Chapter 2

The obnoxious buzz of the alarm sliced through the feeble veil of sleep, jolting me into a harsh reality. Memories from the previous night came rushing back like a tsunami of unwelcome sensations. I lay there, bound and helpless, feeling the weight of my predicament pressing down on me like a heavy, soaked blanket.

Moments later, the janitor emerged from the tangled sheets, his face contorted into a sadistic grin. He peered at me, savoring the sight of my vulnerable state. “I trust you had a restful night, my dear slut,” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

As time dragged on, the sound of his movements grew clearer. He eventually approached and began to release me from my bonds, the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists one last time before they fell away. “You may rise,” he declared, his tone a mix of amusement and authority. “There’s much to be done today.”

My legs wobbled as I stood, my body tender from the previous night’s ordeal. “Thank you, sir,” I murmured, the word ‘slut’ sticking in my throat like a jagged piece of glass.

With a cruel twist of his lips, he pointed towards the bathroom. “Clean up,” he ordered, his gaze raking over my exposed flesh. I shuffled towards the bathroom, my eyes downcast, and submerged myself in a scalding hot bath. The water stung my skin, but it couldn’t wash away the stain of my humiliation.

Upon exiting the bathroom, the janitor sat on the bed, his eyes glued to his phone. He barely acknowledged my presence, yet his indifference was more degrading than any direct attention. He pointed to an outfit laid out for me. A skirt so short, it was scandalous, and a camisole that clung to my body like a second skin. There were no undergarments, no modesty provided.

I dressed with trembling hands, the fabric sticking to my curves like glue. The skirt barely covered my crotch, and the camisole did nothing to hide my erect nipples. I felt exposed and cheap, like a piece of meat displayed in a butcher’s window.

He took notice of my discomfort and smirked. “You look like you’re trying too hard,” he said, his voice like a whip cracking through the silence. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you what a real slut looks like soon enough.”

As I finished getting ready, he handed me a coat that was more of a tease than a cover-up. “Take this off once you’re in your office,” he instructed, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “And don’t bother putting it back on until you leave the room.”

The final touch was a pair of towering peach pumps, their four-inch heels a silent threat to the stability of my already shaky world. He watched as I struggled to balance, a perverse delight in his gaze.

With my dignity in shambles, I shuffled to my car, the fabric of my skirt whispering against my bare thighs with every step. The drive to the office was a blur of thoughts, a montage of the depraved acts he had subjected me to.

Once I arrived, I forced myself to strut through the halls, the clack of my heels echoing like the beat of a drum, announcing my arrival. Each step sent jolts of pain through my body, a constant reminder of my newfound role as his plaything.

Inside the safety of my office, I peeled off the coat, revealing my state of undress. The anticipation of being caught made my heart race. I was a moth drawn to a flame, both terrified and excited by the potential for further degradation.

I inhaled deeply, my chest expanding with trepidation, as I began to tackle the mundane tasks of the day. It wasn’t long before I was so immersed in my work that the gravity of my situation momentarily slipped my mind. That was until Isis, my dark-skinned secretary, sailed into the room with a look that screamed surprise. Her eyes bulged as she took in my transformed state, her arms laden with a stack of files. She halted abruptly, the heels of her shoes echoing through the otherwise silent room.

Her voice was a mere whisper when she spoke, “Sam, you ... you’ve changed.”

I glanced up, attempting nonchalance, “Just experimenting, Isis.”

Her gaze lingered on me, a mix of shock and something I hadn’t anticipated—desire. “You’re ... you’re quite something,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “In fact, Miss Samantha, you look utterly ravishing.”

My cheeks burned with a blush so intense it could’ve been seen from space. “Thank you,” I murmured, feeling anything but ravishing.

Isis handed over the files and turned to leave, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Before the door could shut, she tossed over her shoulder, “I adore your new look, Miss Samantha.”

I sat there, the weight of her words pressing on me like a hot, sticky blanket. Did I really have a choice?

But there was no time to ponder. My phone buzzed with a mysterious text. The sender was unknown, but the message was clear. An appointment had been scheduled for me, with no room for negotiation. The time was 3 PM, and the only clue to the purpose was the location provided in the attached link.

My heart raced as the janitor’s voice, unmistakable despite the line being bad, filled my ear. “Remember to meet me in the basement janitor’s closet before you leave.”

The call ended, leaving me trembling. I had served him well, but the price was steep. My body was to become a blank slate—devoid of any markings that didn’t serve his desires. The tattoos that were once a testament to my rebellious past would be erased without mercy, and every inch of my body hair would be ripped from the roots permanently.

The humiliation was almost too much to bear. I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge for relief. The janitor’s commands had ignited a fire within me that I hadn’t expected. I couldn’t let anyone see, not like this.

With trembling hands, I picked up my bag and headed for the private sanctity of the bathroom attached to my office. Once the door was locked and the sound of the latch echoed through the room, I lifted my skirt, exposing my bare flesh to the cold, unforgiving air. My hand found its way to my throbbing center, seeking the solace that only release could bring.

The friction was delicious, sending sparks through my core as I worked my clit in furtive, desperate circles. My body tensed, my breaths grew ragged, and my thoughts swirled around the impending appointment. The fear and the humiliation melded with the sweet, sharp pleasure, creating a cocktail of emotions that sent me hurtling towards climax.

My orgasm crashed over me, a tidal wave of relief in a sea of despair. It was over quickly, leaving me panting and sticky. I straightened my clothes, wiped my hands, and returned to my desk, a mask of professionalism in place once again.

The rest of the day dragged on, the ticking clock a constant reminder of my fate. As the hours crawled by, I felt a strange anticipation mixed with dread. Finally, the time came to meet the janitor in his dingy lair. I walked down the stairs, each step heavier than the last, until I reached the basement.

The janitor’s quarters were a stark, unpleasant contrast to the immaculate office that lay just above. The air was thick with the harsh scent of bleach, and the floor beneath my feet was sticky with an unknown substance that clung to my shoes, making each step feel slimy and unclean. He was there, just as he had promised over the phone, his eyes gleaming with a hunger so palpable it made my skin crawl.

“Ready to play, little slut?” His voice was a gruff whisper that seemed to echo off the cold, tiled walls.

Without waiting for a response, he stalked over to me and unceremoniously slid his rough, calloused hands between my trembling thighs. His fingertips found my most sensitive spot with an eerie precision, and within moments, I could feel myself growing wet and swollen with desire. He played with me like a toy, bringing me to the brink of climax only to pull away at the last second, leaving me whimpering for more.

Finally, when he had sufficiently tormented me, he pulled his glistening fingers from my core and held them out before my face, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Clean up,” he demanded, and I had no choice but to obey, my own juices a stark reminder of the power he held over me. The taste was foreign, and I felt a deep sense of degradation as I licked my essence from his digits, but the fear of what might happen if I refused was more powerful than my revulsion.

He lifted my skirt, revealing my mound of hair, already glistening with my own arousal. “I hope you haven’t come yet,” he taunted, “because I have a little game for you.”

He presented me with two choices, both equally humiliating. I could either allow him to fuck me and then show the sticky mess to the person waxing my bikini line, or I could give him a blowjob and receive a facial in return. The thought of lying there while he spilled his seed on my most intimate areas was almost too much to bear, but the prospect of walking around with his semen coating my face was equally as mortifying.

My voice quivered as I spoke, “I ... I’ll do the second one.”

He chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying the power he had over me. “Good choice,” he said, and before I could fully comprehend what was happening, I found myself on my knees before him, his cock standing proud and demanding in my face.

I took him into my mouth, the taste of his manhood overpowering and bitter, but the fear of his retribution kept me going. I sucked and licked, trying my best to pleasure him, and after what felt like an eternity, he finally came. His semen shot out like a bullet, covering my face in a warm, sticky mess. “Looks like you’re ready for your appointment,” he sneered, not bothering to help me up.

My face was a canvas of humiliation, but I knew better than to argue. Instead, I used the time to smear the semen all over my face, hoping that it would not raise any suspicion when I arrived at the salon. With a heavy heart, I made my way to my car, the sticky substance drying on my skin, making it tight and uncomfortable.

The drive to the salon was agonizingly slow, each bump in the road jostling me and reminding me of the degradation I had just endured. When I finally arrived, my mind was racing with thoughts of how to explain my condition if anyone asked. But I knew the truth was something I could never reveal.

I walked into the dimly lit salon, the neon sign outside flickering like a beacon of hope in the otherwise desolate street. The shabby exterior did little to conceal the squalor within. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and the faint echo of pained whimpers that seemed to resonate off the grimy walls. The receptionist, a bleached blonde with a sneer that could cut glass, took a lingering look at the paperwork in front of her. Her eyes trailed over the words before finally meeting mine with a look of mock surprise. “Ah, Miss Samantha,” she drawled, her voice dripping with contempt. “Your appointment for the ... special treatment.” She took a moment to let the words hang in the air, ensuring I felt the full weight of my embarrassment. “The Madam is expecting you.”

The wait was interminable, the tension in the room thick with the anticipation of what was to come. Each passing minute felt like an eternity as I sat there, my heart racing and palms sweaty. All the while, the blond woman behind the counter couldn’t help but sneak glances at my exposed skin, her gaze lingering on the areas that would soon be subjected to the cruel ministrations of the salon’s specialist.

Finally, the moment arrived, and I was ushered into the back of the salon by a towering black woman, her skin adorned with intricate tattoos that told a story of a life I could only imagine. She introduced herself as Mistress Tiana, the woman who would be responsible for my transformation. Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and sadistic pleasure as she took in my trembling form. “You must be nervous,” she purred, her voice a symphony of velvet and steel. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon enough.”

Mistress Tiana’s touch was firm and unyielding as she guided me to the chair that awaited me. It was a strange contraption, designed to hold me in place as the laser did its work. “You’re going to be so smooth,” she murmured, her words sending a shiver down my spine. “So bare, so ... accessible.” She locked the door with a finality that sent a cold wave of dread washing over me.

The first part of the process was the most humiliating. I was ordered to strip, and as I did, Mistress Tiana’s eyes roved over my naked body with the hunger of a predator eyeing its prey. “You’re going to be so beautiful,” she said, her smile never reaching her eyes. “Once all that hair is gone, you’ll be the perfect canvas for your Master’s art.”

Her hands moved over me, cold and clinical, as she trimmed and shaved every last bit of hair from my body. Each stroke of the razor brought a sting of pain and the promise of more to come. She was thorough, leaving not a single follicle untouched. And as she worked, her eyes never left my face, boring into me with a fierce intensity that made me feel more exposed than my bare flesh.

Then came the laser, a tool of torture that promised to leave me forever changed. It seared my skin; each pulse a brand of agony that made me want to scream. Yet I remained silent, biting down on the leather strap she had provided to muffle my cries. The smell of burning hair filled the air, mingling with the coppery tang of fear that emanated from my pores.

Finally, she turned her attention to my tattoos, the marks of a past life that my Master had deemed unworthy. One by one, they were erased, the pain of their removal almost as intense as the pain of their creation. With each pass of the laser, I could feel myself fading away, becoming a blank slate upon which my Master would write his own story.