Naomi
What kind of person does this? What kind of husband does this to his wife? He is a sick bastard. A twisted, evil, sick freaking bastard who gets off on humiliating and degrading me for entertainment. This isn't about clothes. This isn't about shopping. This is about power. About making me perform, making me dance for him like a monkey in a cage, stripping away every last shred of my dignity until there's nothing left.
My hands were shaking. Like, actually shaking, trembling so bad I could see my fingers vibrating. I reached for the zipper of my dress, my movements slow and clumsy, like I was moving through water. The zipper slid down with a soft hiss, and the black fabric pooled around my feet. I stepped out of it carefully, leaving it in a heap on the floor.
Then came the bra. My fingers fumbled with the clasp at the back, slipping twice before I managed to undo it. The lace fell away, and I felt the cool air hit my bare chest, making me want to cross my arms over myself, to hide, to disappear.
I hesitated, my thumbs hooked in the waistband of my panties. This was it. This was the point of no return. Once these came off, there was nothing between me and whatever horrible thing he had planned next. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a shaky, ragged breath, and pulled them down.
I stood there, completely naked behind the red curtain, my arms wrapped around my torso, my eyes squeezed shut, my whole body trembling. The music throbbed on the other side, a constant reminder of what was waiting for me.
Finally, I forced myself to look.
I turned my head towards the rack, towards the sea of lace and leather and humiliation. The first thing my eyes landed on was a black lace lingerie, sheer in all the wrong places, with thin straps and a plunging neckline that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was pretty, in a disgusting kind of way, the kind of pretty that was designed to be taken off, not put on.
I stared at it, my stomach churning, my mind racing. This was it. This was what he wanted. This was what my life had become. Standing naked in a fancy boutique, about to put on a piece of clothing that would strip me of every last ounce of self-respect I had left.
And I couldn't say no. I couldn't fight. I couldn't do anything except stand there, shaking, and stare at the stupid lace teddy like it was a death sentence written in fabric.
**
Xavier
The curtain rustled, a soft whisper of velvet against velvet, and then she appeared. My eyes were on her the second she stepped out from behind that red fabric, and fuck me, the view was something else.
She had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, like she was trying to disappear, trying to hide that gorgeous body from me. Cute. But fucking useless. The black lace she had on left nothing to the imagination anyway.
It was a one-piece number, plunging down the front like it was trying to reach her navel, cinching tight at her waist to show off those curves I wish I had my hands on right now. The high-cut legs exposed those smooth, creamy thighs of hers, and the lace cups her breasts perfectly, lifting them up like an offering.
Fuck. She looked sexy as hell.
My dick twitched in my pants, a familiar, demanding pulse, but I paid it no mind. I wasn't here to fuck her. Not yet, anyway. I was here to enjoy the show, to watch my little wife parade around like the trophy she was. I leaned back on the couch, spreading my arms along the back of the velvet, and smirked. This was exactly what I wanted. Her, exposed, humiliated, performing for me like a good little wife.
"Put your hands down," I said, my voice cutting through the slow, thumping music.
She flinched. Actually flinched, like I'd slapped her. But she obeyed. Good, she was learning. Her arms dropped to her sides, stiff and rigid, and I got the full, unobstructed view. Her skin was smooth, unblemished except for the bruises I'd left on her hips and waist, dark little reminders of that night this made my satisfaction grow. Those were my marks. My signatures on her body.
I let my gaze roam over her, taking my time, appreciating every inch. The way the lace hugged her curves, the way her breathing made her chest rise and fall, the way she was trembling ever so slightly. It was a fucking masterpiece.
"Well?" I said, letting the word hang in the air between us. "I'm waiting."
She stared at me, her eyes wide and confused, like she didn't understand. Like she needed me to spell it out for her. I raised an eyebrow, a silent command. Move. Dance. Do what the fuck you're here to do.
Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed immediately by a fresh wave of humiliation that made her cheeks flush pink. And then she started to move.
It was stiff at first. Nervous. Awkward as hell, to be honest. Her hips swayed in these jerky, robotic motions, her arms hanging at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them. She looked like a broken doll trying to dance, all wrong angles and terrified eyes. She was humiliated, I could see it in every line of her body, in the way she couldn't quite meet my gaze, in the way her movements were small and hesitant like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.
And I was eating it up.
Fuck, this was better than I'd imagined. Watching her squirm, watching her force herself to move for me, to degrade herself for my entertainment, it was a rush unlike anything else. The power was intoxicating, a heady drug that went straight to my head and settled low in my gut. She was mine. Completely, utterly mine. And she knew it. Every awkward step, every humiliating sway of her hips was an acknowledgment of that fact.
I didn't say a word. I just watched, my eyes dark and hungry, letting the silence and the music do the work for me. She danced for what felt like several minutes, her movements slowly becoming less stiff, more fluid, though the humiliation never left her eyes. The blush on her cheeks had spread down her neck, staining her chest pink, and I could see the sheen of sweat beginning to form on her skin.
Finally, when I'd had my fill of this particular show, I spoke.
"Change," I said, the single word a sharp command. "Another one."
The relief that flooded her face was almost comical. She practically scrambled back behind the curtain, eager to escape my gaze, eager to cover herself up again. I watched the red fabric sway after she disappeared, a satisfied smirk playing on my lips.
There were plenty more on that rack. And I had all fucking day.
The curtain moved, and this time, I sat up a little straighter. The lace had been good, but I wanted to see more. I wanted to see what else she had on that rack, what other ways she could be displayed.
She stepped out, and fuck me.
My breath actually caught in my throat for a second, a involuntary reaction I immediately wanted to punch myself for. The black leather was a completely different beast from the lace. It sat tightly against her body like a second skin, structured and unforgiving, moulding to every single curve she had.
The bra was pushing her tits up, lifting them, creating this deep, mouth-watering cleavage that made my hands itch to grab. The high-waisted briefs cinched at her waist, tight enough to create this insane hourglass silhouette that was practically illegal.
And then there were the cutouts. Strategic little slices of exposed skin at her midriff and hips, drawing my eyes exactly where they wanted them to go. The shiny material caught the light with every movement, highlighting every dip and curve of her body. The garter straps framed her thighs, making her legs look impossibly long, elongating them in a way that was pure fucking torture.
She walked out slowly, her hips swaying, but it was that same stiff, robotic shit from before. She was strutting, sort of, trying to move to the beat of the music, but it looked like she was thinking about every single step, calculating every movement like she was solving a math problem instead of dancing for her husband.
My dick was hard. Rock fucking hard, straining against my suit pants, a demanding, aching presence that was getting increasingly difficult to ignore. She looked incredible. Sexy as hell. The leather, the cutouts, the way it hugged her body like it was painted on, it was all perfect.
But I wasn't getting what I wanted.
This wasn't a show. This was a punishment for both of us. Her, for having to do it, and me, for having to watch her half-ass her way through it like a fucking robot. I didn't want stiff and awkward. I wanted her to move like she meant it. I wanted her to sway those hips like she wanted me to watch, like she was enjoying it, even if we both knew she wasn't. I wanted a real fucking show, not whatever this pathetic attempt at dancing was.
I stood up from the couch, the movement sudden enough to make her flinch. I walked towards her, my strides long and purposeful, closing the distance between us until I was standing right in front of her. She stopped moving immediately, her body going rigid, her eyes wide and terrified as she stared up at me.
I was close enough to touch her, close enough to smell the faint scent of lavender still clinging to her skin beneath the heavy smell of new leather. My eyes roamed over her face, then down her body, taking in every detail of the leather and the skin it exposed.
"You call that dancing?" I said, my voice low and dangerous, barely above a growl. I took another step closer, invading her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at me. "I told you to make it worth my while, wife. I told you there would be consequences."
I reached out, my fingers brushing against the leather at her waist, feeling the smooth, cool material beneath my fingertips. I let my hand rest there for a moment, a possessive weight, before trailing it up slowly, over the cutout at her midriff, feeling her skin tremble beneath my touch.
"Put on a real show," I said, my lips close to her ear, my breath hot against her neck. "Move like you mean it. Sway those hips like you actually want me to watch you. Touch yourself if you have to. I don't give a fuck what you do, as long as it looks like you're enjoying it." I pulled back, my eyes locking onto hers, cold and hard. "Or else, wife. And trust me, you don't want to find out what or else means."
I held her gaze for a long, tense moment, letting the threat sink in, letting the fear build in her eyes until it was almost palpable. Then I turned and walked back to the couch, settling into the velvet with my legs spread, my arms draped along the back, my hard-on clearly visible through my suit pants.
I picked up the remote and turned up the music, the bass thrumming louder, the beat more insistent.
"Now," I said, my voice carrying across the room, "try again."
**
Naomi stood on that stage, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm, but she obeyed. She had no other choice. The memory of his threat, whispered hot against her ear, was a brand on her soul, a constant, burning reminder of what would happen if she didn't perform.
So she moved.
She swayed her hips, forcing them into a slow, sensual rhythm that felt alien and wrong on her body. She ran her hands over the leather, over her skin, over the curves the lingerie was designed to highlight, just as he had commanded. She touched herself, her fingers trailing over her stomach, her thighs, the exposed skin at her hips, each movement a degradation that chipped away at her dignity like water wearing down stone.