Chapter 7

I don’t know how much time passed. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Or maybe time just stopped existing for me altogether. All I know is that at some point, I lost track of everything. Maybe I died a little right there, trapped in that stillness, swallowed up by something way bigger than just plain discomfort.

I can’t say how long I lay there in the middle of that humiliation, stuck in the filth of my own body. I just know he kept watching me. The only thing I was sure of was his presence, his feet planted steady nearby, like a patient predator facing prey that wasn’t even trying to run anymore.

“Luana, get up and watch your step so you don’t slip — it looks like everything’s finally dried out, no reason for you to stay there anymore.”

“Yes, my master.”

My voice came out before I even thought about it. My body moved on instinct, but inside, everything was still frozen. Like my spirit hadn’t managed to get up with my flesh. My first thought should’ve been relief, but it wasn’t. I just accepted it. Like that was the only logical next step. My muscles screamed the second I stood up. Every joint felt rusty, stiff from the endless time I’d spent in that degrading position. My skin pulled tight with dryness, sticky with the remnants of my own shame. The stench clinging to me made my throat close up. I wasn’t even in charge of my own body anymore. Not even my disgust.

“Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom.”

He walked ahead, and I followed without a second thought. My feet hit the cold floor, leaving behind invisible marks of what I was becoming. The door opened to a space of pure luxury. White and gold marble, polished metals reflecting the soft light from recessed fixtures. Everything in there was flawless, opulent. But none of that sophistication could touch me.

My eyes burned, and it was hard to tell if it was from crying or the smeared makeup. I only noticed how I looked when I glanced up at the mirror. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t mine. My dark hair, now clumped in messy strands, looked like slime on my pale skin. My eyes, framed by dark streaks of runny mascara, had this weird emptiness, like the woman inside had already given up. My lips were parted, dry, and my face was this grotesque mix of horror and apathy.

White. Naked. Disheveled.

I looked like a monster from a horror flick. And for a second, the irony hit me so hard I couldn’t hold it in: I laughed. Low, almost a whisper, a joyless chuckle. “How the hell did I sink this low? How did someone like me end up here?”

The thought faded before I could find an answer.

“Take a shower.” His voice came firm from behind me. “I’ll be watching you.”

My back went rigid.

The words echoed in my head, like they were way bigger than they should be. I’ll be watching you. My first instinct was to scan the room, look for any clue what that really meant.

That’s when the red lights caught my eye.

Tiny dots, discreet but not hidden. One, two… I counted quick. Four cameras. Small, perfectly placed, covering every possible angle.

They were there to be seen. No attempt to hide them at all.

My chest tightened, and the air felt heavier going into my lungs. He didn’t just want to watch. He wanted me to know I was being watched.

I turned on the hot water in the shower, hearing the muffled patter of drops hitting the glass enclosure. Steam started rising slow, fogging up the space, but the chill still hung on my skin. My eyes swept the bathroom for hygiene stuff, anything to scrub off the grime stuck to my body. But there was nothing. No bottles, no soap in sight.

I frowned, confused, until his voice came from behind me again.

“What you need is right there.”

He pointed to a large, fancy basket sitting on the marble vanity like a carefully wrapped gift.

I stepped closer and lifted the lid hesitantly. At first, it took me a second to get what I was seeing. Inside, every item looked custom-made. Elegant glass and ceramic bottles, subtle labels, no big brand names. Shampoo, conditioner, hair creams, lotions for feet, hands, and elbows. Delicately wrapped soaps, even intimate hygiene products. Nail polish, body oils, even a brush with natural bristles.

Everything a woman could need.

But something was off.

I brought one of the bottles to my nose, expecting a floral scent, something citrusy or sweet. But nothing. No chemical smell, no perfume. No artificial or natural fragrance. Just this odorless void, like the stuff was made to be invisible to the nose.

Before I could ask anything, he spoke again, with that same meticulous calm.

“You have to take this basket with you, Luana. I don’t want you using any other products except these from the list. If you need something that’s not in there, let me know and I’ll get it for you.”

I stood frozen, taking in his words, trying to figure out what was behind that demand.

Then he finished, sharp:

“I don’t like how you smell. And we need to fix that.”

The air seemed to vanish for a second.

My fingers gripped the edge of the basket hard as reality unfolded in front of me. I would’ve cried if I could understand why. But something inside me was numb, like my mind had refused to process one more humiliation.

My body moved on its own, stepping under the hot water without even testing the temp. The heat hitting my goosebumped skin was like a shock, a sudden wake-up, washing away the sticky weight of what had happened. It was like the water was taking more than just the dirt — like it was rinsing off the death omen that had clung to me.

When I turned to the door, he was gone. But his presence lingered. Tiny red lights blinked discreetly, and the cameras shifted subtly, tracking my every move.

I washed my hair with that scentless shampoo, feeling the heavy strands give under my fingers. I scrubbed my body hard, like I could rip off everything that didn’t belong on my skin anymore. When my hands slid over my pussy, it wasn’t with desire, but a raw need to clean, to tear out the root of men’s lust.

My skin felt strangely moisturized, but there was this itch. A faint burn, barely there, showing up in small red patches — the urine had lightly irritated my skin.

Something in those products was changing me, from the inside out, in a way I didn’t get yet. And then, something unexpected happened. In the middle of that shower, even under the inescapable stare of the cameras, something inside me broke. It was a laugh. First a light breath, a weird sigh that slipped out uninvited. But then it built. A real belly laugh, almost euphoric, took over.

I laughed.

Too loud.

I laughed like I’d never laughed before. Like the water hadn’t just washed away the piss smell, but swept out all the sadness that ever weighed me down.

I laughed in the shower.

And I didn’t cry anymore.

When I finished, I wrapped my body in a soft towel, feeling the gentle texture glide over my renewed skin. It felt like the end of a nice night out, like all the horror before was just a fever dream. But it wasn’t.

I dried my hair with a quiet blow dryer, watching in the mirror as the wet strands slowly regained their shape. Every move felt deliberate, precise, like I was prepping for something bigger than just getting clean.

I slipped into a light robe, the soft fabric brushing my sensitive skin. He’d be back any minute.

And I felt like I needed to be ready for him. Clean. Perfect.

I sat on the closed toilet, the towel still covering part of my legs. I picked up the brush and started combing my hair slowly, the rhythmic strokes filling the quiet space.

The wait was inevitable.

And I’d wait.