Sneak Peek: Dressing for Darius

He's almost reached his contact, a man called Darius, but won't be allowed through until dressed 'properly'. An old friend, Dimitrios, might be able to help him, in this sneak peek from chapter 6-4. As always, sneak peeks are still at a draft stage and liable to changes and rewrites.

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            “You should hurry,” Dimitrios said.

            “Yeah, yeah.” I polished off my beer, put the bottle to one side. I started on my makeup. He watched in silence. I worked quickly and with confidence. Under his observant eye, I marvelled at my own skill. The boy he’d known knew nothing about priming and painting, curling and contouring. There was something more than curiosity in Dimitrios’s gaze, but it wasn’t lust. I must’ve been a puzzle for him, one he couldn’t solve.

            I played it up a bit, pushed out my chest. There was something very boudoir, French postcard sexy about the way I sat, sleek legs crossed at the knee under soft lights at the mirror. After all, there’s something inexplicably alluring about watching a woman put on makeup, the sweep of the brush, the pencil at the lips, the swipe of a wand. The ritual of beauty, narcissism directed outwards: not for me, these shiny lips and bold eyes, but for the male gaze. Self-care that drew attention to the self. If I’d learned anything these past few months, it was that femininity was a constant performance for both the audience within and waiting outside.

             “Like what you see?” I flashed a wide lipstick smile at him, dark red and shiny like plastic.

            He raised an eyebrow, and judging by the bulge in his trousers, the way he cleared his throat and crossed his legs, yeah, he liked. Maybe I’d misjudged him.

            “Adequate,” he said.

            “Gee, thanks.” I blew out my cheeks in mock annoyance. “I’d like to see you do better.” Then, smiling a little, I stood and bare-foot padded over to him. “Why don’t you come down here, see how you like it?” Uncapping a lip gloss, I wielded it like a weapon. “Bet you’d look great with a little shine to your lips.”

            He flinched back, then frowned. “Why did you throw the fight?” he asked.

            I held one finger to my lips in cute moue of confusion. “Did I?”

            “You told me to grab your hair.”

            “And you fucking smacked me into the wall, you jerk.” I jabbed the tip of the lip gloss wand at him. “Not cool.” Then I lathered on another layer, watching him all the while, and pursed my lips.

            He considered my words. “I tried to control the throw,” he said. “Perhaps I misjudged. I apologise.”

            “How gallant.”

            “Have you finished?”

            I clicked the lip gloss shut, tossed it to him. He caught it gingerly, held the tube as though he might catch something from it. “My face? Yeah, I think so.”

            He pointed to the empty beer bottle on the counter. “Another?”

            I drew an imaginary circle around my face with an index finger. “And ruin all this?”

            He shrugged.

            “Right. Let’s get this over with.” Taking a deep breath, I warily approached the clothes on display. The stockings were as delicate and fragile as a dream beneath my touch. My hand passed over the hanging shreds off lingerie. I grabbed two pieces at random and held them up. The first was a gorgeous bodysuit in red, boned and nipped in at the waist, tulle panels and soft mesh decorated with intricately swirls; the other, a jumble of black satin straps and gold-plated fastenings resolving into some kind of body harness.

            Fuck. I didn’t want to wear any of this shit. I imagined prancing past those guys waiting outside, and my throat tightened. I’d worn stuff like this before—for men, and felt their touch along cinched-in curves. But not like this.

            I took a deep breath, held both pieces up for Dimitrios and forced a sickly smile. “What do you think?”

            He considered both options entirely too seriously. He scratched at his nose, contemplated the harness, then the bodysuit, and then slowly shook his head. “No.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Like I need fashion advice from a guy who’s been wearing the same shirt for thirty years.”

            “I like this shirt.” He gently traced the lettering, finger resting against the jagged end of the trailing ‘m’. “They were epic. This shirt is a classic.”

            “Sure is, buddy.” I passed my touch across the dizzying array of fabrics and styles. “Tell you what. Let’s swap. I’ll wear the t-shirt, and you squeeze into this.” I tossed him the harness. He flinched even as he caught it, clutching it tightly. His cheeks reddened and for a moment, he appeared flustered. Judging by the swelling in his pants again, the thought of me in lingerie was getting him all excited.

            With some care, he lay the harness to one side. He stood, towering over me now. “Please,” he said. “Darius is waiting.”

            “Yeah, no shit.” My eyes danced across the far corners of the room, where I suspected hidden cameras observed our every move. I faced Dimitrius. “Tell me,” I said. “If you’d won that fight, what would you have done?”

            The question took him by surprise. He shrugged, slowly. “My men, they would have wanted you back in club. Gag you, leave you tied to a post, something like that.”

            “Yeah.” My voice was a whisper, a shudder passing through me. “That one kid, Jez? He would’ve liked that.” I shook my head to dispel the image. “And you? What would you have done?”

            “Bring you back here,” he said. “Dressed you for Darius.”

            I nodded. “Then let’s just say you won, okay?” Up close, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “You won, so pick what I wear for your fucking pervert of a boss.”

            “But I didn’t win.”

            “Yeah, but let’s pretend.” I smiled. “Or if that doesn’t work for you, imagine you’re me, okay?”
            He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”
            “Imagine,” I said, “You’re a sexy little firecracker of a girl, okay? Small and curvy with long blonde hair.” With one hand, I indicated the curves and hair in question. “You’ve got big boobs and a tight ass, but gosh, you’re just ever so confused as to what to wear. You’re—nervous, scared even; but you’ve got to do this thing, right, wear the right thing to impress some man even though inside, your guts are tied up in a knot and you want to throw up and it’s taking everything you’ve got to just not pack it all in and run away.”

            Sympathy shone in his eyes, but also excitement. “You might not like what I choose.”

            “That’s why you’ve got to imagine yourself in my place,” I said, and gentle pressed one finger into his chest. “Keep those naughty instincts in check. If you were me, you wouldn’t want to overly punish yourself, right?”

            “You’ll wear whatever I choose? Like a doll?”

            I nodded.

            “Why?”