to fund the process

- What's the process?

- We can discuss. First you need to decide. Either you're done, or you'll send me a picture of your dress fully unbuttoned and open, showing me your lingerie. Take several shots and I'll pick the best

Just like that, he's back on track, as if the things he's just said didn't matter. The little green light next to his icon blinks off and I'm alone. It's like I'm welded to my chair.

I know the photos in my favourites. I take a look almost every day. He's right: I have a collection of women on my phone, displayed in rope bondage or bent over furniture, displaying their bodies for me. I shuffle through the photos, careful to hide my screen from the people around me. I like to collect pictures of.... I shudder. I collect explicit pictures of women with piercings, in leather or latex, bound sometimes in predicaments from which they can't escape. I have a favourite one that I like because she's helpless, the glint of steel through her clit as she struggles on the bed against her bindings.

Her face is turned to the camera, pleading silently. She looks like a dumb slut about to receive a fucking, and it's always appealed to me, to imagine being in the photo. But now there's something else, as I stare at the hopeless expression on her face. I've fantasised about that being me, but I've also fantasised about something else, something unspeakable. Sitting in the middle of my busy office, I acknowledge something at last.

It takes me five minutes to go to the bathroom, unbutton my dress in the stall and take a dozen pictures of myself in my lingerie. I send them all to him, and then I bring myself off hard, strumming my clit and gritting my teeth to remain silent.

The helpless woman in the photo: I would also like to be the one she's looking at. To be standing over her, with her body naked and splayed and powerless in front of me, only able to wait. I could make her do anything.

---

I had a booking, but he made me cancel it. I'm standing on a street corner looking into the salon that he's arranged, not the one that I picked. All I know is that it's all arranged and paid for. I grumble under my breath and step inside. There's a young girl at the desk and she looks up brightly as I enter.

"Hi," I say. "I've got an appointment."

"Yeah, sure. Name?"

"Amber."

I cringe inwardly, but she doesn't notice. He gave me a choice of pseudonyms, and it speaks volumes that I picked Amber as the least worst. I'm intensely uncomfortable with all this, but I know that he knows that. At least he's paying: this is coming out of the development fund, he told me.

That's another little barb in my skin. He's posting pictures of me on his private porn site to paying members and the proceeds are being used to fund my... whatever this is. Beautification? Maintenance? I'm going to feature in more pictures for him to share with the world and he wants me to look my best.

"This way please Amber. I see you booked the full package," the receptionist tells me.

"Uh, yes."

"Just in here. If you'd like to get undressed and slip into the robe, Dominica will be along shortly."

I want to ask what the full treatment is, but it would make me sound like a lunatic, since I'm apparently the one who booked it. I unbutton my dress, feeling like a freak. What the hell am I doing in a beauty salon getting waxed? Come to that, what the hell am I doing turning up to the salon without any underwear on in the first place.

That's the wrinkle, that I refused to just wax myself when asked, and decided to get it done professionally. I could have just daubed the wax on my nether regions at home and be done, but instead I made a bargain with him. He made me throw out all my comfortable, familiar underwear, leaving me with just my long-neglected single set of lingerie to wear all week. It's Friday now and I've decided to go naked. I can't just keep washing and wearing the same basque and g-string day after day.

Unbuttoned all the way down the front, my dress gapes open, displaying my nakedness. I quickly reach into my bag and take out my phone. He wants a before and after shot. I shrug the dress off my shoulders and let it tumble to the floor, turning the phone camera on myself and taking a picture as requested. I check it quickly, conscious of Dominica coming through the door any second, then hit the send button. As I slip into the provided gown, it occurs to me how used I've become to showing a stranger my naked body. I've come a long way from cowering in the basement carpark.

The tingle is still there though, each time I upload a photo. I perch on the edge of the table and my phone buzzes.

- Check out the forum

I grit my teeth. He's messing with my head now. I should just ignore him. I don't need to look at the forum page. I can't let him get to me. He knows exactly where I am and what I'm doing. I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

Ah, fuck it.

I open the forums and there's an update to the main picture gallery thread. This is the place that everyone posts nudes of themselves, pictures they've found on the internet, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives. There is a list of photos to scroll through, of naked bodies in compromising positions. I can't believe I'm doing this in a beauty salon, but I desperately need to get to the last entry.

There I am, the cropped shot rendered in black and white. It's me, but it's not. It's also a body, like a Roman statue, reduced to a naked torso without arms and legs. The fuzz between my legs hides my nether lips, but my breasts are full, my nipples engorged, enticing. For a split second, I can forget it's me, and instead I feel a little rush as I stare at a bare woman's form. The little tingle in my crotch blossoms.

The door opens and I jump. I slide my phone back into my bag quickly.

"Amber, hi. Sorry, I was just getting the wax up to temperature. How are you?"

Dominica is taller than me, thicker, carrying a tray. On the tray is a covered pot and a stack of paper strips. She smiles at me and nods to the padded table.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm good. Why?"

"You just seem... okay. No problem. Let's get started."

Dominica puts the tray down on the side and fetches fluffy white towels to spread over the padded table that sits in the middle of the room.

"Can I get you anything before we start?" she asks. "It's going to be a while."

"No, I'm good."

"Hop up then."

I get onto the table and lie down. I don't know what to expect. She puts a little pillow under my head and then makes a parting motion with her hands. I realise that she means for me to open up the front of my gown and I hesitate for a second.

It's so invasive, but at the same time it's so trivial. My naked body is on an internet forum being viewed by thousands of people. All I'm being asked to do is show myself to Dominica. She flashes me a smile, waiting, and I part the robe to expose myself.

I can feel my cheeks colouring as her eyes travel down my body, and I understand exactly what he's done. My guts clench. I can feel the heat between my legs from seeing myself exhibited on the forums, and Dominica is going to see it too. He would have known that a woman's hands were going to be touching me down there. She's going to be able to see that I'm turned on and that just makes it worse: the humiliation of a stranger knowing how turned on I am stokes the fire in my core and in turn moistens me until I'm sure I'm dripping, my arousal seeping into the towel spread beneath me.

Then I'm saved, as Dominica begins to spread wax over my shins. She's going to work her way up; I have time to get my shit together. I don't have to embarrass myself. Then she glances at my pussy and I know that she knows and I'm left with a deep ache between my legs. Dominica knows I'm throbbing for the contact of her fingers against my labia. She knows that I'm a slut and I need to be touched. I'm a bimbo, getting myself waxed so that I can take pictures of myself for strangers. I grit my teeth.