Laid Bare - Stories of Public Exposure
All These Roadworks
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Laid Bare
Stories of Public Exposure
© 2020, 2023, 2024 All These Roadworks
The author asserts their right to be identified as the creator of this work under the name “All These Roadworks”.
All images in this book, including cover art, were created by All These Roadworks.
All characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters involved in sexual situations are intended to be aged 18 years or over, and any implication to the contrary is an unintentional miscommunication.
The events and themes presented in this story are for the purpose of erotic fantasy. They are not intended to depict actual events that have happened, or should happen. The author believes firmly that real sexual relationships should only occur between consenting adults, and be built on the principles of respect, communication, honesty, and risk-aware enthusiastic consent.
Table of Contents
Foreword
Balcony
Acclimatisation
Bath, Interrupted
The Bonuses
Brooke Learns Her Lesson
Cunt Shame
Dinner Reservation
Humiliating Donna, Part 1
Humiliating Donna, Part 2
Interactive Art
Katie at the Park
Katlain’s Underwear
The Lost Bikini
The Neighbour’s Backyard
Newcomer
Noticing the Unusual
Nothing To Be Ashamed Of
On Display
Posing For Drones
Primping and Preening
Samantha, On Camera
Train
Bonus: The Female Documentation Process
Foreword
It’s a fantasy, not an instruction manual.
The stories collected in this volume are kinky fantasies. It’s normal to fetishise the forbidden. It can be a healthy way of processing trauma or frustration from our daily lives. It can be fun, satisfying, and exciting. Don’t feel ashamed to enjoy them.
But it’s the responsibility of everyone – and particularly people with these fantasies – to work to create a world where everyone – and, specifically, women – are safe, respected, and able to indulge their sexuality without shame or fear, whether that means consensually engaging in wonderful fucked-up kink, or living their entire life without every encountering it.
Satisfying, sustainable kink can only be built on a foundation of firm respect for boundaries, respectful communication, and positive, explicit, enthusiastic consent. That’s a world where everyone kinky will find it easier to find partners and hook up for the interactions they enjoy, and where those who aren’t interested won’t be bothered – and that includes people who might be interested, but not now, or not under these conditions, or not with you.
Don’t let your kinks be your politics.
If you don’t already have anyone to share your kinks with in real-life, get involved in your local kink scene. Join an online community. Be polite, ask what the local rules are, listen to people who know what they’re doing before you go charging in yourself, introduce yourself and be prepared to make friends before you make partners. Confidence is sexy; not being able to hear a “no” is not.
I’m not your manifesto, and I’m not anyone’s plan for a functional society. Read, enjoy - and then go out and be fantastic, safe, respectful kinksters.
===
Speaking of which – if you obtained this document without paying for it…
Writing takes time. It’s easier if I’m paid for it. Please consider visiting my website and leaving a tip; buying this story collection or a different one; or subscribing.
Balcony
She had been reluctant to let him fuck her on the balcony. She had told him she was his slave, that he could fuck her in any room of her high-rise inner-city apartment – but when he’d tried to bend her over the balcony railing, and fuck her in full view of the street, her tits and hair hanging down over the dizzying ten-storey drop, she’d resisted.
Now she was learning her lesson.
He had stripped her nude, of course, and then he had gotten out his rope.
Now she was tied to the outside of the balcony railing. Nothing supported her but a simple harness of rope securing her to the palings of the balcony. Her bare feet, spread wide apart, dangled over the city. Her arms, bound by her side, could not reach the railing, could not grip the rope, could not find any purchase of any kind.
She had never been more terrified. She had never been more aroused. The vertigo disrupted her brain. She couldn’t think properly. She felt like she was in free-fall. It was a kind of sensory deprivation, shutting out every rational sensation, except for the throbbing of her cunt.
Between her legs, a vibrator was secured in place, buzzing relentlessly against her pussy. She was so wet that her arousal dripped from her, drop after drop falling from the plastic surface of the vibrator to plummet ten storeys downward to the pavement below.
She could see people watching through the windows of the apartment block opposite. At this distance, she couldn’t tell if their expressions betrayed lust, amusement, or disgust. She didn’t care.
He had said he would take her down in two hours. And then tomorrow he would try and fuck her on the balcony again. He told her if she didn’t get wet from the fear of being bent over the railing, then he would tie her up for another session outside the balcony, and again, and again, until being afraid of heights made her inevitably and uncontrollably aroused.
She thought that wouldn’t be necessary. She thought she was very likely to get very, very wet on each and every trip to her balcony from now on. She wondered if he might tie her up again anyway, if she asked very nicely…
Acclimatisation
The path to becoming a slut was one of slow acclimatisation for her, but her Master was keen to teach her.
First, he had her get used to wearing bikini briefs instead of pants or a skirt, even when guests were around. Then he replaced her briefs with regular panties, of increasingly intimate and provocative styles.
Then he started getting her pussy wet before guests arrived, letting her greet and serve visitors with a visible damp spot on her crotch. The crotch fabric became sheerer and narrower, at first not fully covering her pubis and then gradually disappearing between her pussy lips, leaving her pretty labia exposed for all to see. When he finally removed them altogether and just let her go bare-cunted in public it ended up feeling less humiliating for her than the lewd display she had been making by the end...
Bath, Interrupted
There was a time when a stranger bursting in on her in the bath would have alarmed her. But she had slowly come to admit that nothing made her wetter than the thought of being vulnerable before an anonymous man.
Now she bathed nude with the door ajar whenever her housemates held a party, and when someone walked in on her and, instead of leaving with apologies, instead stayed and eyed her appraisingly, the look of delight on her face was completely unfeigned...
The Bonuses
Reagan had grown up as a rich girl. Gorgeous, curvy, and spoiled, she’d had everything she’d wanted, and when the time came for college, her parents had bought her admittance to the most prestigious one in the state, where she’d quickly fallen in with a coterie of similarly pretty, wealthy, spoiled young women. They were the queens of the school - admired, desired, and respected. And all she had to do to maintain her position was buy all the latest fashions and attend all the most exclusive parties.
But shortly after Reagan started college, her father fell on hard times. His business went bankrupt, and soon they were moving out of their mansion into cramped apartment accommodation. Reagan’s father had to tell her that her line of credit was cut off - there would be no new clothes, no new shoes, no fancy cars. She had to live modestly.
To Reagan, it felt like the world ending. Being poor was horrible enough. But having to admit to her *friends* that she was poor? They would mock her mercilessly. The whole *school* would mock her. She knew people thought she was a spoiled brat, but as a *rich* spoiled brat she could rise above their disdain. The idea of people discovering that she was now poor - the boys whose advances she’d rejected, the ugly girls she’d made fun of, the teachers who daddy had paid to give her top marks (even though Reagan had been bright enough to pass on her own merits) - was unthinkable. The shame would be unbearable.
So Reagan tried to pretend. She sold old dresses, and used the proceeds to buy new ones. She bought new dresses to wear once, and then returned them to the store the next day, claiming some defect. She played at being rich, and at first no one suspected the truth.
But her resources began to run dry quickly. Stores were getting wise to her tricks. The stock of dresses she could sell to make new purchases was running out. Soon the truth would be apparent to anyone.
Desperate, she went to the college’s student guidance counsellor, a Mr Trevor Riggs. She had intended to ask about the possibility of student loans, but once she started speaking, she lost control, and soon she was bawling miserably, tears running down her face, her full breasts heaving with every sob as she explained her whole sordid mess.
“There, there,” said Mr Riggs, dabbing at her face with a tissue. “You’re too pretty a girl to be crying like this. I’m sure there’s something we can do. Have you thought about getting a part-time job?”
“I can’t!” cried Reagan. “If I become a waitress or something, eventually someone will *see* me working, and they’ll know I’m not rich anymore, and I’ll be a laughing stock!”
Mr Riggs sighed, and thought. “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t normally offer this to a student, but it’s not like other girls haven’t done something similar from time to time. There is a certain exclusive club that I’m a member of, and it employs waitresses. And its exclusivity means that it’s very unlikely your friends will ever see you there.”
Reagan frowned. “What kind of a club?” she asked.
“It’s a gentleman’s club,” said Riggs, “but in the traditional sense. Men sit around, discuss business, drink fine alcohol, smoke cigars. I’m not suggesting you do anything sordid. You’d be required to dress attractively, and serve drinks and apperitifs. You could even work under a false name, for extra anonymity.”
Reagan bit her lip - a nervous habit, but one that Riggs thought was deeply erotic - and then said, “If you’re sure no one will see me there… okay. Please.”
===
The club was called the Grand Lodge of Pan, and it was hidden away downtown in an ageing three-storey brick building tucked between towering skyscrapers of office space. Entrance was, blessedly, via a discreet alleyway in back, and the only indication of the club’s identity was a weathered wooden shield painted in faded colours. The painting on the shield showed a capering goat-hoofed satyr, being worshipped by three nude full-breasted nymphs - and was one actually sucking the satyr’s swollen penis? - but the gothic style of the art, and its washed-out colours, made it look more historical than pornographic.
Inside, the club was a study in wealth, and the nervous Reagan wondered how a school guidance counsellor could ever afford to be a member. The floors were polished hardwood, laid with expensive rugs. The walls were covered in lustrous mahogany bookshelves stacked neatly with leather-bound tomes. Leather armchairs sat here and there, sometimes by themselves, sometimes arranged around intricately-carved wooden tables. An open fire burned in a stone fireplace. A long, polished wooden bar served drinks. A raised stage stood empty at the far end of the club. Everything spoke of money and privilege.
Maybe a dozen men, all in expensive suits, sat here and there. Some were talking. Some were checking phones or using laptops. Some were quietly reading or just enjoying a glass of dark, rich alcohol.
A beautiful full-breasted black-haired woman in a long evening dress came to meet Reagan. “I’m Bunny,” she said. “You must be the new girl.”
Reagan blushed. She had dressed attractively, as Riggs had suggested - but she had worn a tight black skirt and a black halter-top that exposed her midriff. It was clubwear - sexy and glamorous for a nightclub, but in this quiet, tasteful room it made her feel cheap and trashy. Next to Bunny, she felt like trailer trash.
“I’m Reagan,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should have worn something else. I didn’t know what to expect.”
Bunny looked at her. “I think we might have something more appropriate for you,” she said. “Now, do you want to use your real name?”
“No,” said Reagan. “I don’t want people to know I’m working here.”
“That’s fine,” said Bunny, smiling. “Okay, you can be Kisses.”
“Kisses?” asked Reagan, unhappily.
“This is a place where men come to feel powerful,” said Bunny. “They’ll call you Kisses, if you say that’s your name, but if you say it’s something like Reagan they’ll just call you things like ‘honey’ and ‘kitten’ anyway. It’s better to choose your own than let them choose for you.”
Reagan didn’t feel like she had chosen the name “Kisses” - Bunny had just chosen it for her - but she needed the job, and didn’t feel she should complain further.
Bunny led her to the employee locker room, and here Reagan had another moment of dissatisfaction. Bunny did indeed have a change of clothes for her - but it was a Playboy bunny suit. Black shoulderless leotard/corset that stopped at the nipples, cupping and lifting her breasts. Fishnet stockings. Very high heels. Cute little bunny-tail stuck to her ass. And a bunny-ear headband.
“I wore this when I started,” said Bunny. “It’s how I got my name. It’ll do for tonight. Wear something of your own tomorrow.”
“What should I wear?” asked Reagan.
“You’re eye-candy for the members,” said Bunny. “So look sexy. But also look expensive. You’re a trophy, but one only rich men can afford. If you can’t dress like a million dollars, then dress in something that it’s obvious you’d never otherwise wear - like the bunny suit - so they know you’re only wearing it because you need their money.”
“Okay,” said Reagan uncertainly.
But it turned out to be not so bad. Wearing the bunny costume was embarrassing, and saying, “Hi, I’m Kisses,” made her blush every time, but it was otherwise just a normal waitressing job. She took orders from the men, brought them their drinks and cigars or whatever else they wanted, and acted like doing so made her exceptionally happy. The men were even quite polite - better than the average crowd at a cafe - and spoke to her slowly, calmly, and without raising their voices.
Bunny was right, though - she was eye candy. She felt their eyes roving over her tits and her ass. A couple even made comments. “It’s nice to see a cow with such fine udders joining our little family,” said one man. “I expect a fine-looking girl like you gets her legs spread by interested men fairly often,” said another. “It must be nice to get to dress like the real you,” said another. “Girls like you must get so tired in today’s world pretending to be intelligent and empowered.”
Every time, she blushed, and mumbled a vague agreement, as Bunny had warned her to do - the members were *not* to be disagreed with, under any circumstances - but it wasn’t so bad. Even the older man who groped her ass as she served him whiskey wasn’t so bad - a slow, languorous, deliberate caress, two fingers working confidently between her legs to press against her pussy. It was the grope of a man who had complete certainty that her body was his property, not the daring, crude squeeze of a teenager. It actually made her a little bit wet.
It was good enough that she came back the next day - and the one after that. Her shifts were always afternoon, in blocks of three to six hours between noon and 6 pm, depending on her class schedule.
She got the hang of how to dress - expensive eveningwear, such as might be appropriate for a dinner party, or else something appropriate for a kinky date, all lingerie and corsets and stockings and heels. And always, always, with easy access to her groin, whether it be short skirts or slitted dresses, because if the customers couldn’t grope her easily, they wouldn’t refrain - they would very deliberately lift her dress until her ass was exposed, and *then* grope her, and that was twice as embarrassing.
From time to time, she would see Mr Riggs there, and that was *very* embarrassing. He stared at her like any other man - enjoying the curve of her ass, the swell of her tits - but he never commented or groped her, just smiled.
The outfits made her blush - but they also felt good. She *felt* expensive, and with her financial situation being what it was, she had been feeling cheap more often than she liked. She kind of liked the men’s gaze upon her. She felt like she herself was a valuable commodity, something that could be bought - but only for a premium price. And she liked it.
The pay wasn’t quite premium, though. It was a lot better than minimum wage, but still not remotely enough to support the lifestyle she wanted - and she was buying more clothes, too, to have something to wear to work.
One Thursday, some three weeks after she had started at the club, she was collecting her pay when she saw another girl - a buxom redhead who worked under the name Lollipop - walking away with a fistful of cash five times the size of Reagan’s.
Reagan grabbed Bunny urgently, and pointed. “Hey,” she said, “how come she’s making so much money?”
Bunny looked at Reagan, sizing her up. “Lollipop works past 6 pm, Reagan. And she takes the bonuses.”
“The bonuses?” asked Reagan.
Bunny bit her lip, and then said, “I hadn’t mentioned it, because you seemed so nervous. They’re completely optional.”
“What are they?” asked Reagan again.
Bunny pointed to a carved wooden box on the bar. “From time to time, members feel like they’d like to see a little more of one of the girls,” she said. “They drop a note into the box with a suggestion, and what they’d pay to see it. The girls can look through the offers, and take up any one they like, for the money. A member’s word is his bond - they always pay up, or else they get barred from the club. Bonuses always happen on the stage, and always after 6 pm, when the babies have gone home.”
Reagan blushed. “‘Babies’ like me?”
“I’m sorry,” said Bunny. “It’s what we call the girls who don’t do the bonuses. I know, it’s a cruel way to put it. The girls who do the bonuses feel proud of it, though. It takes bravery.”
“Were there any offers for me?” asked Reagan.
“Actually, quite a few,” said Bunny. She went to the bar, fished around behind it, and came back with a handful of carefully folded pieces of notepaper. “Remember, you don’t have to take any of them, or even acknowledge the offer was made.”
Reagan unfolded the first piece of paper. In a neat, masculine hand, it read, “Kisses: Masturbate to orgasm, nude, with a wine bottle. $1,000.”
Reagan gasped, and almost dropped the whole bundle of notes. “Do girls actually DO this?” she asked.
Bunny looked at the note Reagan had read. “For a thousand dollars?” she said. “Absolutely! I would! They’re not all so explicit, though. The members try to pitch things the girls will actually do, not scare them off. Try another one.”
The next one read, “Kisses should tell us about her most embarrassing sexual experience, $300.”
The one after that read, “I want Kisses to eat a banana, slowly. $50.”
Then, “Kisses: show us her tits. Leave them exposed while she works for half an hour. $300.”
Then, “Kisses and Lollipop kiss each other, topless, for ten minutes. $400 each.”
Reagan stared at the paper. $50 was more than she made in a day. $300 was more than she had made in a week. And it would be on top of her normal pay.
$300 could buy her a dress, all by itself.
“Can I do these?” she asked.
“If you want to,” said Bunny.
“And I definitely get paid?” asked Reagan.
“The club will guarantee you the money,” said Bunny. “You get paid even if the member welshes - which never happens.”
“Then I’d like to do this one,” said Reagan, and passed Bunny the note that started “show us her tits”.
===
Reagan had never stayed past 6 pm before, and the change in atmosphere as the last of the “babies” left was electric. It wasn’t as if the lighting changed, or the clientele shifted, but there was suddenly a chemistry in the air - expectation, and interest, and a sense of predatory dominance emanating from the suited men in their seats. She noted that, subtly, almost every man present had adjusted their chair to be able to see the stage.
“Are you ready?” asked Bunny.
“Is anyone else doing a bonus?” asked Reagan.
“Yes,” said Bunny. “Much later in the evening. But babies go first on their first night. You’re up.”
Reagan had never blushed harder than she did as she walked up onto the stage. A subtle spotlight had come on, bathing her in hot light. She was wearing a red evening dress, without a bra, and she felt like everyone must be able to see her erect nipples poking through the fabric.
Well, they’d be able to see them soon, anyway.
There was a microphone in the centre of the stage.
“Hello, everyone,” said Reagan, and her voice echoed loudly from hidden speakers. “My name’s Kisses, and I’ve been working here three weeks.”
Reagan half-expected to hear cheers and catcalls, but there was only a spattering of polite applause - and laser-like attention from around half the men in the room, as they stared at her avidly.
“One of you wonderful gentleman has generously asked me to show my breasts, and leave them on display for half an hour while I work,” said Reagan. Bunny had warned her not to mention the price tag - never mention the price tag. She had to maintain the illusion that someone had expressed a friendly interest, which Reagan was fulfilling out of the goodness of her heart. After all, the club wasn’t licensed as a brothel.
“I love it when men stare at my breasts,” she continued - and it was true, she *had* come to love it. She noticed that her tits got more attention at the club than almost any other girl - only Lollipop and a plastic-titted blonde called Melons got more interest - and she felt perversely proud of it. Proud - and aroused. She tried not to think about it, tried not to admit it, but the feel of men staring at her like she was a piece of sexy property got her wet every time, and since she had started working here she had not once gone home wearing a dry pair of panties.
A firm, deep voice from somewhere in the back of the room called out, “We adore your fuckballoons too, Kisses.” And there were some chuckles, and some applause. Reagan felt herself flush, and gasp sharply, and her cunt throb with desire - the combination of the older male voice (so like her father), the almost paternal sense of affectionate approval, and the sexual crudity of the comment, made it sink right past her brain and into her pussy, making her feel humiliated and grateful and needy all at the same time.
“Um…” she said, thrown off balance - then remembered what she was doing. “So, anyway…” she said, and paused again. She didn’t know what to say next - so, blushing, she simply pulled the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and let it fall to her waist.
She’d let boyfriends see her tits before, of course. But no man significantly older than her had seen her breasts since her father had last cast eyes on them (in early puberty?), and she was fairly sure that she’d never exposed them to more than one man at a time before, let alone maybe 18 suited, wealthy, older men while on stage.