Chapter 12: The Boys' Bathroom Redux
The shower water was still beading on her skin when the thought fully formed, cold and clear as the droplets tracing the curve of her spine. Lydia stood in the middle of their bedroom, a towel wrapped loosely around her torso, and stared at the legal invoice propped against the lamp on Dima’s nightstand. The number was a jagged little rock in her throat.
Do whatever it takes.
His voice, strained and desperate through the plexiglass partition during her last jail visit, wasn’t a suggestion anymore. It was an algorithm. Input: desperation. Output: action. She let the towel fall. The afternoon light cut across her naked body, highlighting the sleek, toned lines of her stomach, the heavy, full curves of her breasts still damp and glistening. Her hands drifted down her flat belly, over the completely smooth, hairless skin of her mound. She cupped herself, the warmth a familiar comfort, then let her fingers trace further back, over the perfect, tight cleft of her ass, remembering the shock of Ben’s touch in the forest—the foreign pressure, the unexpected bloom of heat. It hadn’t been unpleasant. Not at all.
Handjobs were baseline now. Titjobs, footjobs, thighjobs… her mind catalogued them like lesson plans. But the memory of that pressure, the illicit thrill of it, mixed with the image of her own rounded, muscular buttocks in the full-length mirror. An assjob. The word itself was crude, but the mental picture it conjured—the squeezing heat, the control, the obscene visual—sent a distinct, pooling warmth low in her belly. It could be… efficient. Lucrative.
She called Jason before she could overthink it, pulling on a silk robe that did nothing to conceal her shape.
“The last one cleared over seven grand,” he said, his voice trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Two thousand new subscribers. They’re fucking obsessed.”
Seven thousand dollars. It was a dent. Not a solution. “We need to do another one,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Tonight.”
A beat of silence, then a rushed, breathy, “Tonight?” He cleared his throat, struggling to contain the eager leap in his tone. “I mean, yeah. Okay. Hell yeah.”
“Good.”
“We should… I’ve been reading the messages, Lydia. The comments. They don’t just want teases anymore. They want to see you get…” he paused, deliberately, “…properly fucked. We’re talking another zero on the payout. Maybe two.”
A vivid, unbidden image flashed: pinned against the cold bathroom tile, legs hooked over his hips. The warmth between her thighs intensified, a treacherous, physical betrayal. “No,” she said, the word coming out too sharp. She softened it, aiming for teacherly finality. “No sex, Jason. Never. That’s the line. It’s not right. You’re my student, you’re basically…” A child, she almost said, but the lie curdled on her tongue. He was an eighteen-year-old man with a predator’s patience, and she was the one stripping for a camera. She was trying to convince the empty bedroom, not him.
Another silence, thicker this time. She could almost hear his anger simmering, the frustrated calculation. When he spoke again, his voice was tight, clipped. “Fine. What’s the plan, then?”
She ran through her mental list, the robe slipping off one shoulder. “The usual options. Handjob, titjob. Maybe something with my feet. Or my thighs.” She shifted, unconsciously emphasizing her lower body, the sculpted roundness of her ass pressing against the silk. “Or… an assjob. Between my cheeks. That could be… different.”
A sharp, stifled groan crackled through the phone. She pictured him, his face flushing, his hand already adjusting himself. Imagining the squeeze of her powerful glutes, the smooth, inviting divide of her perfect, toned ass. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged. “Yeah. That. That’s the one.”
He recovered quickly, his tone shifting to bland practicality. “We can set up in the usual stall. Eight o’clock.”
“The bathroom again?” A sliver of normalcy, of sanctuary, protested. It was still her school.
“It’s getting stale, honestly,” Jason said, the expert producer now. “Audience wants variety. This’ll be the last time there. After this, we need to… branch out.”
The statement hung there, a door to a darker hallway she wasn’t ready to walk down. Branch out where? His bedroom? A hotel? The forest, like with Ben? Her skin prickled with fear and a dark, thrilling anticipation.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “One more time there. Eight o’clock.”
“Don’t be late,” he said, and the line went dead.
Lydia stood holding the silent phone, the late afternoon sun painting her bare skin in long, guilty stripes. She looked at the invoice. She looked at her reflection—the anxious eyes, the willing body. Do whatever it takes. She repeated it until the words lost meaning, until all that was left was the clock ticking toward eight, and the detailed, sensual plan taking cold, precise shape in her mind.
She repeated it until the words lost meaning, until all that was left was the clock ticking toward eight, and the detailed, sensual plan taking cold, precise shape in her mind.
At seven, she stood before her full-length mirror in the master bathroom, the invoice for Dima’s legal team a blurred rectangle in her peripheral vision. She had laid out her armor on the bed. First, she stepped into the soft, red thong, the fabric a whisper against her completely smooth, hairless skin. It settled against her with a perfect, intimate pressure, the fiery red triangle covering her mound before the slender strings vanished between the ample, rounded curves of her ass, highlighting the deep, tight cleft.
The matching bra came next, cupping her full, heavy breasts and lifting them, the red a stark contrast against her olive skin. She fastened it, adjusting the straps until the fit was perfect, until her cleavage was a pronounced, inviting shadow. She spent a long moment just looking, her breath fogging the glass slightly. She turned to the side, watching the defined muscles of her abdomen shift and tighten, the smooth line from her ribcage to her hipbone. She flexed her arm, watching the subtle curve of her bicep, the toned definition of her shoulders. Her body was a testament to control, yet here she was, preparing to surrender it all for a camera.
Not sure why, she put a lot of effort into her appearance, trying to think of what would make her look the best. A small, insistent part of her thought of what Jason would think, excited at the idea of turning him on more. She pulled on the short, loose black skirt, which swished around her mid-thigh. The tight, bright pink strapless tubetop came next, stretching over the red bra and hugging every curve of her torso, the vibrant color making her skin seem to glow.
She sat at her vanity, the one Dima had built for her last birthday. With deliberate, steady hands, she applied the makeup. The purple eyeshadow gave her a bruised, sultry look. The vibrant red lipstick was the final stroke, a bold, waxy declaration. She carefully painted her fingernails and toenails the same shocking red, blowing on them to dry, each stroke a tiny ritual of transformation.
As she stared at herself in the mirror, acknowledging how hot she looked, she began speaking out loud to herself, trying to get in character. Her voice was a low murmur in the quiet room. "Please," she practiced, her red lips forming the word slowly. "Please, I need it." A shiver, unrelated to temperature, traveled down her spine. "Use me," she whispered, her pupils dilating as she watched her own reflection beg. She couldn't help but get turned on thinking how hot Jason would think she was, and she started to secretly hope he’d cum in her mouth again and call her a cum slut.
Because that’s what she was. That’s what she deserved. The degrading talk kept turning her on, a warm, slick heat blooming between her thighs, dampening the red fabric of the thong. Her breathing shallowed. She imagined his hands, his voice, the taste—a sharp, metallic memory from the last time. Her own fingers twitched toward the waistband of her skirt before she stopped them, pressing her palms flat against the cool vanity.
She jolted awake from the trance and thought that she needed to save it for the show. The performance was everything. The real payoff, the financial one, demanded a real performance. With a final, steadying breath, she fetched the sleek black domino mask from its drawer, the one that covered just her eyes and the bridge of her nose. It felt flimsy, a pathetic nod to anonymity. She tucked it into her small black bag, alongside her phone, the portable LED light, and the small tripod.
She walked to her car, the click of her red-painted toenails in her sandals echoing in the garage. The night air was cool on her bare shoulders. She felt a jittery, electric excitement buzzing beneath her skin, intertwined with a deep, chilling thread of shame. She fastened her seatbelt over the pink top, the strap cutting between her breasts. She started the engine, the headlights slicing the darkness, and pointed the car toward Westwood Prep, toward the humming fluorescent lights of the boys’ bathroom, toward Jason.