Chapter 3: The Photoshoot Punishment
The hardwood floor was cold against her knees. A sharp, grainy pressure that seeped through the thin skin of her kneecaps and promised bruises. Johanna stared at a single speck of dust caught in a sunbeam between the floorboards, focusing on its minute dance as the air shifted.
“Arms behind your back. Chest out.”
Tom’s voice was calm, instructional, from somewhere above and behind her. She complied, clasping her wrists tightly at the base of her spine. The movement arched her back, thrusting her chest forward. The push-up bra, the same satiny black one from the car, performed its cruel engineering, lifting and compressing until she felt utterly displayed.
The click was soft, digital. A tiny sound that echoed in the quiet room.
“Look at me, Jo. Not at the floor.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes finding him. He leaned against her father’s favorite armchair, phone held up. His expression was one of detached appraisal. “Good. Now, describe it. The air. How does it feel on your skin right now?”
She took a shallow breath. The living room was warm, but a draft from the vent above brushed across her stomach, her shoulders. “It’s… cool. There’s a draft.”
“Specifics,” he said, moving sideways, his sneakers silent on the rug. Another click. “Where exactly do you feel it?”
“On my… stomach. My neck.” Her voice was a thin thread.
“And the floor?”
“Hard. It’s… I can feel the grain. It’s cold.”
He crouched in front of her now, phone aimed upward. The lens was a black, unblinking eye. “You’re shivering. Is it just the cold?”
She didn’t answer. He lowered the phone, his face coming into close view. He smelled of cheap body spray and something metallic. “I asked you a question.”
“I’m embarrassed,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because… because you’re looking at me. Because you’re taking pictures.”
“I’m looking at what you’ve been hiding,” he corrected, standing up again. He walked a slow circle around her. “All that time wearing those giant sweaters. Those button-up shirts. Dressing like a goddamn librarian. You think nobody wanted to see this? You think I didn’t?” He stopped behind her. She felt his shadow fall over her. “This is just catching up, Johanna. This is paying a little debt for all that wasted time.”
His fingers traced the line of her spine from her neck down to where her wrists were locked together. She flinched, but he held her in place. “Now. The air on your back. Describe it.”
“It’s… it’s everywhere. I feel it everywhere.” Her composure was cracking, a note of desperation leaking through. “My skin is all… tight. Awake.”
“Awake,” he repeated, savoring the word. The phone clicked again, capturing her from behind. “That’s good. That’s exactly right. It’s awake now. Finally.”
He stepped back, surveying his work. “Stand up.”
Her legs were numb, prickling with static as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. She kept her arms locked behind her, a pose that felt both submissive and painfully vulnerable.
“Walk to the window.”
She did, each step feeling alien. The curtains, the soft dove-gray ones her mother had picked, were sheer. The street outside was empty, just a parked car and a line of sycamores. But the world felt monstrously close.
“Part the curtain with your shoulder. Look out.”
She leaned into the fabric, the soft cotton brushing her cheek. The cool glass was inches from her nose. “What do you see?”
“Nothing. The street.”
“Could anyone see you?” His voice was closer. He was right behind her.
“The curtains… they’re mostly closed. Maybe… a shape.”
“A shape of a girl in her underwear,” he murmured, his breath hot on her ear. He placed a hand on her hip, his grip firm. “That’s all you’ve been to this neighborhood anyway. A shape passing by in a window. Now they’d see the real shape.” He pulled her back from the glass, spinning her gently to face him. He studied her face—the heat in her cheeks, the sheen in her eyes behind her glasses. He lifted his phone one last time, capturing her expression.
He lowered the device, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. “You can put your arms down.”
The relief of releasing the ache in her shoulders was immediate. She hugged herself, her hands rubbing her arms.
Tom scrolled through his phone, nodding slightly. “These are good. A good start.” He looked at her, his head tilted. “You can get dressed.”
She moved quickly, snatching her discarded shirt from the back of the sofa. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons.
“We’ll do more another time,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket as if it held nothing more remarkable than a grocery list. “Different rooms. Different light.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You know, you’re actually pretty photogenic when you’re not trying to disappear.”
He left, closing the door with a quiet click.
Johanna stood alone in the center of the sunlit room, the shirt hanging open from her shoulders. She slowly finished buttoning it, her movements robotic. The ghost of the floor’s chill was still in her knees. The phantom click of the camera echoed in the silence. She walked to the window he had made her stand before and stared out at the empty, ordinary street. She saw her own faint reflection superimposed on the view—a pale face, a tousled outline. She didn’t recognize the shape.
She didn’t recognize the shape. The buttoning of her shirt felt like programming a lock, each small disc slipping through its slit with a finality that sealed something away. She was tightening the last button at her collar when the front door clicked open again.
Tom shouldered his way back in, a leather jacket now slung over his arm. “Forgot this,” he said, his voice cutting through the room’s thick silence. He didn’t move toward the coat rack by the door. Instead, he walked toward her, his eyes scanning her now-covered form with a kind of proprietorial disappointment.
“All tucked in again already?” He stopped a foot away, dropping the jacket on the armchair. “I was hoping you’d leave it off for a bit. For me.”
“I’m cold,” she said, the lie automatic and thin.
“We can fix that.” He reached out, not roughly, but with a deliberate certainty. His fingers found the top button of her shirt. He began to undo her work.
“Tom, please—”
“Shhh.” His other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb resting on her lips to stop them. “Just a second. I need to see something.” He worked the buttons open, one after another, parting the fabric until the black satin of the bra was exposed once more. He pushed the shirt wide over her shoulders, letting it hang from her arms like a cape.
He took a half-step back, his gaze dropping. He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Jesus, Johanna.” He shook his head slowly, a smile spreading on his face. “Look at that. I mean, really look. The way that thing arches you. The sheer fucking volume.” His eyes traveled up to meet hers, wide with mock surprise. “I knew you had a great body. But honest to god, the scale of you in that push-up is just… astonishing. It’s actually astonishing.”
Her skin burned under his stare. The praise felt like a clinical measurement, a valuation.
“You see it, right?” He didn’t touch her, just let his words do the work. “All that time, you were walking around with this… this monument hidden under cardigans. It’s almost dishonest.” He finally lifted a hand, tracing the lace edge where it met her skin with a single finger. She shivered. “You feel how much power is right here? And you just bury it. That ends now.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “The next time I see you, you’ll be wearing this. Or something like it. Under whatever boring top you choose. You’ll know it’s there. I’ll know it’s there. And we’ll both be thinking about when I get to see it again.”
He pulled her shirt closed himself, his knuckles brushing against her as he quickly re-buttoned it, his efficiency as intimidating as his earlier undoing. “Good girl,” he said, patting her cheek. He grabbed his jacket and turned to leave.
At the door, he paused. “Send me the notes from Calc today. I slept through it.” Then he was gone, the door shutting softly a second time.
Johanna stood frozen, the phantom pressure of his thumb still on her lips. The word ‘astonishing’ echoed in the quiet room, twisting the curve of her own reflection in the window into something foreign and massive. She looked down at her chest, covered by thin cotton, and felt the engineered lift of the bra beneath it, a permanent, haunting assertion.
But she was Kind of proud of her Size in that Push up