I'm wet and my nipples are hard and there's this awful pulse between my legs that won't stop.
You're turned on.
No. No, I'm not. I'm terrified. I'm humiliated. I'm?—
The questionnaire.
There was a question about this. About being watched without consent. About the fantasy of surveillance.
Did I check that box?
I can't remember. I can't fucking remember.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, trying to ground myself, but it doesn't help.
The door opens.
Severe woman. Clipboard. That same expression like I've personally disappointed her just by existing.
"Scarletta Mae Desmond."
She uses my real name.
My actual, legal,realname.
Not a fantasy novel name. Not code name whatever. Just me. My legs don't feel attached to my body.
She doesn't wait. She turns and walks.
I follow.
The hallway is longer than I expected. White walls. Soft lighting. Classical music playing from speakers I can't see.
It should be comforting. It's not.
We stop at a heavy wooden door.
She turns to face me. I expect to see something—anticipation, maybe contempt, the faintest flicker of humanity—but her voice arrives perfectly flat and mechanical. Rehearsed to the point of automation.
"Enter the stage. Walk directly to the raised platform. Stand precisely in the center on the marked position. Remove your robe completely—no hesitation, no false modesty. Once naked, turn slowly in a full circle so the prospective buyers canassess you from every angle. Pause at each quarter turn for approximately three seconds."
She pauses, studying my face with that same clinical detachment. Waiting.
"Do you understand these instructions?"
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
"Do you understand?" she repeats.
"Yes."
"Good."
She opens the door.
Music swells. String instruments and something else I can't identify.
I step through.
