They rob her of her valuables and all her clothes

Ava's front door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made her stomach twist. The small living room, which had felt cozy when she moved in, now seemed like a trap. The three men fanned out immediately, their presence filling the space like smoke. The tall one with the neck tattoo—clearly the leader—dropped her tote onto the secondhand couch and began rifling through it again, tossing her house keys onto the coffee table with a clatter.

"Nice setup you got here," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He eyed the punching bag hanging in the corner. "Boxer, huh? Cute."

The wiry man with the scar was already moving toward the small kitchenette, opening drawers at random. The stocky one stayed close to Ava, his hand occasionally brushing her arm as if to remind her she wasn't going anywhere. She stood frozen near the door, arms still wrapped around herself, the suit jacket suddenly feeling too warm and constricting. Her pumps pinched after the tense walk, but she didn't dare kick them off.

"Let's see what else you've got," the leader said. He spotted her laptop on the tiny dining table and snatched it up, flipping it open. "Password?"

Ava hesitated. Giving it up meant losing her work files, her notes from the law office, her entire professional life in digital form. But the stocky man's grip tightened on her elbow. "Ava1989," she whispered, hating herself for it.

The man grinned as the screen unlocked. "Good girl." He powered it down and set it aside with her phone and wallet. The wiry one found her tablet charging on the windowsill and added it to the growing pile. Cash from her wallet—barely two hundred dollars—disappeared into their pockets. They weren't just robbing her; they were erasing her.

"Bedroom," the leader ordered, nodding toward the short hallway. "Move."

Ava's legs felt heavy as she led them down the hall. The apartment was small—one bedroom, one bath—and every step amplified her humiliation. These strangers were in her space, seeing the half-unpacked boxes, the rural photos she'd tacked to the wall of her family farm. She pushed open the bedroom door, revealing her most personal sanctuary.

The bed was neatly made, but the closet doors stood slightly ajar. The leader yanked them open fully, letting out a low whistle. Inside hung her new professional wardrobe—the pride of her city reinvention. Tailored skirt suits in navy, black, and charcoal. Crisp blouses in silk and cotton. A few fitted dresses she'd bought for client meetings, knee-length but flattering to her toned figure. Rows of heels in various heights: the black pumps she wore now, red stilettos for bolder days, sensible court shoes. On the shelf above, several designer purses she'd splurged on during her first big shopping trip—structured totes, a sleek crossbody, even a small clutch for after-work events.

The wiry man stepped forward, running his hand along the fabrics. "Look at this shit. Lawyer girl playing dress-up." He pulled out a cream-colored blouse and held it up to the light, then tossed it onto the bed. The stocky one opened her dresser drawers, laughing as he found her underwear. Practical cotton panties mixed with the lacy sets she'd bought to feel more feminine and confident in the city. Bras in soft pastels, a couple of matching lingerie pieces she'd never even worn outside the apartment.

Ava's face burned crimson. "Don't—please don't touch those," she protested, voice small. She felt stripped already, even fully clothed. The way they handled her intimates made her skin crawl with embarrassment. This wasn't just theft; it was violation. Her bubbly ass clenched involuntarily under the pencil skirt as she shifted, hyper-aware of their gazes flicking between her body and the clothes.

The leader ignored her, spotting the jewelry box on her nightstand. He flipped it open, revealing the nicer pieces she'd accumulated: a gold chain with a small pendant, hoop earrings, a tennis bracelet, and a couple of rings. Nothing outrageously expensive, but meaningful—rewards for her new salary. He dumped the contents into his pocket alongside her pearls and diamonds.

"These are nice," he said, appraising a pair of silver hoops. "Professional bitch got taste."

Her brothers' voices echoed in her head: Stay tough. Look for an opening. But with three of them, and her phone already gone, what opening existed? She was 5'3" of toned muscle against their bulk, trapped in a restrictive skirt and heels that made running impossible.

The tall man turned to her, a cruel smile spreading. "Alright, country girl. Time to pack it up. Go get your biggest bags—suitcases, duffels, whatever you've got. You're gonna load all this shit in there. Every piece of clothing. Underwear, skirts, dresses, heels, purses. All of it."

Ava stared at him, disbelief mixing with rising panic. "What? No... these are mine. My work clothes. I need them for my job." Her voice rose slightly, the tomboy fire flickering. "You have my money, my jewelry, my electronics. Isn't that enough?"

The wiry one laughed, holding up a pair of her black lace panties. "Nah. We're taking the wardrobe too. Consider it a donation. You won't be needing fancy suits where you're going." He dangled the underwear in front of her face. "Unless you wanna model some first?"

Her cheeks flamed hotter than ever. The implication hung heavy, pushing her deeper into that ENF nightmare territory—vulnerable, exposed in her own home. She crossed her arms tighter over her C-cup breasts, the blouse suddenly feeling sheer under their scrutiny.

"Get the bags," the leader repeated, his tone hardening. "Or we'll do it ourselves and make this a lot more fun for us."

Trembling, Ava moved to the closet in the hall. She dragged out her two largest suitcases—the sturdy ones she'd used for the move from the country—and a big duffel bag. Her hands shook as she unzipped them on the bedroom floor. This couldn't be happening. Everything she'd worked for, stripped away piece by piece.

"Start packing," the stocky one said, shoving a handful of blouses into her arms.

Ava complied reluctantly, folding item after item with mechanical motions. First the skirts: her favorite navy pencil skirt, a short one for going out, a-line styles for variety. Then the blouses, their soft fabrics sliding through her fingers like lost dreams. Dresses followed— a sleek black sheath, a modest floral print she'd worn to her interview. The heels went in next, pumps and stilettos clacking together in the suitcase. Purses were tucked into side compartments.

Every piece she packed felt like surrendering another layer of her identity. The professional Ava, the city girl trying to make it. The underwear drawer was the worst. She tried to shield it with her body, but they watched openly as she folded panties and bras, the lacy ones especially drawing crude comments that made her want to sink into the floor.

"Damn, girl. You dress like a prude but pack like you got secrets," the wiry one sneered.

She said nothing, jaw clenched. Her toned legs ached from standing in the pumps. The suit she wore felt like the last barrier between her and total loss. The men lounged on her bed, going through her nightstand and closet remnants, taking a small emergency cash stash she'd hidden and a cheap tablet she'd used for reading.

The duffel filled with more casual pieces—jeans, tees from home, her running shorts and sports bras. But they made her include everything. By the time both suitcases and the duffel were stuffed, her closet and drawers stood nearly empty. Only the clothes on her back remained.

The leader stood, surveying the haul with satisfaction. "Good job. Now, about that suit you're wearing..."

Ava's heart plummeted. She backed up a step, the reality of her situation crashing down. Stripped of possessions, cornered in her own bedroom, the country girl who once locked herself out naked now faced something far worse. The men closed in, eyes gleaming with the next phase of her humiliation.