Go to office

This is Sophie's home office, where she does most of her freelance IVR programming. There's a desk here, a shelf with some IVR programming modules, and a swivel chair. There's a biosupport bed against one wall that you can climb into.

You see a holoscreen interface here. On the biosupport bed are an IVR training module, an IVR interface, and a skullcap. On the shelf are an IVR programming module and an IVR diary module.

John is here. Having gathered up pretty much all of Sophie's clothes, except for the little naughty, frilly things, you put them in the trash bag hand It to John. You realize you're pretty much confined to the apartment now, since you've got nothing decent to wear outside.

John inspects the contents of the trash bag, nods with a small smile, and closes it.

“Undress please,” he instructs and you remove your demibra and thong panties. “Thank you, Sophie. I'll just take care of this, then. I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't move - in fact, stand with your legs spread,” he commands, and kicks your ankles apart with his shoe, “this far, and cross your arms over your head, like this,” he continues, pulling your arms over your head and crossing them behind you. He steps back, bag in hand, and admires your posture.

“You okay, Soph?” he asks. “Can you handle this so far?”

“I think so...John,” you answer. “I'm a little scared, but - I'm okay. Just really really nervous.”

“You should be,” John answers, grinning. “I plan to take full advantage of your situation.”

John walks out of the apartment with the bag. You wait, legs spread wide, an awkard and exposing pose that leaves you feeling very **** and a little silly.

John returns, without the bag.

“What did you do with it?” you ask.

“I threw it in the recycler furnace. It's all ash now, dear. Now, let's get you spruced up, shall we?”

John grabs your forearm with one hand, and pulls downward as his other hand forces your head down. The application of **** is firm, unyielding, but not rough. Just in control. You find yourself on your hands and knees, your soft breasts dangling underneath you like ripe fruit, your hair in your face. You look down at Sophie's manicured hands - your hands, now - and John's size 11 dress shoes, just inches from your splayed pink fingers.

The shoes walk a slow circle around you, and you feel John's hands on various parts of your new, unfamiliar flesh - touching your shoulder blades, your hips, your buttocks, your full labia, a calf. You shudder with each touch.

“Come along, now, Sophie. To the bathroom.”

You feel the tip of a dress shoe against your pubic mound, and start forward, surprised at the touch, and the humiliation of the gesture. You hear a chuckle behind you.

“I never would have thought you had it in you, dear. But I'm glad. Keep moving, bitch.”

Soon you're in the bathroom. John pulls you up to your feet, and pushes you into the shower. “Spread your legs.”

You obey, and watch as he slowly, methodically removes the shower curtain. He leans in and turns on the shower.

Hot spray splatters over your smooth, naked flesh, soaking you.

John hands you a bar of soap. “Soap up your tits, slut,” he orders.