8. Dancing For The Guard #2
I count the minutes. Not out loud, not even on my phone’s useless face—just in the clutch and release of my own jaw.
The fluorescent lights never change. There’s no clock, no windows, nothing to mark time except the shuffling of police shoes outside and the wet coughs from the other cells that I can’t see. They’re like ghosts.
Stella’s gone. Her cell is empty, although her voice lingers—a phantom echo in the concrete.
I keep imagining her: charming whatever officer’s on duty, and then sashaying out into the night.
Maybe she’s at the 24-hour Walgreens already, snatching false lashes and allergy pills, her number blocked on every boy’s phone by morning.
I miss her instantly, even as I want to murder her for leaving me behind.
The guard, Morris, has returned to his throne: chair tipped, boots up, arms crossed, face as blank as the walls. Every few minutes, he glances up. Each time, he looks at me just a little longer.
I try not to look back. I scroll my phone anyway, as if I could will a signal into existence. My hands shake. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the pulse in my gums.
I don’t want to be here when dawn comes.
I don’t want my stepbrother to see me like this—dress torn, makeup running, hair a greasy pelt. But I also can’t think of any way out.
I consider what Stella did. I picture myself doing a striptease. The thought makes me want to puke.
For a while, I just sit and let the horror marinate. My knees locked together, my heels digging into the bench for leverage. The air tastes like pennies.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. It’s not great. It’s not something I want to do, but maybe it’ll get me out of this hellhole. I stand and approach the bars. Morris glances up, all lazy interest.
I say, “I have something better than a striptease.”
He uncrosses his arms. “Yeah?”
I swallow. “I have photos. On my phone.”
His eyebrows climb a notch, then he stands and walks over, slow. The metal of his keys rattles against his thigh. “Photos of what?” He’s close enough now to see the sweat on my hairline.
“Dirty ones,” I whisper, instantly wishing I hadn’t said it. “X-rated to the max. I’ll show you, if you let me out.”
He grins, a mouth full of teeth. “Really.”
I nod, then turn my phone to face him and tap my Photos file icon.
At first, it’s just the regular selfies.
Me in my room, lit by string lights, face all blush and gloss.
Then the ones in the mirror: dress pulled tight, my tits squashed and mouth half-open, hair in wild blonde spirals.
I swipe quickly, skipping the chaste ones, until I land on my “Homework” folder. This is the naughty batch.
Morris leans closer. His shadow blocks half the corridor, and I can smell cheap cologne mixed with sweat. Eew. But I take a deep breath and steel myself because I have to do this.
The next shot is me: on my bed, braless, one hand lifting a big breast, the nipple almost the color of my lips.
The next: me, nude, legs spread a little, my fingers parting the pink of my pussy just enough to show a peep of my clit.
I can’t breathe. I keep swiping. The photos get worse: me with a huge clear dildo, pout in a perfect O as I stroke the girthy shaft; me sucking it, lips stretched around the fake cock, eyes half-lidded; me lying back, the toy just a tad inside, one hand cupping a giant breast as I moan aloud.
Morris lets out a low grunt, almost a laugh.
“Jesus,” he says. “You really know how to show off, don’t you? Where do you girls come from? Fucking sluts.”
I can’t look at him as my cheeks flame with shame. I keep my eyes on the phone, watching myself parade by. The thing is, in the moment, I liked making them. I liked being someone else. I liked seeing what Trevor might see. Now, though, I want to crawl into a drain and die.
He lingers on a shot where I’m on all fours, hair over my eyes, dildo in my mouth and two fingers in my pussy. “You ever do this for real, or just with toys?” he asks, not like he cares about the answer.
My cheeks are so hot I might combust, and I try to dodge his question. “Can I go now?” I say.
He thinks about it. “Send them to me.”
I almost say no, but instead I say in a trembling voice, “What’s your number?”
He tells it to me, digit by digit. I type it in. My hands shake so badly I almost hit the wrong buttons, but I manage. I attach the worst of the photos—if I’m going to do it, I’ll do it all the way. I hit send. We both wait. The phone spins and spins, then errors out: “Message failed. Retry?”
“It won’t go through,” I say, desperate. “There’s no signal in here.”
He frowns, checks his own phone, and snorts. “Fucking metal roof,” he says. “This place is a Faraday cage. Nothing gets in or out.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket, and the look he gives me is hungry but bored, the way you might look at a half-finished sandwich.
“Guess you’ll have to do what your friend did,” he says. “If you want out.”
I stare at him. “You said I could show you pictures. I did. That’s the deal.”
He shrugs. “I’m a visual man, sweetheart, and I’ve decided I want more. Show me the real thing.”
I want to say no. I want to say I’d rather wait for my stepbrother to drag me out by my hair. I want to die of embarrassment. But I also want out, and I want to never think about this again, and I want to avoid seeing Trevor’s face when he’s told about his slutty little stepsister.
So I perform the striptease.
Not with any of Stella’s energy. Not with any grace, or charm, or even the sense of my own body as anything but a heap of flesh.
I grab the zipper at the back of my dress and fight it down.
The fabric is tight, and it catches on my bra, so I have to tug and shimmy until the whole thing rolls down to my hips.
The dress comes off in a crumple, and I’m left in a lacy pink bra and matching thong.
My skin prickles in the cold. My stomach, pale and doughy in the glare, sags a little over the waistband. My thighs are bright red with shame.
Morris stands, arms folded, watching every second. He doesn’t say a word.
I try to turn it into a performance. I try to arch my back, to roll my hips, to make it look sexy the way Stella did, but I know I’m not sexy.
I reach behind my back, fumble the clasp of my bra, and let it drop.
My nipples are hard as marbles from the chill.
I cup my hands over them for a moment, then force myself to put my arms down.
“Keep going,” Morris grunts. “You’ve got a nice rack. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” I manage in a strangled voice.
The guard harrumphs and nods for me to proceed.
Oh god, this is so awful. I step out of my panties, kick it away, and stand there: completely naked, facing a middle-aged man while I’m locked in a jail cell. The light hums above, the air blowing straight down from a vent and raising goosebumps all over my body.
I have no idea what to do next. Stella knew how to move. Stella knew how to command attention, even when it was disgusting. I stand there and sway from foot to foot, hoping it counts.
After a minute, Morris grins and says, “Dance, sweetheart. Pretend there’s music.”
I try to sway my hips, but it feels so stupid I almost laugh. Instead, I cover my pussy with one hand, then the other, then drop them again. I do a little turn, but the floor is slick and I nearly slip. I hear a cough from another room.
Eventually, I stop. I cross my arms over my chest. I can feel tears starting in my eyes.
Morris watches for another few seconds, then makes a little “hmph” sound and slumps in his chair.
“Not bad,” he says, “but you’re not getting out. Rules are rules.”
He flicks a switch, and the lights in my cell get even brighter. I can see every flaw, every mark on my skin.
I reach for my dress, holding it to my chest, and back up with wobbly knees to the bench. I can’t stop shaking.
When I sit down, I can’t get my arms to work. I wrap the dress around me like a towel and wait, shivering. My hair falls over my face.
I dress again, piece by piece, hating the touch of fabric on my skin. What the hell just happened? Did I just strip for a guard, in the hopes of bribing myself out of this shitty situation? Except that it didn’t work? Oh my god, I’m a complete failure, and tears gather on my lashes.
But I won’t cry. I won’t let them have the satisfaction. I sit on the concrete bench until my legs go numb and my ass flattens out, and I wait for the sun to rise, or for someone to remember I exist.
All I can think about is what Trevor would say if he saw me now.
Probably nothing.
Probably just that little smirk, the same one that’s on the guard’s face, the same one that says: I always knew you’d end nothing but a loser.