Cost of Appearing
Copyright© 2026 by BareLin
Chapter 5: The Instrument
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 5: The Instrument - In "Cost of Appearing," barista Juana Perez trades her dignity for cash in escalating psychological experiments on vulnerability and shame. Starting with public humiliations, she becomes a corporate weapon, numbing her emotions for high-stakes deals. As payments soar, she loses her humanity—until she turns against the exploiters, exposing a shadowy network of emotional commodification. A dark thriller on the price of self.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Fiction Humiliation Exhibitionism Voyeurism ENF Nudism
The power suit arrived in a garment bag of thick, black canvas. Unzipping it released a scent of ozone and new money. Inside hung a masterpiece of tailoring: a two-piece ensemble in a deep, graphite grey. The fabric was a technical wool blend, impossibly light yet structured. It didn’t look like clothes; it looked like armor.
I tried it on. The trousers were wide-legged, floating over my hips and thighs with a weightless grace. The blazer was cut with a sharp, architectural shoulder and nipped sharply at the waist. Beneath it, I wore nothing. No bra, no underwear. The cool lining slid over my skin, a sensation both alien and deeply familiar. This was my profile: maximum external authority, maximum internal liberty. The suit was my shell; the absence underneath was my truth.
A dossier arrived digitally. “Verdant Core Solutions: Sustainable Urban Aquaponics.” I spent two days memorizing the fictional company’s pitch deck, its burn rate, and its projected ROI. The jargon was a new language: cap tables, Series A, dilution, MVP. I learned it the way I’d learned the steps to the park disrobing as a sequence, a script. My role was not to be an expert, but to be an unshakeable vessel for the information.
The final briefing was in a driving simulator room at a private security firm. Sloane stood before a screen showing a floor plan of The Chimera Club, a members-only haunt in the financial district.
“The setting is a corner booth in the library wing. Leather, dark wood, low light. It feels exclusive, masculine. Leo will be playing ‘Marcus Thorne,’ a venture capitalist known for crushing founders who show weakness. His profile notes he responds poorly to ‘emotional volatility,’ which in his lexicon means any display of hesitation, fear, or anger from women.”
She zoomed in on the booth. “You will arrive first. You will order water. You will review the documents. He will arrive five minutes late. The interaction will last no more than forty-five minutes. Our cameras and mics are embedded in the light fixtures and book spines.”
Kyle, leaning against a simulator console, spoke. “His tactics will follow a pattern. First, physical intimidation: large gestures, leaning into your space, ‘accidental’ touch. Second, professional dismissal: questioning the basic viability of the tech, your grasp of it. Third, personal provocation: comments on your appearance, your demeanor, implying your presence is a diversity hire or a visual pacifier. Fourth, ultimatum: a lowball offer contingent on immediate, subservient acceptance.”
“Your objective,” Sloane said, turning to me, “is not to ‘win’ the negotiation. The deal is fiction. Your objective is to maintain a biometric and behavioral baseline within 15% of your resting state. You will not give him a single, measurable spike. No increase in vocal pitch. No defensive posturing. No reactive glances. You will be a black hole for his energy.”
“If he gets violent?” I asked, my voice calm.
“He won’t. It’s not his profile. His power is psychological. If he escalates beyond script, a ‘waiter,’ our agent will interrupt. But he won’t. You are the variable. Your calm is the provocation.”
They handed me a slim leather briefcase containing the fake proposals. It felt like a prop. I felt like a prop. A very expensive, highly calibrated prop.
“Compensation,” Kyle said. “Five thousand for execution. A two-thousand-dollar bonus for maintaining target biometric thresholds. Seven thousand total.”
Seven thousand dollars. For forty-five minutes, of being a wall.
I looked at the suit on its hanger, at the briefcase, at the floor plan of the club. A profound detachment settled over me. This was just another environment. Another set of stimuli. Marcus Thorne was just a source of noise, the auditory, visual, and social. My job was to process the noise and output nothing.
The fear was gone. In its place was a cool, functional readiness. I was the instrument they had forged. It was time to perform the task I was designed for.
The Chimera Club smelled of old paper, whiskey, and ambition. The library wing was a cavern of shadow and leather. I sat in the corner booth, my back to a wall of faux-antique books. The suit felt like a second skin, a carapace of authority. I placed the briefcase on the table, ordered water, and waited.
He arrived with a gust of cologne and entitlement. Marcus Thorne Leo, transformed. He was larger somehow, his smile a weapon. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic.” He didn’t sound sorry. He slid into the booth opposite, his eyes doing a quick, appraising sweep. The gaze that had been confused in the spa was now predatory, assessing my suit, my face, my potential as an obstacle.
“Juana Perez, Verdant Core,” I said, not offering a hand.
“Marcus. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I opened the briefcase, slid the deck across. He barely glanced at it.
“Aquaponics. Cute. Urban vertical farms. Seems like a solution looking for a problem the market doesn’t have.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, invading the space. “Convince me you’re not just another ESG checkbox for a fund’s annual report.”
I began the script. I spoke about water reclamation rates, protein yield per square foot, and the scaling model. My voice was flat, clear, devoid of salesmanship. I was reciting data.
He interrupted constantly. “The numbers are soft.”
“You’re ignoring energy inputs.”
“Who’s your CTO? What’s his background?” Each question was a jab, testing for a flinch.
I answered each one, pulling facts from memory. No elaboration. No defense. Just data.
He changed tactics. He sat back, swirling the Scotch he’d ordered without asking. His eyes traveled over me again, slower. “You know, I usually have the founder in here. Pitching me. Not ... a representative. They send you to pretty up the presentation?”
It was the first personal probe. I felt the old, ghostly flicker of heat in my cheeks, a phantom limb of shame. I ignored it. “I am authorized to negotiate terms,” I said, matching his flat tone. “The founder is focused on product iteration.”
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “I bet they picked you because you’re ... what? Good under pressure? Pleasant to look at during a boring pitch?” He leaned in again, his voice dropping. “That’s a nice suit. Severe. Trying a little hard, don’t you think? What’s underneath it, a heart of stone?”
His words were meant to sting, to search for a crack. I looked at him, my expression politely blank, as if he’d commented on the weather. I said nothing. I took a sip of water.
My stillness seemed to agitate him. He was used to reactions: cowering, flirting, arguing. My nullity was an insult.
“Look,” he said, his voice hardening, losing its playful edge. “I’ll cut through the crap. Your valuation is a fantasy. Here’s my offer.” He named a figure 70% below the fake asking price. “Take it right now, or I walk, and I make a call to three other funds about your ... shaky fundamentals. This is your one shot.”
He placed both hands on the table, palms down, a physical claim of dominance. He stared, waiting for the panic, the plea.
I looked at the number he’d scribbled on a napkin. I looked back at him. I felt nothing. No anger at the lowball. No fear of the threat. It was all fiction. He was an actor in my play, not the other way around.
“That offer doesn’t reflect the value of the intellectual property or the projected market capture,” I said, my voice still calm. “I’m authorized to counter at fifteen percent below our initial ask.”
He blinked. He hadn’t expected a counter. He’d expected surrender or outburst.
“You’re not hearing me,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s my offer. Your choice is yes or no.”
“I understand,” I said. “My counter is fifteen percent below ask.”
A vein in his temple pulsed. My placid repetition was sand in his gears. “Who the hell do you think you are? You come in here, in your little suit, and think you can play with the big boys? I could buy and sell your whole life before lunch.”
This was the escalation. The mask of the businessman’s lips, revealing the bully beneath. His face was flushed. My biometrics, I knew, would be a flatline. He was probably spiking.
I didn’t answer. I simply looked at him, waiting. My silence was a vacuum, and he was thrashing in it.
He stood up abruptly, knocking his Scotch glass over. The amber liquid spread across the dark wood. “This is a waste of my time. You’re a robot. A fucking useless mannequin. Tell your ‘founder’ the deal is dead and get yourself a personality.”
He turned and stalked away, his anger a visible cloud around him.
I remained seated. I took another sip of water. I carefully blotted the spilled Scotch with a napkin, then gathered my documents and placed them back in the briefcase. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and unaffected.
As I stood to leave, I saw the ‘waiter’ watching from the shadows, a comms device in his ear. He gave me a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The performance was over. I had not given an inch. I had not flickered.
I had been perfect.
The post-scenario suite was in a different building, a medical analysis lab. I sat on an examination table, still in the suit, while a technician removed the subcutaneous sensor from my neck with a tweezers-like tool. It came out with a faint, slick pull.
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