Chapter 3: The Exhibitionist's Dilemma
The world had narrowed to a single, vibrating point. The convention hall’s roar—the deals, the laughter, the thumping bass—was a distant ocean. All that existed was the brutal, buzzing roar between her legs, set by the stranger with the sharp glasses. Her thighs shook with the effort to stand straight. The satin of the leotard was soaked, a dark, shameful patch spreading from her core.
The guy just stared, his mouth still slightly open. He didn’t move to buy a card. He didn’t leave. He was a statue of shocked lust, rooted to the spot by the spectacle of her unraveling.
“Hey, you okay?” Joseph’s voice cut through the fog. He was looking at her, his brow furrowed. “You’re all flushed.”
Julie forced a nod, the trading card still clamped between her teeth. She couldn’t speak. The vibration was a living thing, a trapped hornet’s nest angry and desperate to escape. She felt another spasm ripple through her abdomen, a prelude to an orgasm she couldn’t afford to have here, now. She bit down harder on the card, the plastic edges digging into her gums.
Joseph’s concern deepened. He reached out, his hand warm on her bare arm above her glove. “Seriously, Jules. You’re trembling. Do you need to sit down?”
Panic shot through the pleasure. If he made her sit, if he took her behind the curtain they’d set up for breaks, he might see. He might hear the faint, electric hum. He might feel the heat radiating through the satin.
She shook her head violently, a jerky, frantic motion. Her eyes, wide and pleading, found Anya across the aisle. Anya lowered the camera. She gave a slow, deliberate shake of her head. No.
Then, Anya’s thumb moved on her own remote, unseen in her pocket.
The vibration inside Julie ceased.
The sudden, shocking absence was almost as violent as the stimulation. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the edge of the display case, her fingers scrabbling on the glass. A choked gasp escaped her, the card falling from her slack lips to clatter on the floor.
“Whoa!” Joseph caught her, his arms firm around her corseted waist. “Okay, that’s it. You’re overheating or something. Too tight.” His fingers fumbled with the top hook of her corset, seeking to loosen it.
“No!” The word was a raw croak. Julie pushed his hands away, a strength born of sheer terror fueling her. “I’m… I’m fine. Just… a dizzy spell. Need air.” She straightened up, the absence of the buzz leaving her hollow, aching, desperately empty. She avoided his eyes, looking instead at the stranger, who had finally snapped out of his trance and was melting back into the crowd, a guilty, thrilled look on his face.
“I’ll walk with you,” Joseph said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Manage the booth,” Julie insisted, her voice finding a shaky steadiness. “It’s the midday rush. I just need five minutes. By the water fountains.” She pointed a trembling, gloved hand toward the quieter corridor at the hall’s edge.
He hesitated, conflict written on his face. The flow of customers was picking up. A group of three was hovering by the rare binders. “Five minutes,” he relented. “Then I’m coming to find you.”
Julie nodded, not trusting herself to speak again. She stepped out from behind the counter, the fluffy tail bouncing with each step. She felt a hundred eyes on the soaked patch between her legs, a phantom spotlight. She walked, back straight, a beautiful, broken doll on parade, toward the hallway.
As soon as she rounded the corner, the relative quiet was a physical relief. The cacophony muted to a dull throb. She leaned against a cool concrete pillar, her head swimming. Her hand drifted to her inner thigh, her fingers pressing against the control box through the damp satin. She could turn it back on. She could finish what the stranger had started.
A hand closed over hers, stopping her.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Anya murmured, stepping out from a service alcove. She was there, smelling of ozone and perfume. “That’s my job now.”
Julie whimpered, her body sagging against Anya’s. “It’s too much. He almost…”
“He almost nothing,” Anya said, her voice a blade. “He saw a delicate girl overcome by the heat. He’s worried about his girlfriend. He’s not thinking about the buzzing cunt two feet away from him.” Her free hand slid between Julie’s legs, cupping her firmly over the soaked satin. “Christ, you’re dripping. It’s running down your thighs.”
The touch, even through the fabric, was electric. Julie moaned, her head falling back against the pillar.
“You want to come, don’t you?” Anya whispered, her lips against Julie’s ear. “You’re aching for it. Your little pussy is clenching around that cheap piece of silicone, begging for a finish.”
“Yes,” Julie breathed, the word a surrender.
“Then earn it.” Anya pulled back, her eyes gleaming. “Go back out there. Smile for your boyfriend. Sell his fucking cards. And for every five packs you sell, I’ll give you one minute. One minute of the highest setting. You can run to the bathroom and deal with it then. But you have to look him in the eye while you’re doing it.”
It was a cruel, perfect calculus. The humiliation was the price. The performance was the payment.
Julie walked back to the booth on unsteady legs. Joseph looked up, relief washing over his face. “Better?”
“Better,” she lied, her smile plastic and brilliant. She took her place at the front of the booth, a perfect porcelain bunny. The desperate emptiness inside her was now a focused need. A transaction.
The next hour was a blur of quiet agony and heightened sensation. She turned her customer service up to a blinding pitch. She was demure, she was helpful, she made shy eye contact and laughed softly at bad jokes. She sold. A booster box to a collector. Three packs to a teenager. A stack of singles to a reseller.
Each time a sale was completed, she would catch Anya’s eye across the aisle. Anya, sometimes taking photos, sometimes just leaning against a wall, watching. And after the fifth pack sold, Anya would give the faintest nod.
Julie would murmur an excuse to Joseph—“Restroom, just one minute!”—and she would walk, not run, through the crowd toward the bathrooms.
The women’s restroom was a haven of stale perfume and echoing chatter. She never made it to a stall. Anya would be there, leaning against the sinks, having slipped in a side door. She’d grab Julie by the corset laces and pull her into the large, accessible handicap stall, locking the door behind them.
The first time, Anya didn’t even bother with the remote. She pushed Julie against the cold metal partition, hiked up the bunny leotard, and shoved her own hand down the front of Julie’s stockings. Her fingers, blunt and demanding, found Julie’s swollen clit.
“Count it down,” Anya ordered, her other hand clamped over Julie’s mouth.
Julie’s eyes rolled back. Anya’s fingers worked her in hard, rough circles, the stimulation direct and brutal after the deep internal buzz. Julie came in less than thirty seconds, a silent, shuddering explosion against Anya’s palm, her knees giving way. Anya held her up, extracting her glistening fingers and shoving them into Julie’s mouth. “Clean up. You have a booth to run.”
The second time, after ten more packs sold, Anya used the remote. She turned it to its peak setting the moment the stall door locked and made Julie kneel on the filthy floor. “Hands on the wall. Don’t make a sound.” The vibration was monstrous, a jackhammer against her G-spot. Julie bit her own forearm to keep from screaming, her body convulsing in dry, agonizing waves until, mercifully, Anya switched it off and left her panting and weeping on the cold tiles.
The third time was after the final sale of the hour. Julie was a wreck. Her makeup was smudged, her eyes glassy. Joseph kept asking if she was sure she was okay. She just nodded, her voice gone.
This time, in the stall, Anya was different. Quieter. She looked at Julie’s shattered expression, the sweat beading on her cleavage, the shaky way she held herself.
“Turn around,” Anya said, her voice softer.
Julie obeyed, facing the stained metal wall. She felt Anya’s hands on the laces of her corset, not yanking, but carefully unthreading them. The pressure released. Julie took a full, deep breath for the first time in hours. Then Anya’s hands were on her hips, pulling the soaked leotard and the stockings down to her knees.
“Bend over,” Anya whispered.
Julie bent, bracing herself against the wall. She expected fingers, the remote, more pain. Instead, she felt Anya’s mouth.
Anya’s tongue was hot and flat against her overheated flesh, licking a broad, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clit. Julie cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed in the tiled room. Anya didn’t shush her. She ate her out with a focused, relentless intensity, her tongue spearing inside her, then swirling around her clit, her lips sucking, her nose pressed against Julie’s ass.
It was not gentle. It was raw, wet, and obscene. Anya growled into her, the vibrations mingling with the skill of her tongue. Julie’s orgasm built not in a sharp peak, but in a deep, rolling wave that started in her toes and crashed through her entire body. She came with a guttural sob, her juices flowing into Anya’s hungry mouth, her fingers scratching against the metal wall.
Anya kept going, lapping at her, drawing out the shudders until Julie was limp, held up only by Anya’s hands on her hips.
Finally, Anya pulled back. Julie heard her spit into the toilet. Then gentle hands pulled her leotard back up, retied her corset with a surprising tenderness.
“Here,” Anya said, offering a wet paper towel. Julie cleaned her face, her hands trembling.
Anya looked at her, really looked at her. “You’re a fucking natural,” she said, and there was something like respect in her tone. “Now go back out there. The day’s almost done. Look at your boyfriend and know what he doesn’t know. That you’re mine.”
Julie returned to the booth. The convention hall was winding down, the crowds thinning. Joseph was counting cash, his face tired but satisfied. “There you are. Feeling better?”
She looked at him, his kind, oblivious face. She felt the slickness between her legs, the ache of her well-used body, the memory of Anya’s tongue and the strangers’ knowing eyes. She felt the stolen “Plains” card, still tucked in her corset.
She leaned over the display case, her corset straining, and kissed him. It was a deep, passionate kiss, fueled by a twisted cocktail of guilt, triumph, and secret power. He tasted of soda and chapstick. She tasted of herself and Anya.
He pulled back, surprised, then grinned. “Wow. Okay. I guess you are feeling better.”
“I am,” Julie said, her voice clear and calm for the first time all day. She looked past his shoulder, to where Anya was now packing up her camera bag. Anya caught her eye and winked.
As Joseph began to break down the booth, chatting about the day’s profits, Julie smoothed her bunny tail. She picked up a stray card from the counter—a common, worthless thing. She held it between her fingers, feeling its texture. Then, slowly, deliberately, she brought it to her lips and slid the corner into her mouth, letting it rest there on her tongue.
She didn’t look for a reaction. She simply stood, a perfect, corrupted icon in the dying neon light, and waited for the night to begin.