The tight dress was so low-cut that bending over would expose her bare ass to any onlooker. The dress was a mark of shame, a constant reminder that he... life had less value than those around her. The final shame was a tattoo that is branded on the upper arm of all slaves. A red trio of loops. "The Slave Sigil." A permanent form of evidence that shows you where once a slave, even if one was to escape their slave leathers.Finally after a long time the stains lifted from the sheets and flowed down. What a wonderful scent.I drew on a negligee over my naked body. A lilac delight. The fabric clung to my breasts, hanging from them with no straps. I tugged them down until my nipples were just about to pop out. The rest of the nightie fell down to just below my thighs, the silk sheer when it touched my skin.I didn’t bother with the panties.I came out as my son was scrolling through Netflix. He looked up at me and froze. He swallowed as he saw me in my nightie. I smiled at him like this wasn’t. More

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