The man at the art exhibition was a stranger. Candice had never met him before. And when he told her to pull up her shirt and pull down her pants she should have been outraged.
But when he spoke in that commanding tone she realised that this was the approach she had wanted all her life – to be commanded, with confidence, to humiliate herself, to make herself a sex object.
This was so much simpler and more correct than the fumbling flirting she had done in school. There were no choices for her – just to obey, and be the fuckdoll she had been born to be.
Trembling, wet, she began to bare herself, oblivious to the shocked gasps around her…
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