Chapter 87: Velvet Chains Fitting
He shakily stood, the bones in his knees emitting soft pops. “Thank you,” he rasped, his watery eyes not quite meeting hers. “You’ve been so kind. To an old man. It’s a rare thing.” He offered a frail smile. “I’ll look forward to spending more time with you next door. A good neighbor is a blessing.”
He held his thin arms out, open and helpless, for a hug.
Lydia’s mind warred for a microsecond. It was a natural, neighborly gesture. A thank you. He’s just a frail, lonely old man, she insisted to herself, burying the memory of his kneading hands, the heat that had pooled in her belly. She stepped into the embrace.
Being taller, she had to bend slightly. His arms wrapped around her slim, powerful waist. They felt surprisingly strong for their spindly appearance. One of his hands, the right one, splayed low on her back. As she went to pull away, his fingers dragged downward, grazing and lingering for a palpable moment on the very top curve of her huge, meaty ass cheek. It was a slow, deliberate slide over the black legging fabric.
She held the hug for one second longer than she should have, a confused courtesy, then gently extracted herself.
As she stepped back, her emerald eyes, trained from years in crowded hallways, flickered downward. There was a noticeable, sizable bulge straining against the worn fabric of his corduroy trousers. It was thick, a defined outline pushing against the seam.
The thought hit her like a physical blow: Was that his cock? Her mouth watered slightly, a reflexive, betraying response at the idea of that aged flesh stiffening for her, for the body she had just pressed against him. Horror instantly followed the thrill.
“I should go,” she said, the words tumbling out too fast. “You’re welcome. Have a good day.”
She turned and practically fled, her powerful, muscular legs carrying her with a speed that felt like escape. She didn’t look back. Behind her, Arthur Wilson stood in his dim living room, a low, dry chuckle escaping his lips. He adjusted himself through his trousers, his gaze fixed on the door through which the magnificent creature had vanished. Primed. Oh, she was primed. He looked forward to their next meeting immensely.
Back in the sterile silence of her own home, Lydia leaned against the closed door, her broad shoulders and powerful chest rising and falling. “You’re disgusting,” she whispered to the empty hall. The self-scolding was a brittle attempt to rebuild a wall that had crumbled. A weak, old man. A pathetic, lecherous old man. And her body had responded. Her mind had gone there. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, seeing the outline of that bulge against the dull brown cord.
She needed to burn the image out. With purpose.
She forced her mind onto the logistics of the day. First, the video from last night with Jason. The editing, the upload. Then, the main event: finding a costume. Dustin’s game mod stream. The plan was simple, vicious, and thrilling: she would fuck his brains out live, in front of his thousands of nerdy, eager viewers. The fantasy of it—the control, the exhibitionism, the sheer audacity—was a clean, hot flame compared to the dirty smolder next door.
Velvet Chains. Alex would know what to get.
She grabbed her phone, the text curt. You at work today?
The reply came almost instantaneously. No, I’m at the fuckin’ ballet. Of course I’m at work. The fuck do you want, my sexy hellcat?
A real smile, the first since the hug, touched Lydia’s lips. Need a costume. For a stream. Help?
The three dots bounced. Get your spectacularly shapely ass over here right the fuck now. I’m bored and you’re visually stimulating. Don’t make me wait, you stacked bitch.
Lydia laughed, a short, sharp burst of air. That was the tonic she needed. Crass, direct, worshipful in its own vulgar way. No pathetic games, just hungry appreciation.
She headed for the shower, stripping off the sweat-damp leggings and sports bra. Under the hot spray, she scrubbed, as if she could wash away the feel of his gnarled hands and the scent of his stale skin. The water sluiced over the hard, defined planes of her strong abs, over the deeply grooved lines of her obliques that cut down toward her smooth, shaven pelvis. She soaped the immense, muscular bulk of her quadriceps and thick, sinewy hamstrings, the powerful abductors at her hips, the huge, meaty cheeks of her ass. She was a monument of crafted flesh, and it belonged to her whims, not to the timid fantasies of a decaying old man.
She dressed with deliberate care in tight, soft black jeans that strained against the mighty pillars of her thighs and hugged the sweeping curve of her wide hips, and a simple grey tank top that clung to the broad map of her shoulders, powerful chest, and the incredible, bouncing rounds of her breasts that sat high and firm above her ribcage. She studied herself in the full-length mirror: the clear, sharp jaw set with new determination, the emerald eyes glittering with intent. The bulging trapezius muscles, each a dense mound connecting her strong, muscled neck to her broad shoulders, rose with a shrug. She was ready.
The video editing was a mechanical process. Trimming, ensuring the angles showcased her power, his submission. Uploading it to the private channel felt like releasing a predator into a reserved forest. It was done.
Then she drove across town, the anticipation building a low hum in her blood.
Then she drove across town, the anticipation building a low hum in her blood.
The late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows from the boutique’s wrought-iron signage. Lydia pulled her car into the empty parking lot, the asphalt still radiating heat. She killed the engine, the sudden silence filled only by the rapid, eager rhythm of her own heart.
She pushed through the heavy black door, a chime announcing her entrance. The store was a cavern of dark velvet and polished chrome, utterly silent. Alex was leaning against the glass counter, scrolling her phone with a look of profound boredom etched on her sharp features.
The boredom vaporized the instant Alex’s dark eyes lifted. Her face lit up with a wicked, genuine joy. “Well, fuck me sideways,” Alex drawled, dropping her phone with a clatter. “If it isn’t the walking, talking distraction I ordered.”
She launched herself from behind the counter in a fluid, bounce-run that was all contained energy. Before Lydia could speak, Alex’s strong arms were around her, wrapping her delighted, laughing waist in a tight hug that lifted her an inch off the ground. “Look at this glorious fuckin’ mountain of a woman,” Alex whispered into her neck, her voice a warm rumble. “You smell like trouble and expensive soap. I approve.”
Lydia laughed, the sound echoing softly in the empty store, and gave Alex a chaste, quick kiss on the lips. “I needed to see you,” she admitted, her hands resting on Alex’s shoulders. “And I need your help. Shopping help.”
Alex released her, taking a half-step back to rake her eyes over Lydia’s form with theatrical appreciation. Her smile grew even wider, more predatory. “Shopping help. For what, pray tell? A new blouse to subtly highlight those monstrous, perfect tits? A pencil skirt tight enough to show off the engineering marvel of your ass?”
“A costume, actually,” Lydia said, feeling a faint, uncharacteristic heat in her cheeks, "...for a stream." She glanced away at a rack of leather harnesses.
She glanced away at a rack of leather harnesses. The dim, perfumed air of the boutique felt suddenly close, a velvet-lined confessional. “Not for my channel. For someone else’s. A kid who lives across the street from me.”
Alex’s eyebrows, meticulously sculpted, arched into twin peaks of intrigue. She said nothing, just hooked a finger through one of Lydia’s belt loops and gently tugged, leading her past racks of latex and silk toward the back of the store. A heavy black velvet curtain parted, revealing the private fitting room.
It was a plush, mirrored cube. A single chaise lounge, its crimson fabric worn in the center, dominated the space. Alex guided her onto it, the coolness of the velvet seeping through her jeans. Then Alex perched on a low stool opposite, her knees bumping Lydia’s powerful thighs. “A kid,” Alex repeated, her voice a low, encouraging prompt. “Start talking, Collier. Spill the filthy beans.”
Lydia took a breath, the scent of Alex’s ozone-and-incense perfume grounding her. The words started haltingly. “His name is Dustin. He’s eighteen. He lives right across the street—you can see his window from my front porch.” She wrung her hands, looking at the dark smudge of a stain on the chaise rather than at Alex’s probing eyes. “His parents are fucking ghouls. They charge him two grand a month just to live in his childhood bedroom while he tries to make it as a streamer. A modder.”
She explained the rainy night, seeing him trudging home soaked, offering a ride. How she’d seen his setup, the earnest desperation in his eyes. “I stayed to watch his stream,” Lydia murmured. “The chat was a torrent of absolute cruelty. They were dismantling him, line by line, destroying his dream for sport. He was trying so hard to keep his voice steady, but his hands were shaking.”
Alex listened, utterly still, her dark eyes fixed on Lydia’s face.
“He just wanted to show off something he'd put his heart and soul into,” Lydia continued, the memory pulling her back. “He wanted them to have fun, to enjoy what he had created, it was his last shot at trying to make something for himself. And the trolls were just hammering him, saying that he was a loser, that his content was trash.” Her own voice gained a hint of that night’s defiant heat. “He was about to cry, Alex. You could see it. This kid, working himself to the bone just to tread water in his own shitty life, and these anonymous fucks were pouring vinegar in the wound.”
She finally looked up, meeting Alex’s gaze. Her own was wide, vulnerable, searching for judgment. “I don’t know what came over me. I just… I wanted to shut them up. I wanted to give him a win. They saw the sleeve of my white blouse at the edge of the camera, and they just tore into him, asking if his mommy was there, calling him a little bitch. I hated them.”
Lydia’s cheeks flushed a deep, warm scarlet. “Put on my domino mask, took off my blouse and skirt, then I walked in front of the camera. I could see the chat exploding, asking who I was. I pretended to be his girlfriend, looked for the ones in the chat that were supporting him, and thanked them, then called out the asshole trolls and told the chat that if they didn't shut the fuck up, I'd end the stream and they wouldn't get to see how I treated my man. That shut them up, then I told them if enough paid subs happened, I'd take off my bra...and he got them, so... I took off my bra.” She hugged herself, the memory of the cool air in Dustin’s room vivid. “I was down to my panties. Then, I told them if he got some more paid subs, they could watch...while I sucked him off. The chat completely lost its mind. The subs started pouring in. He hit his goal in about ninety seconds.”
Alex hadn’t blinked. “And?” she breathed, the word a soft command.
“And I walked over to him in his chair, and kissed him, let him play with my tits… then I knelt down in front of his chair,” Lydia whispered, the confession tumbling out now. “He was hard, obviously. Tent pitching in his sweats. I pulled his cock out. It was… nice. Thick. Really smooth. And I sucked it. On stream. For like, three minutes. I deepthroated him until my eyes watered and he was grabbing my hair. Then I took his load in my mouth, showed it to the camera, and swallowed every fucking drop.”
She rushed to justify it, the words tumbling over each other in a shaky heap. “I felt so bad for him, Alex. I just wanted to help. I got caught up in the moment, in the power of just… silencing all that hate with my body. And I… I kind of wanted to. It felt fucking amazing. As I was leaving, I wanted to make sure he'd succeed...and I loved how innocent and pure he was, so I promised his chat that if he got 20,000 paid subs, I'd let them watch him fuck me on his next stream...he hit that number and...I really want to help him...and feel the power of taking his virginity on camera for strangers...”
Lydia fell silent, her lower lip trembling slightly. She stared at Alex, bracing for disgust, for a lecture, for the cool dismissal that would shatter this new, fragile part of herself she was exploring.
Alex’s face underwent a profound transformation. The intense stillness broke. Her eyes, already dark, seemed to swallow the low light, glittering with unadulterated mischief and awe. Her lips parted.
Then she loudly whispered, each word a bullet of delighted reverence. “You… fucking… majestic… sexy… bitch!”
She exploded up from the stool, hands flying to her own head. “Oh my god! You glorious, philanthropic slut! You helped an innocent kid by blowing him on the internet? That is the sweetest, most degenerate thing I have ever fucking heard!” Alex was pacing the small space, her energy electric. “You’re not just giving him a confidence boost, you magnificent creature! You’re ruining him! You are forever going to be the unbeatable high score! No woman he ever meets will have a fucking chance because none of them will be the stacked, angelic-faced goddess who saved his channel with her superstar throat!”
Lydia’s embarrassment began to melt, replaced by a swelling, incredulous relief that felt like warmth flooding her chest. A shaky laugh escaped her.
Alex stopped pacing and dropped to her knees in front of the chaise, gripping Lydia’s powerful thighs with both hands. “That is the kind of charity I can get behind. That is direct action, baby.” Her expression turned solemn, deadly serious. “You have to promise me something. Swear it on that perfect, sinful ass of yours.”
“What?” Lydia asked, smiling fully now.
“You send me the details of that stream. The time, the link, everything.” Alex’s eyes burned with fanatical excitement. “When you make good on your promise and fuck his virgin brains out in front of his entire audience, I will be watching. I will be logged in, I will be donating, and I will be taking fucking notes.”
She squeezed the immense muscles of Lydia’s thighs. “Promise me.”
Lydia looked down at Alex’s fierce, joyful face, all the uncertainty evaporating. This was acceptance. This was celebration. “I promise,” she said, the words firm and clear.
“I promise,” she said, the words firm and clear.
A fragile silence hung between them for a breath, filled only by the distant hum of the boutique’s climate control. Lydia looked down at her own hands, clenched in her lap. “It... actually makes me feel better,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a shy murmur. “Knowing you’ll be watching. It doesn’t feel so... reckless. It feels like a performance. For you, too.”
Alex’s grin was instantaneous, a slash of pure delight. She leaned forward, her nose almost touching Lydia’s. “Oh, you perfect, dirty darling. Of course it’s a performance. And I’ll be your most devout audience member.” She nipped playfully at Lydia’s lower lip. “You know, this charity work of yours is inspiring. Seriously. Using that god-tier body to give some lonely, keyboard-smelling losers an experience they couldn’t even fucking dream of? That’s a public service. It’s art."
Her eyes glittered with a new, scheming light. "You should tell me about the next one. Maybe I could volunteer. Be your assistant. Hand you lube, hold the camera.” She traced a finger along the seam of Lydia’s jeans at her hip. “The idea is so fucking hot. Just walking into some beta’s dim little dungeon and systematically blowing his entire reality apart with our presence. Him knowing he’s so far out of his league he needs a map, but we’re there anyway, giving him the one night he’ll jerk off to for the rest of his pathetic life.”
Lydia felt a thrilling jolt at the word ‘our’. It spun a new fantasy, vivid and chaotic, behind her eyes. She simply nodded, a slow, captivated smile spreading on her face.
“But first!” Alex shouted, springing to her feet and pulling Lydia up with her. “Costume! We need a fucking iconic look for this digital deflowering.” She began marching them toward the store’s costume racks, talking a mile a minute. “It can’t just be sexy nurse, that’s basic. Lara Croft? Your tits are better, but it’s been done. Tifa Lockhart? Cute, but not quite the vibe.”
She snapped her fingers, the sound cracking in the quiet store. “Miranda Lawson? Too much cape. Morrigan? Not enough fabric, actually, that could work…” She stopped dead, yanking Lydia to a halt beside her. Her eyes went wide with revelation.
“No. Wait. I’ve got it. I fucking have it.” She turned to Lydia, gripping her shoulders. “Chun Li.”
Alex looked her up and down with the intensity of a sculptor. “You have the legs. You have those monstrous, glorious, kick-a-hole-in-a-bank-vault legs. The qipa dress is all about the thigh. It’s a declaration of war. You put that on, with those thigh muscles stretching the silk, and his entire viewer base will have simultaneous coronaries.” She shook Lydia gently, laughing. “You’ll destroy that boy’s pure little soul, Collier. You absolute succubus. He’ll never recover, and his chat will build a shrine. It’s perfect.”
Lydia blinked, overwhelmed by the torrent. The imagery was potent, specific. She could see it. “I… okay,” was all she managed, her voice soft.
“Okay?” Alex parroted, dragging her now towards a sequined section. “‘Okay’ she says, before she becomes a goddamn internet legend.” She began rifling through hanging garments with furious zeal. “The blue and gold. Has to be the classic blue and gold. We’ll get the bodysuit version, the one with the attached sleeves and the high collar. It’ll look like it was painted onto that ridiculous torso of yours.”
She found it, yanking the hanger free with a flourish. The fabric was a shimmery royal blue with gold accents, the cut unmistakable. “Here. Try this on. Now. I need to see this prophecy fulfilled immediately.”
Alex gathered the pieces—the shimmering blue and gold qipao dress, the white boots, the spiked bangles, the white cloth for her hair—and shoved them into Lydia’s arms. “Go. Now. I’m dying,” she squealed, literally vibrating on the balls of her feet as she pushed Lydia toward the velvet-curtained changing room. “I need to see it on you or I will actually perish. Move your magnificent ass!”
Lydia laughed, catching Alex’s energy like a spark. She loved this unhinged enthusiasm, the total absence of judgment. She turned at the curtain, took Alex’s face in her hands, and gave her a brief but deep, passionate kiss, tasting her coffee and mint gum. “You’re a menace,” Lydia whispered against her lips, her thumbs stroking Alex’s sharp cheekbones. “And I fucking love it.” She let her hands trail down Alex’s neck to her shoulders, then gave a playful shove before turning and slipping behind the curtain with a final, flirty glance over her shoulder.
The costume was intricate. Lydia worked methodically, her fingers steady as she tied her long black hair into the two characteristic bulbs, securing them with the white cloth. She stepped into the dress, the cool, slick fabric whispering over her skin as she pulled it up. It fit like a second skin, tight across the broad shelf of her shoulders and the powerful mounds of her chest. The large oval cutout in the center framed the deep, dramatic canyon of her cleavage, the full, heavy curves of her breasts threatening to spill over the blue silk with every breath. The sleeves were absent, leaving her defined deltoids, thick biceps, and the long, cut lines of her triceps completely bare. Golden dragons snaked over the royal blue, their embroidery straining over the solid musculature of her back and the hard planes of her stomach.
The dress fell below her knees, but the sides were slit clear up to her hips. As she moved to pull on the white, knee-high boots, the slits fell completely open, exposing every inch of her monumental, muscled legs—the dense, carved quadriceps, the deep sweep of her inner thighs, the thick, sinewy hamstrings, all the way up to the crease of her smooth, shaven pelvis. She laced the boots tightly, the leather creaking, then fastened the thick, black bracelets with their short, spiked studs around her wrists.
She took a breath, looking at her reflection in the changing room’s full-length mirror. The transformation was staggering. She wasn’t just wearing a costume; she was a weapon of sleek silk and impossible muscle. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out.
Alex was pacing two feet from the curtain. She spun around. Her jaw went slack. Her phone, which she’d been fidgeting with, tumbled from her fingers and clattered on the hardwood floor, screen cracking. She didn’t even glance at it.
Her eyes traveled from the white boots, up the impossible, fully exposed pillars of Lydia’s legs, lingered in the shadowed apex of her thighs visible through the slits, over the tight silk across her taut stomach and the breathtaking display of her cleavage, to the fierce, beautiful face framed by the white cloth. Alex’s mouth opened and closed. A strangled sound escaped her throat.
“Holy… fuck… you… you look like a goddamn war crime,” Alex finally stammered, the words an awed, insulting jumble. “Like… illegal. That’s not a costume, that’s a biological weapon. Jesus Christ, Lydia.”
Lydia smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips. She struck a casual pose, one hand on her hip, making the slit fall open even wider. “You think it’ll work?”
“Work?” Alex choked out, stepping closer as if drawn by a magnetic force. “He’s going to spontaneously combust. His computer will melt. The entire internet will catch fire.” She was right in front of Lydia now, her dark eyes wide with hunger. “Okay. Okay. Pose. You gotta pose. Chun Li has poses.”
Alex’s hands came up, not hesitant, but reverent. She placed them on Lydia’s waist, her thumbs settling in the deep grooves of her obliques. “Turn a little. Leg out. Like you’re about to kick a meteor.” She guided Lydia’s body, her fingers stroking the solid, silk-covered muscle of her hip. “Yeah, like that. Fuck, feel that leg. That’s a femur that could crack concrete.”
Her hands slid down, following the outrageous curve of Lydia’s thigh, gripping the dense muscle of her hamstring through the boot. “Now, like, a fighting stance. Feet wider.” Alex’s palm smoothed up the inside of Lydia’s thigh, her fingertips brushing perilously close to the warmth hidden by the silk panel as she adjusted her balance. The touch was electric, deliberate.
Lydia’s breath hitched. She held the pose, feeling Alex’s hands chart her geography like a worshipper mapping a shrine.
“Now arms up,” Alex whispered, her voice husky. She guided Lydia’s arms into a classic fighting guard, her fingers tracing the hard, rounded contour of Lydia’s bicep, then the long, defined rope of her tricep. “Fuck, you’re so hard. Everywhere.” Her hands came to rest on Lydia’s shoulders, then slid down her collarbones to the upper slopes of her breasts exposed by the cutout. Alex’s thumbs brushed the soft, swelled flesh just above her areolas. “You are a dream I didn’t know I was having.”
Alex finally stilled, her hands settling on Lydia’s waist again. She stared intently into Lydia’s eyes, her own blazing with a fierce, restrained possession. “I am struggling,” she enunciated slowly, each word thick with want, “not to push you back into that changing room, rip this dress off you, and fuck you raw on that little velvet stool until you scream. I want to taste every inch of this costume on you. I want to feel these boots hooked over my shoulders.”
She swallowed, a visible effort. “But.” Alex leaned in, her forehead touching Lydia’s. “My donation to your charity… is my fucking restraint. That nerdy kid across the street? He gets to see this first. He gets to be the one who unravels you in this. It’s only fair.”
Alex pulled back just enough to capture Lydia’s lips in a searing, possessive kiss, biting her lower lip gently before releasing her. “But I will get my turn with you in this,” she breathed, a raw promise etched in her gaze. “After you’ve broken him. After you’re still buzzing from it. You’ll come back here, and you’ll wear it for me, and I will take you apart piece by glorious piece. That’s my fee.”
Lydia felt dizzy, molten. She nodded, unable to form words. The promise hung between them, another layer of anticipation coating an already electric night.