Chapter 3: Losing her Dignity

She looked around, still stark naked and exposed, unable to cover herself from her own gaze. Her body trembled, not from the cold but from the mix of fear and arousal. The message on her phone was like a slap to her face, a reminder that she was nothing more than a plaything for the sadistic “Mistress.”

After what felt like an eternity of standing in her own vulnerability, her mobile lit up, taunting her with the glow of her next degradation. The message read, “Not bad for a first attempt, but I expect better, you filthy slut. Don’t bother with the pathetic fake tears. I know how wet you got filming that. Your disgusting bush does nothing to hide the fact that you’re a pretty little thing.”

With trembling hands, Samantha opened the email, eager to read the next command. “Your second task, my dear cunt, is to march your bare ass into the bathroom and set up your phone to record. I want to watch you trim that unsightly mess between your legs. Then, I expect you to lather up and shave that disgusting crotch until it’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Remember, you’re to keep it that way from now on. Every single day, after you cleanse the stench from your body, you’ll shave your slit to perfection for me. Send me the video when you’re done,” the message concluded with a cruel finality.

Her cheeks flushed with humiliation; Samantha knew she had no choice but to comply. She picked up the phone and walked to the bathroom, the cold tiles sending shivers down her spine as she stepped onto them. She placed the phone on the counter and prepared herself for the degrading task at hand. The thought of someone watching her in this intimate act was mortifying, but she was too far gone to refuse.

With the camera rolling, she picked up the trimmer, the buzzing noise filling the room as she began to cut away at her pubic hair. Each snip was like a piece of her dignity falling to the floor. She lathered herself up, feeling the wetness of the shaving cream mix with her own arousal. The blade of the razor glided over her sensitive skin, a strange mix of pain and pleasure as she shaved away her last vestige of privacy.

Finally, she was done, her crotch bare and exposed. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, and sent the video to “Mistress.” The anticipation of the response was almost too much to bear. But she knew this was just the beginning of her descent into this depraved world of submission.

The next salacious message popped up on Samantha’s screen quicker than a whore in heat. “I see you’re learning fast. Now for your next lesson - Mistress” it taunted. Samantha’s pulse quickened as she clicked it open, but her excitement was short-lived. The words hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut: “The send button is just a tap away - Mistress.” The screen showed a preview of the email, already composed and ready to be fired off to the inboxes of every gossip-hungry news outlet in India, as well as the inboxes of her prudish family and her ex’s scandalized relatives. Her heart raced like a jackrabbit on crack. She had been played, and now she was in too deep to back out.

With trembling hands, she opened the latest parcel from her anonymous tormentor. The contents were more shocking than a nun in a porn shop. A white tube top, so tight it could’ve been painted on, and a dark mini-skirt that barely covered her crotch. The pièce de résistance? A pair of 6-inch transparent stiletto heels that looked like they were made for a foot fetishist’s wet dream.

Samantha reluctantly stripped and tugged the top over her voluptuous breasts, the fabric stretching to its limits and leaving nothing to the imagination. The skirt was next, hugging her hips like a second skin and riding up to reveal the cheekiest part of her ass. The heels were the final indignity, making her wobble like a newborn foal. She applied the “light makeup” with the precision of a hooker trying to look innocent, all while fighting back tears of humiliation.

Her instructions were clear, and she had no choice but to follow them. She called down to the reception, her voice shaking, and requested the food waiter to come and clear her trays. As she waited, her heart pounded like a drumline at a porn convention. The door knocked, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the embarrassment to come.

The waiter, a young man with a smug smile, walked in and his eyes bulged like they’d just been slapped with a pair of wet fish. He took in her barely-there outfit, her heaving chest, and her trembling legs. His gaze lingered on her naked pussy, peeking out from the scandalously short skirt. Samantha felt a mix of rage and humiliation, but she knew better than to protest.

She reluctantly approached the waiter, who couldn’t tear his gaze from her voluptuous figure, a mirror image of the Tyrone she hadn’t seen in years. The moment their eyes met; she knew the game had begun. His nervousness was palpable as he stammered, “Can I get anything else for you?”

Her response was a seductive whisper, “Yes, I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” She winked, cutting off his protest, “I’ll be the one to show my gratitude.” The waiter, bound by protocol, wavered as she knelt before him, her eyes never leaving his.