Many thanks to neuroparenthetical, who edited this story.

The small city square is quiet until the sound of a struggling engine announces itself. A compact car enters at a speed that suggests optimism rather than control. Its dejected-green paint is chipped along the door frames and the lower edges, as if the car has been introduced to the city one curb at a time.

It swerves toward the side of the square and comes to a full stop abruptly with a loud screech -- not quite parking, more conceding. The doors open. The occupants do not so much exit as spill out.

From the driver’s side comes a woman. She is tall and slender, with cropped blonde hair. She wears a cropped bolero jacket over a graphic T-shirt, baggy shorts, and striped tights. Tall leather boots rise to her calves, decorated with thin gold chains that shift and clink when she moves. She is unmistakably braless.

Her oversized silver hoop earrings almost brush her shoulders. A gold-toned nameplate necklace spelling ELLA dangles low over her breasts. A dense arrangement of rings adorns her fingers, and her wrists are stacked with bracelets.

Broad swaths of red and blue eyeshadow spread outward from her eyes like giant butterfly wings, matched with dark brown lipstick, nearly black.

She steps out quickly and looks around, already assessing the space.

From the passenger side, a man emerges more slowly, encumbered. He carries a camera, a tripod, and a bag that appears to contain additional equipment of uncertain necessity. He is of average height, unshaved, with messy hair, wearing old jeans and a tight, worn-out T-shirt stained with paint.

He pauses briefly, adjusts his grip, and nearly drops the tripod before regaining balance. Then he looks around the square. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Look. There’s Gwen.” She points toward a coffee shop.

A tall black woman steps out, carrying a takeaway cup. She is dressed entirely in black: a satin shirt with a slight sheen, a cropped velvet jacket lined with fur, tight shorts, stockings, and heels. Even the headband holding back her short, straight hair is black.

The two women wave at each other. The man attempts to wave as well, but the combination of camera, tripod, and bag limits the gesture to a brief lift of one elbow.

More people appear, as if on cue but without coordination. A tall man in jeans and a button-down shirt follows Gwen out of the cafe. A small woman with her red hair tied in a ponytail climbs out of a car parked beneath a tree, adjusting the strap of an oversized handbag. Finally, a man in a black leather jacket arrives on a motorcycle, a sound boom strapped awkwardly across his back.

They gather in a loose semicircle.

“All right, crew,” the blonde woman says once everyone is close enough to hear. She turns to the man who arrived with Gwen. “Andy -- you don’t know everyone yet.” She gestures with her chin. “The scruffy guy with the camera is Mike.”

Mike lifts one hand in a brief wave without shifting his grip on the gear.

“The redhead is Hellen.”

Hellen nods, adjusting the strap of her bag.

She points toward the man holding the boom. “The guy with the mic is Tony. Tony, say hi.”

“Hi,” Tony says.

Andy steps forward and extends his hand. Tony adjusts the boom with one arm and shakes with the other.

“Okay,” the director says, “now that introductions are out of the way, let’s go over the shooting plan for today.”

Once everyone has their instructions and the woman in charge is satisfied that they know what to do, the group loosens and breaks apart. The director and the cameraman remain where they are, continuing their discussion in low voices, gesturing toward the square.

Gwen steps aside with Hellen. They move a few paces away, out of the main flow of people. Hellen positions herself squarely in front of Gwen and sets her bag down at her feet. She opens it and removes a small roll-up makeup kit, its fabric worn soft at the edges from use. From it she takes a compact of translucent setting powder, a flat synthetic brush, and a sponge with one corner permanently stained darker than the rest.

“Chin up,” she says.

The woman taps excess powder from the brush, then presses it onto Gwen’s T-zone: forehead, bridge of the nose, upper lip. She works in short, controlled motions, stippling rather than sweeping to keep the base intact. The wind lifts grit from the pavement; she shields the compact with her wrist.

She switches to the sponge and blots under Gwen’s eyes, correcting shine without touching the lashes. Then she retrieves a slim contour stick. She twists it up a few millimeters, but then hesitates. She applies a restrained line beneath each cheekbone, blending immediately with the sponge until the edge disappears.

At last she steps aside and lets the director examine her handiwork. The woman with the ELLA nameplate scrutinizes Gwen’s visage with an impenetrable expression, then breaks into a grin. “You look great, babe! Now, let’s mess with your wardrobe a little. Take off your top.”

Gwen shrugs off the velvet jacket and tosses it toward the car. It lands across the back seat.

“And the rest,” Ella says.

The black shirt follows.

“Everything,” the director says. “I don’t want any of it.”

The actress removes her clothes, and one by one, the individual articles pile up into the back of the car. Then she stands completely naked next to the vehicle, with nothing but a few pieces of jewelry to cover her luridly sensuous femaleness. Behind them, the cameraman has switched on his camera, and is filming the entire scene. He edges closer, panning slowly from Gwen’s head down to her toes. She has a statuesque figure, with straight shoulders, a narrow waist and wide hips. Her breasts are medium-sized and sagging slightly. They point outwards and are topped with large, dark nipples. Her thighs are thick. Above them, the pubic area -- of a markedly darker tint -- is covered in two days’ stubble and speckled with razor bumps.

“Shoes too,” Ella says. “I have something else I want you to wear.”

Gwen steps closer to the car and reaches down to her feet. She unbuckles the heels and slips out of them, one at a time, and deposits them at the top of the stack of clothes. Then she takes a pair of knee-high boots that Ella retrieved from the footwell of the car.

She takes the boots and sets them on the pavement in front of her. Without sitting down, she slides one foot into the first boot and leans forward to pull it on. Her weight shifts onto the other leg. For a moment she wobbles, then steadies herself with a hand on the open car door.

She bends again, deeper this time, reaching for the zipper. As she leans forward, the long earring swings free of her neck, tracing a slow arc. The necklace she’s wearing drops away from her chest and hangs straight down. Her breasts droop and swing from side to side shapelessly and even her abdomen sags and shakes a little.

The director looks at Gwen for a moment.

“The wig,” she says.

Gwen reaches up and hooks her fingers under the edge at the back of her head. She peels it forward carefully, lifting it away in one smooth motion. The wig comes off intact: short, straight black hair, still holding its shape. For a second she holds it in both hands, thumbs inside the cap, the synthetic strands settling.

She hands it to Ella.

The other woman takes it with some care and turns toward the car. She opens the front door and places the wig on the dashboard, arranging it so it lies flat, hair spread neatly, facing the windshield.

Gwen stands there bareheaded. Her scalp is closely shaved, but not smooth. A few days of regrowth rise in tiny, tight coils, dark and springy against her skin. The hair is shortest at the crown and slightly denser along the hairline, where it forms miniature twirls.

Ella pulls a pair of long, silver tassel earrings from the side of her jacket and shows them to Gwen. “Put these on,” she says.

Gwen tilts her head, slipping out the studs she’s been wearing. She lifts the director’s silver tassels and clicks them into place, shaking her head once to let them swing and settle.

Ella isn’t finished. She digs a handful of pieces from her pockets and presents them to Gwen -- nipple rings, bracelets, another long silver tassel to attach to the belly button ring -- all of which Gwen accepts and fastens in turn. When the last piece clicks into place, the director hands her a small purple sequin handbag, suspended from a long gold chain to be worn over the shoulder. She slips it on, sets her hands on her hips, and strikes a pose. Ella steps back and lets out a soft whistle. “Well, look at you. Aren’t you tasty? I don’t think there’s a man alive who could resist you.”

The camera is already rolling when the director clears her throat.

“Ahem. So. Tell us your name.”

“Kandy. Porsha.”

“Porsha,” the director says, “you told us off camera that you are a streetwalker.”

“I am,” Gwen says. “I’m a sex worker. A prostitute.”

There is a short pause. “Get out of here.”

“I am one. Look.” Gwen pushes her chest up, and turns slightly to a side to strike a pose. Then she shakes her breasts.

“Whoa, babe, do more of that.”

The babe runs her long, ringed fingers along her sides, and -- while crouching down -- on the insides of her thighs.

The cameraman shifts and comes closer. The boom dips, then rises again.

“All right,” the director says. “So what are you doing here today, in the old town center, in the middle of the day?”

“Technically, it’s night,” Gwen says. “The sun just set.”

There is another pause. “Early evening, then,” Ella says, in a conceding tone.

“I’m on the prowl.”

“Prowling for what?”

“Why, tricks. That’s what streetwalkers do.”

The red haired woman giggles behind the men. The sound carries anyway.

“Cut, cut, cut,” the director says.