Chapter 11: The Setup
Sunlight glared off the chrome-and-glass facade of Honey Birdette as Elise hesitated on the pavement. The mannequins in the window wore scraps of lace and leather that seemed both impossibly fragile and aggressively confrontational. Nothing like the sensible cotton she’d bought for years. The memory of Marcus’s distant goodnight kiss, the chasm of silence in their bedroom, felt heavier than the shopping bag she clutched – which contained only a single, daringly-cut silk blouse so far. This was lunacy. Or freedom.
She pushed through the door.
The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and new leather. Bass-heavy music pulsed just below the surface. A sales assistant – impossibly young, with lavender hair and a sharp black tunic – glided over. "Finding everything alright?"
"No," Elise said, her voice sounding too loud, too librarian-like. She forced a breath. "Actually, I need… everything. A foundation. For… versatile situations." The heat in her core flamed, and she brought it to heel sharply. Control. Power.
Fifteen years of marriage hadn’t prepared her for articulating this.
The assistant’s smile didn’t falter. "A fresh start? Perfect. We specialize in foundations that build confidence." Her eyes swept Elise’s modest sweater and slacks, assessing, not judging. "Let’s find your new armor."
Two hours later, Elise emerged blinking into the afternoon light, her bag significantly heavier, her credit card humming. Inside nestled sleek boxes: bras that lifted and defined with architectural precision, panties that were more whisper than fabric, a waspie corset in deep burgundy that promised control, a harness of soft black suede. The "Kukuro" set, black lace and sheer mesh panels, already made her feel like someone else just picturing it beneath her clothes. Her armor.
The Ritz bar was a soft hum of privilege. Low lighting gleamed off polished mahogany and crystal. Plush velvet armchairs swallowed patrons whole. The air was layered: fine cigars, cloying florals from a woman nearby, the sharp tang of expensive gin. Elise perched on a stool at the bar, the smooth leather cool against the backs of her thighs. She wore the new silk blouse, its deep V-neck unfamiliar territory, but she felt the conquering sort. Beneath it, the Kukuro bra a secret weapon. She ordered a gin martini, extra dry, olives. Sipping it, the cold bite steadied her nerves. Observation, she told herself. Recruitment. Just like researching a topic.
First, she noticed the man three stools down. Forties, expensive but slightly rumpled suit, knuckles white where he gripped his rocks glass. His eyes, dark and intense, kept flicking towards the door, then down at his drink. A restless energy radiated from him, coiled tight. Elise caught the bartender’s eye with a small nod towards the man. "Refill for the gentleman," she murmured, sliding cash across the bar. "Keep the change."
The man looked up, startled, then wary. He studied her – the blouse, the careful makeup, the intelligent eyes that held his gaze.
"Bad day?" Elise asked, her voice low and calm. The voice she used for distraught patrons needing obscure references.
A humourless twist of his lips. "You could say that. Waiting… takes its toll." He accepted the fresh drink with a curt nod. "Thanks."
"Anticipation can be a form of torture," she ventured, keeping her tone neutral, almost clinical. She took another sip, watching him over the rim of her glass.
His eyes sharpened. They swept her again, differently now. Appraising. "Controlled delay," he corrected, his voice dropping. "It heightens everything. The frustration… the eventual release." A beat. He leaned infinitesimally closer. "A real punishment requires understanding that. The difference between pain and… reward." His gaze dropped pointedly to her hand resting on the bar, then back to her eyes, a silent question hanging.
Elise held his stare, her pulse hammering against the webbing and mesh of her bondage-styled bra. Masochist, the word clicked in her mind. Not just receiving pain, but the psychology of control, the ritual of tension and release. He didn’t want a scream queen; he wanted a stern teacher. She offered a small, knowing smile – not warm, not cruel. Efficient. "It requires discipline. From both parties." She let the implication hang, then deliberately turned her attention back to her martini, ending the exchange. She had her note: For the masochist: Authority. Precision. Withholding is key.
Her next target was impossible to miss. Louder, commanding the space around two other men near the grand piano. Mid-fifties, power suit, a thick gold signet ring. His laugh was a bark. "…utterly incapable of grasping the fundamentals," he was saying, swirling a large brandy. "Sentimentality clouds judgement. Every time." His companions murmured agreement.
Elise felt a flicker of distaste, quickly buried under professional curiosity. She moved subtly, positioning herself to order another drink slightly closer to their group. As she waited, she let her gaze slide over the man with the ring, a casual appraisal. He noticed immediately. His eyes, pale and assessing, swept her from head to toe – lingering on the V of her blouse – before meeting her own with cool entitlement.
"See something you like?" he asked, his voice booming slightly, making his companions turn. A challenge, not a compliment.
Elise didn’t flinch. She met his gaze levelly, a small, tight smile playing on her lips. "I see a man accustomed to being looked at," she replied, her tone dry. "But perhaps not always seen."
One of his companions chuckled nervously. The man’s expression hardened, then morphed into something predatory. Amused. "Sharp tongue. Dangerous on a woman." He took a deliberate step towards her, invading her space. The smell of his cologne, musky and overly strong, engulfed her. "But sometimes…" He let his gaze drift down her body again, slow, insulting. "...danger can be… entertaining. If properly managed." He smirked, expecting her to blush, to stammer, to look away.
Elise tilted her head, meeting his leering gaze without a flicker of submission. She let her own eyes travel dismissively over him. "Entertainment requires skill," she said, her voice low and cool as ice. "Not just volume." She held his shocked stare for a beat longer, then turned back to the bar, dismissing him as if he were a mildly annoying fly. The flush of anger that rose in his cheeks was almost as satisfying as the insight: For the misogynist: Challenge his dominance, but don’t break. Cold fire. Feed his need to conquer disdain.
She needed air. Or something different. She took her fresh martini and drifted towards an empty, slightly darker corner booth. As she slid in, she noticed the man already seated in the adjacent booth, half-hidden in shadow. Thirties, attractive in an androgynous way – sharp cheekbones, artfully messy dark hair, wearing a perfectly tailored suit in charcoal grey. He was sketching in a small notebook, occasionally glancing up, his gaze thoughtful, sweeping the room without seeming to focus on anyone.
Elise watched his hands move, quick and sure. He looked up, catching her looking, and offered a small, genuine smile, nothing like the previous men. His eyes, a warm brown, held curiosity, not predation. "People are interesting shapes," he said, his voice soft, melodic. He nodded towards the noisy group where the misogynist still held court.
"A particular type of shape," Elise conceded, returning the smile cautiously.
He chuckled. "Ah, yes. The alpha predator in his natural habitat, or so he believes. A bit… monochromatic, no?" He closed his sketchbook. "I prefer complexity. Layers. The way light falls differently on different forms." His gaze settled on her, openly appreciative but without the leering weight of the others. It lingered on the line of her neck, the drape of her silk blouse, the intelligence in her eyes. "You have interesting lines. Strong, but… fluid." He gestured with his pencil. "Masculine tailoring meeting feminine drape. It’s compelling."
He wasn’t just talking about her clothes, Elise realized. It was an observation of her. "Do you find that duality appealing?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Deeply," he said, leaning back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Rigidity is boring. Life exists in the interplay. The tension between strength and softness. Between man and woman…" he paused, his gaze drifting past her shoulder towards a well-built waiter clearing tables, then back to her, "...and everything in between, or beyond." He smiled again, warm, inclusive. "Power isn’t just dominance. It’s presence. Authenticity. Owning your space, whatever shape it takes."
Elise felt a strange sense of recognition, a validation entirely different from the transactions before. For the bisexual man, she understood, the note writing itself in her mind, it’s not just a body. It’s the energy. The fusion. The confidence in ambiguity. Offer the spectrum.
He glanced at his watch, a sleek, minimalist piece. "Duty calls, unfortunately. But it was a pleasure… observing." He gave her that warm, inclusive smile again, gathered his sketchbook, and slipped out of the booth, leaving behind the faint scent of sandalwood and creativity.
Elise finished her martini, the gin now warm in her throat. The bar buzzed around her – the rumble of the misogynist, the clink of glasses, the low thrum of the piano. She felt the delicate straps of the Kukuro bra beneath her silk, the solid weight of her purchases beside her. Not just fabric. Tools. Insights.
She catalogued them as she signaled for the check:
The masochist, the boor, the fluid one.
No consummation. Just research. Fieldwork.
As she walked back through the opulent lobby towards the elevators, the worn carpet of her old life felt galaxies away. New body. New clothes. New rules. New masks to craft. New lands to conquer. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Elise stepped inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a woman she was still learning to recognize. Her fingers brushed the sleek Honey Birdette bag. Tomorrow, she’d wear another of the new foundations under her clothes. And then, perhaps, she’d test her hypotheses for real. The doors closed, sealing her in with the electric hum of transformation.