Chapter 10

The dress was two sizes too small, Harrington had insisted, and the zipper bit into Kylie’s skin every time she breathed. She stood pigeon-toed in heels in the empty biology lab, the sequined fabric straining over her hips while he circled her like a curator inspecting a prize exhibit. “Tilt your chin up,” he murmured, flicking the plunging neckline lower with one finger until the edge of her areolas were barely covered. The air-conditioning raised goosebumps along her exposed thighs where the hem barely covered her crotch. Harrington’s thumb traced the waistband of the lace thong he’d chosen—no lines, Princess—before stepping back to admire his handiwork under the lights. “Perfect,” he said, snapping a photo with his phone. “Now remember: every time anyone looks at you tonight, you arch that pretty back just like we practiced.” “It’s time to celebrate your victory in style,” he murmured.

The fancy restaurant’s dim lighting did nothing to hide her. Harrington had chosen a booth near the bar—strategic, she realized—where the angle forced her into view of the rest of the room. She had to cross and uncross her legs constantly to keep the microscopic skirt from riding up further. Every shift drew eyes; every sip of her chilly martini (ordered for her, “virgin, with three olives, extra ice”) made her nipples harden visibly beneath the fabric. “Table nine’s been staring at your tits since we sat down,” Harrington murmured, cutting into his steak with agonizing precision. He didn’t look up as he spoke, just nudged her knee with his until she turned slightly, letting the bar lights illuminate the sheer side panels of her dress. “Now unbutton the top clasp. Better.” Kylie’s fingers trembled on the sequined closure, but the gasp from a passing waiter confirmed Harrington’s grin before she even finished. Kylie barely touched the chicken and salad he’d ordered for her.

Dessert arrived with a side of humiliation, Harrington ordered chocolate-dipped strawberries, then fed them to her slowly while narrating the reactions of nearby diners. “That businessman by the wine rack? He just adjusted his pants,” he whispered, dragging a berry across her lower lip before pushing it past her teeth. The syrup dripped down her chin; Harrington caught it with his thumb and smeared it along her collarbone for the room to see. Kylie’s thighs stuck to the vinyl booth with every squirm; the fabric now damp for entirely different reasons. When the waiter returned with the check, Harrington made her lean forward—elbows on the table, cleavage practically spilling onto the breadbasket, to sign the receipt. His pen tapped the Tip line meaningfully. “Add a zero,” he told her.

The waiter, maybe nineteen, with acne and nervous hands, froze when Harrington motioned him toward the emergency exit alcove. Kylie’s pulse hammered in her throat as Harrington murmured something that made the kid’s ears turn scarlet. “Go on,” Harrington urged, nudging her forward until her sequined chest nearly brushed the waiter’s vest. The boy smelled like dish soap and fryer grease; Kylie focused on a loose thread near his collar as she forced the words out. “C-can I...” Her whisper dissolved into nothing as her cheeks flushed. Harrington sighed dramatically and translated: “She wants to tip you in trade.” The waiter blinked. Kylie watched realization dawn in slow motion, his Adam’s apple bobbed, his gaze darting to the kitchen door, before he nodded once, sharply.

Harrington held the fire door ajar for ventilation as Kylie sank to her knees on the concrete, the sequin dress riding up to expose her bare ass cheeks to the alley’s security camera. The waiter’s belt buckle clinked; his zipper sounded louder than the dumpster rats scuttling nearby. Kylie hesitated, then parted her lips obediently when Harrington cleared his throat. The boy’s cock hit the back of her throat before she was ready, his hips jerking forward with inexperienced urgency. She gagged silently, tears pricking her eyes as he fisted her hair like he’d seen in porn. Harrington watched with folded arms. The kid lasted ninety seconds. “Thank you,” Kylie murmurs as she cleans her lips.

Back in the booth, Harrington wiped Kylie’s smeared lipstick with his napkin while the waiter stumbled off to the men’s room. “Good girl,” he praised, tucking a twenty beneath his plate. The martini’s chill burned her raw throat, even without the alcohol. Across the room, the businessman signaled for another drink, his eyes never leaving Kylie’s trembling fingers as they brushed strawberry glaze from her cleavage. Harrington followed her gaze and smiled. “See? Everyone wants a taste.”

Parking was worse. Harrington positioned her under a streetlamp while he fetched the car, the yellow light catching every sequin and every inch of exposed skin. A group of men smoking by the entrance made lewd gestures; one whistled. Kylie stared at her reflection in the dark window of the restaurant, cheeks flushed, dress askew, mouth still sticky-sweet from dessert. The taste of the waiter mingled with chocolate in her mouth.

Harrington’s headlights cut through her thoughts as he pulled up, rolling down the window to bark an order before she could even reach for the door handle: “Pull your skirt up. Now. Let them see what they’re missing.” The engine revved impatiently while she obeyed, the night air biting at her bare thighs as she hoisted the fabric to her waist. Somewhere behind them, a camera flashed. Kylie barely held it together as she trembled in the cool air. Harrington’s laugh curled through the open window like smoke. “Atta girl,” he said as she slid into the passenger seat.

His palm was furnace-hot against her thigh during the drive, fingers creeping higher whenever the car slowed. Kylie pressed her knees together uselessly, the vinyl seat squeaked beneath her every time he squeezed and stared at her own reflection in the passenger window. “I can’t believe you made me do that,” she whispered, fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirt, tears forming in her eyes. The waiter’s choked gasp still echoed in her ears, the way his hips had bucked against her teeth when he came. “I was trying—trying to be good.” Harrington’s grin flashed in the dashboard glow as he turned onto Main Street, his thumb rubbing circles just inches from her pussy. “Oh princess,” he purred, steering one-handed past the darkened storefronts, “you were good. You laid that tip better than any girl I’ve ever seen.” The streetlights strobed across her face, each one illuminating her deepening flush as his fingers finally touched her mound. “See? You’re all wet.”

The car slowed near a 24-hour diner, its neon sign casting pink light over their laps, and Harrington abruptly hooked two fingers into her thong, yanking the fabric aside with a snap. “Hands at your sides,” he ordered, nodding toward the truck driver watching them from the counter. Kylie whimpered but obeyed, uncrossing her arms. The sequins scratched her back against the seat; her choked moan fogged the glass. “Look at him,” Harrington growled. The trucker’s fork froze mid-bite, his gaze locking onto Kylie’s. “Show him your big tits,” Harrington whispered. Kylie arched her back at the command and the neon lights exposed every inch of her chest as she pulled them free. The trucker’s jaw dropped, his coffee cup hitting the counter.

Harrington’s chuckle vibrated through the steering wheel. “Now pretend you’re scrubbing them, slow circles,” he instructed, his own hand squeezing her thigh in demonstration. Kylie’s fingers trembled as she mimicked the motion over her nipples, the sequins catching the light with every pass. The trucker’s chair screeched as he leaned forward, his elbow knocking over a syrup bottle. Harrington exhaled sharply through his nose, amused. “Blow him a kiss, babygirl,” Harrington murmured, watching the man’s reaction with clinical interest. Her lips pursed in a shaky approximation, then Harrington grabbed her wrist, forcing her middle finger into her own mouth. “Suck,” he commanded. Her tongue swirled around the digit obediently, eyes glazing with unshed tears while the trucker adjusted his pants under the table. “Now blow him a kiss goodbye and wink,” Harrington instructs, watching Kylie comply.

The car peeled away with a squeal of tires, leaving the diner’s neon glow behind. Harrington drove one-handed, the other pinching Kylie’s nipple through her dress at random intervals, just hard enough to make her gasp each time. He detoured past a rival high school, slowing to a crawl by the football field where the team practiced under stadium lights. “Wave,” he ordered, rolling her window down. Kylie’s arm lifted mechanically, her ample breasts bouncing. A whistle cut through the night; Harrington accelerated before she could see who’d noticed. The third stop came outside a gas station, where he made her press her bare ass against the passenger window while he pretended to pump gas. Someone catcalled from a pickup truck; Harrington tipped an imaginary hat before pulling back onto the road.

When the house came into view, she knew those stone pillars, that steep driveway. Last time, a cat mask had hidden her face. Tonight, Harrington’s grip on her left no doubt: she’d be fully recognizable. The engine cut out beneath the portico; cicadas screamed in the hedges. Harrington leaned across the gearshift, his breath hot against her ear. “I see you remember,” he murmured, thumb tracing the sequins stretched taut over her ribs. “But tonight, everyone gets to see who you are.” Her pulse thudded against his fingers, wild, caged, as he popped the door open into humid darkness. He pulled Kylie out of the car and inside, entering the same familiar empty hallway.

The guest bathroom tiles were colder than she remembered. Harrington locked the door behind them, the click echoing off marble walls, then twisted the shower knob until steam fogged the mirror. “Hop in,” he ordered, flicking the sequin dress’s clasp open with one hand. The fabric slithered to the floor like a shed skin. Kylie stepped under the scalding spray before he could comment on her trembling—water needling her shoulders, erasing the waiter’s fluids, the trucker’s gaze, the football team’s whistles. Harrington’s shadow loomed through the fogged glass. “Turn around,” he commanded, sliding the door open just enough to reach an arm in. She obeyed; forehead pressed to slick tile as his soap-slicked finger traced the cleft of her ass with agonizing precision. “Dirty girl,” he tsked, circling the tight furl without penetrating. The contrast of clinical cleanliness and lingering violation made her stomach heave. “Squeaky clean now, aren’t we?” His laughter dissolved in the steam as he withdrew, shutting the door with a snap.

The sequin dress clung to her skin when he made her step back into it, the fabric suctioning to every curve as if painted on, no doubt molded to her body by her damp skin. Harrington watched from the vanity stool while she reapplied lipstick with shaking hands, the same shade she’d smeared across the waiter’s cock. “Don’t forget the falsies,” he reminded her, tossing her the lash glue. Her reflection blinked back: smudged smokey eyes, swollen lips, cleavage glistening with the lotion Harrington had rubbed into her collarbones. The mascara wand trembled in her grip. Behind her, Harrington adjusted his tie in the mirror, his smirk unwavering as her lashes fluttered under another coat of black. Her reflection stared back, looking like every teachers wet dream, exuding youth and sexuality. Harrington palmed the back of her neck to tilt her face toward the light. The girl in the mirror looked like a porn parody of her gymnastics team photo. He pinches her nipple through the dress for emphasis.

Harrington’s phone buzzed against the marble countertop. “They’re waiting,” he announced, straightening her neckline with a proprietorial tug. Somewhere beyond the bathroom door, glasses clinked; laughter swelled. Kylie’s stomach dropped. Last time, the mask had been a mercy. Harrington caught her expression in the mirror and grinned, his fingers slotting between hers like a lover’s. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he murmured, guiding her toward the door. “Tonight’s the night you learn a new way to feel good.” His grip tightened on her wrist as he twisted the knob. “Well, at least we’ll feel good. We’ll see how it works out for you.” The roar of conversation hit her like a wave.

Harrington guided to the study the same room where the men fucked Puppy roughly, she recalled. Ben’s grin split his face as he rose from where he was adjusting a camera tripod. “No masks?” He circled Kylie, trailing fingers across her collarbone. Jameson nursed a scotch, while another man leered at Kylie. Harrington’s chuckle dripped with false warmth. “Why hide perfection? She doesn’t need to hide from anyone here.” His hand slid possessively down her spine, stopping just above the dress’s precarious hemline. “Besides—Kylie here deserves proper credit for all her ... performances.” The emphasis curled around Kylie like a noose. Harrington’s lips brushed her temple—a lover’s gesture. “Relax,” he whispered, fingers tightening on her hip. “You’ll like this game’s rules much better,” as he pulls her into his lap.

The armchair’s leather groaned under their combined weight. Harrington’s left hand splayed across her bare thigh while his right toyed with the dress’s plunging neckline, exposing her to the room inch by deliberate inch. “Look at our girl,” he murmured, as if narrating a nature documentary. “Flawless—no?” Harrington slid up the hem of her dress, peeling it up with a motion that made her gasp. Across the room, Jameson’s glass paused mid-sip; Ben leaned forward, elbows on knees. The third man, broad-shouldered, with a patrolman’s buzzcut, stroked his belt buckle absently. Recognition punched Kylie’s gut: cop. The same one who’d—

“Let’s get reacquainted.” Harrington’s grip propelled her toward Ben first. His fingers dug into her waist, hauling her onto his lap with a grunt. The cop’s badge—left casually on the side table—glinted in the lamplight as Ben’s thumb found her. “Mmm. His teeth grazed her earlobe. “Tell me, Kylie—when Harrington makes you come on camera...” Ben’s free hand groped her breast roughly, “ ... do you fake it for him? Or are you really that much of a slut?” The question hung between them as the cop rose with a smirk Kylie had seen when he gropes her tits.

Officer Jones’ knuckles brushed her inner thigh as he claimed her from Ben, his police-issue boots spreading her legs wider on the ottoman. “Civilian oversight,” he joked, fingers finding her exposed pussy. Kylie’s choked whimper morphed into a sob when his thumb pressed hard against her clit. Behind them, Jameson chuckled into his drink. “Careful, Jones,” Harrington warned from the armchair, though his tone held no real concern. “We don’t want her coming just yet.” Jones’s laughter vibrated through Kylie’s ribs as he rubbed her clit. “Don’t worry, teach,” he grinned, nodding toward the liquor cabinet, “I’ll have her begging for it.” The glint of his handcuffs, looped casually over the end table, sent fresh tears spilling down Kylie’s cheeks.