A Girlfriend's Dare: Ch. 06

Andrew doesn't remember the walk from the mall to the parking lot. He does remember the way Steph's fingers kept tightening around his elbow every time someone glanced at them, and the way her eyes flicked to her phone, then to him, as if she were already scripting the next scene.

Now he's in the passenger seat of her car--a compact imported thing, beige leather so clean it feels like an art installation. The new perfume from Victoria's Secret hangs in the air, fighting for supremacy with the vague, lingering smell of fast food from the mall's food court.

He's in the dress, still. The bra, the panties, the plastic sack with the other sets from the store clutched in his lap, crinkling every time he tries to shift it out of sight.

Steph is silent as she pulls out of the lot, her profile all sharp jawline and a lipstick that's gone a little crooked from earlier. He wonders if she's finally running out of steam, but the way she takes the turns--fast, no wasted motion--says otherwise.

They're two blocks from his apartment when he notices the route isn't the same. "You missed the turn," he says, or tries to; it comes out thin and half-hearted.

Steph doesn't slow. "We're making a stop first."

He tries again: "Steph, I--"

She holds up a finger, the red of her nail almost cartoonish in the late sun. "No. You made a deal. You're in."

He slumps, the dress pulling against his chest. The bra's too tight, and the padded hips are compressing him in ways that make breathing feel artificial. He thinks of the key fob to his own apartment, cold and inert in Steph's purse. He thinks of Derek, who might be at the gym right now, or home, or--god forbid--outside, ready to bear witness.

He looks out the window, counts the streetlights. They're headed north, toward the old strip mall that's been cycling through failed businesses since before he moved here.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a squat, windowless building painted black. The sign above the door reads "Midnight's Kiss" in gothic font. Underneath, neon in lurid red: "ADULT EMPORIUM--ALL LIFESTYLES WELCOME."

He doesn't move.

Steph's hand is suddenly on his thigh. She squeezes--not in a sexual way, but with the authority of someone getting your attention. "Andrew. Listen to me." Her voice is soft, but the grip says otherwise. "You're not backing out now."

He keeps his face forward, watches a man in a hoodie slink into the liquor store next door.

She leans closer, her perfume an invasive species. "You walk in with me, buy what I say, and you don't make a scene. You hesitate, and I text that photo to Derek."

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

"You think I'm bluffing?" She's already tapping at her phone, nails clicking on glass.

"One word from me and he'll get a new message, begging him to come pay you a visit in your apartment..."

He breathes in through his nose, out through his teeth. The humiliation of the mall had been bad, but there had been the buffer of crowds, the sense that his own embarrassment was diluted among the hundreds of other disasters happening at once. This--this is surgical.

Steph shifts in her seat, retrieves a paper bag from the floor, and hands it to him. "Put this on over your dress. You can take it off inside, but I want you to get used to the idea."

He peeks inside: a hoodie, oversized and anonymous, and a pair of black leggings. "Why these?" he says, voice catching.

She shrugs, lips pursed. "It's standard. Girls' night in a new city, they all wear black.

No one will even notice. Besides--" She grins, exposing a sliver of canine. "I want you to be able to run errands for me, eventually. Consider this training."

He wants to tell her it's not funny, that this has gone too far, but the words won't form. Instead, he wriggles out of the car, the lingerie packages rattling in the plastic sack, and leans against the trunk to change. Steph supervises, eyes narrowed, as if waiting for him to make a break for it.

He peels off the blue dress--no one around, thank god--and shoves it into the bag. The hoodie slides over his head, swallowing him in generic fleece, and the leggings are tight but not obscene. He looks like every underfed grad student in the city, which is almost a relief.

Steph loops her arm through his, and together they approach the adult store. The front windows are a sheet of mirrored tint. As they pass through the doors, he sees his reflection--long hair askew from static, a bruise of foundation under his jaw, nails painted a trembling shade of pink.

Inside, the store is cooler, fluorescent. The walls are lined with packaging that's an arms race of scandal: realistic dongs, bondage kits, neon bottles of lube stacked in pyramids. A TV mounted above the counter plays a porno on mute. The clerk--a woman, maybe forty, with a shaved scalp and a ring through her nose--glances up from her crossword.

"Welcome in," she drones, as if she's said it a thousand times and will say it a thousand more.

Steph releases Andrew's arm and stalks the aisles, all focus. "Stay with me," she says, not bothering to lower her voice.

He does, trailing after her as she inspects a wall of vibrators, picks up a box, reads the description, puts it back. She moves like she's hunting for a specific brand of cereal.

Andrew tries to become invisible, but Steph keeps drawing attention back. "Do you like this?" she says, holding up a hot-pink wand that could double as a kitchen appliance.

He shrugs, mortified.

The clerk sidles up, not close, but near enough to be implicated in whatever is about to happen. "You need help finding anything?" she asks.

Steph pounces. "Yeah, actually. My friend here lost a bet, so now he has to be my sub for a month."

The clerk's eyebrows arch, but her expression doesn't flicker beyond the professional mask. "Lucky you," she says, but it's not clear who she means.

"I need something that'll keep him from... cheating." Steph's hand lands on Andrew's shoulder, her nails digging lightly through the hoodie. "And something for his ass. He's a first-timer, so maybe not the industrial size."

The clerk surveys Andrew, then heads to a back wall labeled "MALE." She pulls down two boxes: one a plastic-and-steel contraption, the other a soft silicone plug with a bulbous tip. "This is our best seller," she says, tapping the chastity cage.

"Pretty much escape-proof unless you have bolt cutters. And the inflatable is good for beginners, but the pump lets you play with the size a little."

Andrew can feel his skin trying to leave his body.

Steph takes the plug and turns it over, as if considering a pineapple at the store. "What's the biggest you have that's still wearable?"

The clerk shrugs. "Depends on the man. You want to start with this, or just jump in?"

Steph looks at Andrew. "You want to have a say?"

He doesn't, but the words come out anyway. "The, uh, smaller one."

Steph hands it back to the clerk. "He'll take the larger."

The clerk nods, returning to the wall. "You'll need lube," she says, and gestures to a rack near the register.

Steph grabs a bottle, then turns to Andrew, her face suddenly soft. "Are you okay?"

He wants to say no, wants to beg off, but then he sees her thumb hovering over the "Send" button on her phone. He nods, once.

The clerk brings the boxes to the counter, rings them up, and bags them together. "You want the instructions?" she asks.

Steph shakes her head. "He'll figure it out." She pulls out her credit card, taps the reader, then collects the bag. "Thank you."

"Good luck," the clerk says, this time definitely at Andrew.

Back outside, Steph unlocks the car but doesn't get in. She circles to the trunk, opens the bag, and holds up the chastity cage. "Let's do it now," she says. "I don't want you weaseling out of this before we get home."

He balks. "Here? In the parking lot?"

Steph laughs. "There's a bathroom inside. Or we can do it right here. Your call."

He looks around: the liquor store is empty, the gas station across the street abandoned. The sky is turning purple with dusk. "Bathroom," he whispers.

She shepherds him back into the adult store, past the clerk, and into the single-stall restroom at the back. She locks the door, then turns to him, pulling the hoodie up over his head.

"Drop the leggings," she says, like a nurse prepping for a shot.

He does, unable to meet her eyes.

The chastity device is more complicated than he expected--a cage, a ring, a tiny padlock. Steph reads the diagram, then fits the ring behind his balls with an efficiency that says she's done this before, or at least watched a lot of instructional videos.

The cage itself is pink, glossy, cartoonishly small. She lines it up, pushes his cock down, and fits the plastic over it. The device locks with a click. She tugs it once, testing. "Nice," she says, satisfied.

Andrew stands there, pants at his ankles, waiting for the rest of his life to begin.

Steph kneels and retrieves the butt plug. She opens the lube, slicks the plug, then gestures for him to turn around and bend over the sink.

"Seriously?" he says, voice more desperate than he intends.

She doesn't answer, just waits.

He does as told. The cold silicone at his entrance is more shocking than painful, but the sensation of it spreading him, of being filled, is enough to send a shiver up his spine.

Steph pushes the plug in, then holds it there, her palm flat on the small of his back. "You okay?" she says, quieter.

He nods. He can't speak.

She grabs the bulb and squeezes. Air fills the plug, inflating it inside him, stretching him until he gasps. She stops, waits. "That's two pumps," she says. "Let me know if you want more."

He shakes his head, which is somehow a thank you.

She pulls up the leggings, fits them tight over the new shape of him, and tucks in the hoodie. In the mirror, he looks the same as before, but inside everything is alien.

Back in the car, Steph is humming, almost giddy. She drops the key to the chastity device into her purse, then starts the engine. "You did good," she says, a little gentler than before. "I'm proud of you."

He doesn't answer. He's not sure what language to use.

She's three blocks from his apartment when she glances at him, as if remembering something. "Oh--forgot to mention. If you ever try to take it off, or even think about it, I'll give the key to Derek."

He turns to her, panic flooding in.

She grins, all teeth and mercy. "You think I won't? I bet he'd love to see you in this getup."

He closes his eyes, tries to imagine what will become of him. The feeling is foreign, but not altogether bad.

Steph's hand finds his knee, warm through the leggings. "Don't worry," she says. "You're mine now. And you're going to love it."