The First Lady's Naked Walk of Shame

 I have a new story for you today in this one's a little bit more brutal as far as embarrassing nudity goes where it's about the wife of a brutal dictator being overthrown by revolutionaries and then paraded naked around the country as punishment. So if you like the more lighthearted stories this one might not be to your taste but I thought it was a pretty good one and this one is pretty much an exclusively naked in public embarrassed nude female story overall.

The First Lady's Naked Walk of Shame
The diamond choker around Angola's throat caught the studio lights at just the right angle, scattering prismatic shards across the news anchor's sweating face. She crossed her legs slowly, letting the slit in her emerald gown reveal a flash of thigh wrapped in silk so fine it had to be smuggled in from Switzerland. The anchor cleared his throat, fingers twitching near his earpiece as if hoping for some catastrophe to interrupt the live broadcast.
    "People say I'm out of touch," Angola said, stroking the choker with manicured fingers. A laugh like shattered champagne flutes. "But really, I'm just ahead of them." Off-camera, a production assistant muffled a cough into his sleeve—the kind of cough that came from lungs starved of decent food. She didn't glance his way.
    Outside the studio, armored vehicles idled in the square, their engines growling under murals of her husband's face peeling at the edges. A child darted past the soldiers, clutching a stolen loaf of bread. Angola would later step over the trampled crumbs in her custom heels without noticing, too busy debating whether to wear the ruby tiara or the sapphire one to the ballet.
    The palace staff knew better than to interrupt her while she dressed, but the head maid's hands trembled as she fastened the gown's pearl buttons. Angola caught the tremor in the mirror. "Nervous, Marta?" She didn't wait for an answer, turning to admire how the fabric pooled around her like liquid gold. In the city below, a power cut plunged another neighborhood into darkness. Somewhere, a bottle smashed against a wall. The sound didn't reach her.
    "Madam," ventured the security chief from the doorway, gripping his tablet like it might explode. "The encrypted channels—"  
    "Are full of peasants playing revolution," Angola finished, selecting a diamond hairpin. She'd seen the reports: grainy footage of protests, whispered threats in marketplaces. Silly things. Marcos had tanks. Marcos had their love. Didn't they cheer when he tossed coins from his motorcade? The chief opened his mouth, but she waved him off. "Honestly, I'm more concerned about the catering for the gala. Tell me you've secured the beluga caviar."
    Two floors down, in a closet-sized office, a junior analyst stared at the live feed of the eastern slums. Molotov cocktails arced through the air like misplaced fireworks. His supervisor snatched the headphones off his ears. "You saw nothing." The screen went black.
    Angola's perfume—orchids and something venomous—lingered in the hallway as she swept toward the balcony. The people would adore her new gown. They always did. Behind her, the maid hesitated, then pocketed a silver spoon. Just in case.
    "Madam," the agriculture minister ventured, sweat beading under his collar, "the textile factories in the east have shut down. The reports say—"  
    "Reports," Angola interrupted, examining her reflection in the gilded mirror. "Such dull reading." She adjusted the diamond choker, watching how it caught the light like a blade.
    The minister swallowed. "Children are stitching their shoes from burlap sacks."
    Angola laughed, a sound like ice cracking. "And? Do they imagine I should dress in potato sacks to make them feel better?" She flicked an invisible speck from her sleeve. "Let them wear rags. They're peasants, not diplomats." Her gaze sharpened. "Unless you'd prefer I greet the French ambassador looking like a street vendor?"
    The minister's hands twitched toward his briefcase—where grainy photos of hollow-eyed weavers hid beneath budget reports—but he stopped himself. Angola was already turning toward the balcony doors, where the evening sun gilded her silhouette.
    Below, the city simmered. A woman in the market square held up her son's threadbare shirt to a news camera until soldiers shoved her into a van. Angola didn't notice; she was too busy counting the emeralds sewn into her gloves.
    "Besides," she mused to no one, "who looks at peasants?"
    In a basement three blocks away, a rebel seamstress unfolded a stolen bolt of Angola's discarded silk—the scraps deemed "too dull" for the gala. She cut careful patterns by candlelight. Not dresses. Flags.
    Back in the palace, Angola's stylist whispered to the chef: "The caviar's arrived."  
    "From Iran?"  
    "No. The docks." A pause. "They say the shipment smells like gasoline."
    Angola hummed along to the string quartet tuning in the ballroom, blissfully unaware that the A-flat of the cello perfectly matched the pitch of a molotov cocktail sailing through a police station window six miles east.
    The diamonds in her hair were real. So were the flames.
    Angola stood at the top of the grand staircase, letting the international press gasp at the gown’s impossible construction—seven layers of hand-dyed silk, woven through with platinum thread, each fold designed to catch the light like a thousand tiny knives. The Belgian ambassador’s wife whispered something about "vulgar excess" into her champagne. Angola smiled wider. Vulgar was what they called what they couldn’t afford.
    "Darling," purred the Italian oil magnate, though his fingers kept straying to the panic button in his pocket, "you look... indestructible." She kissed his cheek, leaving a crimson lipstick stain that matched the rubies at her throat. "My dear," she laughed, "I am."
    A murmur rippled through the ballroom as the German delegation excused themselves early. Something about "security concerns." Angola rolled her eyes, snapping her fingers for more champagne. "Honestly," she told the trembling server, "foreigners have no stamina for drama." Outside, the first tracer rounds streaked over the river. The guests pretended not to notice.
    The French ambassador’s young attaché made the mistake of mentioning the rumored bread riots. Angola paused mid-sip, her diamond-crusted glove freezing around the flute. "Bread," she repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. "How... medieval." She turned to admire her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the gown’s train pooling like molten gold. "Tell me, darling—does this look like a woman who worries about flour?"
    Somewhere in the city, a rebel seamstress stitched the last star onto a makeshift flag. The fabric—scraps from Angola’s "failed" emerald ballgown—itched with leftover perfume. Upstairs, Angola adjusted her posture, delighting in how the diamonds threw fractured light across the ceiling. "Marcos will handle the rabble," she assured a nervous banker. "He always does."
    The string quartet launched into a waltz. Angola didn’t hear the distant staccato of gunfire syncopating the melody. She didn’t need to. The gown was heavier than chainmail, brighter than any protest flare. Let them eat cake, she thought, spinning to show off the backless design. Let them try to touch her.
    Far below, in the service corridors, a maid folded a stolen tablecloth into her apron. Not for sewing. For bandages.
    Angola spun in a slow circle, letting the chandelier light fracture through the gemstones sewn into her bodice. "Really," she sighed as the Spanish trade envoy edged toward the exit, "you'd think they'd never seen a proper gala before." Her laughter tinkled like the crystal flutes shattering in the hands of a panicked server—though she mistook his shaking for reverence.
    The Dutch ambassador was whispering urgently into his phone when Angola seized his arm. "Darling, you simply must try the foie gras," she insisted, pressing a gold spoon to his lips. He swallowed mechanically, eyes darting to where his security detail had vanished. A distant pop-pop-pop rhythm might have been fireworks. Might have been gunfire. Angola only heard the waltz.
    When the explosion came, it wasn't the muffled thud of distant unrest. It was the palace's stained-glass dome above the ballroom shattering into a million knife-shards of cobalt and crimson. Angola's scream was the first authentic sound she'd made in years.
    For one suspended second, she stood frozen in a snowfall of broken glass, her perfect reflection multiplied in every falling fragment—a hundred Angolas with identical widened eyes. Then instinct took over. She stumbled back, her diamond-encrusted heels slipping on marble now glittering with debris. The Italian oil magnate's blood bloomed across his dress shirt like an obscene boutonniere.
    "Marcos!" she shrieked, but her husband was already being herded away by guards, his champagne flute still clutched in one hand. The Belgian ambassador's wife crawled beneath a overturned table, her pearls snapping like gunshots under her knees.
    Angola's breath came in shallow gasps as she registered the impossible: her perfect silk train pinned beneath a fallen column, the acrid tang of smoke replacing Chanel No. 5. Through the jagged hole in the ceiling, she saw the orange pulse of distant fires. The city wasn't simmering anymore.
    It was boiling over—and for the first time in her life, Angola couldn't look away.
    The gunfire wasn't distant anymore. It echoed through the ballroom's shattered dome, mingling with the screams of fleeing diplomats and the wet thud of bodies hitting the marble. A security officer grabbed her elbow, his grip slick with someone else's blood. "We have to move—now!" he barked, but Angola barely heard him. She was staring at her own reflection in the mirrored wall—cracked now, spiderwebbed with fractures—where the woman staring back had smudged mascara and a diamond choker askew.
    Then the doors exploded inward.
    Wood splinters and smoke filled the air as figures in patched-together armor stormed the ballroom. Angola's security detail barely had time to raise their weapons before a volley of gunfire cut them down. The officer shielding her collapsed, his blood soaking into the hem of her gown like spilled wine. She stumbled back, the backless design suddenly horrifyingly vulnerable as she felt the cold marble against her bare spine.
    "Don't shoot!" The words tore from her throat raw and unpolished—no practiced laugh, no calculated pause. She thrust her hands up, diamond bracelets sliding down her wrists. "I'm unarmed!"
    For a heartbeat, the revolutionaries hesitated. Angola saw herself through their eyes: the silk-clad tyrant on her knees, one heel broken, her famous cheekbones streaked with soot. Then rough hands yanked her up, the platinum threads of her gown snapping under their grip. Someone slapped duct tape over her mouth before she could offer bribes or promises.
    As they dragged her past the toppled champagne fountain, Angola noticed three things in rapid succession: The Belgian ambassador's wife was loading a pistol behind a velvet curtain. The Italian oil magnate's panic button had been crushed under a boot. And the rebel holding her left arm—the one with burn scars where a factory foreman's cigarette had once landed—was wearing a shirt stitched from her own discarded emerald silk.
    The duct tape muffled her scream, but not the sound of the palace gates finally giving way.
    Angola hit the pavement knees-first, the asphalt shredding her stockings and embedding gravel in her diamond-encrusted kneecaps. The impact jolted her head up just in time to see Marcos swinging gently from the ornate streetlamp they'd installed last spring—his favorite, the one with the gilded vines. His bare feet were grayish-purple, toes brushing the puddle of spilled caviar from some overturned banquet tray. A child in patched trousers wound up like a cricketer and hurled a rock straight into his open mouth. Angola heard the crunch of teeth from twenty feet away.
    "Please," she gasped when they ripped the tape off, her lips stinging with the sudden rush of air and the taste of her own blood. "I didn't—I never knew—" Her voice broke as she gestured wildly toward the row of ministry officials dangling like grotesque Christmas ornaments further down the boulevard. The finance minister's toupee had caught on a power line, flapping gently in the smoke-choked wind. "They told us you loved him! The parades, the cheering—"
    A woman with a butcher's cleaver stepped forward, her apron stitched from the same emerald silk Angola had rejected for being "too dull." She grabbed a fistful of Angola's hair—the expensive Brazilian extensions—and yanked her face toward the crowd. "You thought we cheered?" The words dripped with something fouler than the gutter water soaking Angola's gown. "When your motorcade rolled through the slums, we cheered *so you'd leave faster*."
    Angola's gaze darted across the sea of faces—the seamstress who'd stitched her gloves, the dockworker who'd unloaded her champagne, the maid who'd pocketed silverware for months to melt into bullets. Their eyes held no mercy, but something worse: *recognition*. Of all the horrors, this was the one that cracked her—the realization that they'd *seen* her all along, while she'd looked straight through them.
    "I gave you beauty!" she sobbed, clutching at the diamond choker like a talisman. "I made this city glamorous—"
    The laughter hit her like a brick. Not the polite tittering of diplomats, but a roar that shook the streetlamps. The butcher woman leaned in, her breath reeking of the same cheap gin Angola's staff drank to forget. "Darling," she sneered, parroting Angola's ballroom purr with terrifying accuracy, "you made *yourselves* beautiful." Her cleaver flashed in the firelight as she sliced through the choker's clasp. "Let's see how you look without it."
    Angola barely registered the diamonds scattering across the pavement before hands seized her gown's seams. The sound of ripping silk was obscenely loud—like tearing banknotes. She screamed, but it dissolved into wet, animal noises as the backless dress peeled away. Cool night air slapped her bare shoulders. She'd never been naked outside her marble bathhouse. Not even Marcos had seen her without at least pearls.
    Crossing her arms over her breasts did nothing to stop the shaking. The crowd's murmurs prickled across her skin like ants. She knew that sound—the same awed hush when she'd debuted the platinum-threaded gown last season. Only now their eyes weren't admiring. They were *measuring*.
    "Look at her," someone jeered. "No better than a plucked chicken!" Laughter erupted as Angola twisted to cover herself, her diamond-studded heels skidding in caviar sludge. Every inch of exposed flesh burned. These were the people who'd knelt as her motorcade passed. Now they saw the stretch marks from crash diets, the uneven spray-tan lines, the dimpled flesh she'd paid surgeons to erase.
    The butcher woman kicked aside the ruined gown, now just a sodden rag. "No more silks," she announced to roaring approval. "No more starving while you preen." She tossed Angola a burlap sack—the same coarse material children had stitched into shoes. It reeked of fish guts and motor oil. "Dress like us," she said. "Live like us."
    Angola recoiled, her bare heels scraping backwards on pavement. "I won't cover myself in that filthy, flea-ridden thing!" Her voice cracked like a debutante's at her first scandal. "It's probably swarming with disease!" The crowd erupted in laughter so vicious it rattled the dangling corpses overhead. Someone lobbed a rotten tomato that exploded against her collarbone, the pulp sluicing between her breasts like grotesque jewelry.
    "Then wear nothing!" shouted the seamstress, her calloused fingers clutching the makeshift flag. A bullhorn screeched feedback as a rebel commander climbed atop an overturned limousine. "Hear this!" he bellowed. "No one gives clothing to Angola! She walks naked through every alley, every slum—let the city see what their diamonds bought!" Cheers shook the streetlamps, making Marcos's body sway gently, his bare feet grazing Angola's matted hair as she cowered.
    The butcher woman grabbed her by the hair again, forcing her to stand. Angola's legs trembled—not from cold, but from the thousand eyes raking over her cellulite, the stretch marks on her thighs from crash diets, the puckered scar where a discreet surgeon had removed her ribs to achieve that impossible waistline. A child pointed and giggled at the dark stubble between her legs; she'd never needed to shave herself before. 
    "First stop," the butcher growled, shoving her forward, "the textile mills." The crowd parted to reveal the gaping maw of the city—a living, breathing beast of shattered glass and hungry eyes. Angola took her first naked step into the streets she'd only ever viewed from tinted windows. Somewhere, a loom began to clatter. Not weaving silk this time. Weaving justice.
    They marched her past the bullet-riddled gates of her favorite boutique, where mannequins in last season's gowns stared with hollow eyes. "Please," Angola sobbed, tripping over cobblestones that scraped her soles raw, "at least let me wear—" A mud-splattered child hurled a rotten cabbage. It burst against her chest like a grotesque corsage. "You dressed us in hunger," the seamstress said, kicking aside the shreds of Angola's dignity. "Now we dress you in truth."
    The butcher grabbed a handful of Angola's matted hair, forcing her face toward the factory district's smokestacks. "Smell that?" It wasn't Chanel. It was three generations of weavers' lungs dissolving into the air. Angola retched. The crowd laughed. Someone threw a bucket of dye-stained water that turned her skin the same sickly blue as the child laborers' hands.
    As they reached the first crossroads, the rebels produced a branding iron—not with any symbol, just the word THEY in crude letters. Angola's screams reached a pitch even the vultures recognized. The butcher pressed the searing metal to her thigh. "Now you're marked," she whispered. "Like the rest of us." The scent of burning flesh mixed with the distant aroma of baking bread—real bread, rising in ovens no longer rationed for palace banquets.
    Angola collapsed onto hands and knees, her reflection warped in a puddle of gutter water. The woman staring back had no diamonds, no silks—just raw, flayed humanity. A rebel kicked the puddle, shattering the image. "On your feet, princess," he sneered. "The slums are waiting." Somewhere ahead, a loom kept clattering. Not weaving silk. Weaving history.
    The first stone hit her between the shoulder blades. Angola lurched forward with a gasp, her bare feet slipping in sewage. A thousand cameras clicked in unison—smartphones held aloft by hands she'd never bothered to notice before. The butcher woman grabbed a fistful of Angola's hair and yanked her upright for the perfect shot. "Smile for your subjects," she hissed. Angola's lips trembled, her teeth stained with blood and humiliation. The flashbulbs exploded like gunfire.
    "Look how white her ass is!" someone jeered as Angola stumbled past food stalls whose smells once made her wrinkle her nose. Now the stench of frying grease and unwashed bodies coated her tongue. A child hurled a handful of mud that splattered across her breasts like a grotesque necklace. Laughter crested like a wave—the same sound that used to greet her gowns at galas, but now raw and unpolished. Angola realized with dawning horror: this *was* a gala. And she was the entertainment.
    The seamstress stepped forward with a pair of rusted shears. Angola flinched, but the woman just snipped off a lock of her Brazilian hair extensions. "Souvenir," she explained to the cheering crowd, tucking it beside the rebel flag in her apron. Someone threw a rotten egg. It burst against Angola's thigh, yolk dripping down legs that had never known calluses or bruises. The butcher woman leaned in, her breath hot with triumph: "Still think we're invisible?" Angola opened her mouth—to beg? To lie?—but a bucket of fish guts silenced her. The cameras kept rolling.
    Hands grabbed her wrists, forcing them away from her body. "Stand up straight!" a dockworker barked, slapping her bare ass hard enough to leave a red print. The crowd roared approval. Angola's spine arched instinctively—years of posture training betrayed her—and the whistles multiplied. She tried to hunch again, but the seamstress jammed a broom handle between her shoulder blades. "No slouching!" The wood pressed into fresh welts from earlier stones. Angola's breath hitched as she realized: they weren't just stripping her. They were *posing* her.
    A teenager darted forward with a paintbrush dripping scarlet. "Let me!" he begged. The butcher woman nodded, and Angola screamed as the bristles traced the stretch marks on her belly—not to cover them, but to *highlight* them. "Art!" the boy declared, stepping back to admire how the pigment pooled in her navel. Someone tossed him blue paint next. Angola sobbed as he decorated her breasts like grotesque pastries, the crowd chanting "*Frosting! Frosting!*" with each swirl. The paint stung where stones had broken skin.
    "Now walk," the butcher ordered, prodding her toward the textile mills' looming shadows. Angola's legs shook—not from modesty anymore, but from the realization dawning in the spectators' eyes: this wasn't just humiliation. It was *accountability*. Every catcall, every thrown vegetable was a receipt for some forgotten cruelty. The seamstress kicked her forward. "Head high," she mocked. "Like you're wearing diamonds." Laughter erupted as Angola instinctively lifted her chin—and the cameras captured the exact moment she understood: this was her final runway. And the crowd? They were all front row now.
    The plaza fountain ran red with spilled wine, but the rebels had hooked up a firehose to the palace's own water supply. Angola barely had time to register the irony before the icy blast knocked her to her knees. The pressure stripped away the paint, the mud, even the top layer of her spray-tanned skin, leaving her raw and pink as a newborn. She gasped—mouth open—and the crowd cheered as the water filled her throat, her nose, her stinging eyes. For one blissful second, she hoped they'd drown her. Then the nozzle swung away, leaving her coughing on all fours, naked flesh steaming in the cold air. "Again!" someone shouted. The hose came alive once more.
    When Angola finally stood—dripping, shuddering, every imperfection exposed under the merciless noon sun—the silence was worse than the laughter. A child pointed at her puckered Caesarean scar. "Mommy, what's that?" Angola closed her eyes. *Please*, she begged whatever gods might still listen, *let them slit my throat now*. Instead, metal screeched as a livestock cage rolled forward. Inside, the finance minister's wife hugged her knees to her chest, her designer highlights now just greasy strands. The trade secretary's mistress had pissed herself, the urine pooling between her Louboutins—the only thing they'd left her wearing. Angola's stomach lurched. She'd attended their weddings. Shared their lovers. Now they stared at her through the bars with the same hollow-eyed resignation as the slum children she'd once ignored.
    The butcher woman grabbed Angola's wrist, pressing it to the cage's rusted latch. "Open it yourself, princess." Angola's fingers trembled against cold metal. Somewhere, a news camera zoomed in on the moment her manicure—still flawless, somehow—clicked the lock open. The cage smelled of sweat and terror and Chanel No. 5 gone rancid. As Angola crawled inside, the finance minister's wife let out a wet, hiccuping laugh. "At least," she whispered, "you finally match your drapes." Angola looked down at her own Brazilian wax, now on full display, and understood the joke. The cage door clanged shut behind her. Outside, the crowd began dispersing—but not before one final stone sailed through the bars, hitting Angola square between the shoulder blades. The butcher woman winked. "Rest up," she said. "Tomorrow, we tour the mines."
    The cage swayed as handlers hooked it to a flatbed truck. Angola pressed herself against the bars, trying—failing—not to touch the trade secretary's mistress, whose Louboutins had been confiscated moments before loading. The woman's bare foot brushed Angola's thigh, leaving a streak of dirt. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The cameras mounted on every corner of the truck caught it all: the involuntary flinch, the way Angola's nostrils flared at the scent of unwashed bodies, the finance minister's wife quietly weeping into her own armpit to avoid smudging her makeup further. A loudspeaker crackled: "Smile, ladies. You're trending in twelve countries." Angola's lips curled automatically—years of media training betrayed her—before she realized the horror of reflex. The trade secretary's mistress began laughing, high and broken, until someone threw a rotten banana through the bars. It burst against Angola's cheek. The cameras zoomed in closer.
    A monitor mounted on a nearby building flickered to life, showing Angola's cage from four different angles. In the bottom right corner, viewer counts ticked upward by the thousands. The finance minister's wife made a sound like a stepped-on mouse when she spotted her own reflection—mascara rivers cutting through foundation, hair extensions hanging like dead vines. Angola reached up instinctively to smooth her own hair before remembering the sheared patches, the fish guts matting what remained. Her hand froze mid-air. The cameras caught that too. Somewhere in the city, a seamstress leaned toward her screen, mesmerized by the way Angola's ribs protruded without corsetry to shape them. "Look at that," she murmured to her daughter. "Even her bones were lying to us."
    The truck lurched forward. Angola's bare knee slammed into the cage floor, grating against rusted metal. The finance minister's wife didn't offer a hand up. None of them did. They'd shared beds, secrets, sometimes lovers—but never vulnerability. Now they had nothing left to share but shame, and even that was being parceled out for global consumption. Angola watched her own reflection in the monitor as the truck turned toward the textile district, where looms stood waiting. Not for silk this time. For retribution. The cameras zoomed in closer still, finding the exact moment a single tear cut through the grime on Angola's cheek—not for the pain, not even for the humiliation, but for the dawning realization that no one would ever look at her with desire again. Only hunger. And lenses. Always lenses.
    The cage door screeched open at the mine entrance. Angola instinctively covered herself with her arms, but the butcher woman slapped them away. "No modesty," she hissed, pressing Angola forward into the darkness. The air smelled of damp earth and sweat—real sweat, not the perfumed kind Angola used to dab at her décolletage with silk handkerchiefs. The miners stood motionless, their faces blackened with coal dust, their eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight like an animal's at night. Angola felt their gazes rake over her—not with lust, but with something far worse: recognition. They'd seen her before, in magazines and on screens. Now they saw the stretch marks, the cellulite, the way her spray-tan streaked under the torchlight. The cameras caught it all: every flinch, every shudder, every involuntary twitch as cold mud oozed between her toes.
    "Walk," the butcher commanded. Angola stumbled forward, the uneven ground biting into her soles. The mine walls pressed close, the air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and something else—something metallic and sharp. Angola's bare shoulder brushed against the damp stone, leaving a streak of coal dust across her skin. She looked down at her hands, already blackened with grime, and for the first time in her life, understood what it meant to be dirty. Not the kind of dirt that could be scrubbed away with imported soap, but the kind that seeped into your pores, your lungs, your soul. The cameras zoomed in as she lifted her head, catching the exact moment she saw the children—their small frames bent under sacks of ore, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. Angola's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The butcher woman leaned in, her breath hot against Angola's ear: "Now you see." The cameras kept rolling.
    They emerged blinking into the sunlight, their bodies coated in thick black dust, their hair matted with grime. Angola coughed, the coal dust coating her throat, her tongue. The finance minister's wife retched, her designer highlights now indistinguishable from the filth. The crowd watched in silence as the firehose roared to life once more, the icy water slamming into Angola's chest with enough force to knock her backward. She landed hard on the pavement, the water stripping away the coal dust in rivulets of black, revealing patches of raw pink skin beneath. The cameras zoomed in closer, capturing every droplet, every shudder, every ragged breath. Angola lifted her head just in time to see the butcher woman smiling. "Clean enough for you, princess?" The crowd erupted in laughter as Angola was dragged back to the cage, her body dripping, her spirit broken. The cameras followed her every step, the lenses unblinking, merciless. Always merciless.
    The cage was smaller than Angola remembered, the bars closer together. She pressed herself against the cold metal, trying—failing—to find a position that didn't press her bare skin against the finance minister's wife or the trade secretary's mistress. The bucket in the corner reeked of ammonia, the stench overpowering. Angola turned her face away, but there was no escaping it. The butcher woman leaned against the bars, her arms crossed, her smirk widening. "Don't be shy," she said, nodding toward the bucket. "We're all friends here." Angola shook her head, her stomach churning. She wouldn't—couldn't—not with the cameras rolling, not with the crowd watching, not with the lenses zooming in closer, closer, always closer. The finance minister's wife let out a choked sob, her hands clenched between her thighs. The trade secretary's mistress bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Angola closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear. It didn't work. 
    "Get used to it," the butcher woman said, her voice low and dangerous. "You didn't seem to mind being on display when you were covered in silk." She reached through the bars and grabbed Angola's chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. "This is your life now." Angola's breath hitched as the butcher woman released her, stepping back to address the crowd. "Tomorrow," she announced, "we tour the slums." The cheers were deafening. Angola slumped against the bars, her body trembling, her mind racing. There was no escape, no reprieve, no mercy. Only the cage. Only the cameras. Only the endless, unrelenting gaze of the people she'd spent a lifetime ignoring. The finance minister's wife finally broke, sobbing as she crawled toward the bucket. Angola turned away, but the cameras didn't. They caught it all—every tear, every whimper, every humiliating second. Angola pressed her forehead against the bars and waited for the nightmare to end. It didn't.
    The butcher woman wrenched open the cage door before dawn, her boots crunching on gravel. "Rise and shine, princess," she sneered, tossing a bucket of ice-cold water into the cage. Angola gasped as the water hit her bare skin, shocking her awake. The finance minister's wife screamed, scrambling backward. The trade secretary's mistress didn't move at all, her eyes vacant, her body limp. Angola shivered, her teeth chattering, her skin prickling with goosebumps. The butcher woman grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the cage, tossing her onto the pavement like a sack of potatoes. Angola scrambled to cover herself, but the butcher woman kicked her hands away. "No modesty," she snapped. "Not today." Angola looked up at the crowd already gathering, their faces eager, their phones raised. The butcher woman leaned down, her breath hot against Angola's ear. "Today," she whispered, "you see what your diamonds bought." Angola closed her eyes, but the cameras didn't. They captured every flinch, every shudder, every humiliating moment. The butcher woman grabbed her hair and yanked her upright. "Smile," she hissed. "You're trending." Angola's lips trembled, her teeth chattering, her body shaking. The cameras zoomed in closer. The crowd leaned in. The nightmare continued.
    Angola tried to position herself behind the finance minister's wife as they were herded through the slums, but the crowd jeered, throwing rotten fruit and stones until she stumbled forward, exposed. The butcher woman laughed, shoving her toward a crumbling shanty where a child stared at her with hollow eyes. "This is where your silk came from," she said, pointing to the loom in the corner. Angola's stomach lurched as she recognized the fabric—her favorite emerald gown, now reduced to scraps. The child reached out, her fingers brushing Angola's diamond-encrusted kneecaps. "Pretty," she whispered. Angola recoiled, but the butcher woman grabbed her wrist, forcing her to kneel. "Touch her," she commanded. Angola's hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers grazing the child's gaunt cheek. The cameras captured the exact moment she realized: this child had woven her gowns. This child had starved while she'd feasted. This child had seen her, while she'd looked straight through. The butcher woman leaned in, her voice low. "Still think we're invisible?" Angola's breath hitched. The cameras kept rolling. The nightmare deepened.
    The next morning, they were marched to a gleaming white building—a former embassy, now repurposed. Angola's heart leapt at the sight of the marble columns, the manicured gardens. Perhaps mercy, at last. The butcher woman smirked as they pushed open the doors. Inside, the walls were bare, the floors cold. Bars crisscrossed the windows, allowing passersby to peer in. Cameras whirred in every corner, their lenses unblinking. Angola's stomach dropped. This wasn't sanctuary. It was a gilded cage. The finance minister's wife let out a choked sob, collapsing onto the floor. Angola turned to the butcher woman, her voice raw. "When does this end?" The crowd roared with laughter. The butcher woman leaned in, her breath hot against Angola's ear. "End?" she sneered. "This is your life now." She gestured to the cameras. "The world will watch you rot." Angola's knees buckled. The cameras zoomed in closer. The nightmare was just beginning.
    They were given nothing—no clothes, no privacy, no dignity. Angola curled into a corner, her arms wrapped around her knees, her skin prickling with cold. The finance minister's wife wept silently, her designer highlights now just greasy strands. The trade secretary's mistress stared blankly at the wall, her body limp with resignation. Angola closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear. It didn't work. The cameras kept rolling. The crowd kept watching. The nightmare continued. The butcher woman leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her smirk widening. "Get comfortable," she said. "You're going to be here for the rest of your lives." Angola's breath hitched. The cameras zoomed in closer. The nightmare was endless.

I have to admit this one was a little bit more brutal as far as my naked stories go. Most of my nudity stories tend to be more light humiliation or light embarrassment where as this one's a little bit more extreme I suppose. But this was sort of taking the idea of that First Lady of the Philippines who basically had 3000 pairs of shoes while her husband was dictator and while the country was living in poverty. So I thought it would be an interesting idea to have somebody who is like this sort of rich bitch whose wealth and privilege kind of blinded her to reality and she lived a sheltered life, now suddenly finding out that the people don't love her and instead of killing her they subject to occur a worse fate of parading her naked around the country, and then it doesn't end after that but she eventually ends up being put on display permanently with all of these other women, so I figured that that's like a fate worse than death, if they had just killed her it all would've been over with but now she is forced to live naked whereas she used to use clothing as a status symbol, so it sort of the ultimate poetic justice again a little bit brutal and more humiliating than a lot of my naked stories, but I figured she was kind of a more villainous individual so was deserving of more comeuppance.
This one's pretty much an exclusively naked in public embarrassed nude female story overall.