Surreal

The moment Brad enters the storage room to see if we're ready is quiet. He stops in the doorway, his arms crossed, and his gaze falls on me. He's seen the costume and the hair before, but this... this is the finishing touch. His smile fades for a second, his eyes widen as they roam over the shimmering body glitter on my shoulders, the long white hair, and the eyeshadow. He sees the clip-on nails sparkling like green emeralds on my fingers.

"Damn, Jette," he says quietly, almost reverently. "I thought you couldn't look better than you did half an hour ago. Was I ever so wrong!" He comes closer, his gaze lingering on my stomach, where the six-pack, framed by sequins and accentuated by the body glitter, looks even harder and more defined than it already did. "You look like... like a dream. A very expensive one." A broad, business-like grin spreads across his face. "Okay, my fairy. Time for the show. The people are waiting."

As I step out of the storage room, the atmosphere changes abruptly. The dim light in the shop is darker, the music louder, and the air is thicker. And the guests... they are not what I expected. They are not children. They are not families. They are almost exclusively men. Adult men. Their gazes are not curious like a child's, they are... hungry. They roam over my body, slowly and appraisingly. The initial astonishment isn't full of innocence, but of greed. Suddenly, I feel even smaller than the shy Jette from northern Germany.

The compliments that follow now couldn't be more different. Some guests are genuinely nice. "Wow, great costume. Where can I buy that?" asks one of the few women. "One of the best cosplays I've ever seen," comes from a slightly stocky man. Some compliments have a different tone. "Well look at that, the sweetest piece Brad has ever booked." "The wings aren't the only thing flying around here, are they?". Furthermore, I overhear a man saying to another behind my back: "I wonder if you can book the little one privately?" I try to smile away the remarks and compliments, but my smile feels stiff and artificial. In addition to the conversations and compliments, there is a seemingly endless stream of requests for photos together. The photos they take are not harmless selfies. They hold their phones low, searching for angles, and I feel myself blushing as I imagine what they're all capturing.

Brad loves it. He's standing at the counter, his phone in his hand, filming everything for his Reels. "This is it, people! The one, the only Tinkerbell! Follow us for more!" he calls out and winks at me. I feel like an exhibit, a glittering, lifeless object that has to serve for the likes of others. No one in Germany will ever see this. The thought is simultaneously a relief and deeply shameful.

"Here, Jette, go serve some drinks!" Brad yells over the music. I take the key for the storage room, grab the tray Brad showed me earlier, and quickly place a few bottles of beer and other drinks, which I mix quickly, on it. With the tray in my hands, I leave the storage room with the small adjoining kitchen and snake my way through the crowd. Hands brush against my back, my hips. I flinch every time, but I keep smiling. I have to. I quickly distribute the drinks and bring the tray back to Brad, who calls out to me: "You're doing great, little one! The evening is a complete success so far. Just talk to a few guests, walk through the shop, and be present. You're stunning and the people love you!"

As I'm now strolling through the shop and feeling the gazes of the nerds on my body, I suddenly see a mountain casting a shadow on me out of the corner of my eye. A large, dark-skinned man. He's leaning against a shelf and watching me. As I get closer, he points to a shelf at the very bottom. "Excuse me, little one," he says in his deep, calm voice. "Could you please get me the Mystique action figure from there? My back is acting up and I can't reach it well."

"S-sure," I stammer. I didn't expect that. In my short dress, I feel ****. I realize I have to be careful now. I take a deep breath, slowly and as carefully as possible in the high sandals, I bend forward, but for some reason, I keep my knees straight. The caution, however, is useless. The fabric pulls tight, and I feel the cool air on my skin as the fabric of my skimpy sequin dress rides up my thighs. Still, I bend down further. I feel his eyes burning into my thighs. "Why can't I stop this?" I ask myself, confused and beet-red. Then the moment comes. The dress stretches a little more and then with a jerk, it rides up over the round balls of my buttocks, and half my ass is visible. The narrow strip of light-yellow fabric almost disappears between them, even though my buttocks part slightly from bending over, and at the top, on my rear, the triangle of the thong is vaguely visible. My pussy is barely covered by the piece of fabric, as is my asshole. For a moment, I freeze. What's happening here is so surreal! Suddenly, my mind returns. I quickly grab the action figure with my left hand, and as I straighten up as quickly as possible, I pull the dress back over my ass with my right. My throat goes dry, heat rises within me. My face burns with shame. I realize he was hoping for exactly this to happen. But I can't say anything. I don't even dare to look at him.

"Thanks, little one," he says. His voice is a low, deep rumble. I look up. He's grinning. Broadly. Triumphantly. His gaze says it all. Yes, he planned this. Every single second of it.

He takes the figure, his fingers deliberately brushing against mine. Then he turns around, without even looking at it, and walks directly to the mysterious, heavy door at the end of the shop. I stare after him, my heart pounding in my throat. The door opens a crack, and he disappears into the darkness.

I can't take my eyes off the door. In the next hour, I see it become normal. A man goes in or out again and again. Two minutes later, another one. They buy nothing. They talk to no one. They just disappear. I'm standing here in my glittering Tinkerbell costume, an object of desire for the men in the shop, and all at once, I no longer feel like a powerful fairy. I feel like the lure piece hanging at the entrance of a dark, unknown net.