Start undressing as instructed, getting this over with before you lose your nerve

After Hours Video office, Millbrook, at 5:02 PM on Monday October 16th, 2023

Your hands move to the hem of your shirt, fingers trembling slightly as you grasp the fabric. The ring lights are almost too bright, making you acutely aware of every movement, every breath. You can feel Jake's eyes fixed on you from behind the camera, watching, waiting.

"That's it," he says, his voice lower now, rougher. "Nice and slow. Remember, this is supposed to be sexy, not rushed."

You lift the shirt gradually, revealing your pale stomach inch by inch. The cool air of the office hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your midriff. Your face burns with heat that has nothing to do with the lighting equipment. When the fabric reaches your chest, you hesitate for just a moment before pulling it over your head completely, your long brown hair falling messily around your shoulders.

"Fuck yes," Jake breathes out. You hear the click of the camera as he starts recording. "Now the bra. Reach behind and unhook it, but keep the cups against your tits for a second. Make them wait for it."

Your hands shake as you reach behind your back, fumbling with the clasp. It takes you two tries before the hooks release, and you hold the plain white cotton bra against your chest, suddenly hyperaware that you're wearing your cheapest, most worn underwear.

"Drop it," Jake instructs.

The bra falls to the velvet platform, and your breasts are exposed to the camera's unblinking lens. They're not large—modest B-cups that you've always been self-conscious about—but Jake makes a satisfied sound from behind the camera.

"Beautiful. Touch them. Cup them in your hands and squeeze. Play with your nipples."

You force yourself to comply, bringing your hands up to your breasts. Your skin is burning, and you can't bring yourself to look toward where Jake stands. Your fingers find your nipples, already hardened from the cool air and from... something else you don't want to acknowledge.

"Harder," Jake says. "Pinch them. I want to see you react."

You pinch your nipples between thumb and forefinger, and despite everything—the humiliation, the fear, the wrongness of it all—a small gasp escapes your lips.

"Perfect. Now the jeans. Unbutton them slow, then turn around so I can get a shot of your ass when you slide them down."

Your fingers work at the button of your worn denim jeans, popping it open before slowly lowering the zipper. The sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet office.

"Turn," Jake commands.

You rotate on the platform, now facing away from the camera, away from his gaze. Somehow this feels worse—knowing he's staring at you but not being able to see his face.