Weeks passed in a blur of sweat, cum, and searing humiliation. Papa had molded me into his perfect, obedient rakhail, and my body now responded to his cruelty with an eagerness that shamed and thrilled me in equal measure. The house had become my prison and my playground, every room holding memories of how thoroughly he had used me. But Papa was not satisfied with just having me inside the four walls anymore. He wanted to prove his ownership in a way that would shatter any remaining shred of dignity I had left.
One evening, he came to my room holding a small, glossy shopping bag. His eyes gleamed with that familiar, possessive cruelty that made my cunt clench and my stomach drop at the same time. He tossed the bag onto the bed and said, "Wear this. We are going out tonight."
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