Chapter 3: New Girl
The design floor hummed with its usual mid-morning energy, a symphony of low chatter, snipping shears, and the constant whisper of fabric. Dom stepped out of the elevator, the cacophony wrapping around him like a familiar, slightly sticky blanket. The air carried the distinct cocktail of new vinyl, coconut oil, and ambition.
He spotted them immediately. Across the studio, near a rack of neon mesh, Jaiane was laughing, her oiled hands gliding over the generous curve of Georgia’s hip. Georgia leaned into the touch, her own low-cut top leaving nothing to imagination, a smirk playing on her augmented lips. “Morning, ladies,” Dom called, his voice a little tighter than he intended.
Tiffany, trailing slightly behind him in sensible heels, followed his gaze. Her eyes widened just a fraction, taking in the scene. “Your team lead is Jaiane,” Dom said, gesturing. “She’s a force of nature. Best bikini cutter in the business.” He led her through the maze of mannequins and pattern tables toward the bikini corner, a zone dominated by vibrant Lycra swatches and the faint, salty tang of simulated seawater.
“Dommy!” Jaiane exclaimed, releasing Georgia but not turning her head, her dark eyes fixed on the newcomer. “Is this my new little project?” She didn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, she closed the distance, her tan, graceful hands coming to rest on Tiffany’s shoulders. “Look at you. So fresh. So tight.” Her thumbs brushed the collar of Tiffany’s blouse.
“Jaiane, this is Tiffany,” Dom said, shifting his weight. He could feel the familiar, distracting heat building, a thrum he tried to ignore.
“Hi,” Tiffany managed, her voice small. Jaiane’s touch was electric and oddly comforting.
“We don’t do ‘hi’ here, baby,” Jaiane purred, her hands sliding down Tiffany’s arms, feeling the texture of her sleeves. “We do hands-on research.” She turned Tiffany toward the light, appraising her like a specimen. “Good bone structure. You’ll hold the tops well. Let’s see the canvas.” Before Tiffany could process the request, Jaiane’s fingers were at the buttons of her blouse.
Tiffany’s hands fluttered up, not to stop her, but in a gesture of surprise. “Oh, I…”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Georgia chimed in from behind Jaiane, watching with amused interest. “She did the same to me on my first day. It’s just sizing.”
The first button popped open, then the second, revealing a plain lace bra. Jaiane’s oil-slicked fingers traced the line where lace met skin. “See, Dom? She’s perfect. A blank slate.” Dom’s throat went dry. He saw the pink flush spreading across Tiffany’s chest, the quick, shallow rise of her breath.
Brooke materialized beside him, her own considerable cleavage grazing his arm. “Don’t look now, boss, but your fly is praying,” she whispered, her voice a low, melodic tease. She nodded pointedly toward the front of his trousers. “Orientation getting a bit too stimulating?”
Dom rolled his eyes, a practiced deflection. “Your observational skills are, as ever, razor-sharp, Brooke.” He focused on Jaiane’s hands, now gently cupping Tiffany’s breasts through the bra, assessing their weight and shape with a clinical detachment that felt anything but.
“Definitely a 34F,” Jaiane announced to the room, her thumbs brushing over the nipples. Tiffany gasped, a soft, involuntary sound. “But the real magic,” Jaiane continued, leaning close to Tiffany’s ear, “is in how you wear it. Confidence is the only accessory that matters here.”
“She’s right,” Georgia added, gliding over. Her own areolas were fully visible beneath her sheer top, a fact she wore with utter nonchalance. “It’s about owning it. Like this.” She took one of Jaiane’s oily hands and placed it squarely on her own breast, giving a demonstrative squeeze.
Tiffany watched, her shock softening into a kind of fascinated acceptance. Her blush remained, but her shoulders relaxed a fraction under Jaiane’s touch. Dom could see the calculation in her eyes, the bimbo-in-training assessing her new environment’s rules.
“See?” Jaiane smiled, finally withdrawing her hands and leaving faint, glistening prints on Tiffany’s blouse. “It’s just fabric and flesh. We’re all just designing the best packaging for it.” She turned to a table strewn with tiny, vibrantly colored triangles of fabric. “Now, let’s talk tri-kinis. Dom, be a love and fetch the sample binder? The one under the mannequin with the… you know.”
He knew. The one with the broken leg they filled with lube as a joke a few months prior. "Get her some of our designs to wear. You know how I feel about competitor fabric in office." Dom said with a wink.
Dom fetched the binder, its cover slick with a faint, unidentifiable residue. He handed it to Jaiane, his fingers brushing hers, a quick static shock making them both flinch. "Watch out for page forty-seven," he muttered. "The adhesive failed on the Bali Boa triangle sample."
"Noted," Jaiane said, her smile widening. She dropped the binder onto a table with a thud, but didn't open it. Instead, she turned back to Tiffany, who stood holding her blouse closed, a lost look in her eyes. "But first, we address the uniform violation."
Tiffany blinked. "Violation?"
"Darling, this is a bimbo outfitter," Georgia drawled, polishing her nails on her own sheer top. "You're wearing a blouse from, what, J.Crew? It's like a butcher wearing a vegetable apron." She leaned in, her perfume a cloud of synthetic candy floss. "It's all wrong."
Jaiane nodded, already sifting through a nearby clothing rack with a practiced, ruthless efficiency. "Dom's right, no competitor fabric on the floor. But more importantly, you need to feel the product from the inside. Literally." The hangers screeched as she pushed them aside. "We design for the body in motion. You can't understand the tension points in a trikini while wearing a potato sack."
Tiffany’s protest died in her throat as Jaiane pulled a garment from the rack. It was less a top and more a concept, a swirl of baby blue microfiber with strategic cutouts and no visible means of support. "This," Jaiane announced, holding it up. "The ‘Sky Hook.’ My design. It works on physics and prayer."
Brooke sidled up next to Dom, her shoulder pressing into his bicep. "Ten bucks says she pops right out of it the first deep breath she takes, both tits, free and bouncing," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
"Don't be crude, 50 bucks says her tits are too firm," Dom murmured, not moving away.
"I'm being observational," Brooke corrected. "It's a very thin fabric. You'll be able to see everything. You like to see everything, don't you, Boss?"
Dom winked at Brooke, a quick, sly gesture that felt like feeding a shark. “Observational is one word for it,” he said, his voice low.
Brooke’s grin widened, a flash of perfect white. “I have many words. Most of them wouldn’t be appropriate with the new kid listening.” She let her gaze drift meaningfully down his front again, then back to the unfolding scene.
Jaiane had already unbuttoned Tiffany’s blouse the rest of the way. “Arms up, sweetie,” she instructed, her tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. Tiffany complied, her movements stiff, raising her arms like a child being dressed. The blouse slipped off, pooling around her wrists before Jaiane tossed it aside onto a mannequin’s head.
The studio’s neon light glowed against Tiffany’s skin, highlighting the pale, smooth expanse of her stomach and the stark white lines of her bra. A few other designers had paused their work, watching with casual interest. It was just another Tuesday.
“The bra, too,” Jaiane said, her fingers already at the clasp.
“Here?” Tiffany’s voice was a thread of sound, her eyes darting toward Dom and the other women.
“Where else?” Georgia laughed, leaning against a table, her own breasts pushed forward. “We’re all colleagues here. It’s just anatomy.”
The clasp released with a soft snick. Jaiane eased the straps down Tiffany’s arms, letting the garment fall. The air, cool from the ventilation, pebbled Tiffany’s skin. She crossed her arms instinctively, then, seeing Jaiane’s patient look, slowly lowered them to her sides. Her breath hitched.
Dom watched, the thrum in his veins becoming a steady drumbeat. He saw the perfect, surgical curve of her implants, the way they sat high and defiant on her chest. They were excellent work. Professional admiration blended seamlessly with something darker, more possessive.
“See?” Jaiane murmured, not to Tiffany, but to the room. “A perfect canvas. Now, feel this.” She took Tiffany’s hand and pressed it against the baby blue microfiber of the Sky Hook top. “The texture. The tension. This isn’t clothing; it’s engineering.”
Tiffany’s fingers brushed the fabric, her touch tentative. “It’s so… thin.”
“It has to be,” Jaiane said, taking the top and holding it open. “Arms.”
Tiffany stepped into it, her movements robotic. Jaiane guided her arms through the nonexistent sleeves, then began the intricate process of tying and tucking the panels. Her oiled fingers slid over Tiffany’s breasts, adjusting, lifting, molding. Each touch was clinical and intimate all at once.
Brooke leaned closer to Dom, her lips almost touching his ear. “Fifty bucks says her right nipple pops free before she even takes a step,” she whispered, her voice a husky promise. “You can practically see the thread straining.”
Dom didn’t look away from Jaiane’s hands. “You’re on,” he breathed.
The final knot was tied at the base of Tiffany’s spine. Jaiane stepped back, surveying her work. The blue fabric clung to every contour, the cutouts framing her areolas with a precision that felt both accidental and deliberate. It looked less worn and more revealed.
“Okay,” Jaiane said, placing her hands on Tiffany’s shoulders and turning her slowly toward a full-length mirror propped against the wall. “Look.”
Tiffany looked. For a long moment, she was silent, her eyes wide in the glass. She saw the stranger she’d paid surgeons to create, now packaged in the uniform of her new life. She saw the other women reflected behind her—Georgia’s approving nod, Brooke’s amused smirk, Jaiane’s proud expression. She saw Dom, standing just outside the reflection, his attention a physical weight.
She took a deep, shaky breath.
The microfiber strained. A taut whisper of thread echoed in the quiet studio.
The fabric stretched, a thin blue band of potential disaster holding its ground against the force beneath it. Tiffany held her breath, her eyes locked on her reflection, waiting for the inevitable failure. The stitch held.
A collective, almost disappointed sigh seemed to waft through the studio air. Georgia clicked her tongue. "Tough little number, Jai."
"Told you," Jaiane said, her pride evident as she ran a proprietary hand over Tiffany's shoulder. "Physics and prayer, baby. Now breathe normally. It's engineered for motion."
Tiffany exhaled slowly, then inhaled again, deeper this time. The material strained beautifully, sculpting her, but it didn't break. A subtle triumph flashed in her eyes, replacing the panic from moments before. She shifted her weight, testing.
From beside Dom, Brooke let out a soft, defeated chuckle. She leaned in, her voice a low purr meant only for him. "Well, look at that. It appears engineering has defeated entropy." She slid a hand into the pocket of his trousers, her fingers deftly grabbing his erection and rubbing it. "You win, boss. For now."
Dom stiffened, the proximity and the casual touch sending a jolt through him. He captured her wrist gently, extracting her hand from his pocket but holding it for a beat too long. "You can pay up later," he said, his voice rough. "In my office."
Brooke’s smile was all teeth. "Looking forward to it." She pulled her hand away slowly, letting her fingers drag across his thigh.
Jaiane clapped her hands together, the sound sharp in the hushed room. "Okay, show's over! Back to work, you vultures. Tiffany, you're on trim duty. That basket of leopard-print scraps isn't going to sort itself." She guided Tiffany, who was still moving with a careful, newfound awareness of her body, toward a worktable littered with fabric triangles.
Dom watched them go, the lines of the Sky Hook top imprinted on his vision. He took a steadying breath, adjusting the lie of his jacket. "Brooke," he said, turning to face her fully.
"Yes, oh victorious one?" she teased, folding her arms under her breasts, emphasizing their shelf-like quality.
"Take Tiffany under your wing this afternoon. Show her the Slip Supreme line. How the... adjustments are supposed to work." It was a flimsy excuse, a reason to put Brooke somewhere other than right next to him.
Brooke arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You want me to teach the fresh meat how to strategically malfunction? You're a deviant genius, Dom. You KNOW how much I love strategically malfunctioning for you." She winked and sauntered toward the worktable, her hips swinging. "Come on, Tiff. Let's go play with some wardrobe failures."
As Brooke began explaining the precise art of a deliberate nip-slip to a rapt, blushing Tiffany, Dom retreated toward the sanctuary of his glass office. The familiar thrill hummed under his skin, a current he could never quite switch off. He glanced back once, seeing Jaiane’s oiled hands guiding Tiffany’s over a sewing machine, Brooke pointing to a seam with exaggerated importance, Georgia watching it all with lazy amusement.
He unlocked his door, the cool, perfumed air of his private space hitting him. He closed the blinds on the glass wall, leaving only a thin stripe of light. The neon glow from the mannequins cast long, impossible shadows. He sank into his chair, the leather sighing beneath him.
His gaze fell on the drawing he made for Dasha earlier that morning. Outside, muffled by the glass, he could hear Brooke’s laugh, a bright, melodic sound that made his jaw tighten. His hand moved to the front of his trousers, where the fabric was, once again, stretched taut.
He rationalized it, as he always did. It was about understanding tension, about feeling the strain points in the design. It was research. A creative process.
The lingering feeling of Brooke's hand on his cock was a ghost of a sensation. She loved teasing him about his obsession with fake boobs, careful not to say anything too loudly, any he didn't mind at all. Today was the first time she grabbed his cock though... and he found himself craving that feeling again. It was like a trophy from a game only he and Brooke understood the rules to. From outside, a peal of female laughter sliced through his solitude, sharp and bright as a shard of glass. He unzipped his pants and started masturbating to the thought of Brooke and her boobs.