Chapter 2: Building Tension
A new sequence began. Now it wasn't just women oiling themselves. It was couples, bodies slick and sliding against each other in a dim, studio-lit haze. The camera loved the way light caught the sheen on a flexed back, the deep curve of a spine, the way oil made every movement fluid, obscene, and frictionless. The heavy beat drilled into the floorboards.
Jemma shifted on the couch, the corduroy sticking to the backs of her thighs. She hadn't moved her eyes from the screen, but her posture had changed. The playful sprawl was gone, replaced by a subtle tension. Her hand, which had been teasing her waistband, now rested palm-down on her own stomach, just under the hem of her tank top.
"So, oomph," she said, her voice a little lower than before. "The oil thing. That's a requirement?"
Alan didn't answer. He was watching the screen, his earlier mortification now just faint colour high on his cheekbones. His arms were still crossed, but his body was no longer sinking; it was held still, rigid with attention.
"C'mon, Alan," Jemma pressed, finally turning her head to look at him. The television's flickering light danced across her cheekbone, her sharp green eyes catching the glow. "You're the connoisseur. Break it down for me. What's the...appeal?"
He cleared his throat, a rough sound swallowed by a deep synth stab from the speakers. "It's not... it's not about looking like that," he managed, gesturing vaguely at the screen where a woman with impossibly large, polished breasts was being lifted effortlessly. "It's the... texture. The way it looks real. Like you could touch it."
"Touch what?"
"The skin," he said, the words coming out in a reluctant rush. "The way the light sits on it. Not plastic. Not airbrushed. Just... skin. A little softness. Curves that look like they have actual weight." He was gesturing with his hands now, palms cupping imaginary shapes in the air, his gaze fixed on the shifting images as if they were a textbook he was citing. "Above average, you know? Not ridiculous. Just...present."
Jemma listened, a slow, knowing smile touching her lips. Her own body, hidden under the loose tank and boxers, was the very definition of 'present.' Pleasantly plump. Curves with weight. She uncrossed her legs, letting her knee fall open slightly towards him. The movement was casual, but deliberate.
"And in real life?" she asked, her tone dripping with faux innocence. "Does a girl need to be a pornstar, covered in baby oil, to do it for you? Or could she be, I don't know... a normal person? In a normal apartment? Wearing stupid boxer shorts?"
Alan’s eyes snapped from the screen to her. He saw the knowing look, the challenge in her expression. His gaze flickered down, just for a fraction of a second, taking in the way her tank top stretched across her chest, the soft swell of her stomach beneath her resting hand, the pale skin of her thigh exposed by the open leg of her shorts. He looked back at the TV, jaw tight.
"Normal is better," he said, his voice almost gruff."Yeah?" Jemma pushed, leaning forward slightly. This put her more fully in the television's light, outlining her. "So if some normal girl was here, right now, you wouldn't need the whole..." She waved a hand at the spectacle on screen, where a man was now gliding effortlessly into a woman from behind, both bodies shining under the lights. "...the whole production?"
Alan’s breathing had changed. It was shallower. He uncrossed his arms, letting his hands rest on his thighs. The denim of his jeans was strained across his lap. The evidence was impossible to hide, and he made no move to cover it.
Jemma’s gaze dropped. Her smile turned from teasing to something warmer, more intrigued. "Looks like the theory holds up," she said softly.