Chapter 9: Feminine haul
The phone camera blinked to life, bathing Lena in its artificial glow as she perched on the edge of her bed, legs crossed just enough to tease. “Okay, babes, you *have* to see these new fits,” she purred, rolling her shoulders back until the straps of her bra dug into her skin. Her fingers—nails freshly dipped in bubblegum pink—traced the hem of her oversized shirt, dragging it up slowly as the comments flooded in. “First look,” she announced, pulling the shirt overhead in one fluid motion, her pink lace push-up bra straining against her chest. The fabric smelled like vanilla body mist and something sharper, something anxious.
She turned, angling her hips toward the camera, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her sweatpants. “And these?” she giggled, shimmying them down her thighs, “*So* last month.” The thong beneath was barely there, a scrap of lace cutting into her hips, the waistband branded with tiny golden letters: *Daddy’s Girl*. She stepped out of the pants with a twirl, her bare feet sinking into the dorm carpet.
The next outfit was already laid out—neon yellow shorts, cropped so high they might as well have been underwear. She held them up, biting her lip. “Y’all are gonna *die*,” she cooed, stepping into them with exaggerated care. The material clung, riding up as she bent to adjust the seams, knowing full well she wasn’t fixing anything.
A comment popped up: *You’d look better on your knees.* Lena’s pulse jumped, but she grinned, tossing her extensions over one shoulder. “Rude,” she teased, but her voice was breathy, pleased. She reached for the next top—a mesh bralette, sheer enough to erase any mystery.
She reached for the mesh bralette, its fabric so thin it felt like holding a ghost. "This one is literally nothing," she laughed, the sound tight in her throat. Her eyes flicked to the comments racing up her screen, a blur of eggplant emojis and demands for her to turn around.
A familiar heat crept up her neck, the same flush she got when compiling code under a deadline. "Okay, you animals, give me a sec," she murmured, more to herself than to them. She pivoted slowly on the ball of her foot, turning her back to the phone's unblinking eye.
The clasp of her bra was cool against her sweating fingers. She unhooked it with a practiced snap, the straps sliding down her shoulders. The air in the room felt suddenly sharp against her bare skin, raising goosebumps.
She let the bra fall to the floor, not looking at where it landed. Reaching for the bralette, her hands trembled slightly. She pulled the sheer fabric over her head, the mesh catching on her extensions.
It settled against her skin, a whisper of coverage that changed nothing. She adjusted the straps, her movements quick and efficient. "See? All decent," she said, her voice a little too bright.
This was control, she told herself, not shame. She was choosing what to show. A comment flashed: Boring! Show us the goods! Her stomach twisted, but she ignored it.
She took a steadying breath, the bralette’s lace scratching at her ribs. Then she turned back to face the lens, a performance-ready smile plastered on her face. "So, what do we think?"
The comments exploded in a frenzy of flame emojis and demands for more. "You're killing me, Lena!" scrolled past, followed by, "That's not an outfit, it's a suggestion." Lena laughed, a sound that felt thin and stretched. "Okay, okay, calm down, you animals," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But wait until you see the next one."
She reached for a tiny black bandage dress draped over her desk chair, the fabric slick and unforgiving. Holding it up, she let the camera absorb its severe lines. "This is for a... special occasion," she hinted, winking at the lens. Her fingers found the side zipper, pulling it down with a slow, metallic rasp.
Turning her back to the phone, she began the meticulous process of wiggling out of the neon shorts. The lace of her thong peered over the waistband, a deliberate preview. She stepped out of the shorts, standing for a moment in just the bra and thong, the cool dorm air raising goosebumps on her thighs.
She slid the dress over her head, the tight material clinging to every curve. Struggling to zip it up, she arched her back, the strain visible in her reflected expression. "A little help?" she joked to the audience, knowing full well they were powerless. The dress sealed her in, a second skin of black latex-like fabric.
She faced the camera again, striking a pose with one hand on her hip. "See? Totally worth the struggle," she breathed, his vision shifting slightly. A sudden, sharp ping from her laptop—a notification from her coding IDE—made her flinch. She ignored it, forcing her smile wider.
She peeled off the black dress, her skin slick with a fine sweat. “Okay, time for some fun,” she announced, her voice artificially bright as she reached for a plastic-wrapped bundle. The costume rustled as she tore it open, revealing a cheap blue fabric with silver badges.
“Who’s been a naughty boy?” she giggled into the camera, slipping the short police dress over her head. The material scratched against her arms, smelling faintly of synthetic polyester and someone else’s perfume. She adjusted the matching cap, tilting it at a jaunty angle.
Next came the Supergirl outfit, all crimson and blue with a cape that felt like a shower curtain. “Faster than a speeding bullet,” she whispered, striking a pose with her hands on her hips. The bodice dug into her ribs, a constricting reminder of the character’s strength she no longer felt.
She shimmied out of it, letting the cape pool on the floor like discarded hope. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the Victoria’s Secret angel wings, their white feathers fluttering with each movement. “Every girl’s fantasy, right?” she murmured, securing the harness.
The wings were heavier than they looked, pulling at her shoulders as she turned for the camera. She forced a sultry look, blowing a kiss to the scrolling comments. “Heaven sent, I know,” she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Finally, she held up the slutty school outfit—a plaid mini-skirt and a tight white shirt. “This one’s for all you professors out there,” she joked, her voice hollow. She stepped into the skirt, the zipper catching on the lace of her thong.
As she buttoned the shirt, leaving the top few open, her gaze flicked to her coding textbook gathering dust on the shelf. A sharp, acidic taste filled her mouth. She looked back at the camera, her reflection a stranger in a costume she never thought she’d wear.
She forced a giggle, adjusting the slutty schoolgirl tie. “Okay, maybe I should’ve spent this much time on my Data Structures final,” she quipped, her voice slick with false brightness. A comment flashed: U failing that too?
The words hit like a physical slap, sharp and precise. “Let’s be real, that class was for losers anyway,” she said, the declaration feeling like a betrayal in her mouth. She tugged the skirt lower, a useless gesture. “All that coding… for what?” Her laugh was a brittle thing, threatening to shatter. “I’d rather be here with you guys.”
She tapped the screen, her glittery nail clicking over the harsh words. “Like, my brain is just too big for boring professor lectures, you know?” The lie was a familiar armor, but it chafed. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest where her pride used to live. She shook her head, the motion making the cheap wig slip. “This is way more valuable than some stupid algorithm.”
The comments scrolled faster, a waterfall of pleading and demands. “Do the ahegao face!” “On your knees, please!” “Tongue out and peace signs!” Lena’s smile tightened, her fingers pausing over the screen. She glanced at her reflection, the schoolgirl outfit suddenly feeling like a cheap costume. “You guys are so wild,” she laughed, but the sound was thin, strained. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the hum of her laptop. She could still close the stream, could still log off and be the girl who aced algorithms. But the viewer count was climbing, a number that felt more real than her own breath. “Okay, fine, you win,” she sighed, the words tasting like surrender. She dropped to her knees on the rough dorm carpet, the impact jarring her bones. Crossing her eyes, she stuck her tongue out, the pose exaggerated and alien. Her hands flashed peace signs beside her head, fingers trembling slightly. The comments exploded in a frenzy of approval, a digital roar that filled the silent room. She held the expression, her face muscles aching from the unnatural strain. For a moment, she saw herself from the outside: a parody of desire, stripped down to lace and performance. Then she broke character, slumping back onto her heels. The screen was a blur of hearts and fire emojis, each one a tiny hook in her skin. She took a shaky breath, the air cool on her exposed thighs. “Happy now?” she whispered, but the question was for herself.
The carpet’s rough texture pressed a grid of indentations into her knees. She reached for the phone, her arm moving through the charged silence left by the ended stream. “You guys are the absolute best,” she cooed, the words a well-rehearsed script. She brought two fingers to her glossy lips, pausing for a beat to ensure the camera caught the gesture. Then she blew the kiss directly into the lens, a perfect, empty offering. The screen went black, severing the connection instantly.
The sudden quiet in the dorm room was a physical weight. She lowered the phone, its case slick in her damp palm. Her own rapid breathing was the only sound, harsh in the stillness. The vanilla and sweat scent of her performance clung to the air. She stared at her reflection in the dark screen, a smudged ghost in a schoolgirl’s costume.
A single notification glowed from her laptop—a reminder for the Algorithmic Logic midterm she had skipped to prepare for the stream. She swiped it away without reading.