I'll Expose All Secrets in Chapter 4

I'll Expose All Secrets in Chapter 4

I'm running behind schedule and rush into work just as the daily team meeting is about to start. I find myself wedged between colleagues, drawing their attention as I try to blend in. Nervously, I wait for my turn to report on my tasks. They're staring at me because I'm wearing a dress and stockings instead of my usual jeans and top. As I speak, I struggle not to blush, but the thoughts of my secret lingerie underneath send blood rushing to my cheeks. It feels like I'm on display at my office, standing among coworkers dressed in my sultry attire, high heels accenting my calves in ways I never knew possible.

I'm experiencing a similar sensation to when he'd requested me to strip and send a photo. I nervously finish my report before joining the others. The stares continue as if they could see through my dress, detecting the silky basque and lacy g-string encased beneath. It's like the nightmare where I'd absent-mindedly turn up for work dressed only in my underwear, resurfacing in reality. My coworkers can see me in my submissive state wearing barely-there lingerie and have their gaze lingering on my wet spot.

A coworker next to me reports, and their focus shifts. Determined not to continue feeling humiliated, I blink rapidly and attempt to gather my thoughts. This was never a smart plan. I allowed myself to be talked into this absurd scenario.

How could I have allowed myself this? It's simple. The more I comply with his requests, the longer I delay his ultimatum that involves publishing the photo of my fully-exposed genitals. He needs me to persistently humiliate myself in the public eye. If I don't follow his orders, he will publish the graphic image to expose my sexual nature.

I need to compose myself. I need to focus on work and forget what he's making me endure - the heat between my legs. I'm wearing a dress, that's all anyone can see. People are only curious about my wardrobe choice. I must stop making this incident a bigger deal than it is.

I return to my desk and power on my computer. I must complete my project update, but I'm overwhelmed by the bodily sensations. My stockings across my legs, the straps trailing from the back of my basque, my heightened sensitivity, everything is intensifying. I must focus to get work done.

My phone beeps, and my pulse races. He has manipulated my device as a tool to taunt me. On the screen, a message blinks, requiring attention. I cannot help but comply.

It's from him: a discount code and a website link. The code makes no sense to me. I access it, expecting some outcome, and a short story appears on my screen. In the midst of work, I'm expected not to be distracted. But as the minutes slip, so does my concentration.

I give in and read the story. Maybe it's the desire for a vicarious thrill or self-destruction, I can't quite explain it, but I should not have given in. I was no longer in control of my reactions.

The narrative follows a new female CEO of a biotech company. They're producing a new drug, and while the plot is weak, I sift through it, holding back from criticizing. The head of research disapproves and has concocted a plan. He starts dosing her with the drug, slipping it into her coffee. She feels distinct changes: attraction to shorter skirts and a need for salon appoinments and gym sessions. Her work performance sinks as he takes control, assisting with her coffee. She is becoming a vapid, sex-crazed slave - all under the command of the scientist, who steadily gains power over the company. The story ends with her submerging herself under his desk to perform a sloppy blowjob while he works.

I realize why I'm reading this story. This mysterious person is playing mind games with me. They know I'll read it in nothing but my underwear and by the end of the day, my thoughts will be consumed by the woman's transition from CEO to brainless bimbo. The story is ridiculous, just a male-fantasy, but I can't seem to shake the feeling it has left in me. She looked so happy on her knees, content with being a mindless slut who gives service. I wonder what it would feel like to be reduced to that.

I receive a notification that has nothing to do with the story. It's for a different website. I click on it and am greeted by a pop-up on my phone, asking if I'm over 18. What?

I click 'yes' and reach the homepage. My eyes widen when I see the woman with the sunburst headdress, but in a different pose, still completely naked. There is a membership login. It takes me a moment to comprehend what I'm looking at.

He has his own site. There's a paywall, but access to the member zone includes galleries of his photos. I pause, hating myself as my thumb hovers over the "join" link. This is what the discount code is for; a free membership for his site. I click the link and find myself faced with many of the pictures I've seen on the forums, now teasers for galleries of every woman. There's a tab labeled "new" and my heart begins to pound.

My finger trembles as I tap the link, curiosity winning out. When I see the picture of myself, I take a sharp breath. It's the edited version he had sent me, the one with my legs cut off below the knees and the top half of my face cut off, but what remains is clearly my breasts and my crotch. I'm staring, mentally unprepared for this. My phone notifies me of a new message.

• What do you think?

Shaking, I hit "reply":

• That's me

I feel so stupid for saying that but it's the only coherent thought I have.

• Do you like it? I think the shadowing turned out well. I had to fiddle with the light balance, but I think it works
• Okay

I'm cradling my phone, waiting for his reply. He's online but isn't typing. 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. All the other women are naked. It's a porn site. How does that work?
• It's not a porn site; it's a gallery site.
• I'm...naked though?
• Yes.

My blood boils. I'm tapping through the site and am suddenly confronted by another woman's gallery. She has a sunburst headdress, just like the woman in his original photo. She's also naked, displaying her body with pride or submission (we're not sure). But the dates listed below the photos show that this gallery is the oldest and contains photos as recent as yesterday.

• You can't do this. That woman...she's a mother. And you said full frontal was the end. She's still sending him photos.
• She's not being forced. She could remove her photos at any time.
• You're blackmailing her. She's vulnerable; how could she refuse?
• She's not. She chooses to be in those photos.

Fortunately, I'm able to maintain control and avoid any attention.

• It's not right. You're just sexually exploiting her.
• She consented.
• How? How can she do that?
• She knows what's there. She can delete it.
• But...she's married! She can't. You're threatening her husband with all of these pictures of her! She's powerless!
• She's not.

I freeze when I see the woman purposely seductive pose, cupping her breasts. Her diamond ring seems to glint in the monochrome lighting, her husband's symbol of ownership. That symbolism is what had drawn me to their initial photo, and seeing it in my hand is haunting.

I stare at the picture, remembering the first time I saw it on the forums. Things just got more complicated.

• You allowed your wife to post naked pictures on a website, on a forum?
• She runs the site on the forums.
• You...you posted her pictures?
• Yes.

Anger bubbles up.

• That's so twisted.
• It's mature. It's not twisted. Besides, she consented to me posting them.
• Right, she agreed to it. Willingly. You're still exploiting her.
• She's not.

My breathing comes shallow and tense.

• This is such a fucked up situation. It's really messed up.
• I know. Its consensual. Adult.

The realization hits me like a truck. I hate that I'm struggling to comprehend the situation while some seem to be so good with it. The dynamic is baffling to me.

• Why would you do that to your wife?
• Why wouldn't I? She enjoys it.
• For money? For your kink?
• Yes. We're not bound by societal or moral expectations. We are consenting adults.

This exchange is so unexpected, I just scratch my head.

• You allow your wife to run a porn site?
• Yes. We share everything. This is just part of their life and business.
• Jesus Christ! Years ago, you posted my naked photos on the forum. It's...how do I even understand this!?
• That was years ago. We're not that couple anymore.

They're not like other people. Their relationship is built on shared fantasies and never being tied down by societal expectations. But this mindset is unheard of by nearly everyone else. And I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

You have children. There's a brief silence as I observe the tiny dots. Can he be gearing up for an angry rant, or simply searching for the right words?

• I've learned about this from her. I know why...
• Are you selling her online? You're earning money from the mother of your kids, and all the others you have there. Me included.
• Would you like me to stop?

I look left and right to make sure nobody's watching.

• What do you think?
• If that's the case, we can end...
• But you're still planning to post my picture online, right? I can't trust you!
• Yes, I'll share your picture like I promised, and only after that, I'll prevent any contact with you. It's over.
• How is that stopping? How's that not just a cruelly vengeful action? You're still unveiling me to the public.

After a while, he sends me a photograph. It's my image. He's been working on it again, and I can't avert my gaze from it. Although it's small on my phone screen, I zoom in to analyse every detail. With my colleagues checking me out, I could easily be browsing lesbian porn at work. I'm becoming abnormal.

• See how different she appears if you pass by her on the street? None of my visitors would recognise her or me. Check the edit!

I move to the image, expanding it to a size where it just about fills my entire phone screen. My gaze is stuck to it. He's added shadowing and airbrushing, changing my appearance. I don't even recognise myself. I've got an almost-perfect mask covering my face.

• I've crafted two options. We could use the torso shot. If we go for that, I'll require additional images from you.
• For your website?
• No, it's for my gallery.
• Why would I agree to that?
• Since you're attracted to the torso shot yourself, I'm planning on showcasing your exquisite beauty. This could be a chance for you to prove the world who you truly are.
• You mean this could be financially rewarding. It's a form of exploitation.

I'm suddenly in control and feeling rational again. I'm no longer the dumb, humiliation-focused victim he keeps referring to. I've got the upper hand.

• The website attracts a considerable number of visitors. There are men and women itching to view your body.
• Men and women?
• Yes, more female members than you'd think.
• That doesn't have any bearing on my identity as a heterosexual individual.
• I'm offering you the possibility to be whatever you want to be. Consider it. Take your time. Oh, by the way, if we pursue this, I'll organise some appointments for you.
• For what purpose?
• You'll find out. However, what you need to do is choose. Either I'll cease all contact, or you'll send me a full, unbuttoned, and wide-open dress image, capturing your lingerie. Take several pictures, and I'll select the best.

Suddenly, he's back on track as if the previous unsettling comments had no significance. The green light next to his icon blinks off, and I feel trapped in my office chair.

I'm well aware of the naked women in my photo collection. I glance through them regularly. He's correct; I have numerous images of women tied or perched in inescapable positions, displaying their nude bodies for my pleasure. I sneak a peek at some of them, trying not to raise suspicion around me. I enjoy gazing at female self-bondage pictures. In fact, I have a particular favourite because she appears powerless, a steel ornament embedded in her clit, struggling from her ropes. [

With her face directed at the camera and begging silently, she appears to be a vacant whore preparing for therapy. Her plight has piqued my interest in the past, considering me potentially in the shot. But still, there's an additional urge simmering within - something unutterable. While seated in my workplace brimming with activity, an epiphany emerges.

I feel the need to capture my semi-naked body in the stall, dissecting my lingerie. I email the images to him and repeat this action-packed ordeal. I revel in self-induced arousal, strumming my clitoris whilst trying to suppress any sounds of satisfaction.

The unfortunate female in the image: I envision becoming the dominant presence in the trapped person. Towering over her, with her body fully exposed and vulnerable, unable to resist my advances. I'd possess the ability to make her obey.

For a get-together, I was to attend a salon, yet he orchestrated a different location. No explanation, just the directive to show up at this salon that I'm uninformed about. I echo his command with little annoyance and walk inside. There's a feminine employee at the reception area, head tilted up and smiling as I enter.

"Hi," I mutter. "I have an appointment."

"Okay, sure. Your name?"

"Amber."

Mortified, I chide myself for picking one of the most embarrassing aliases he offered. He understands the situation completely. I loathe this entire circumstance, yet he is footing the bill. The funds are being channelled from the development kitty, he shares.

And with it comes retribution. Amber: not just a fake name, but a reminder of my status as a commodity. My naked visage will appear on his private porn website for subscribers to view, drawing from the same funds I'm spending towards...the enhancement of me? Maintenance?

"This way please, Amber. You booked the entire package."

"Yes."

I contemplate asking for the full treatment outline yet fear sounding deranged. It seems I arranged this and, embarrassed, I begin to undress despite my hesitation. I furtively whip out my phone and take a picture. Informed that Dominica would arrive shortly, I text him the naked photograph I had taken. As I spare on the spa robe, I ponder on whether I've turned from an enclosed cloistered being to an individual who willingly exhibits herself.

The desire thrives each time I post a naked picture. Though confined in a salon, I unlock my phone. A message awaits.

• View the forum

My harassment-principal will not be silenced, so I relent. I open the forum site occupied by self-displays of photographers' subjects. My eyes search for the most recent submission. I acknowledge my presence at this salon wherein I'm disrobing, yet I must see the submission no matter what. Sentiments of rapt intrigue grow stronger.

Damn. I typed in the compulsory sarcastic remark, but then ...

Step into uncertainty.

I'm in the photo, but it's not really me. It's just a body, like a Roman statue, with only a torso and no arms or legs. The fuzz between my legs covers my private parts, but my breasts are full and my nipples are engorged, inviting. For a moment, I can fool myself into believing it's not me, and a slight excitement grows inside me as I gaze at a bare woman's form. A faint tingling sensation appears between my legs.

Then the door launches open and I jump, quickly slipping my phone back into my bag. "Amber, hi. Sorry, I was just heating up the wax."

Dominica stands tall and sturdy, holding a tray. On the tray is a heated pot and a stack of paper strips. She smiles at me and points to the padded table. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. What's the matter?"

"You just seem... fine. Okay then. Let's get started."

Dominica keeps the tray aside and takes out fluffy white towels to spread over the padded table in the center of the room. "Can I get you anything before we start?" she asks. "This is going to take some time."

"No, I'm okay."

"Alright then. Get up on the table."

I climb onto the table and lie down. I'm unsure of what to anticipate. She puts a soft pillow under my head and then motions for me to spread wide open. Confused, I hesitate for a moment before complying.

My body is now exhibited on an online platform, subject to the gaze of countless individuals. All I'm being asked to do is show myself to Dominica. She flashes me a friendly smile, encouraging me, and I unwillingly part the robe to reveal my naked body.

I'm embarrassed, but I also feel a burning desire within me as Dominica's eyes travel down my body. I understand exactly what he had done. My insides churn. The warmth I felt as I stared at my exposed self on the forums is now intensified as Dominica will also be witnessing it. She knows that he'd known a woman's hands would touch me down there. She knows that I'm aroused and the thought excites me, further enhancing my sexual arousal, resulting in an uncontrollable wetness that seeps through the paper on the table.

As she begins to apply wax to my calves, I breathe a sigh of relief. I have time to calm myself down. I'm not a bimbo slut. I'm just getting a body wax. Women do this regularly, right? She's not just staring at my private parts. I remind myself to stay composed.

"Did that hurt?" she inquires.

I blink uncertainly, noticing a reddish patch on my skin from the wax. She examines my reaction thoughtfully.

"Should we split the sections? It'll be less harsh."

She chuckles lightly and it's as if she bursts my bubble, bringing me back to the present. I'm not a bimbo slut. I'm just here to get a body wax done.

"No," I respond. "I just haven't had it done before."

"Got it. You look a bit tense. Don't worry. We'll go through it together, alright?"

"Is everyone going through this?" I enquire, perplexed.

"Absolutely. Every woman, in fact. Even men. Some men aren't really used to this either. It's like clearing a path in the jungle, you see."

"What?"

My confusion stops her. "Girls. The effort of looking good. I mean, I have men too. Some are more bear than human. When they come in, I need to take an hour or two to get them tidied up. Their bald patches? Waxed."

"Their wife?"

"Yes, his wife. I think she prefers him hairless."

"Brazilian?" I ask, puzzled.

"Not just for the country. You are, right?"

"Yes."

"First time?"

"Yes."

"It won't be painless. Your body isn't used to it. Skin's follicles."

Yeah, years have passed. He never looked back. The guy prefers it this way. Less flossing more loving, he claims.

Dominica giggles, raising her eyebrows. I grin back at her as well. I mentally place the photo in the back of my thoughts and focus on the flow of Dominica's speech, letting her do her thing. By the time she finishes shaving my armpits and moves on to my groin region, I regain control once more. But, she's right, it hurts pretty bad. The possibility of her touching my sodden pussy is eliminated as soon as the initial yank. There's nothing at all enticing about this.

Following her departure, I stand up, left naked. I can't help myself, I run my fingertips over my recently groomed body, relishing in the heightened sensitivity of the newly revealed skin. The fire roars back to life within me, growing ever stronger until it's all I can do to stop myself from pleasuring myself in the midst of the treatment room. I'm incredibly aroused by my recently shaved body, the glistening smoothness of it, like I've been airbrushed for real. I admire my lovely, engorged outer lips, now finally exposed in all their glory.

I take out my phone again and strike a pose. This is the after-shot, and I attempt to imitate the same stance as I did for the before-shot, affording him various options to work with. I take around six pictures and then scrutinize them, zooming in to examine the minutiae. There is one I like the best. I have a certain, saucy smile on my face, chin held high. There's also something else that catches my eye, and I glance back down my undressed body. Stripped of pubic hair, my engorged outer lips gleam. My entire groin area has a rosy tint, like I've been polished. I gently spread myself apart, shivering with the feeling of exposing myself. Dominica could burst through the door at any moment and witness me touching myself in the middle of the room. She would be able to witness everything. I can't help myself, I feel the need to do it.

With my lips separated, I turn to face the door. If Dominica breaks through those doors at this exact moment, she'll be staring directly at my spread lips. I force myself to count to thirty, vulnerable to being seen, and it increases my arousal. With ten seconds to go, I begin to rub my clit with my middle finger. This is way worse. If she comes through now, she'll catch me masturbating myself. This would be embarrassing beyond belief. She'd tell everyone she encounters about the clueless slut client at work today. I'd never be able to live it down.

I reach thirty and stand up, vertically. I grab my dress, sliding my arms through the sleeves and fastening myself. This is presentable attire, but the heat is still there, refusing to dissipate. I feel different, my skin hypersensitive to the tiniest touch of the cotton dress against it, and each movement acts as a reminder that I'm now completely hairless and not just without underwear. I pick up my bag and return to the main area, briefly inspecting the photograph one more time. I hit send and feel a rush of pleasure that floods my body from nether regions.

"All done?" the receptionist calls out.

"Yes, thank you," I reply. "Can I pay the bill?"

"It's already paid. No need."

She grins at me, and I feel a sense of relief. My body is in such a hyped-up state that I can't wait to slip out onto the street. I require fresh air. I need to calm down.

There is a different woman in the reception area, struggling with her phone. She's about my height, older, with brownish skin and braided hair. She is wearing a dark gray v-neck jacket and slacks, and when she approaches the door, I follow her. Upon opening the door, I catch sight of her left hand and notice the shimmer of diamonds. She gazes back over her shoulder at me and smiles.

The eyes are the same, yet the skin tone and hair color vary. The outfit even differs, but the stunning sunburst headpiece is all I focus on because her hair is to her head. She isn't Caucasian. I'm puzzled.

In the street, we're brought to a standstill.

"Hi," she says after a while. "Everything go alright?"

Her voice possesses a deep, melodious tone, possibly Jamaican.

"You."

This is the only word I can manage to utter. Even getting that one word out seems like a victory.

"Yup, me," she draws out, and then she smiles, enchanting me. She's ceaselessly fascinating.

"You," I say again.

"Indeed, me," she drawls, and then she smiles and bewitches me. I'm entirely charmed.

She tells me, with a mischevious grin, "I've broadcasted myself online, completely nude." She adds, "Putting one of those pictures up on a billboard near my workplace wouldn't make people recognize me, but I'd probably struggle to get the ad agency to approve the arrangement."

She scans me for a few moments, contemplating.

"Can you picture it?" she inquires. "Seeing yourself on a gigantic billboard in an office building, glancing out the window at your own nude form. Observing the men in the boardroom stealing glances at the window to avoid being seen. Watching the countless people on the streets gazing upwards at your exposed figure."

The thought is unavoidable. She's a siren who, even through a phone screen, had already enchanted me for months, but in person, her enchantment is otherworldly. When she proposes we move to a different location to keep talking, my resistance ceases to exist.

[In the next chapter: The photographer's wife, a hotel room, and a shocking revelation.

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Read also:

• My Close Friend, a Female, Fondled Me
• A Stepmother's Varied Testimony: Volume 3
• Listening to Their Groans: The Complete Narrative
• Slim, Youthful, and Well-Endowed in Part 2

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