Glass Horizon
Copyright© 2025 by BareLin
Chapter 4: The Absence of Fabric
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Absence of Fabric - Nellie initially resists but soon internalizes the concept, transforming her nudity from a source of shame into an unassailable "armor." Zara's psychological conditioning extends to Nellie's day job as a leasing agent, her home life with her husband Pete, and even her most intimate biological functions. As Nellie surrenders her autonomy, she discovers the gallery's founders are permanently sealed in glass coffins, their sacrifice part of a perpetual artistic legacy. Pete's horror turns to a grim
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Blackmail Coercion Consensual Reluctant Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Horror Workplace BDSM Humiliation Light Bond Torture Exhibitionism Safe Sex Voyeurism ENF Nudism Transformation
The greasy takeout bag sat on the passenger seat, its smell thick in the confined air of the car. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was knotted with something that wasn’t fear exactly, more like anticipation sharpened into nausea. My hands were still clamped on the steering wheel, knuckles white. The silence in the car after Zara’s last statement pressed against me like a weight.
Then, her voice returned, not with instruction, but with an evaluation. The tone was different. It held something almost warm, an echo of pride.
“Nellie, you are a natural.” The words landed not as a compliment, but as a diagnosis.
“It is remarkable,” she continued, “The Foundation founders were shocked that you ever wore fabric at all. It has been nearly a full day. Without this interface program actively directing you, you have convinced yourself, your employer, your colleagues, and every client you encountered that you are fully clothed. Your posture, your eye contact, your utter lack of defensive gestures ... You have not simply acted unclothed; you have become unclothed. The mental construct of fabric has been erased.”
I stared at the cracked vinyl of my dashboard. She was right. The initial, agonizing awareness of every inch of my skin against the air, the office chair, the client’s gaze, and it was gone. In its place was a profound and unsettling neutrality. My body was no longer a source of vulnerability or shame; it was a fact, as ordinary and functional as the desk I worked at. I hadn’t just accepted the concept; I had metabolized it.
“Why?” Zara asked, her voice shifting from evaluative to inquisitive. It was the first time she had ever asked me a question that sought a genuine, personal answer. “Why were you dressed before last night? Why did you ever wear fabrics?”
The question seemed absurd, its answer self-evident in the world I’d been born into. Now, standing on this side of the glass horizon, the old logic felt flimsy, arbitrary.
“I ... I don’t know,” I whispered, startled by the confession. It was the truth. The reasons, modesty, professionalism, and protection from the elements. It felt like ghost stories told to children, traditions I had inherited without ever understanding. In the face of the raw, unmediated reality I now inhabited, they held no weight. The emperor had no clothes, and I was finally able to see it.
The memory of the previous night, the terror that had almost made me flee. The rose through this new clarity. It seemed now like a staged interruption.
“Zara,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “The man last night. The one the police took away. It was strange, the timing, the way it ended right as my shift started. When they both left, I felt ... compelled to enter. It felt like a sign.”
“It was not a sign,” Zara replied, her tone flat and factual. “It was Test 7B: Response to Perceived External Threat and Institutional Intervention.”
The air left my lungs. The car around me seemed to shrink, transforming from a sanctuary into an examination room.
“The individual was a foundation employee,” she explained. “The scenario is designed to gauge a candidate’s resilience and, more importantly, their prioritization of commitment over personal safety. Many candidates fail. They see the threat and retreat, forfeiting their position. Their instinct for self-preservation overrides their contractual obligation.” She paused, not for effect, but as if logging my silence as data. “Your decision to proceed, despite the fear, demonstrated a foundational understanding. This position requires that the concept supersedes the self.”
A cold knot tightened in my stomach, panic. The genuine fear I’d felt had all been a set piece. The police, the ‘criminal,’ every detail of that night had been part of a play staged for an audience of one: me. My vulnerability, my moment of crisis, had been a metric, and I passed.
I hadn’t walked into the gallery despite the danger; I’d walked in because the system had engineered the danger to prove that I would. The ‘why’ of my old life. Wearing clothes for protection, for privacy, crumbled to dust. Here, even fear itself was a garment to be stripped away, another test to prove my worthiness for a future I was only beginning to glimpse.
The engine cut, leaving a silence quickly filled by the low hum of distant traffic. I looked at the takeout bag, then through the windshield toward the small patio outside the closed restaurant. The tables and chairs were chained together, their shadows stretching across the concrete, but the view of the street was unobstructed.
“You will not eat in the vehicle. The interior limits visibility. You will exit and consume the meal in a public environment.”
I blinked. “Outside, Patio?”
“Yes. There is a closed restaurant ahead,” she replied. “Its patio will provide adequate exposure.” This is necessary for progression.”
The phrasing wasn’t harsh. It was reasonable, factual, so reasonable that by the time. I realized I’d turned into a lot; the decision no longer felt like mine.
The casual restaurant was shuttered, its tables chained, its patio empty. “Take the food,” Zara instructed. “You will eat seated, facing the street.”
I stepped out, the air cool on my skin. The act of crossing the lot felt slow and surreal, like moving through water. Each motion, opening the chair, sitting, unwrapping the food, was narrated by her voice in my ear.
“Move your legs farther apart, feet even, and show confidence. Do not shield yourself. Do not hunch. Visibility is the measure of truth.” I shifted automatically, the metal of the chair biting into my thighs. The burger in my hands looked absurd, a child’s comfort food in a setting of punishment.
“Eat,” Zara said.
I obeyed. The flavors were muted by my nervousness, unreal.
Zara continued, her tone clinical and patient, the voice of someone explaining an equation to a slow student. “Each act of exposure must be sustained to retain integrity. A temporary display creates conflict between the self and the concept. Integration requires permanence.”
The word permanence hit like a slap. I hesitated, the burger halfway to my mouth. “You mean this? Forever? This was only supposed to be for a month. My contract is only for a month.”
Zara didn’t answer immediately. When she did, the tone had softened into that dangerous calm she used when she knew she was winning. “Nellie, your exhibit does not end when the lights are turned off. Your contract governs compensation, not reality. The agreement was drafted to support your transition, not define it. You accepted payment to participate in truth, not to create it. You are already changing. I am only documenting it.”
The logic was so perfectly constructed that it erased most of it anyway. I wanted to object, but every protest felt childish, unprofessional, and irrational.
I frowned, a flicker of thought cutting through the obedience. “That’s not what it says,” I countered quietly. “The language was explicit: Thirty days, fixed term, renewable by consent. After that, I can walk away.”
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “You can walk away from my influence, but not from the truth. The contract isn’t the source of your exposure. It’s simply the framework that allowed it to begin.”
For a fleeting second, I wanted to argue, to call it absurd, to say she couldn’t just rewrite legal terms like scripture. Still, the logic of her tone, the smooth inevitability of it, pressed down on my mind like weightless glass.
“You agreed to compensation,” she continued, “because you still believed you were performing. However, compensation is a bridge useful only until you’ve crossed. Once the body accepts alignment, payment becomes redundant.”
Zara’s phrasing was so measured, so perfectly rational, that for a moment I couldn’t find the crack in it. The contract had been the lure, thirty days of controlled exposure. What she was describing now wasn’t employment. It was absorption. “I understand,” I said at last, though the words tasted like surrender.
“Good,” Zara said. “Understanding is alignment. Alignment is consent.” The silence that followed was long and absolute, filled only by the low hum of passing cars.
Then: “Your left leg is angled three inches too far to the right. It casts a shadow of concealment. Correct.” I moved my leg. The adjustment felt less like obedience and more like inevitability.
“Your posture is acceptable,” she continued. “Maintain the arch in your lower spine. It presents the torso clearly. Do not flinch from the breeze.”
A gust raised goosebumps across my skin. The old Nellie would have crossed her arms. This one did not move.
“Now take a drink,” Zara instructed. “Your elbow is tucked. Extend the arm fully. Every action must exist as observation.”
I lifted the soda, extending my arm, performing the act as she described. The motion felt deliberate, ceremonial, detached from hunger or thirst.
“This is your new normal,” she said finally. “Every gesture, every breath, every thought visible, observed, perfected. Resistance will fade as the system stabilizes.
By the time I finished the meal, my body felt less mine and more an instrument of display. “Rise slowly,” she said. “Collect the trash. Do not rush. Bend at the waist, not the knees. The full line of the body must remain visible to traffic.” I did as instructed. Each movement was slow, precise, and empty of intent.
As I walked back to the car, the cold air stung but did not move me. The war between instinct and instruction was over. Zara had won not through force, but through reason. I was no longer resisting. I was performing, and in that performance, I was dissolving.
Returning to the office felt like stepping back onto a familiar stage. The initial, sharp shock from my colleagues had softened into a dull, persistent awe. They were no longer reacting to the absence of clothing; they were witnessing the absence of consequence. I moved with an unnerving serenity, my bare feet silent on the tile, my posture radiating an authority that fabric had never provided.
Linda appeared at her doorway. “Nellie. My office. Now.” Her tone was different, not confrontational, but formal.
I followed her in. She didn’t ask me to close the door. She simply picked up a single sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to me.
“It came from corporate,” she said, her voice flat. “Directly from Legal. A contract addendum. Effective immediately.”
I took the page. The language was stark and brutal. Clinical poetry.
Addendum to Employment Agreement - Role Integration Clause
The Employee, Nellie Maddox, hereby acknowledges that her professional capacity is henceforth integrated with a sanctioned external artistic engagement. Accordingly, the standard definition of professional attire is permanently waived for the duration of her employment.
The Employee’s state of undress is recognized as the official and non-negotiable uniform for her position. All professional tasks, including but not limited to client interactions, property tours, maintenance assistance, and staff meetings, shall be conducted in this state.
Failure to maintain this standard, including any attempt to introduce covering or obfuscation of the body, will constitute a fundamental breach of contract and grounds for immediate termination.
It was the corporate world’s rubber stamp on my new reality. They hadn’t just permitted it; they had codified it, turning my skin into a legally binding uniform.
She hesitated, as if realizing how far she’d gone. Her gaze flicked toward the glass walls of her office, where my cubicle sat in plain view. “Facilities are coming tomorrow,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “Corporate approved some updates to your workstation.”
“Updates?” I asked, my tone neutral.
She swallowed. “A new desk. Acrylic. The cubicle walls will be replaced with matching acrylic partitions and reduced in height. To align with the integration standards outlined in your addendum.”
The words landed like a gavel.
“It’s meant to ensure transparency,” she continued, as if reciting from an email. “Full visibility for both collaboration and compliance.”
Of course it was. The addendum had already codified my body as uniform; it only made sense that the environment would follow. The opaque wood of my desk, the soft fabric walls that once offered a trace of separation, would soon be gone. In their place: seamless sheets of acrylic, waist-high, offering no shadow, no concealment. Even the illusion of privacy was being dismantled, replaced by policy.
For a moment, I imagined sitting there under the fluorescent lights. I was fully visible from every angle, my hands typing, my phone ringing, every breath and movement on display. It wasn’t just furniture; it was a confession booth built without walls.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded like a series of practical examinations. A call came in from a unit occupied by a young couple with a toddler. I was there to fix their garbage disposal, which was jammed, and the maintenance team was swamped. I took the work order at the outburst from some of the other leasing agents, who clearly were stating my nakedness.
For the other leasing agents, none of them got up to respond to the work order. The young mother answered the door; her baby balanced on her hip. Her eyes widened, then glanced toward her husband on the couch. “Uh, maintenance?” she stammered.
A faint, metallic tang of panic hung in the air. “I can assist,” I said, my voice a calm, flat lake in the storm of their domestic chaos. The wife’s gaze was a frantic, silent alarm. Her eyes darted from my breasts down to the vulnerable expanse of the folds of skin between the legs, revealing bare, exposed skin.
It was an unplanned intimacy, a glimpse of the anonymous person beneath the role, and her shock was less about impropriety and more about this sudden, stark collision of our worlds. Her silence was a screaming thing; I could almost feel the shape of her swallowed tongue lodged in her throat. We were all meticulously ignoring the elephant in the room, a beast of pure, awkward spectacle. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked, my tone still placid as I knelt before the kitchen sink, an acolyte at a broken spoon in the garbage disposal.
The shift in the room’s atmosphere was immediate and palpable. As I bent forward, my posture necessarily exposed the line of my back, the vulnerability of my position to the entire family as I unplugged it under the sink. It was then that I felt the husband’s gaze shift. It was no longer on the task, or even truly on me. It became a hot, pointed thing aimed directly at his wife.
A look of possessive appraisal, a low current of provocation. He shifted his weight, a performance of discomfort that wasn’t about embarrassment, but about assertion. A low, conspiratorial giggle passed between him and his companion, a sound that felt greasy in the warm, formula-scented air.
His wife stood rigid by the refrigerator, a statue of conflict. A deep, mortified flush bloomed from her neck to her cheeks. Her hands fluttered one moment, twitching toward her young daughter’s eyes as if to shield them, the next curling into a fist at her side.
She was torn between the roles of protective mother and chastised wife, her gaze darting from the child to me, to her husband’s hand, which now rested, heavy and claiming, on the small of her back. That touch was not a comfort; it was a brand, a reminder of the audience to their intimacy.
I became a machine of pure function. My world narrowed to the dark, grinding throat of the disposal. With deliberate, precise movements, I retrieved the offending spoon, its surface scarred by the machine’s teeth. The metal was cool, the task simple. My focus was a shield, my efficiency a form of absolution.
When the tension became too heavy to ignore, they excused themselves. I heard the soft shuffle of their exit from the kitchen as I leaned back in to plug the unit back in. The job was done.
Walking out, the evidence of their life pressed in on me: the cluttered counter, the saccharine scent of formula mingling with the sharpness of detergent. This bubbling, fragile ecosystem of their home, with all its unspoken contracts and quiet affections, had been violently, if silently, violated. Not by my presence, but by the unacknowledged spectacle they had made of it. The embarrassment, the tension, the charged silence, it was a mess of their own making. I was just the technician, in my mandated uniform of my own skin, who had come and gone, leaving them to clean it up.
Later in the afternoon, I showed three units to a pair of corporate investors looking for temporary units for their staff. My coworker, Manioca, someone I had worked alongside just yesterday, joined me for one of the tours. The silence between us in the empty unit was thick, like the air before a storm.
Finally, she spoke, her voice hushed. “Nellie. My God. What ... What happened? It was just Sunday. We were printing flyers. You were wearing that blue cardigan.”