Chapter 5: The Slutty Bodysuit
The fishnet felt like a thousand insect legs crawling over her skin. Michal stood before the scarred dresser mirror, her reflection a stranger strung up in a web of black thread. The crotchless opening gaped, a vulgar frame for the silver rings piercing her labia, which still throbbed dully from the night before. Her shaved pussy was on blatant display, swollen and slick with the unmistakable gloss of her humiliation.
“The heels,” Voo said from the doorway.He hadn’t repeated himself.He hadn’t snapped. It was simply what she should do.
Her hands trembled as she buckled the stilettos, each strap feeling like a shackle. The six-inch spikes made her towering, unstable. Her ass, still marked with the faint echo of his handprint from hours earlier, pushed against the fragile netting, threatening to tear it.Voo circled her. His breathing was the only sound apart from the frantic drumming in her chest. He stopped behind her, his big hands smoothing the netting over her hips.A casual, possessive gesture. He cupped her ass, squeezing hard, making her gasp.“Good,” he grunted. He reached around front, his fingers sliding easily through the open crotch to find her soaking slit. He rubbed her clit, rough and efficient, and a shudder ran through her.“Already wet. You’re a fast learner.”
He wiped his fingers on her thigh, the gesture colder than a slap. “Let’s go.”
The night air was a physical shock, a crisp, pine-scented slap after the close heat of the cabin. It was full dark, the path to his old pickup lit only by a sliver of moon.Every step was an ordeal. The heels sank into the soft earth, twisting her ankles. The fishnet chafed her nipples, already pebbled tight from the cold and from something else—a creeping, treacherous heat that grew with every second she was near him. She focused on not falling.He opened the passenger door. The vinyl seat was cold, gritted with sawdust. He didn’t speak as they crunched down the long, winding driveway, tires spitting gravel.The forest swallowed them whole.She didn’t ask where they were going. The command was enough: We’re going out. Her mind, scrambled and pliant, couldn’t form a question. She watched the tunnel of pines, her body humming with a low-grade panic that steadily fused with the other thing, the pulsing need that was intrinsically tied to the man beside her. His elbow on the console, the smell of his flannel and woodsmoke, the steady, sure grip on the wheel—it all fed it, stoking a fire in her belly that the cold night air couldn’t touch.
They pulled into the gravel lot of The Gash, a single-story roadhouse hunched at a crossroads thirty miles from their cabin. Neon beer signs bled garish color into the darkness.A few battered trucks were scattered like abandoned toys. Michal’s breath hitched. This was a place for loggers, for drifters, for men with hard eyes and cash wages.Voo cut the engine. The silence was vast, then broken by the distant thump of a bassline from inside.“Out,” he said.
She fumbled with the door handle, her legs shaky as a newborn colt’s. When her heels hit the gravel, she wavered. Voo came around the truck, took her elbow not to steady her, but to guide her.His touch was electric, sending a fresh flood of warmth between her legs. She was horribly, undeniably wet, the chilly air doing nothing to stem the flow.
He didn’t pause at the door. He pushed it open, and a wall of sound, smoke, and body heat hit them.It was a tableau of paused violence. A dozen men were scattered at the bar and rickety tables.Conversations died mid-sentence.Pool cues froze. Every eye in the place locked onto her. Onto the fishnet stretched taut over her breasts, the dark nipples clearly visible. Onto the exposed, glistening triangle of her pubis, the metal piercings catching the dim light. Onto the obscene heels that made her legs seem endless and utterly vulnerable.Humiliation, scalding and pure, washed over her. This was her purgatory.The CEO who had commanded boardrooms was now a live sex doll on display for truck drivers.
Voo led her to the bar, his hand firm on her elbow. The bartender, a grizzled man with a tattooed neck, wiped a glass slowly, his gaze a flat, assessing swipe.“Voo. Who’s the… company?”
“My wife, Michal,” Voo said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet.“She’s being social tonight. Two whiskeys.Neat.”
He guided her onto a barstool. The cracked vinyl was cold against the backs of her thighs, the fishnet doing nothing to insulate her. She could feel every splinter, every seam. She kept her eyes on the sticky bar top, on the concentric rings left by a hundred glasses.Her cheeks burned.The drinks came.Voo pushed one toward her. “You should drink that.”
She obeyed, the whiskey a line of fire down her throat, mirroring the one in her core.The men were still staring. She heard a low whistle from a pool table.Someone muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
Then a man detached himself from a shadowed booth. He was big, bigger than Voo, with a beard streaked with grey and eyes like chips of flint. He moved with a lazy, predatory grace and leaned against the bar next to Voo, too close.
“Didn’t know you had something so pretty locked away at home, Voo,” the man said, his voice a gravelly rumble.His name was Colt. She’d heard Voo mention him—a falls supervisor, known for a short temper and a long memory.
Voo took a sip of his whiskey. “She’s learning her place.”
Colt’s eyes raked over her, a physical touch that felt filthier than Voo’s hands. “Looks like she’s got the uniform for it. No place for a fancy cunt like that except on display, right?” He reached out, slowly, giving her time to flinch, and hooked a blunt finger in the fishnet at her shoulder. He pulled, stretching the material, testing its give.Michal froze, a statue of mortified arousal. His proximity to Voo, the dominance in his stance, was feeding the furnace inside her. She was getting dizzier, wetter.
“She’s got a mouth on her, this one?” Colt asked, his eyes on the piercings below.
“She announces when she cums,” Voo said conversationally, as if discussing the weather.“Loudly.”
A bark of laughter escaped Colt. “No shit? A real live alarm clock.” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of beer and chewing tobacco. “You gonna sing for us tonight, sweetheart?”
Michal’s vision swam.The room, the men, the neon—it all blurred into a dizzying carnival of degradation. Voo’s proximity was a constant, thrumming current. Colt’s invasion was a spike of terror that somehow, horribly, twisted into more fuel.
“I think,” Voo said, setting his glass down with a final click, “she should show you how she greets me properly when I come home.Right here.”
The command landed, pure and absolute. You should show him.A low moan escaped her lips. She slid off the barstool, the movement awkward in the heels. She turned to face Voo, her back to the room, but she could feel every eye on her, could hear the rustle of men shifting to get a better view. She sank to her knees on the gritty, beer-stained floor.
The reality of it—the cold floorboards, the smell of stale smoke and men, the absolute silence behind her—crashed down.Her fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, her movements clumsy. She got his jeans open, pulled his cock out.It was already half-hard, thick and heavy in her hand. She could hear Colt’s ragged breath just behind her.She took him in her mouth. The taste of him, salt and skin and something uniquely Voo, flooded her senses. She began to move, bobbing her head, using her tongue on the underside of his shaft. Her own need was a screaming, constant pressure. The plug in her ass felt suddenly massive, a throbbing monument to her training.Every suck, every lick, sent sympathetic vibrations through her.
“Look at that,” Colt breathed, his voice thick.“Takes it like a champ. Bet her throat’s as pretty as her cunt.”
Voo’s hand came to rest on the back of her head, not forcing, just guiding.“Faster,” he murmured.
She obeyed, her jaw aching, her world narrowing to the rhythm, the taste, the weight on her tongue. The arousal was a crescendo now, a frantic drumming in her blood. Her free hand crept between her own legs, through the open crotch, and she rubbed her swollen clit in desperate, little circles.It was too much. The audience, Voo’s cock in her mouth, his scent, his command—it coalesced into a brutal, unavoidable peak.
She gagged around him, her body locking.Her back arched.
“Cumming!” she cried out, the word muffled by his flesh but perfectly clear in the silent bar.
The orgasm ripped through her, a sharp, convulsive wave that made her knees slide apart on the floor. She shuddered, a wet, helpless sound escaping her as she continued to jerk and pulse against her own fingers.
When she finally stilled, spent and panting, the bar erupted. Whistles, catcalls, a slow, sarcastic clap from somewhere in the back. Humiliation, hot and fresh, washed over the afterglow.Voo pulled himself from her mouth with a soft pop. He tucked himself away, fastened his jeans. He looked down at her, a sheen of sweat on her forehead, her lipstick smeared, a thread of spit and pre-cum connecting her lower lip to nothing.
Colt let out a long, low whistle.“Well, goddamn. That’s a welcome home.”
Voo reached down, took her arm, and hauled her to her feet. Her legs were jelly. He held her up, one arm around her waist, his body hot against her side.He tossed some bills on the bar. This night had given him some ideas but for this he was going to need the Habit Breaker 2.0.
The ride home was a silent vacuum, thick with the ghost of whiskey and male laughter. Michal stared at the passing blackness, her body still humming from the spectacle she’d been, the sticky chill between her thighs a nauseating proof. Voo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her bare knee, a casual brand. His thumb traced idle circles on her skin, and each pass sent a fresh, unwanted jolt straight to her core. She was terrifyingly wet again, her body a traitorous engine that ran on his proximity and her own disgrace. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, focusing on that clean, metallic pain instead of the warm, aching throb beneath the fishnet.
He parked beside the sagging porch but didn’t immediately move. The cabin was a dark silhouette against the star-strewn sky. “Out,” he said, the word soft. She obeyed, her legs aching as she navigated the uneven ground. Inside, he lit a single oil lamp. The flickering light caught the bottle of amber liquid on the nightstand, the one he sometimes drank from after particularly long days. He poured a finger into a glass, didn’t drink it, just swirled it.
“Stand by the bed,” he said. She did, her heels making her tower unsteadily. He came close, his work-roughened hands beginning to unhook the fishnet from her shoulders. The fabric, released from tension, slithered down her body like a shed skin, pooling at her feet in a black heap. He nudged it aside with his boot. She stood utterly naked then, shivering, her pierced flesh openly on display, marked by the red lines the netting had left. He looked her over, a slow, appraising stare that felt colder than the night air. “On your back. Legs spread. Show me what their looking did to you.”
She laid back on the quilt, the rough fabric familiar against her shoulders. She parted her thighs, a flush of shame burning her face as she exposed herself completely to his gaze. Her cunt lips were puffy, glistening, the silver rings gleaming. Voo grunted, a sound of dark satisfaction. He didn’t touch her there. He just watched. Then he picked up the glass and the bottle. “Drink this,” he said, handing her the glass. It was more than a finger. It was a heavy pour, the liquid sharp and smoky. She gulped it, the fire in her throat a welcome distraction from the fire in her belly. It hit her fast, a warm, fuzzy wave that softened the edges of the room. He poured another. “All of it.” She drank again, the world beginning to tilt gently on its axis. A profound, chemical lethargy began to pull at her limbs. Her eyelids grew heavy. The last thing she saw was Voo’s face, placid and intent, as he took a small, featureless black device from his pocket. It emitted no light, made no sound. He pointed it at her temple. Her world dissolved into static, then into dream.
The erotic hell was not a void this time. It was the bar. She was back on her knees on the sticky floor, but now there were dozens of men, a blurred crowd of leering faces and reaching hands. Her own hands were on her body, teasing, pinching, edging. One hand frantically rubbed her clit while the other worked the thick, vibrating plug in her ass, a plug that felt larger than reality, stretching her impossibly wide. She was so close, teetering on a razor’s edge, but orgasm was perpetually withheld. A voice, Voo’s voice but woven into the fabric of the dream itself, spoke not to her ears but directly into the meat of her mind.
"Being submissive is the most humiliating thing you can experience." The words coiled around her, synaptic vines. Her dream-self moaned, her back arching as a phantom hand spanked her ass, the sting bright and clarifying. "Humiliation, shame, and embarrassment arouse your body to the maximum level." The crowd laughed, a deafening roar. Colt’s face loomed large, his finger hooking in her mouth. "Being aroused makes you submissive to your husband." Her dream-body bucked, a scream lodged in her throat. She was so wet she was dripping, a humiliating faucet. "You will try to resist this submissive compulsion but find you cannot." She tried to stand, to run, but her limbs were molten lead. "This realization will make you even more humiliated." A sob ripped through her. The pleasure was agony. The agony was ecstasy. The voice ground the final truth into her. "Being spanked is the most submissive, humiliating act imaginable." A volley of blows rained down on her upturned ass, each crack a burst of white-hot pleasure-pain that radiated through her cunt, each one bending her will, her very sense of self, into a new, pliable shape. She came then, in the dream, a silent, wrecking convulsion.
She woke with a gasp, sunlight stabbing her eyes. She was in her own bed, naked, the quilt tangled around her hips. A deep, visceral ache pervaded her muscles, a leftover ghost of the dream exertion. Her head pounded from the whiskey. Memory returned in fragments: the fishnet, the bar, the taste of him, the cheering crowd. Shame, hot and immediate, tightened her chest. And underneath it, a strange, pervasive thrum. She felt raw, emotionally flayed, but her body… her body felt alert, sensitive in a new way. The morning light on her skin felt like a caress. The rough quilt against her thigh was a distraction. She shifted, and a dull, sweet ache bloomed in her ass muscles. She blushed, remembering the plug, remembering his commands. She was unaware of the new programming, of the circuits welded shut in her sleep. She only knew she felt fundamentally different, like her nerves had been re-strung to a tighter, more reactive pitch.
The bedroom door opened. Voo stood there, already dressed for the day in his work flannel and heavy pants. He held a long, smooth piece of sanded oak in his hand, about the length of his forearm, flat and wicked-looking. He saw she was awake. His expression was neutral, tired. “You should get up,” he said. “Bend over the foot of the bed. You need to be reminded of your place after last night’s performance.”
The command landed.You should. A reflex to obey twitched in her limbs, stronger than ever, almost gravitational. But a shrill voice of protest, the last echo of the CEO, screamed inside her head. No. Not again. Not this. She clenched her jaw, her hands fisting in the sheets. “I… I won’t,” she forced out, the words thick with sleep and defiance. She tried to muster the old contempt, the icy glare that had felled junior executives. It wouldn’t come. Instead, a hot flush spread across her chest and neck. The simple act of defying him, of saying the words aloud in his presence, sent a shocking, undeniable pulse of arousal straight to her cunt. It was instantaneous, a physical betrayal so complete it stole her breath. The realization of it—that resisting him made her wet—was a humiliation so profound it felt like a physical blow.
Voo watched the conflict play out on her face, saw the flush, the slight tremor in her thighs. He said nothing. He just waited.
The compulsion to submit was a thick, syrupy pull in her veins, mingling with the hot shame of her body’s response. She tried to anchor herself to her anger, but it was slippery, insubstantial. The memory of the dream-spanking, the searing connection between sting and surrender, flickered at the edge of her consciousness, a senseless ghost. With a ragged exhale that was part sob, she moved. She pushed back the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The movement made her head swim. She stood, her body protesting, and took the two unsteady steps to the heavy oak footboard. She bent forward, placing her palms flat on the worn wood. The position presented her ass, still pale and unmarked from the night, to him. The submission felt total, absolute, and with it came another warm, treacherous gush between her legs. She was so exposed, so vulnerable, and her body was celebrating it. The humiliation was complete, and it was making her ache.
She heard him step closer. The wood of the paddle whispered through the air before it connected.
CRACK.
The sound was explosive in the quiet room. The pain was immediate, a bright, searing line of pure fire across both cheeks. She cried out, her knuckles whitening on the footboard. But beneath the pain, blooming a heartbeat later, was a deep, radiating warmth that sank straight into her core. It was pleasure. Unmistakable, addicting pleasure.
CRACK.
Another blow, lower this time, lighting up the tender flesh where ass met thigh. Her whole body jolted. A moan escaped her, high and desperate. The sting was incredible, a sharp, clarifying agony. The subsequent heat was a drug. Her cunt clenched around nothing, slick and empty. Her resistance wasn’t just broken; it was being physically spanked out of her, replaced with this shocking, shameful feedback loop.CRACK.
“You are my wife,” Voo said, his voice calm, even, as the paddle fell again. “This is your place.”
“Cumming!” she shrieked, the announcement torn from her without thought or permission. The orgasm wasn’t from touch, but from the sheer, brutal psychology of it—the submission, the exposure, the perfect, painful humiliation of the spanking itself. It crashed over her, a weaker, sharper climax than those fueled by direct touch, but somehow deeper, rooted in the newfound wiring of her shame. She shuddered violently against the footboard, her legs shaking, fresh wetness coating her inner thighs.
The paddle didn’t stop. CRACK.CRACK. He painted her ass with a methodical, brutal rhythm, turning the pale skin a furious, uniform red. Each blow now sparked both pain and a piercing jolt of that degrading pleasure. She lost count. She descended into a sobbing, chanting thing. “Cumming! Cumming! Cumming!” she would gasp, the orgasms becoming smaller, more reflexive, electrical flickers directly tied to the impact of the wood. Her mind emptied of everything but the cycle: the anticipation, the blow, the burn, the shame, the helpless, humiliating pulse in her sex. She was nothing but a well-spanked, dripping cunt, announcing her degradation to the empty room and the man who owned her.
Finally, he stopped. Her ass was on fire, a throbbing, painful masterpiece. She was slumped over the footboard, barely holding herself up, her face wet with tears and saliva. She heard the paddle clatter onto the floor. Voo’s hand, surprisingly gentle, rubbed the scorched skin. She flinched, a fresh sob hitching in her chest. The tenderness hurt worse than the blows.
“Good,” he murmured, his callouses catching on the heated flesh. “Now you should make breakfast. Pancakes. You remember how I like them.”
The command floated to her through a haze of pain and shattered pride. There was no internal debate this time. The defiance was ashes. The compulsion was a simple, operational truth. Her body, humming with the aftermath of a punishment it had been engineered to crave, agreed. She straightened slowly, wincing. She did not look at him. She could not. She shuffled past, toward the kitchen, her mind a silent, stunned blank, her body a living, throbbing testament to a change she could feel but not name.