Chapter 2: Help Me Choose
De
The key turned in the lock with a rusty screech, and Dom shouldered his way into the dim hallway, the scent of takeout Chinese food trailing him like a weary ghost. He stopped dead. Dasha was there, a vision framed by the peeling floral wallpaper, critically examining her reflection in the gilded hallway mirror. She was wearing a short, tight black dress that left little to the imagination, paired with towering heels that made her legs seem endless.
“Oh, hey, you’re home,” she said, not turning away from her reflection. She smoothed the dress over her hips. “Perfect timing. I need a male opinion.”
Dom’s mind, already furnished with a permanent gallery of Dasha-centric images, quickly added this one to the collection. He clutched the paper bag of food a little tighter, a flimsy shield. “Uh, sure. Opinion on what?”
“What to wear clubbing this weekend.” She finally spun around, her blonde hair catching the weak hall light. “I’m going clubbing with my girls, but I can’t decide. There’s like, three options. You gotta help me pick.”
“Me?” The word came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat. “I mean, are you sure? I don’t know anything about club fashion.”
“You're not gay are you?” she asked, a sly smile playing on her enhanced lips. “Just look at me and tell me if I'm hot. Come on, it’ll take two seconds.” She beckoned him with a manicured finger and started walking towards her room before he could protest.
He followed, his work shoes sounding heavy and clumsy on the creaky floorboards compared to the sharp click-clack of her heels. He dumped the food on a small table in the hall, his heart starting a dull, hopeful thump against his ribs. This felt like a minefield, but oh, what a beautiful minefield.
Her room was neater than his, dominated by a large bed with a velvety purple cover and a lingering cloud of sweet, floral perfume. Three outfits were laid out with ceremonial care. A chainmail rectangle with a loop of string that must have made it some kind of top paired with matching metal skirt was the first outfit and somehow they got more revealing from there. The second was a dark red bodysuit that was sheer and revealing all over. A pair of matching panties and pasties sat next to it. The third... was it even an outfit? It was a thong and belt... was the belt supposed to be the top? It wasn't big enough to even cover her nipples entirely!
“That one’s risky but I like it,” Dasha said, following his stunned gaze to the belt-and-thong combo. She waved a dismissive hand. “But seriously, this dress I have on is so basic. It’s like, the kind of thing I wear in front of you all the time.” She did a little turn, the hem riding up her thighs.
Dom’s mouth was desert-dry. “It looks… it looks good on you.” The understatement of the century. The dress was a second skin of black fabric straining over the impossible swell of her chest, the deep v-neck threatening to give up entirely.
“Ugh, you’re no help,” she sighed, but she was smiling. “Okay, new plan. I need to see them on. And I need you to take some pictures and, like, little videos for me. So I can really decide.”
“Pictures?” Dom’s brain short-circuited. “Of… of you? In those?”
“Duh.” She already had her phone in her hand, unlocking it with a tap. “Here. Just, like, get my good side. And a video so I can see how it moves.” She started to hand the device over and then stopped to think for a second. "Actually, why don't you just use yours and send me everything. Mine is almost dead."
Before he could formulate a protest, her hands went to the zipper at the side of her dress. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. She shimmied her shoulders, and the black fabric pooled at her feet.
Dom’s breath hitched. She stood there in a lacy black thong and nothing else, her back to him, fiddling with the chainmail top on the bed. The incredible, silicone-weighted curve of each breast was fully visible from behind, bulging against her sides, the deep tan line stark against her skin. Her ass was a perfect, round sculpture.
“This one first, I think,” she said, as if standing nearly naked in front of her landlord was the most normal thing in the world. She bent over to pick up the metal skirt, and the view nearly killed him.
A hot, desperate pressure surged in his jeans, so intense and sudden he saw stars. He fumbled with his phone, almost dropping it. The camera app was open. He pointed it at her, his hand shaking, as she stepped into the tiny metallic skirt.
She fastened it at her hip. It was even smaller than it had looked on the bed, a shimmering scrap covering perhaps a third of her ass. Then she picked up the chainmail top. It was just a rectangle of linked metal with thin strings at the corners.
She turned, holding it against her chest. “How do I even… oh, you just tie it.” Her eyes met his, and she gave a little laugh at his paralyzed expression. “What, you’ve never seen a girl get dressed before?”
Dom couldn’t speak. He just stared, the phone camera ostensibly aimed at her. She looped the strings behind her neck, the cold metal settling against her skin. The links did nothing to conceal the shape of her; they simply glinted over the massive, proud curves, draping between them in a shallow valley, showcasing the projection of her tits, really emphasizing the sideboob.
His jeans felt like they were straining at the seams. The urge to touch himself, right there, was a physical pain. He shifted his weight, trying to alleviate the pressure, and prayed the denim was dark enough.
“Okay, start recording,” she commanded, striking a pose with a hand on her hip. “I want to see the sparkle.”
“You’re recording, right?” Dasha asked, her voice a playful melody over the faint clink of the chainmail as she turned. She caught the tremor in his hands, the way he held the phone like it was a loaded weapon. The tight bulge straining against his jeans was impossible to miss from this angle, a telltale tent in the dark denim. Perfect, she thought, a cool ripple of satisfaction moving through her. He’s practically vibrating.
She arched her back, letting the light catch every metallic link, and ran her hands slowly down her sides to her hips. “How’s the sparkle?” she asked, knowing full well the view wasn’t about the outfit’s shimmer. It was about the way the cold metal framed the impossible softness of her tits, the way the tiny skirt disappeared between her cheeks. She gave a little shimmy, watching him from the corner of her eye.
He made a choked sound, not quite a word. The phone dipped for a second before he righted it. “Yeah,” he managed, his voice rough. “It’s, uh. Sparkly.”
“Good.” She spun again, letting the skirt flare for a mere second. “Okay, I think I got it. Send me that one. Now for the next.”
She didn’t wait for confirmation. Her fingers went to the strings at her neck, untying them with deliberate slowness. The chainmail top fell away into her waiting hand with a heavy, musical rustle. She was topless again, the full, heavy weight of her implants on majestic display, the nipples pert and pink. She pretended to study the red bodysuit, holding it up against herself.
“This one’s kinda see-through,” she mused aloud, turning it in the light. “But it’s, like, artfully see-through, you know?” She glanced at him. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched. He hadn’t moved an inch, the phone still pointed, a statue of desperate lust. He’s gonna pop a blood vessel, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
“You gotta get the pasties right or it’s just trashy,” she continued, her tone conversational as she peeled the backing off one silvery adhesive circle. She placed it with meticulous care, smoothing the edges over her areola, her movements a slow, sensual performance. The second pastie followed, a mirror image. Every shift of her arms made her breasts sway hypnotically.
She stepped into the bodysuit, pulling the sheer, dark fabric up her legs. It was a fight, the material clinging to every curve. She wiggled it over her hips, then paused, leaving it gathered at her waist. “This part is always a workout,” she laughed, puffing out a breath. She leaned forward, offering him a breathtaking canyon of cleavage as she struggled with the sleeves.
Finally, she pulled it up and slid her arms in, shrugging the thin straps onto her shoulders. The effect was staggering. The red, gauzy fabric obscured nothing; it merely tinted her skin a warm, sinful hue, like looking at her through stained glass. Every detail of her augmented chest was visible, the pasties glowing like twin moons behind the veil.
“Whoa,” Dom breathed, the word escaping him like a prayer.
“Right?” she said, feigning a critical pout at her phone’s black screen, now used as a mirror. “It’s a lot. But is it too much?” She turned to him, placing her hands on her hips. The bodysuit plunged to her navel, and the seam ran perilously tight between her legs. “Take the video. Walk around me.”
He obeyed, a marionette on her strings. His steps were clumsy as he circled her, the phone’s lens drinking her in. She rotated slowly, a planet to his orbiting satellite, letting him capture the way the fabric stretched across the full, round hemispheres of her ass. The silence was thick, broken only by the rustle of the suit and his ragged breathing.
“I think this one might be the winner,” she announced, striking a final pose with a hand behind her head. “It’s confident. It says, ‘I’m here, and I know what you’re looking at.’” She let her eyes meet his, holding the gaze for a beat too long, watching him flinch. “Send those. Now, the last one.”
She reached for the buckle on the bodysuit’s strap. “This’ll be quick. It’s barely anything anyway.” She let the suit fall down her arms, catching it at her elbows, momentarily trapping herself. She was a vision of constrained power, her breasts pushed together by the bunched fabric. With a final, graceful shrug, she let it all pool on the floor around her ankles.
Now only the black thong remained. She stepped out of the red puddle and picked up the final outfit: the thin belt and the matching micro-thong. She held the belt up. It was a strip of rhinestone covered black leather with a simple clasp, maybe an inch inches wide at most.
“So, this is the top,” she stated, as if explaining a complex equation. She fastened it around her chest directly over the nipples. It sat there, a futile black bar against the overwhelming pale softness, doing nothing but drawing the eye straight to the nipples it failed to cover. The swell of flesh above and below it was obscene.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her existing thong and slid it down, stepping out of it with the casual grace of a panther. Dom made a guttural sound, a mix of agony and awe. She pretended not to hear, bending over with exaggerated care to pick up the new, even skimpier thong.
The view she presented him then was calculated, anatomical, and utterly devastating. She took her time adjusting the new scrap of fabric, her back still to him. Finally, she turned.
The outfit was complete. It was less than what a whore would wear to the beach, yet infinitely more provocative. The belt merely highlighted what it couldn’t conceal, and the thong was a narrow promise. She stood with one hip cocked, her hand resting on it, her silicone-enhanced chest proudly on display, utterly unabashed.
“So?” she asked, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “What’s the verdict, landlord? Club-ready?”
Dom was frozen, his phone arm slack at his side now, his other hand subtly trying to adjust the desperate strain in his pants. He looked utterly wrecked. “Dasha, I…”
“The pictures, silly,” she reminded him, her laughter light and airy. “I need to see. Come on, a few quick ones. For my portfolio.” She struck a pose, then another, each one a masterclass in showcasing her assets. His hands are shaking so bad he’ll probably blur them, she thought, her internal smirk widening. He’ll be thinking about this for weeks. And he’ll do anything I ask.
He lifted the phone again, his thumb fumbling over the screen. The camera shutter sound clicked, again and again, a rapid-fire testament to his captivity. She let him take a dozen, shifting slightly each time to give him a new angle, a fresh glimpse of the goods.
She let him take a dozen, shifting slightly each time to give him a new angle, a fresh glimpse of the goods. The only sounds were the digital shutter and the low, ragged pull of his breath. Finally, she relaxed her pose, letting her arms fall to her sides.
She watched him stare, slack-jawed, his eyes glazed and fixed on the rhinestone belt struggling across her chest. A slow, knowing smile spread over her lips. “This one’s clearly your favorite,” she stated, her voice a low purr that cut through the humid air of the room.
It wasn’t a question. It was a test.
He blinked, as if waking from a trance. His throat worked. “It’s… incredible,” he admitted, the words thick. “But, Dasha… would you really wear that out? It’s like… less than lingerie.”
She tilted her head, the blonde strands brushing her shoulder. “Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?” She took a single, deliberate step toward him, closing the distance. The scent of her perfume, vanilla and something sharper, enveloped him. “The question is,” she continued, her eyes locking onto his, “would you be embarrassed to be out with me dressed like that?”
Dom’s mouth opened, then shut. He looked from her amused face down to the outrageous spectacle of her body, then back up. His mind flashed to a crowded club, every male head turning, every jealous glare, every whispered comment. Him, standing next to her. Claiming her, in some unspoken way. The fantasy was potent, a cocktail of pride and sheer terror.
“I… I wouldn’t be embarrassed,” he forced out, the lie—or was it truth?—feeling dangerous on his tongue. “I’d be… I don’t know. Everyone would be looking at you.”
“At us,” she corrected softly, taking another half-step. She was now well within his personal space, the heat from her skin radiating against him. “If you were with me, they’d be looking at us. Wondering what the deal is.” She let that hang, watching the conflict wage war behind his eyes. “But you couldn’t handle it, could you? All those eyes.”
“I could,” he insisted, a weak defiance. His hand, still clutching the phone, trembled slightly.
Dasha reached out, not touching him, but plucking the phone from his limp fingers. Her touch was electric. She scrolled through the photos, her expression one of clinical appraisal. “These are good. You got my good side.” She held the screen up to show him a particularly graphic shot, her own nearly-naked form glowing in the display. “See? It’s just a body. It’s just fashion.”
She then did something devastatingly casual. She turned and walked back toward her bed, the tiny thong doing nothing to mask the hypnotic sway of her ass. She picked up her discarded black dress from the floor. “Alright, fashion show’s over. I’m starving. You brought Chinese?”
The whiplash was total. Dom stood stranded in the center of the room, painfully aroused, his mind reeling from the intimacy of the question she’d posed. The visual of her in that belt and thong, on his arm, was now seared onto his brain. “Uh. Yeah. In the hall.”
“Cool.” She slipped the dress over her head, covering everything in one swift, dismissive motion. The transformation back to casual tenant was jarring. “You should heat it up. The rice gets gluey.”
She brushed past him, heading for the kitchen, leaving him alone in the perfume-soaked aftermath of her bedroom. Dom looked down at the raging bulge in his jeans, a monument to his humiliation and desire. He heard the clatter of plates from the kitchen, the mundane sound a brutal contrast to the last ten minutes.
He needed to move. To do something. He stumbled out of her room, adjusting himself clumsily, and followed the sound. Dasha was already poking through the cardboard containers, lifting lids. “Kung Pao? Perfect.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, her expression now just friendly, open. As if the entire seductive inquisition had never happened. “You okay? You look kinda flushed.”
“Fine,” he grunted, grabbing two plates from the cupboard. His hands were still unsteady. “Just… warm.”
“Mhm.” She scooped a generous portion of chicken onto her plate. “So, thanks for the help. And the photos. You’ll send them, right?” She said it like it was a foregone conclusion, a simple errand between friends.
“Yeah. I’ll send them.” The words felt like signing a contract.
“Great.” She leaned against the cluttered counter, eating a piece of chicken directly from the container with her fingers. She sucked the sauce from her thumb. “And for the record,” she said, her voice dropping back to that conspiratorial purr, “if you were with me at the club, you wouldn’t have to just look. You could touch.”
She popped the morsel in her mouth, chewed, and smiled with those full, fake lips. Then she picked up her plate and walked toward the living room, leaving him standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in his hand and a future of exquisite torment stretching out before him. The ghost of her words—you could touch—echoed in the silence, a promise and a threat, binding him tighter to her will with every frantic beat of his heart.