The Three Bikinis My Master Bought to Put Me on Display
The message came in in the middle of the afternoon, while I was folding the freshly ironed laundry in the bedroom. The phone screen lit up and my heart gave that familiar lurch, the one I no longer control and no longer resist either. Three lines. My master writes little; he doesn’t need more.
“The three bikinis. Try them on. Photo of each one. Two photos. One from the front, one from the back. I want to see how they fit you now.”
I left the shirt half-folded and walked to the drawer. The second one in the wardrobe, the one on the left, the one he marked for me in his day with a white label and my name written in black ink. Inside, separated by sheets of tissue paper, were the three bikinis he bought me last month. White and blue. Black. Dark green. I didn’t choose them. I’ve never chosen anything.
My master decides what I wear when I leave the house, what I put on when he comes over, and what I wear even when I’m alone and nobody can see me. That was what surprised me most at the beginning: the idea that my body doesn’t belong to me even in private. That when I choose a pair of panties I’m obeying, even if I haven’t received a direct order, because he’s already told me which ones I can wear and which ones I can’t. That’s the part the friends I can no longer talk to about this would never understand: the calm that comes from giving up small decisions. The calm, and also the wetness. Because there’s something else I don’t tell my friends either, and that’s that ever since he labeled the drawer with my name, there hasn’t been a single day when my panties have made it to night dry. Not one. My cunt got used to staying wet in the background, all the time, like background breathing. I don’t even notice it anymore, until I do.
I took out the first one. The white and blue.
***
The white and blue is the most innocent of the three, but only at first glance. The top is a small triangle, unpadded, tied at the neck and the back with two thin straps. The bottoms are Brazilian-cut, low-rise, with side ties. When I put it on in front of the mirror, I saw exactly what he saw when he chose it. It barely covers anything. It shows everything. The white fabric turns a little sheer in the light coming through the window. My nipples show dark through the triangle, hard already without anyone having touched me, just from putting on what he chose. The bottoms wedge between the lips of my cunt and are wet within seconds, the stain is visible, and I know he’s going to see it.
I let my hair down, because my master prefers it down in the photos. I stood facing the mirror, lifted the phone, and shot. The front one. Then I turned around, let my hair fall to one side of my neck, and shot again. The back one. In the reflection I caught a glimpse of my ass split by the strap, my buttocks pulled tight by the fabric, the wet mark of my cunt peeking out underneath. I sent the two to the chat without writing anything. He doesn’t want messages accompanying the photos. Only the photos.
I waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the bikini, staring at the screen. My master replies whenever he wants. Sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. Today it took thirty-seven seconds. I counted.
“Good. Next.”
I took it off carefully, folded it the way he taught me on the first day — folding clothes with respect, as if they were an extension of the will of whoever chose them — and left it on top of the tissue paper. Before putting it away, I looked at the crotch of the bottoms. It was soaked through. A dark stain the size of my thumb in the center. I thought about showing him and didn’t dare. I folded it with the stain on the inside, like someone hiding evidence.
***
The black one is the most explicit. The top is a sports bra cut away in the center, with a teardrop-shaped opening that exposes the base of the breasts. The bottoms are a thong, nothing more. No ties, no extra straps, nothing to disguise it. Black fabric and little else. When I pulled it up my legs, the back strap dug into my ass and the front one disappeared between the lips of my cunt, outlining my slit as clearly as if I were naked.
When I saw myself wearing this, I remembered the first time my master showed it to me over a video call, before buying it. He showed it to me on the screen, on the website, enlarged. “This one’s for learning not to hide,” he told me. And I nodded, because I understood exactly what he was telling me.
Hiding is a reflex. When a woman is wearing very little, the body’s first reaction is to cross the arms, take the hands to the pubis, hunch the shoulders. My master is teaching me the opposite. He’s teaching me to stand still, arms at my sides, shoulders back, chin up. He’s teaching me to let myself be looked at. To stay with my legs open and my cunt outlined beneath the fabric without covering myself with my hands, even when instinct begs me to. To let anyone see that I’m wet and not move a finger to hide it.
I took the two photos. I did the front one standing, with my legs a little apart, as he told me to the last time. My Venus mound showed through the fabric, and in the crease of my cunt the thong sank in, forming a wet line that glistened in the flash. I took the back one bent over, with my hands on the headboard, letting the thong press into me. The strap disappeared completely into my ass, and the edge of the fabric lifted slightly, showing the beginning of my anus. He didn’t ask for that last bit, but I’ve been learning to anticipate him for a while. When I do well, he tells me. When I get it wrong, he tells me that too.
I sent the two photos. This time he took longer. Almost four minutes. I stayed looking at the phone face down on the bed, still wearing the bikini, feeling the fabric tugging at places I never notice in the normal course of the day. The thong rubbing my clit with every breath. My ass held tight by the strap. My nipples hardening and softening on their own every time I remembered that he was already looking at what I’d sent him. Without realizing it, I started pressing my thighs together and shifting my hips just enough for the fabric to rub me. I stopped as soon as I noticed it. I didn’t have permission. The body learns itself when you expose it. It also learns how to beg.
“Take the second one again. More hair to one side. I want to see the nape of your neck.”
I stayed still for a moment. Then I got up, stood in front of the headboard again, threw all my hair over my right shoulder, and shot. Sent it. Waited. I could feel the thong getting wetter and wetter, tighter and tighter, and telling me more and more clearly that it wasn’t just the fabric that was wet anymore.
“Good. Next.”
***
The dark green one is the last, and it’s my favorite, though I haven’t told him that. I’m not allowed to have favorites without sharing them with him, and I still haven’t found the moment to explain why this one. Maybe there isn’t a reason. Maybe it’s just the color, or the cut, or the way the fabric fits the breasts without showing any straps. Or maybe it’s because, out of the three, it’s the one that most clearly says I’m going to end up fucked. And that part, even if I don’t name it, is the part that turns me on most.
It’s a bandeau bikini, with no shoulder straps, with a silver ring between the breasts and a knot at one side of the hip. When I put it on, I feel like I’m one movement away from being naked. The top slides if I don’t hold it in place. The bottoms come undone with one tug. My master chose it for that reason. “Not for the beach, not for the pool. For home, when guests come over,” he told me. And I understood, because I always understand. The guests are part of his plan that he still hasn’t explained to me completely, but I’ve suspected since March. The guests are going to pull the knot. The guests are going to pull down the bandeau. The guests are going to watch my tits fall and my cunt open, and I’m going to be on my knees obeying, because he’s going to say so.
I took the first photo seated in the desk chair, legs crossed and back straight. I practiced that pose with him weeks ago. I took the second standing, in front of the mirror, with the phone raised and my other hand at the nape of my neck. In that second photo everything showed: the bandeau on the verge of sliding off, one nipple peeking over the top edge of the fabric, the flat stomach, the bottoms pulling at the side knot, and between my thighs the small bulge of the mound and the dampness marking my crotch in a clearly defined oval. I sent the two.
“Stay like that. Wait.”
I waited. Standing in front of the mirror, hand at the nape of my neck, not moving. Six minutes passed. My shoulders started to ache and a lock of hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. I felt a drop run from my cunt down the inside of my thigh, slide two fingers’ length downward and stop. I didn’t wipe it away. I didn’t move my hair. I didn’t move anything.
“Last photo. On your knees. On the bed. Looking at the ceiling.”
I knelt on the duvet, legs a little apart, hands open on my thighs and head thrown back. That pose is what he calls the waiting position. It’s the one he makes me take when he comes home after a long day, when he arrives and doesn’t want to find anyone standing. It’s the position I use when I know he’s going to grab my hair, shove his cock in my mouth, and fuck my face until he comes. I did it. Throat exposed, tits lifted inside the bandeau, cunt open against the wet fabric, and mouth slightly open as if I were already ready. I shot. Sent it.
“Good. Get dressed and sit down to write.”
***
I took the green bikini off with my hands trembling a little. Before folding it, I ran a finger along the crotch of the bottoms, out of curiosity, to check. It was dripping. The green fabric had darkened until it looked black in an oval the size of my hand. I brought my finger to my nose. It smelled intense, sharp, like an aroused cunt that’s gone more than an hour without anyone touching it. I could have slid two fingers inside and come in three minutes, right there, standing up, looking at the mirror. I didn’t. I didn’t have permission. Coming without permission is the only line I’ve never crossed in two years, and I’m not going to start with an afternoon in May and three bikinis.
I folded it, left it on top of the other two, and closed the drawer. I put on a simple cotton dress, without a bra — the clothes I wear when I’m alone are his decision, and bras are not on the list for when I’m writing — and without panties, because those aren’t allowed when I’m writing either. The fabric of the dress brushed my nipples as it slid down and pulled a small shiver from me that I already knew well. I went down to the living room. The desk chair was cold against my naked ass. When I sat, my legs opened and my cunt was left exposed against the wood, still soaked, leaving a wet mark that was going to be there until he gave me permission to clean it.
I sat in front of the computer. Opened the file of the stories. Writing is part of the training. Writing is not optional. Every time my master decides something new about me, every time he orders something different, every time he marks out a new rule, afterward he makes me write it down. So it stays. So I remember. So he can read it whenever he feels like it and check that I understood what he did to me.
And so it can be published, of course. That’s the other part. My master has the idea that a submissive’s training is something to be documented, not something to be hidden. He says it like that, with those exact words, and I don’t argue with him. When we started, almost two years ago, I once asked him whether it didn’t bother him that other people would read what we did. He answered with a smile I still remember: “What would bother me is not sharing it. You’re mine, and that needs to be told.” I didn’t understand him then. Now I do. Now I understand that display isn’t an extra, it’s the axis. That showing my wet cunt in the desk chair to anyone who wants to read it is the same order as showing him my tits inside the bandeau. That he’ll fuck me tonight thinking of the anonymous eyes that are already rubbing their cocks while reading this. And that turns me on. It turns me on that it turns him on. That circle, that’s the whole game.
***
Before I forget, my master didn’t just buy me these bikinis. Last week another package arrived. Underwear. Five sets. Three lace, two plain. All in dark colors or nude. All chosen by him, of course. When I unpacked them, I tried them on one by one, sent him the corresponding photos, and put them in the top drawer, separate from the old underwear. The three lace sets have an open crotch — side straps and the cunt out in the open — so when he comes home all he has to do is lift my skirt and slide his fingers or his cock into me without taking anything off. He’s already fucked me wearing two of them. The other two, the plain ones, are for under work clothes, when he wants me to spend the day feeling the seam between my buttocks and remembering him.
The old underwear — the stuff I bought before him — is in a bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. I haven’t thrown it away because he hasn’t told me to throw it away. But I don’t use it. It doesn’t touch me.
He also bought me three nightgowns. Two short, one long. The long one is the one I’m allowed to wear when I sleep alone. The short ones are for when he sleeps with me, or for when he asks for a video call at night. The short ones barely cover my ass. When I bend down to pick something up off the floor wearing one of them, everything shows from behind: the cunt, the anus, the whole slit. He knows that. That’s why they’re short. That last part is rare, because my master isn’t a man for long video calls, but sometimes, on Wednesdays, he likes to see me before bed. And then he puts me in the short nightgown and tells me how to sit in front of the camera until he decides to hang up. Sometimes he makes me spread my legs and put two fingers in and fuck myself slowly for him, without coming, until it hurts. Other times he just watches me in silence for five minutes and hangs up without saying anything. I don’t know which of the two things turns me on more.
***
My master and I have received several messages in the account where these stories are published. Mostly kind messages, and others less kind, which he filters before showing me. The kind ones usually ask the same thing: whether this is real, whether I’m a real person, whether what I’m describing happens to me or whether I make it up. My master lets me answer some of them. Not others.
I want to make it clear again, because today has been an especially long day and I want this on record before I close the document: this is real. One hundred percent. I’m not a character. My master isn’t a character. What I describe here happens on the days I say it happens, in the order I say it happens, with the words he says and the decisions he makes. I don’t exaggerate. I don’t sweeten. The only thing I hide is what he asks me to hide, which is very little: our names, the city, and a few physical details that could identify us.
The rest is my life. This is my life. This is me when I go to bed, when I get up, when I’m alone at home on a May afternoon and the phone rings with a three-line message. The bikinis are inside the drawer, folded on the tissue paper, waiting for summer and for the decisions he keeps making about when, how, and in front of whom I’m going to wear them. My cunt is still throbbing against the chair, soaked, waiting too. Me, meanwhile, I keep writing. Because he asked me to. Because that’s what I do. Because in the end, and this is the only thing that matters out of everything I’ve told today, I’m his submissive, and he can put me on display and control me and fuck me whenever he wants and however he wants. And tonight, when he opens the door and finds me like this, sitting in this chair in this dress and without panties and with this mark on the wood, he’s going to know exactly what to do with me. And so am I.