Chapter 2: Dasha's Performance
Dom pushed through the glass doors, the humid perfume of the studio hitting him before the sound did. The main floor was a cathedral of synthetic glamour, bathed in the familiar pink-and-cyan neon that made every surface glow. Mannequins in various states of undress posed under the lights, their silicone curves gleaming.
“Hey, Dom!” called Esme from across the room. She was perched on the edge of a drafting table, one nipple already having escaped the microscopic lace triangle she called a top. She wiggled her fingers in a wave, a knowing smirk on her inflated lips. He could see the fresh gloss on Lyna’s mouth, a shade darker than yesterday, as she glanced up from her phone and gave him a sweet, distracted smile. Her own top was doing its usual poor job of containment.
“Morning, Esme. Lyna.” His voice sounded tighter than he intended. He kept walking, his eyes fixed on the sanctuary of his office at the far end of the room. His briefcase felt heavy in his sweaty hand.
A flash of platinum blonde cut across his path. Dasha leaned against the archway that led to the design bays, her arms crossed beneath the impressive shelf of her chest. A new top, sheer black mesh with strategic rhinestone clusters, left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The 650cc ultra-high profiles were a masterpiece of modern engineering, and they were currently the only thing he could see.
“Running to hide already?” she asked, her Romanian accent softening the tease. “I haven’t even shown you the mock-up for the new bondage-lite halter.”
Dom forced a professional smile. “I have back-to-back calls, Dasha. The VixenVibe shoot is next week and the samples are a disaster.”
“Your disaster is my masterpiece,” she purred, uncrossing her arms and straightening up. She stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and saline filling the space between them. “Five minutes. I need your eyes on the neckline. It’s either genius or it’ll garrote someone, and I can’t decide which is more our brand.”
He knew this dance. He also knew the damp handkerchief waiting in his desk drawer. The temptation to just get it over with in the locked, soundproof room warred with the more immediate temptation standing before him. Her eyes, a cool blue, held his. She was his best friend here, the one person who didn’t constantly paw at him or beg for attention. She just… existed, in all her impossible perfection, and that was somehow worse.
“Five minutes,” he relented, the words tasting like defeat.
A triumphant little smile played on her lips. She turned, the flawless round curve of her ass swaying deliberately as she led him the final twenty feet to his office. He followed, hyper-aware of the stares from Holly and the others, the low hum of their gossip already beginning. He closed the glass door behind them, the latch clicking with a sound of finality.
His office was as he’d left it: a controlled chaos of ambition and sublimation. Neon-lit mannequins stared blankly from corners. His desk was an archipelago of fabric samples, crumpled sketches, and three empty cans of Bolt energy drink. He walked behind it, placing the briefcase down like a shield.
Dasha didn’t sit. She dropped a rolled sheet of tracing paper onto the desk and then leaned forward, planting her palms flat on the glass surface. The motion was practiced, effortless. The neckline of her top gaped open, offering a profound and uninterrupted view of smooth, tanned cleavage and the distinct, pink shadow of an areola. His breath caught.
“See?” she said, her eyes on the sketch, her voice a low, focused murmur. “The strap integrates here, under the bust, but the fastener sits at the nape. It’s a vulnerability.”
Dom’s eyes flicked down to the sketch, then back to the living anatomy display inches from his face. The scent of her, the sheer proximity of so much concentrated silicone and surgical artistry, sent a jolt straight to his groin. He could feel himself thickening, straining against the expensive wool of his trousers. He shifted, trying to adjust himself covertly.
“The… the fastener is a risk,” he managed, his voice rough. “If it’s purely decorative, it’s fine. If it’s functional, the stress point is wrong. It’ll dig in.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, considering. She shifted her weight, leaning even further over. Her breast brushed against the back of his hand where it rested on the desk. It was an accident. It was always an accident. A bolt of electric shame and desire shot up his arm. “What if we moved it? To here?” Her finger, tipped with a long, perfect acrylic nail, tapped a point on the sketch.
He was only half-looking. The other half of his brain was consumed by the warmth of her, the impossible softness of the implant beneath its thin casing. His erection was now fully, uncomfortably present, a persistent ache outlined against his zipper.
“Dom?” Her voice changed, lost its professional sheen. It became softer, more intimate. Her eyes lifted from the paper and met his. They drifted down his torso, and the knowing look returned. “You’re distracted.”
“It’s a good design, Dasha,” he blurted, trying to steer back to safety. “Really innovative. The VixenVibe girls will eat it up.”
She straightened slightly, but only to come around the side of the desk. She didn’t break eye contact. “You always say that when you’re not looking at the design.” She stopped beside his chair. Her hip was level with his shoulder. “You know, a happy manager is a productive manager.”
“Dasha…”
“Shh. It’s just stress. We all have it.” Her hand, light and deliberate, came to rest on his thigh. “All that creative pressure. Has to go somewhere.”
He froze. The world narrowed to the point of contact, the weight of her palm through the fabric. He should stop this. He was her manager. This was his office. The glass walls were only partially frosted; a shape could be seen. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Her fingers walked inward, up the line of his thigh, until they brushed the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection. A soft, approving sound escaped her lips. “See? All that genius, all bottled up.”
Her touch was not gentle. It was confident, proprietary. She palmed him through the trousers, her thumb tracing the swollen length. Dom’s head fell back against the headrest, a stifled groan tearing from his throat. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. He was supposed to be the one in control, the visionary. But here, in this neon-lit box of his own making, with the best friend he couldn’t stop fantasizing about, he was utterly powerless. The rationalizations began their familiar, desperate parade in his mind. This is research. Understanding the aesthetic from a… tactile perspective. It’s for the brand.
“You do such good work for us,” Dasha whispered, leaning down now, her breath warm against his ear. Her hand continued its slow, rhythmic pressure. “You deserve a little reward.”
Outside, the muffled laughter of the other girls echoed. Someone, probably Holly, let out a shriek of delight. Life went on in the studio of exaggerated fantasies. And inside his fishbowl office, Dom let his eyes close, surrendering to the very thing he both craved and despised, as Dasha’s expert touch blurred the line between management and indulgence completely.
"Dasha, you know I never say no to you." Dom relented. He spent everyday going back and forth between jerking off and designing outfits for girls just like Dasha, often using her as the template, specifically to show off their tits. By now he had accepted that feeling and this wasn't the first time he let Dasha help.
"You're always so hard, getting inspired to make another perfect piece. All those tits on display out there. Always staring at them." Dasha cooed.
Dasha cooed. Her fingers found his zipper, the metallic sound harsh in the quiet room. Dom’s grip on the chair tightened, the leather squeaking in protest.
Outside, Holly’s distinct laughter pealed through the glass, a bright, artificial sound. It was a reminder of the world just beyond the frosted panels, a world where he was supposed to be in charge. His breath hitched as Dasha’s other hand came up to his belt buckle. The clasp released with a definitive click.
“They’re out there comparing syringe sizes again,” Dasha murmured, her focus downward. “Lyna’s begging Holly to see her new ass. It’s like a fucking petting zoo.”
She said it with a detached amusement, as if observing an entirely different species. Dom couldn’t answer. His rational mind had short-circuited, leaving only a raw, shameful hunger. The same hunger that made him sketch impossibly exaggerated cup sizes on his tablet late at night, alone in his apartment.
The zipper lowered. The cool office air hit his exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building beneath. Dasha’s manicured hand slid inside, past the waistband of his briefs. Her touch was clinical and knowing, wrapping around him without hesitation.
“There it is,” she whispered, almost to herself. She gave a slow, assessing stroke. “All that tension. All that staring.”
Dom’s head thumped back against the headrest. He watched the ceiling, where the neon from the main room cast a sickly pink glow. He could see the shadow of the security camera’s dome near the vent, a silent witness he’d long since chosen to ignore. His own personal archive.
“You look at my tits every day,” Dasha stated, her voice a low, conversational hum. She began to move her hand with a steady, practiced rhythm. “When I lean over your desk. When I bring you coffee. You think I don’t see your eyes drop?”
He groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep. It was an admission. His professional facade, the one he wore like his expensive suits, was just another piece of costume here. She’d seen the man underneath, the one obsessed with the very plastic she was made of.
“It’s okay,” she said, leaning closer. The sweet, synthetic vanilla of her perfume mixed with the saltier scent of his own sweat. Her breath was warm on his neck. “I like it. It’s why I wear the tops I do.”
Her pace quickened. His hips pushed upward, betraying him, seeking the friction of her hand. The damning evidence of his earlier ‘private brainstorming’ session was now in her grasp, literally. Every sketch, every lingerie line he’d approved, every time he’d zoomed in on a model’s injected lips on a screen—it all led here, to his subordinate’s confident grip.
“You’re a good designer because you get it,” she continued, her lips brushing his earlobe. “You feel it. This isn’t clothes. It’s armor. It’s power.”
Her words twisted inside him, a perverse justification that somehow made perfect sense. The vibration of her voice, the slick sound of her movement, the distant murmur of the girls outside—it all blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation. He was hurtling toward a point of no return, suspended in a limbo of exquisite degradation.
Dasha pulled back slightly to look at his face. Her blue eyes were clear, focused. “You wanna come?”
He could only nod, a frantic, helpless jerk of his chin.
“Then watch,” she commanded softly. She didn’t look away from him as she lowered herself, her knees meeting the plush carpet. The world outside the desk vanished. All he could see was the fall of her platinum hair, the shimmer of her mesh top, and the intense, unblinking eye contact she maintained.
She took him into her mouth without breaking that gaze. The warmth was instantaneous, engulfing. Dom’s entire body went rigid, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His hands flew from the armrests and tangled in her hair, not to guide her, but to anchor himself against the sheer, obliterating reality of it.
Dasha gave a soft, approving hum, the vibration traveling straight through him. Her tongue traced a slow, deliberate path. She moved with an expertise that spoke of more than friendship, a transaction that had been silently agreed upon for months. This was the unspoken core of their dynamic, the reward for his artistic worship, the price for her endless, teasing proximity.
His thighs trembled. The careful rhythm of her head, the occasional flick of her eye towards the glass wall—checking for shadows—drove him to a frantic edge. He was painfully close. The sounds she made were small, wet, and devastatingly efficient.
She pulled back, just for a second, a string of saliva connecting her glossed lips to him. “You’re gonna think about this,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Next time I lean over your desk. Next time you see my cleavage in a meeting. You’ll remember my mouth.”
Dasha gave him one final, deep swallow, taking him all the way to the back of her throat, and held him there until he broke.
His body convulsed, a silent scream locked behind his teeth.
The wave hit him not with pleasure, but with a violent, shocking release of everything he'd bottled up—the weeks of stolen glances, the damp handkerchiefs, the secret sketches. He jammed his left forearm hard into his own mouth, biting down on the sleeve of his expensive jacket. The wool muffled the ragged, animal sound that threatened to tear out of him. His eyes screwed shut, stars exploding behind the lids.
Dasha didn't flinch. She held perfectly still, her throat working around him as he pulsed into it. Her hands rested on his knees, steadying them as they shook. The only sound was a faint, wet click and the frantic hammer of his own heart in his ears.
Then it was over. The tremors subsided. A profound, hollow silence filled the office, sharper than any noise. He pulled his arm from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the fabric. He stared at the wet patch on his sleeve, then at the top of Dasha’s head. She was still down there, eyes closed, a faint, almost meditative expression on her face.
Slowly, she pulled back. She wiped the back of her hand across her lips with a quiet, pragmatic motion. Her eye makeup was perfect. She looked up at him, her gaze clear and unnervingly calm.
"That," she said, her voice slightly roughened, "is what you wanted when you approved the mesh plunge tops for the fall line."
She rose smoothly to her feet, her knees making a soft pop. She didn't look disheveled or used. She looked like she’d completed a task. She adjusted the strap of her mesh top, which had slipped down her shoulder, and walked to his mini-fridge.
"You want a water?" she asked, pulling out a chilled bottle as if nothing had happened.
Dom couldn't speak. He was still putting himself back together, fumbling with his zipper, his hands trembling and useless. She was acting like this was just a normal part of the day. Had it become so pedestrian?
Dasha took a long sip, watching him struggle over the rim of the bottle. "The tension is gone from your face. That's good. You'll focus better now."
Dom stared at the damp patch on his sleeve, then at Dasha’s impassive face. The taste of wool and his own choked-back cry was still thick on his tongue. He managed a weak, jerky nod towards the water bottle.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
His voice was sandpaper. He took the bottle from her, his fingers brushing hers, a normal contact that now felt electric with implication. The cold plastic was a grounding anchor. He drank, the water doing nothing to wash away the hollowness, the shame buzzing under his skin like a low-voltage current.
Dasha leaned against the edge of his desk, watching him with a faint, analytical smile. She crossed her ankles. The neon from outside painted a pink stripe across her cheek. “You okay? You look a little… unplugged.”
“I’m fine.” The lie was automatic, hollow. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat at his temples. “Just. A lot.”
“A good lot,” she corrected, her tone light. She gestured with her chin towards the main floor. “The zoo is getting restless. You should go be the zookeeper. Project authority.”
Authority. The word was a joke. He had none here, not really. He was a curator of their allure, a prisoner of his own fixation. He took another gulp of water, the chill hitting his stomach. A weird, tremulous energy was replacing the lethargy, a jittery current looking for an outlet.
“They don’t need me out there,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. His eyes drifted past her, to a half-dressed mannequin in the corner wearing a failed concept—a lace bodysuit that had torn at the seams during a fitting. The failure sparked something. An old, familiar itch in his fingers.
He looked at Dasha, really looked at her. At the way the mesh top clung to every curve, how the rhinestones drew the eye not to the material, but to the skin and silicone beneath. It was armor, like she’d said. But it was also a cage, a display case. The contradiction was beautiful. It was the entire brand.
A sudden, clear vision clicked into place in his mind, sharp and urgent. “Hand me that marker,” he said, his voice firmer now.
Dasha raised an eyebrow but turned, plucking a fine-tip drafting marker from the cup on his desk. She slid it across the glass surface towards him. “Problem with the mock-up?”
“No. New idea.” He snatched a fresh sheet of tracing paper from a drawer, the rustle loud in the quiet room. The previous five minutes were not forgotten; they were fuel. He felt inspired, a raw, almost angry creativity burning through the post-release fog.
He uncapped the marker with a definitive click. The scent of sharp ink cut through the vanilla and sweat. He began to sketch, fast and aggressive, the lines flowing out of him. “Fishnet. But not just fishnet. A wear-the-fishnet top.”
Dasha leaned in, her interest piqued. Her perfume enveloped him again. “Wear-the? Explain.”
“It’s structural,” Dom said, his hand moving in quick, sure arcs. He outlined a torso, then began cross-hatching, not just a pattern, but a logic. “The diamonds of the net aren’t uniform. They’re larger here,” he gestured over the sketch’s breast area, “to stretch, to frame. Smaller here, at the ribs, to cinch. The threads are silicone-coated, so they grip the skin. It doesn’t just sit on the body. It becomes a second skin, a transparent scaffold.”
He was talking faster now, the concept unfolding as he drew. “The wear is built in. Slight distress at the stress points—under the arms, here at the center clasp. It looks lived-in, urgent. Like you put it on fresh from… somewhere. And it’s already telling a story.”
Dasha was silent for a long moment, studying the emerging sketch. Her professional detachment was total. The woman who had been on her knees sixty seconds ago was gone, replaced by the sharpest designer on his team. “It’s aggressive,” she finally said. “It’s not just showing skin. It’s showing the idea of skin being shown. The tension of the net biting into the tan lines.”
“Exactly,” Dom breathed, excited. He added details—a clasp that was just two industrial-looking rings, a high neckline that would force the wearer to arch her back. “It’s not passive. It’s a garment that does something to the observer. It’s confrontational.”
“Look at that,” Dasha said, a slow smile spreading on her lips. “The threads... the gaps in the fishnet... this is more like lace. Are you making the gaps look like lips? Like an Escher pattern of lips?” She tapped the paper. “That is genius. Very bimbo.”
“Yeah,” Dom said, his own smile feeling strange on his face. “The implication of that... the evocative nature, make the viewer's mind pop back and forth between lips and tits.” He finally looked up from the sketch, meeting her eyes. The collaboration felt pure, potent. It was a space where they were equals, where what had just happened could be compartmentalized into something useful. “We’ll need to prototype it. On someone with the right… topography.”
Dasha held his gaze. Her blue eyes were calculating. “You mean on someone with high-profile, projecting implants. Like mine. Or Lyna’s.” She paused, letting the unspoken hang in the air. “Or do you want to see your design on me, specifically?”
The question wasn’t flirtatious. It was a practical inquiry with a razor’s edge. It acknowledged everything and demanded a professional answer.
Dom’s mouth went dry again. He looked from the sketch, with its violent, gripping lines, to Dasha, to whom the design was already mentally fitted. The image was instantaneous and overwhelming: the silicone-coated threads straining against her pale skin, the distorted diamonds of the net exaggerating the roundness he had just…
He swallowed. “You have the proportions,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “And you understand the intent.”
“I do,” she said, straightening up. She plucked the sketch from the desk, holding it up to the neon light. “It’s good, Dom. Visceral. It’ll sell.” She glanced at him, a ghost of her earlier smile returning. “Feeling inspired, I see.”
Before he could answer, a sharp rap on the glass door made them both jump. Lyna’s face, eager and slightly flushed, was pressed against the frosted panel. She mouthed the word “sorry” but didn’t wait, cracking the door open.
“Dom? Holly’s, like, having a full meltdown over the VixenVibe leggings. She says the waistband is cutting her new ass in half.” Lyna’s eyes darted between Dom’s disheveled state, Dasha’s composed posture, and the sketch in Dasha’s hand. Her expression flickered with a kind of benign curiosity. “You gotta come. She’s threatening to call the clinic.”
Dom let out a long, slow breath. The sanctuary of the design moment shattered, replaced by the familiar circus. He stood, his legs steady now. The hollow feeling was gone, filled with a restless, driven energy. He buttoned his suit jacket, hiding the wrinkled shirt beneath.
“Tell her I’m coming,” he said, his manager’s voice slotting back into place. He glanced at Dasha, then at the sketch in her hand. “Start sourcing the thread. Silicone-coated. Black and a… a faded burgundy. I want samples by Thursday.”
Dasha nodded, a complicit glint in her eye. “On it.” She folded the sketch with deliberate care, tucking it into the waistband of her skirt. It was a promise, a secret held against her skin.
As Dom followed Lyna out into the neon buzz of the studio, the hum of chattering voices and the click of mannequins being adjusted washed over him. Holly’s dramatic tones rose above the din, complaining about the sanctity of her latest injections. He straightened his cuffs. The damp handkerchief in his drawer was forgotten. In his mind, all he could see was the sharp, perfect geometry of a fishnet, and how it would look stretched to its limit.