Yes, you will do anything for your goddess

You get in your car. The drive to the mall is a blur of adrenaline and existential dread. Every red light is an opportunity to turn back, but you don't. You can't. The thought of disappointing her, of her silence, is worse than any public humiliation.

You park. You walk through the automatic doors. The noise, the lights, the people it's all a sensory ****. You feel like an alien, a fraud. You find the store. The pink, the soft lighting, the scent of vanilla and perfume. It's a world you don't belong in.

You find a quiet corner. You take a deep, shaky breath and press the video call button on your phone. She answers on the first ring. The screen is black, but you can hear her. "Show me your face, John." You wear an earpiece so she can speak directly to you.

You angle the phone so she can see you. Your pale, sweaty face. Your nervous eyes.

"Good boy. Now walk."

You obey. The camera captures your hesitant steps, your shaking hand. You walk toward a rack of lacy things. A saleswoman with a bright, practiced smile approaches you. "Hi, can I help you find anything?"

Your throat is dry. You look at the camera, as if seeking her permission.

"Go on," her voice whispers from the phone, sharp and cruel. "Tell her."

You swallow hard. "I... I need help," you stammer, your voice barely a whisper. "I need to find a bra to match these."

You show the saleswoman a picture on your phone, a picture GoonetteGoddess sent you. The crotchless panties. The woman's smile falters for a fraction of a second. A flicker of confusion, maybe even pity, crosses her face before the professional mask snaps back into place.

"Oh. Of course. Right this way." She leads you to a section. She holds up a black, lace balconette bra. "This is from the same collection. This is for a girlfriend right."

You didn't nod, unable to speak. You follow her to the counter. You place the items on the counter. Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop your credit card. You can feel the eyes of the other women in the store on you. You feel their judgment, their disgust. You also feel your cock, hard and straining in your jeans, a traitorous testament to your depravity.

GoonetteGoddess said into your ear. "Tell her the underwear is for you loser." She wanted to maximize your humiliation.

The saleswoman is smiling, waiting for your card to go through. "She's a very lucky woman," she says, her tone saccharine sweet.

The words, meant as a pleasantry, land like a slap. Your goddess's command echoes in your ear. Tell her the underwear is for you, loser.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. The printer at the register whirs, spitting out a long receipt. The saleswoman folds it neatly and slides it into the bag with your purchase. "There you go."

Your throat is a knot of sandpaper. Your heart is a trapped bird beating against your ribs. You look at the saleswoman, at her kind, expectant face. You look at your phone, knowing the unblinking eye of the camera is capturing your every micro-expression. Your goddess is waiting.

You could just grab the bag and run. A coward's escape. Or you can obey. You take a breath. "It's... it's not for my girlfriend," you manage, the words catching in your throat. The saleswoman's polite smile freezes. Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to process what you just said. You push on, the words tumbling out of you in a mortified rush. "They're... they're for me."

The silence that follows is deafening. It stretches for an eternity, thick with her shock and your burning shame. Her professional mask crumbles completely, replaced by a raw, unfiltered look of repulsion. She doesn't say a word. She just pushes the bag across the counter, a look of profound disgust on her face. She turns her back on you abruptly, pretending to busy herself with refolding a camisole.

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