Chapter 6: The Taste Test
The jet’s engines settled into a deep, resonant hum, a vibration that traveled up through the floor and into the bones. The seatbelt sign chimed off. The cabin felt like a sealed capsule hurtling through a void.
Bettina unclipped her belt with a definitive click. “I need to change the final outfit,” she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. “The portfolio case. The galley.”
It was an order, not a request. Bethany understood. They couldn’t just sit here marinating in dread. They had to do something. To move was to maintain the illusion.
“Of course,” Bethany said, closing her notebook. She followed Bettina toward the front of the cabin, past the sleeping Mariette, whose feigned rest was betrayed by the tense line of her jaw.
The galley was a closet of polished surfaces, all cool steel and muted LED lighting. Bettina unzipped the large black portfolio case on the counter, revealing a spread of latex garments folded with surgical precision. A deep cobalt blue dress, a harness of intricate straps, a pair of thigh-high boots the color of wet slate.
Bettina held up the boots, examining them under the light. “They need a final polish. The light at the facility is merciless. Every flaw shows.”
Bethany stood there, the secretary with her notebook, waiting for instruction. The jet hit a pocket of turbulence, a sudden jolt that made them both grab the counter. The boots slipped from Bettina’s hand, clattering to the floor between them.
For a suspended second, they just looked at them. Then Bettina’s gaze, cool and assessing, lifted to meet Bethany’s. The unspoken script of their new roles stretched between them, thin and tight.
“See to it,” Bettina said, her voice low.
The order hung in the recycled air. See to it. Bethany’s mind raced. A brush? A cloth? They had none. Their entire performance was about commitment, about authenticity within the artifice. A real secretary, in this world, would know what that meant. A real devotee would understand the ritual.
Her throat tightened. She glanced toward the cabin curtain, thinking of the crew just beyond. The performance had to be flawless, even in here. Especially in here.
Slowly, she knelt on the cool floor of the galley. The stiff latex of her skirt protested, digging into her thighs. She picked up one boot. The surface was flawless, but she understood the directive. It wasn’t about dirt. It was about submission to the narrative.
She brought the toe of the boot to her lips, her eyes locked on Bettina’s. Then she extended her tongue, laying it flat against the cool, slick surface. The taste was synthetic, slightly bitter. She moved her head, polishing the arch with slow, deliberate strokes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shame and a strange, defiant pride. She was doing this. She was surviving.
Bettina watched, her expression impassive, but a muscle feathered in her jaw. Her hands rested on the counter, gripping the edge.
Bethany switched to the other boot, her movements becoming more rhythmic, more assured. The absurdity of it was eclipsed by the intensity in Bettina’s eyes. This was a language. A terrible, intimate language they were both now fluent in.
The galley curtain swished aside.
Mariette stood there, holding a small porcelain plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. Her eyes took in the scene in one instantaneous, comprehensive snapshot: Bethany on her knees, the boot against her mouth, Bettina looming over her, the electric tension that had nothing to do with performance.
Mariette didn’t startle. She didn’t drop the plate. Her submissive mask didn’t even flicker. She simply stepped fully into the galley, letting the curtain fall closed behind her. She placed the plate of strawberries on the counter with a soft clink, right beside the open case of latex.
She then leaned in, her lips close to Bettina’s ear, her voice a whisper meant for all three of them. “The crew suspects nothing. They think you’re reviewing inventory.” A pause, her eyes darting to the curtain. “But the co-pilot. He’s made two unnecessary passes. He keeps staring at your collar, Mistress. The way it reflects the light. It’s not professional interest.”
The information landed, cold and precise. Their bubble of performed intensity was being observed, catalogued. By someone whose gaze might be more than just casual.
Bethany lowered the boot, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste of latex and polish lingered.
Bettina’s head turned slightly, her ear almost brushing Mariette’s lips. “Noted.” She straightened, her voice resuming its normal, commanding volume. “The polish is adequate. Thank you, Miss Lewis.”
Bethany rose, her knees aching. She placed the boots back in the case, her movements now those of a efficient assistant.
Mariette picked up a strawberry, holding it out to Bettina. “A refreshment, Mistress? The altitude can be dehydrating.”
It was a perfect piece of theater, a seamless integration of the moment into the maid’s duties. Bettina took the strawberry, biting into it. A dot of chocolate clung to her lower lip. She didn’t wipe it away.
“The final outfit,” Bettina said, chewing slowly. “The cobalt dress. I want to see it against the cabin light. Miss Lewis, hold it up.”
Bethany obeyed, shaking out the folds of the stunning, cobalt blue dress. It gleamed under the LEDs.
Mariette, meanwhile, picked up a small towel and began meticulously cleaning the counter where the portfolio had been, erasing any trace of their presence. Her movements were quiet, efficient.
Bettina studied the dress, then Bethany. “Your assessment?”
Bethany, still holding the vibrant blue latex, fell into the role. “It’s a strong contrast to the Governess red. It communicates a shift in modality. From authority to… allure. A calculated vulnerability.” She was paraphrasing terms from Mariette’s notes, from their late-night strategy session.
“Good,” Bettina said. “That’s the narrative. The Governess is the structure. This,” she gestured to the dress, “is the potential for fracture within the structure. The patron will be primed for the former. The latter will be the surprise.”
The intercom crackled. The pilot’s calm voice filled the galley. “Ms. Black, we’ll begin our initial descent into Zurich in approximately twenty minutes. The car to the facility will be waiting on the tarmac.”
“Thank you,” Bettina replied, her eyes still on the cobalt blue.
The curtain was pushed aside again, this time by the flight attendant. “Can I get you anything before we prepare for landing?”
She was young, trying hard to project neutral professionalism, but her eyes swept the galley—the stunning women, the glossy garments, the charged silence. She lingered on the chocolate stain on Bettina’s lip.
“We are quite finished here,” Bettina said, dismissing her with a tone that allowed no reply. The attendant vanished.
The moment she was gone, the performed unity among the three of them tightened. They were conspirators now.
“The co-pilot,” Mariette whispered again, folding her towel. “His name is Rossi. He flew for VexCorp twice last month, according to the manifest logs I reviewed while you were… occupied. He’s not just crew. He’s part of their ecosystem.”
A new layer of ice formed in the galley’s recycled air. Their audience was not passive. They were being evaluated from the moment they stepped onboard.
Bettina took a final strawberry, eating it whole. “Then we give him a perfect performance to report.” She looked at Bethany, then at Mariette. “From this moment, we do not break. Not for a second. You are my staff. I am your employer. Our relationship is transactional and hierarchical. Any… familiarity is a weapon they will use. Understood?”
They both nodded.
“Miss Donovan, pack this case. Miss Lewis, with me.”
Bettina swept back through the curtain into the main cabin. Bethany followed, the secretary once more, the taste of boot polish and stolen chocolate mixing unpleasantly in her mouth. She watched Bettina settle into her seat, the flawless mask back in place, and saw the tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she reached for her seatbelt.
The jet tipped downward. The Alps rose to meet them, a jagged wall of white and black in the gathering dawn. The capsule was about to be opened. The narrative, with all its watchful eyes and hidden traps, was waiting.
The jet’s descent pressed them into their seats. Zurich spread out below like a circuit board in the grim morning light. Bethany focused on the rhythmic click of her pen, a tiny rebellion against the swelling pressure in her ears and in her chest.
She was acutely aware of every seam of her clothing. The burgundy latex blouse felt less like a costume now and more like a second, tighter skin. It wasn't unpleasant. The constant, gentle embrace was a bizarre anchor. Her thoughts returned to the galley floor, to the taste of polish and the demanding gleam in Bettina’s eyes. A flush of heat, unwanted and confusing, had spread through her then, and a phantom echo of it lingered now.
She shifted in her seat, the movement making the material whisper. The sleek pencil skirt, the blouse, even the stockings—they were creating a sustained, low-grade friction that her body was starting to translate. It was a biological betrayal. This was the armor, the disguise. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
As the wheels touched down with a shriek of rubber, Bettina unbuckled and stood. “A moment,” she said to Bethany, not looking at her, and moved toward the aircraft’s small, enclosed lavatory.
Bethany followed after a beat, her secretary’s instinct overriding her chaos. She needed a debrief. She needed to understand the plan for the car. She needed, desperately, to not be alone with the co-pilot’s evaluating stare or Mariette’s knowing silence.
She tapped on the door and slipped inside without waiting for an answer. The space was a closet, all polished surfaces and the faint, almond-scent of soap. Bettina was leaning over the small sink, her black-clad back to the door, her head bowed.
“We need to coordinate for the car,” Bethany began, her voice hushed.
“I know.” Bettina didn’t turn. Her shoulders were rigid. “Just give me a second. This fucking suit. It’s like being in a heated vise.”
But it wasn’t the suit. Bethany could see it. It was the totality of it. The performance, the fear, the memory of Mark’s life shrinking in the rearview. The imminent walk into the crucible. Bethany reached out, her hand hovering over the slick curve of Bettina’s shoulder, then let it fall. Contact felt dangerous here, where anyone could hear.
“It’s the waiting that’s worst,” Bethany whispered, leaning back against the door. The cool metal seeped through her blouse. “My heart hasn’t stopped racing since we took off. And this… this outfit.” She glanced down at herself, a wry, helpless twist to her mouth. “I think I’m starting to understand the spell. Not the witchcraft. The latex.”
Bettina finally turned, her face pale under the harsh lavatory lights. She looked exhausted, human. “What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t let you forget you have a body,” Bethany said, the words tumbling out in a low rush. “Even when you want to. It’s always there, reminding you. Squeezing. Shining. Every move has a sound, a feeling.” She swallowed. “In the galley… I wasn’t just acting. There was a… current. And now, sitting there, I just…” She trailed off, embarrassed.
“You get used to the physiological feedback loop,” Bettina said quietly, her voice devoid of its usual performative edge. This was Mark’s voice, tired and analytical. “The material traps heat. Restricts blood flow in certain ways. It creates a heightened sensory state. It’s designed to.”
“It’s more than that,” Bethany insisted, her cheeks burning. She leaned closer, her whisper barely audible over the drone of the plane’s systems. “I’m drenched. Under these panties. It’s a swamp. I feel like I’m buzzing inside this stupid, slick shell.” She met Bettina’s gaze, desperate for an answer that wasn’t in Mariette’s clinical notes. “How do you get relief when it peaks? When you’re locked in it and you can’t just… stop?”
Bettina stared at her, a complex storm of recognition and sorrow in her eyes. She understood the literal question and the deeper, terrified one beneath it: Am I becoming something else?
“You don’t get relief,” Bettina whispered back, the truth stark and brutal. “Not if you’re working. You transform it. You take that raw, screaming signal and you channel it into your performance. You let it sharpen your gaze, you let it fuel your endurance. You make it part of the character’s power.” She looked away, at her own reflection in the metal wall. “Or you ignore it until it becomes a dull, background ache. A debt you’ll pay later, alone, when the costume comes off and you’re just a person again, shaking in the shower.”
It was the most honest thing she’d said since the curse. It offered no comfort, only a grim roadmap. Bethany’s arousal, her fear, her confusion—they weren’t liabilities to be shed. They were just more materials for the Governess to use. Or to bury.
A sharp rap on the door made them both jump. “Ms. Black?” It was the attendant’s voice, politely impatient. “The ground crew is ready.”
“Coming,” Bettina called, her voice snapping back into its polished, metallic register. She straightened, and the mask settled over her features once more, seamless and hard. The moment of vulnerability was sealed away, a secret in the tiny, scented room.
She looked at Bethany, a final, silent instruction passing between them. Transform it. Or ignore it.
Bethany nodded, adjusting her glasses, the efficient secretary once more. She opened the door, letting Bettina sweep past her into the cabin, a queen returning to her court. Bethany followed, her body still humming, her mind clinging to the bleak choice she’d been given.
The plane door hissed open, unleashing a blast of cold, thin Alpine air. At the bottom of the stairs, a long, black vehicle waited, its windows opaque. Standing beside it was a man in a severe, charcoal uniform. He wasn’t a driver. He was a sentry.
He gave a slight, formal bow as Bettina descended. “Ms. Black. Welcome to Zurich. I am Klaus, your liaison to the VexCorp Alpine Retreat. All your needs will be facilitated through me.” His eyes, pale and assessing, flickered over Bethany and Mariette with impersonal scrutiny. “Your staff will be housed in the adjacent annex. You will proceed directly to Orientation.”
There were no greetings for them. They were furniture. Klaus opened the car door for Bettina, who slid inside without a backward glance, disappearing into the dark interior.
He then gestured to a second, smaller sedan that had pulled up silently behind the first. “For the assistants,” he stated.
The separation was immediate, absolute, and exactly as Mariette had predicted. Bethany shared one last look with Mariette, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The walls are up.
Bethany climbed into the sedan, the leather seat cold through her skirt. As her door thunked shut, she saw Klaus lean into the window of Bettina’s car, his words lost to the wind. Bettina listened, then gave a single, curt nod.
Klaus straightened, tapped the roof of the car twice, and it pulled away, carrying Bettina toward her fate alone.
Their sedan followed, a respectful distance behind, trailing the sleek black vehicle as it turned onto a winding mountain road that led away from the city, and up into the shrouded, waiting peaks.
Their sedan followed, a respectful distance behind, trailing the sleek black vehicle as it turned onto a winding mountain road that led away from the city, and up into the shrouded, waiting peaks. The asphalt ribbon curled around sheer rock faces, guardrails the only concession to safety. Bethany watched the world shrink in the side mirror, the last hints of Zurich swallowed by mist and pine.
“He didn’t ask for our passports,” Mariette said quietly, her gaze fixed on the car ahead. “Klaus. He already had them. They were prepared for our exact number.”
“Of course they were,” Bethany replied, her voice flat. The hum of the car’s engine was a low, persistent drone. “They’ve probably prepared for everything. Our sizes. Our dietary restrictions. The brand of polish I used on that damn boot.” She touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, the ghost of the taste still there.
Mariette didn’t answer. She just watched the trees get darker, the gaps between them deeper. The climb went on for nearly an hour, the air thinning, the light adopting a cold, blue-grey quality. Then, the lead car signaled and turned onto an unmarked gravel track that tunneled through an arch of ancient, interlocked fir trees. The sedan jolted on the uneven surface.
They emerged into a clearing that stole Bethany’s breath. It wasn’t a modern facility. It was a castle, a severe, Gothic Revival structure of dark stone that seemed to grow from the mountain’s very spine. Turrets clawed at the low clouds. Narrow windows glared like slitted eyes. A single, iron-banded gate stood open, a mouth.
Bettina’s limousine rolled to a stop on the crushed stone forecourt. Their sedan halted a few paces back. The event began not with a greeting, but with a silence. The massive doors of the keep remained shut. Klaus exited the driver’s seat and opened Bettina’s door. She emerged.
The movement was flawless, a slow uncoiling of black latex and cool authority into the sharp mountain air. She stood, smoothed a hand that didn’t tremble down her thigh, and surveyed the fortress. Her expression was one of mild, critical appraisal, as if assessing a slightly sub-par hotel. Bethany and Mariette scrambled out, falling into step behind her as rehearsed, the secretary and the maid.
As they did, the great doors swung inward without a sound. A man stepped out. He was perhaps fifty, dressed not in a uniform but in an impeccably tailored suit of charcoal wool. His hair was silver, swept back, and his face was a study in pleasant, empty calm. “Bettina Black,” he said, his voice warm, resonant, and utterly measured. “A profound welcome. I am Alistair Vex.”
“Mr. Vex,” Bettina replied, offering a gloved hand which he took, not shaking it, but simply enclosing it for a moment. “Your venue is… formidable.”
“It serves its purpose. To remove the participant from the world of consequence.” His pale eyes slid past her, taking in Bethany and Mariette. They held no curiosity, only a cataloguing efficiency. “And your companions?”
“My personal secretary, Miss Lewis. And my attendant, Miss Donovan.” Bettina’s introductions were clipped, dismissive. “They will see to my needs and document the proceedings, as per clause 7.2 of our agreement.”
Vex’s smile didn’t change. “Naturally. All is prepared. Klaus will show your staff to their quarters in the east annex. You, my dear, will be in the primary residence. We find separation… focuses the mind.”
He turned, gesturing for them to enter. The entrance hall was a cavern of stone, lit by flickering LED sconces designed to mimic torchlight. It was cold. Their footsteps echoed. Klaus materialized and gestured for Bethany and Mariette to follow him down a side corridor, while Vex led Bettina up a grand, stone staircase.
“This way,” Klaus said. The annex was through a heavy, iron-strapped door and across a narrow, enclosed stone bridge that overlooked a dizzying chasm. The rooms were small, cell-like, though expensively appointed. Each contained a narrow bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Bethany’s had a single window looking back at the brooding main castle. Mariette’s was next door.
“Cocktails will be served in the main hall at 6:30,” Klaus stated, lingering in Bethany’s doorway. “The Governess will be presented to the patron at that time. Your attendance is required as documentation. Dress is… consistent.” His eyes swept her burgundy blouse and skirt. “You are to observe. You do not interact unless directly addressed by Ms. Black or myself. Understood?”
“Understood,” Bethany said, her throat tight.
He left, closing the door with a soft, definitive click. For a full minute, neither woman moved. Then, Bethany’s door opened slowly. Mariette slipped in, closing it behind her. Her maid’s uniform seemed absurd in the grim, monastic room.
“The walls are a foot thick,” Mariette whispered, her academic tone returning. “There are no visible cameras in here, but the bridge we crossed is undoubtedly monitored. This room is a panopticon. We can assume we are heard.”
Bethany nodded, walking to the window. She could see the light in a towering, third-floor window of the main keep. Bettina’s room. “So we talk about the weather.”
“We discuss our roles,” Mariette corrected, her voice lifting to a normal, conversational pitch. “As staff. The polish on the boots was acceptable, Miss Lewis. But the Governess’s primary suit will require a final inspection before presentation. The environment is drier than anticipated. The latex may react.”
Bethany played along, her heart hammering. “I have the conditioner in my case. I’ll attend to it before cocktails.” She turned from the window, her casual tone belying the fear in her eyes. “What did you see? In the main hall?”
Mariette sat primly on the edge of the hard bed. “The stone is native gneiss. The floor is heated, subtly. A luxury that contradicts the austerity. It’s a designed contradiction.” She paused, her voice dropping just a fraction. “Vex. Did you see his hands?”
“No.”
“Not a single callus. Or mark. They were smooth. Like a surgeon’s, or a pianist’s. But his grip, when he took her hand… I saw the tendons flex. There is significant strength there, meticulously controlled.” She met Bethany’s gaze. “He is the most dangerous person I have ever seen. Because he does not need to prove it.”
The information settled like a stone in Bethany’s gut. She thought of the co-pilot, Rossi. Another link in the chain. This was an ecosystem, and they were now deep inside it. “What do we do at cocktails?”
“We document. We watch everything. How Bettina moves. How Vex watches her. Who the patron is. We look for the cracks in their stage.” Mariette stood, straightening her skirt. “And we remember our training. We are not people here. We are functions. Functions are harder to break.”
She moved to the door, then stopped. Her hand on the iron latch, she spoke without turning, her voice so low it was almost inaudible. “The buzzing you felt. In the car. On the plane. Transform it. Now. It is the only fuel we have.”
Mariette left. Bethany was alone in the cold room, the taste of boot polish and chocolate and fear a permanent coating in her mouth. She looked at her open suitcase, at the bottle of latex conditioner beside her folded clothes. Her fingers, trembling, went to the buttons of her burgundy blouse. She had to change. She had to prepare. She had to become the function.
Outside, the alpine wind moaned against the ancient stone, a sound like something lost and trying to get in.