Chapter 3: The New Outfit
The dried stain on last night’s shirt was the first thing I saw. It was still on the floor by the futon, a stiff, yellowing map of my shame. I’d woken up tangled in a thin sheet, alone, my head throbbing a dull, familiar rhythm. The apartment was quiet, too bright, dust motes dancing in slats of harsh afternoon sun cutting through the broken blinds.
Danny was already in the kitchen, clattering around. The smell of fresh coffee, absurdly normal, cut through the stale air.
“Rise and shine, superstar,” he called, his voice cheerful. He walked in holding two mugs, handing one to me. He was fresh, showered, wearing a tight grey t-shirt that showed off his arms. He looked at me like I was a project he was pleased with. “How’s the head?”
“Fine,” I mumbled, sipping the coffee. It was good, strong. A small kindness that felt like a trap.
“Good. Because we’ve got work to do.” He reached behind the sagging couch and pulled out a small, black shopping bag. The kind from a cheap lingerie store. He tossed it onto my lap. “Got you a little something. For variety.”
I set the coffee down, my fingers cold. I pulled out the tissue paper. The fabric inside was sheer black mesh, a babydoll style with lace trim, and beneath it, a matching thong no wider than a piece of string.
My face flushed hot. “Danny…”
“Variety, Jessi,” he said, sitting on the edge of the futon, too close. He picked up his camera, turning it on. The low battery light blinked, but it was still alive. “Can’t have Vanessa thinking I only have one look. This is more… date night. Playful. She’ll hate it.”
He said it like it was a game. A fun, collaborative game.
“I don’t think I can…”
“Hey.” He put the camera down and took my hand. His touch was warm, firm. “Look at me. After last night, this is nothing. This is just fabric. You were incredible last night. A total pro. This is just the costume for the next scene.”
The words ‘incredible’ and ‘pro’ echoed in the hollow space he’d carved out inside me. They were the only currency I had here. I looked from his earnest, blue eyes to the sheer black lace in my hands.
“Go on,” he urged, a playful nudge in his voice. “Try it on. Let’s see the fit. We can do some test shots, no pressure.”
The ‘no pressure’ was the heaviest thing in the room. I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the small, dirty bathroom. I changed with mechanical movements, avoiding my reflection in the smudged mirror until I was done.
The person who looked back was a fantasy. The mesh clung, doing nothing to hide the curves the pill had invented. The thong disappeared into the cleft of my ass, a stark line against my skin. I looked cheap. I looked exactly like what Danny wanted.
“Come out, let’s see!” he called.
Taking a breath that did nothing to fill my lungs, I opened the door. The living room air hit the exposed skin of my stomach and thighs. Danny let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Damn, Jessi. You clean up nice.” He raised the camera. The shutter clicked. It sounded like a lock snapping shut. “Over by the window. The light’s decent.”
He directed me with a photographer’s casual distance—chin down, hand on hip, look over your shoulder. Each command was a relief; it was a script to follow. My initial stiffness began to melt under the simplicity of obedience. He was right. This was just fabric. Just poses.
“Okay, now get on the couch. On your hands and knees,” he said, his voice still light, conversational.
I froze. The posture was too familiar, too evocative of last night’s finale.
“It’s a great angle,” he continued, as if discussing composition. “Trust me. Arch your back a little. It’s just a picture.”
My limbs moved, compliant. The cracked leather was cool against my knees and palms. I arched my back as instructed, feeling the absurd stretch of the babydoll ride up.
“Perfect. Now, look back at the camera. Like you’re inviting someone over.”
I turned my head. He wasn’t looking through the viewfinder anymore. He was just looking at me, his gaze a physical weight traveling from the nape of my neck down the line of my spine. He took a step closer.
“This is good,” he murmured. “This is the vibe. Vanessa would lose her mind.” He put the camera down on the floor, its lens still pointed at me. “But for it to be really convincing… we need to sell the moment right before. The anticipation.”
He knelt on the couch behind me. I flinched, but didn’t move. His hands settled on my hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine. A shudder ran through me.
“Just practicing the pose,” he whispered, his breath hot against my shoulder. His hips nestled against the curve of my ass, separated only by his jeans and the flimsy mesh. I could feel him, already hard. “We’ll simulate. For the camera. It needs to look real.”
“Danny…”
“Shhh. It’s just practice. I won’t go inside. It’s just for the shot. To get the angle right.” His voice was soothing, logical. One hand stayed on my hip, the other came around to my front, slipping beneath the mesh to palm my breast. His touch was deliberate, possessive. “See? Just selling it. You’re doing great.”
The camera’s red light was on. It watched from the floor, a silent, unblinking eye. His hand on my breast, his hardness pressing against me, the vulnerable arch of my back—it was all being recorded. The line between performance and reality smeared, then vanished.
He began to move against me, a slow, grinding simulation. The friction through the thin fabric was intense, humiliation and a traitorous spark of pleasure knotting in my stomach. I buried my face in the couch cushion, the leather smelling of dust and decay.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming less of a simulation and more of a demand. His grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in. “That’s it. Look at you. A natural.”
His words from last night came back, twining with the present. You’re a natural. The praise was a hook in my gut, pulling me deeper into the performance. I made a small, pathetic sound.
“That’s the stuff,” he breathed, his movements growing ragged. “God, the camera’s gonna love this.”
It wasn’t practice anymore. It was use. But the whiskey from last night was gone, and in its place was a terrifying, clear-eyed understanding: I was letting this happen. My consent was a quiet, shuddering thing, given not in words but in the lack of fight, in the arch of my spine I did not straighten.
He came with a sharp gasp, his body slumping against mine for a moment, a heavy, sweaty weight. The heat of him soaked through the mesh. He stayed there, catching his breath, his hand still cupping my breast.
After a long moment, he pushed himself up. He leaned over, picked up the camera, and hit the stop button. The red light died.
He looked at the screen, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Oh yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s the one.”
He walked away, into the kitchen, leaving me on my hands and knees on the stained couch. “We’ll order Chinese tonight,” he called, his voice perfectly normal, as if we’d just finished watching a game. “Tomorrow, we’ll work on your facial expressions. You still look a little surprised in some of these.”
I slowly collapsed onto my side, curling into myself. The mesh was damp and cold where he’d been. From the kitchen, I heard the click of a lighter, then the faint, acrid smell of a cigarette. The afternoon sun had moved, leaving me in shadow.