Chapter 2: Wine, Wet Knit, and a Typed Confession
The heels came off first.
One, then the other, kicked toward the closet with a precision that surprised her given the tremor in her hands. The hardwood was cold against her bare feet, a grounding sensation that did nothing to slow the buzz still humming under her skin.
She poured the wine before she even turned on the lights.
The bottle was a cheap Pinot she'd opened three nights ago, still sitting on the kitchen counter where she'd left it. She didn't bother with a fresh glass. Just filled the one from the sink, rinsed it under the tap, and carried it to her bedroom like a woman walking a tightrope.
The laptop was exactly where she'd left it. Open. Waiting.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the duvet bunching beneath her thighs, and took a long drink. The wine was warm and slightly vinegary, but it did the job. A different kind of heat spread through her chest, loosening the knot that had been tightening since she'd walked out of Barrie Gold's basement.
Her phone buzzed again.
She didn't look at it. Not yet. Instead, she opened her email.
The message from Barrie was waiting at the top of her inbox. No subject line. No greeting. Just an attachment and a single sentence.
RAW_FILES, as promised. Use them wisely.
She clicked the download link before she could talk herself out of it.
The gallery opened in a new window, and Luisa forgot how to breathe.
There were forty-seven images. She scrolled through them slowly, her wine glass forgotten on the nightstand, her fingers leaving faint prints on the trackpad. Each photo was a piece of evidence. A document of what she'd become in that room.
The first few were harmless. Her standing beside the judge, smiling her professional smile. Her shaking hands with Marcus, the dollar-sign belt buckle glinting in the light. Standard networking fare.
Then the choreography began.
Photo twelve: Gerald's hands on her shoulders, turning her toward the wall. Her face was calm, but her eyes—her eyes were already somewhere else.
Photo eighteen: The lift. Six pairs of hands supporting her weight, her body suspended in the air like an offering. Her skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh, and the camera had captured the exact moment when she'd realized she wasn't wearing underwear.
Photo twenty-three: Gerald's thumbs brushing her nipples through the thin knit. The fabric was stretched taut, and you could see everything. The shape of her. The hardness. The way her back had arched involuntarily into his touch.
Her breath caught.
She clicked to the next image.
Photo twenty-nine: Her face.
Not the professional smile. Not the calculated expression she'd practiced in the mirror for years. This was something else. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed with a heat she hadn't remembered feeling in the moment.
She was moaning.
The photo captured a sound she didn't remember making, a moment she'd apparently lost somewhere between the third click and the fourth. She looked like a woman being touched for the first time. She looked like a woman who wanted more.
She looked like Chambermaid_69.
Luisa set the laptop down and reached for her wine. Her hand was shaking. The glass clinked against her teeth as she drank.
She scrolled to the end of the album. The final photo was different from the others. No hands. No men. Just her, alone against the dark wood paneling, her arms wrapped around her own waist, her head tilted back, her throat exposed. It was a portrait of a woman in the aftermath. A woman who'd just discovered something about herself.
At the bottom of the gallery, beneath the last image, was a note from Barrie.
Gerald told me about your conversation. He thinks you're ready. I think he's right. The sweatervest was a good choice. Use it for your first post. The boys are waiting.
She read the words three times.
Her first post.
She closed the laptop, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked exactly like the woman in the photos. Flushed. Wide-eyed. Still buzzing.
"You're insane," she told her reflection.
Her reflection didn't argue.
She splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and changed into a silk robe that she'd bought two years ago and never worn. It was pale pink, the color of the inside of a seashell, and it slid over her skin like water.
Then she went back to the bed, opened the laptop, and navigated to the site.
The forum was exactly as she'd left it. Threads about upcoming shoots. Requests for specific members. A pinned post from Barrie about the "new girl" who'd be making her debut soon. The language was crude, clinical, transactional. The language of men who knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to say it.
She'd read these threads a hundred times. A thousand. Always as a lurker, a ghost, a woman hiding behind a username and a VPN.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she opened the "Introductions" subforum and clicked "New Thread."
The cursor blinked at her.
She typed: Chambermaid_69.
Then she deleted it.
She typed: Luisa.
Deleted that too.
She typed: The girl in the grey sweatervest.
She stared at the words for a long moment. They felt right. They felt true. She was the girl in the grey sweatervest. The woman who'd walked into Barrie Gold's basement pretending to be a lawyer and walked out pretending to be something else entirely.
But she wasn't pretending anymore.
She moved the cursor to the body of the post. Her fingers hovered over the keys.
What did she want to say?
She thought about Gerald's hands on her breasts. About the click of his dentures. About the way he'd looked at her like he already knew every secret she'd ever kept.
She thought about Barrie's text. Good girl.
She thought about the photos. The moan she didn't remember making.
And then she started typing.
My name is Luisa. I'm a solicitor. I wear suits to court and heels to depositions and I've never told anyone the truth about what I want.
I want to be seen. Not just looked at. Seen. I want men to look at me and know exactly what I am and what I'm for.
I want to be used. Not hurt. Not degraded. Used. The way you use something you treasure. The way you use something you can't stop thinking about.
I'm new here. I've been watching for a long time. I've been lurking in the shadows, reading your posts, imagining what it would be like to be in a room with all of you.
Tonight, I was in a room with all of you.
I wore the sweatervest because I wanted you to look at my breasts. I leaned over the table because I wanted you to imagine what was underneath. I let Gerald lift me because I wanted to feel your hands on my body.
And now I'm sitting in my bedroom, still wearing the sweatervest, and I'm touching myself thinking about what happens next.
She paused. Her hand had drifted to her thigh without her noticing. She pulled it back and kept typing.
I don't know what you want from me. But I know what I want from you.
I want to be your project. Your distraction. Your girl.
I want to be the reason you log on at night.
I want to be the thing you think about when you're supposed to be thinking about something else.
She hit post before she could change her mind.
The page refreshed. Her words appeared on the screen, raw and exposed and undeniable. For a moment, nothing happened. The forum was still. The other members were still. The whole world was still.
Then the notifications started.
CrimsonKnight: Finally.
Bench_warmer_69: The sweatervest was a nice touch. But I want to see what's underneath.
Marcus_D: Welcome to the club, sweetheart.
Barrie_Gold: Good girl.
She read them all. Every comment. Every crude compliment. Every promise of what was to come. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat, but she didn't close the laptop. She didn't run. She sat there, in her pink silk robe, and let them see her.
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up. A text from the same unknown number as before.
You didn't post your pictures yet, Miss Farmer. The men are waiting to see you.
The men are waiting to see you.
Luisa set the phone face-down on the duvet, as if the screen itself had grown teeth. The wine sat warm and forgotten on the nightstand, a dark ring already forming beneath the glass. Her reflection stared back from the black mirror of her laptop—flushed cheeks, tangled waves, a woman she recognized but didn't entirely trust.
She picked up the phone again.
No new messages. Just that one line, hanging there like a dare. She typed three responses and deleted all of them.
I need a minute.
Which picture?
What if I'm not ready?
Pathetic. All of it.
She opened the forum instead. Her post had already collected twenty-three replies. The men weren't waiting patiently. They were circling, hungry, tossing scraps of attention her way like coins into a fountain. She scrolled through them slowly, letting each word settle somewhere deep in her chest.
Bench_warmer_69: We saw the sweater. We want to see what it's covering.
CrimsonKnight: Don't tease. Teasing is for amateurs.
Marcus_D: Show us why Gerald picked you.
That last one made her pause.
Gerald had picked her. Not Barrie. Not the group. Gerald, with his loosened dentures and his slow, deliberate clicks. Gerald, who'd lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her down like she was something precious. Gerald, who'd told Barrie about their conversation—which meant he'd been watching her from the moment she walked in.
She wondered what else he'd noticed.
Her phone buzzed again.
Same number. New message.
You're overthinking. I can practically hear it from here. Post the photo, Luisa. Let them see what I saw.
She laughed—a short, sharp sound that surprised her. Of course Barrie knew. Barrie probably knew what she was wearing right now, what she'd had for dinner, how many times she'd refreshed the forum page.
She stood up. Walked to the closet. Opened the door.
The grey sweatervest was hanging exactly where she'd left it, draped over a padded hanger like a costume waiting to be worn again. She touched the ribbed knit with her fingertips. It still smelled faintly of whiskey and leather and something else—something masculine and unfamiliar.
She carried it to the bed and laid it flat on the duvet.
Her phone camera app opened with a swipe. She held the phone above the sweater, framing it against the dark sheets, the soft folds of pink silk just visible at the edges. The shot was anonymous. Tasteful, even. Just a piece of clothing on a bed.
She deleted it.
That wasn't what they wanted. That wasn't what she wanted.
She grabbed the laptop and opened the private gallery Barrie had sent. Photo twenty-three. Gerald's thumbs on her nipples, the fabric stretched so thin it was practically invisible. That was the shot they'd loved. That was the shot that had made Marcus welcome her to the club.
She could do better.
She stripped off the silk robe and let it pool at her feet. The sweatervest went on next—cool against her skin, rough against her nipples, clinging to every curve like it had been made for her. She'd worn it to the workshop with a pencil skirt and heels. Now she wore it with nothing at all.
The mirror in the corner of her bedroom caught her reflection. She turned toward it, studying herself with the same clinical detachment she used on contracts and depositions.
The sweater ended just below her hips. Her legs were bare. Her hair was a mess. Her face was still flushed from the wine and the forum and the sheer, ridiculous audacity of what she was about to do.
She grabbed her phone again.
This time, she used the timer.
Three shots. Different angles. One from the front, the sweater hugging her breasts, her hair falling over one eye. One from the side, her profile sharp against the bedroom wall, the curve of her hip just visible beneath the hem. One from above, looking down at herself, the neckline gaping just enough to show the shadow between her breasts.
She didn't look at them. Not yet. She just selected the best one—the side shot, the one that felt like a secret—and opened the forum again.
Her post was still there. Twenty-seven replies now. The men were getting restless.
She clicked edit. The cursor blinked in the body of her text, waiting.
I wore the sweatervest because I wanted you to look at my breasts.
She added a line below it.
Here's what it looks like when I'm wearing it for you.
Then she hovered over the attach photo button.
Her thumb trembled above the screen. One tap and it would be done. One tap and Chambermaid_69 would stop being a ghost and start being a woman. One tap and these men—these strangers, these judges, these men who'd passed her around like a party favor—would have a piece of her that she could never take back.
Her phone buzzed. A new text.
Tick tock, Miss Farmer.
She laughed again, louder this time. The sound echoed off the walls of her sleek, modern bedroom, and for a moment she felt like she was standing at the edge of something enormous. Something terrifying. Something she'd been running toward her whole life without ever admitting it.
She pressed the button.
The photo uploaded in seconds. Her post updated. The side shot appeared below her words—the grey knit, the bare leg, the shadow of a woman who'd stopped pretending.
She stared at the screen, her heart hammering, her hand still shaking.
The first reply came through before she could close the laptop.
Barrie_Gold: Now we're talking.
Then another.
Then another.
CrimsonKnight: That's what I'm talking about. Finally a woman who knows what she's doing.
Bench_warmer_69: More. That's not enough. Give us more.
Marcus_D: Show us the front. We want to see what Gerald was playing with.
Luisa read each one with her pulse thrumming in her temples. The laptop screen cast blue-white light across her bare legs, and the sweatervest clung to her skin like a second layer of nerve endings. She hadn't moved since she'd hit post. Hadn't breathed properly. Hadn't done anything except watch the replies stack up like evidence against her.
Her phone buzzed again.
Same number. Barrie.
Gerald wants a private word. Check your messages.
She switched to the forum's private messaging system. There it was, at the top of her inbox. A message from Gums_Mott. The username made her laugh—Gerald, with his distinguished silver hair and his loosened dentures and his expert gums, calling himself Gums_Mott like he was some kind of superhero.
She opened it.
You look lovely in that sweater. I remember how it felt under my hands. I remember how you shivered. I remember the sound you made when I lifted you.
I told Barrie you were ready before you even walked through the door. He didn't believe me. He does now.
You're going to post more. Not because they're asking. Because you want to. Because every time someone replies, you feel it here, don't you? Right between your legs. That hollow ache. That need.
I know what you want, Miss Farmer. I've known since the moment you walked into that room pretending to be someone else.
You want my gums. You want to feel what no one else has ever given you. And you will. But first, you have to earn it.
Show them the front. Show them everything.
She read the message twice. Three times. Her free hand had drifted to her stomach, fingers splayed over the ribbed knit like she was holding herself together.
The forum notifications kept coming.
CrimsonKnight: Are you still there? Don't go shy on us now.
Bench_warmer_69: I bet she's touching herself. Look at that photo again. That's the pose of a woman who's already wet.
Marcus_D: Let her take her time. Good things come to those who wait.
She closed the private message and returned to the main thread. Twenty more replies. Some crude. Some reverent. All hungry. She scrolled through them slowly, letting each word land somewhere deep in her chest, and felt the hollow ache Gerald had described spread through her like warmth from a fire.
She wasn't going to reply. Not yet. That was the game. The tease.
But she could give them something else.
She stood up from the bed and walked to the mirror again. The woman looking back at her was unrecognizable in the best possible way. Golden-brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright with something that looked almost like fear. The sweatervest was a second skin now, dark grey against her pale arms, the neckline stretched just enough to hint at the shadow between her breasts.
She raised her phone and angled it toward her reflection.
Click.
She checked the shot. It was good. The mirror caught her from the side, her body half-turned toward the camera, one hand resting on her hip. The sweater's hem rode up just enough to show the curve of her bare thigh. Her face was partially obscured by her hair—mysterious, anonymous, exactly the kind of tease that made men lean closer to their screens.
She didn't edit it. Didn't add a filter. Didn't second-guess. She just opened the forum, clicked into the thread, and attached the image.
Then she wrote three words.
Want to see more?
The response was instantaneous.
Bench_warmer_69: Yes. God yes. Show us everything.
Marcus_D: Take it off. Slowly. Give us a video.
CrimsonKnight: Don't you dare stop now.
Barrie_Gold: She's learning.
Her phone buzzed, and she knew it was Barrie before she even looked. She picked it up slowly, deliberately, drawing out the moment like she was unwrapping something fragile.
Keep going, Miss Farmer. Gerald doesn't give second chances.
She almost typed a reply. Almost asked what Gerald wanted from her. Almost admitted that she didn't know how far she was willing to go. But she didn't. Instead, she set the phone down and returned to the mirror.
This time, she dropped one strap of the sweatervest.
It slid down her shoulder, exposing the pale curve of her collarbone, the top of her breast hidden by just a hand's width of grey knit. She raised her phone again.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Three more photos. Each one a little bolder. Each one a little more honest. She uploaded them one by one, spacing them out so the men had time to beg between each image.
First photo: the dropped strap, a glimpse of what was underneath.
CrimsonKnight: More.
Second photo: the sweater pulled up to her waist, her bare stomach, the faint line of her hip bones leading down.
Bench_warmer_69: I'm losing my mind. Show us where Gerald touched you.
Third photo: her from behind, the sweater clinging to the curve of her arse, her face turned away from the camera.
Marcus_D: That's it. That's what we were waiting for.
Her phone now buzzed every few seconds. Text messages mixing with forum notifications. The phone's ever-dimming screen became a drumbeat. The men on the forum weren't just asking anymore. They were begging. Pleading. Promising things that made her ears burn and her fingers twitch on the keyboard.
CrimsonKnight: Let me fly you out. I want to be the first to see you in person. Not this group. Just me. Name your price.
Bench_warmer_69: Please. Just one more. I need to see your tits. I need to see what Gerald was holding.
Marcus_D: You're driving us all insane. You know that, right? You're doing this on purpose.
She was doing it on purpose. That was the point. Every photo was a calculated decision, every delay a deliberate tease. She wasn't just a lurker anymore. She wasn't just a ghost. She was the center of attention. The reason these men were still awake at midnight, typing with one hand and pulling themselves apart with the other.
And God, it felt good.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, still wearing the sweatervest, still flushed and buzzing and wet. Her fingers found her phone again—not to upload anything, not yet, just to hold. To feel the weight of it. To remind herself that all of this was real.
A new message from Barrie.
Gerald says you're ready. I agree.
He and I want to see you. Not the forum. Tomorrow night. My house. Wear the sweater.
She stared at the words. Tomorrow night. His house. The sweater. She should say no. She should run. She should log out of the forum, delete her account, take the sweatervest back to the store and forget any of this ever happened.
She didn't do any of those things.
She typed two words.
What time?
The reply came before she could second-guess herself.
10 PM. Don't be late. And Luisa? Bring the photos. We want to see the ones you didn't post.
She didn't ask which photos. She already knew. The private ones. The ones she'd taken and deleted. The ones where she'd been touching herself, thinking about Gerald's hands, about Barrie's voice, about the click of dentures and the promise of something she'd only ever imagined.
She'd saved them. Of course she'd saved them.
Now she had to show them.