Chapter 6: The DM Temptation
The phone wouldn't stop. Not buzzing. Not chiming that specific, demanding tone reserved for DMs. It lay on the vanity, screen pulsing with cold light against the pastel clutter. Lila stared at her reflection in the ring light’s glare. The heavy foundation felt like a mask, the false lashes sticky weights. Beneath it, her cheeks burned.
Another chime. Harsher this time.
She picked it up, the cool glass slick against her sweating palm. The notifications stacked like dirty plates. Names she didn’t know, avatars blurred or aggressively masculine.
‘Yo SciLila. Saw your stream. Lookin thirsty. Send sumn real.’
‘Bet that lab coat hides a freak. Prove it babygurl.’
‘More skin. Less talk. We ain’t here for the science crap.’
‘Show us what u got or ur just another boring tease.’
Each word landed like a small, sharp stone. A familiar, sickly-sweet pressure bloomed behind her temples. The voice, like poisoned honey dripping into her ear canal. ‘See? They want you. Really see you. Not the boring microscope girl. Show them you’re worth it. Worth watching. Worth wanting.’
Her thumb hovered. The lace of the bra she still wore itched against her skin. The thong felt alien, a narrow strip of fabric where cotton usually was. Shame coiled hot in her stomach, warring with a terrifying, fluttering thrill. The attention was a drug, gnawing at the edges of her resistance. The validation, even this kind, was a desperate hunger.
‘They’re waiting,’ the voice whispered, sticky and insistent. ‘Give them what they crave. Be desirable. Be bold. Prove Trina was right.’
A memory flickered – Trina’s polished smile, the effortless sway of her hips, the casual command of a room, a screen. That was power. Not equations. Not carefully cited sources. This. The buzz. The demand. The need directed at her.
Her breath hitched. Fingers trembling, she opened the camera app. The front-facing lens reflected the ring-light halo and her own wide, kohl-rimmed eyes. She angled the phone down. The screen showed a sliver of flushed collarbone, the top curve of the push-up bra’s lace, artificial cleavage stark in the bright light. Her other hand instinctively rose, fingers brushing her hair, fussing with a non-existent strand near her ear. A nervous habit, now amplified, performative. Duck lips formed automatically, pouting at the unseen audience.
Click.
The image froze on the screen. Pale skin, black lace, the forced pout. Not her. Not SciLila. Someone else. Someone wanted. The shame flared hotter, almost choking. But beneath it, a jolt. Electric. Addictive.
‘Send it,’ the voice commanded, a satisfied purr. ‘Feed them.’
Her thumb moved, jerky and decisive, jabbing the send arrow beneath the photo. It vanished into the digital ether. Sent.
For a second, silence. Just the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. Then, her phone exploded.
‘Fuck yeah.’
‘That’s more like it slut. More.’
‘Turn around. Show ass.’
‘Knew u had it in u. Now lose the bra.’
‘Pathetic. My ex sent better. Try harder, science bitch.’
The demands came faster, harsher, uglier. Degrading. Explicit. Names she’d never been called. Commands that made her skin crawl even as the voice in her head cooed approval. ‘They’re hooked. Give them more. Show them everything. You’re famous now.’
Lila stared at the cascade of text, the crude emojis, the sheer, aggressive hunger pouring in. Her reflection in the vanity mirror looked back – wide-eyed, painted, trapped between the glow of the ring light and the harsh demands glowing on the screen in her hand. The lab coat hung discarded on the back of a chair, half-buried under a sequined top. On the vanity, beside the mountain of makeup, sat a single, lonely beaker, forgotten. Her knuckles were white around the phone. The buzzing wouldn't stop. Her lips parted in a silent gasp. The voice laughed.