This is the dress

"This is the dress," she says, her voice quiet but certain. "I'm putting it on now."

She stands, the white micro skirt and thong still clutched in her other hand. She doesn't ask Marcus to turn around. She doesn't retreat to the bathroom. She just hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, stepping out of them with a rustle of denim. The white t-shirt comes next, pulled over her head in one motion, leaving her bare to the dim glow of the laptop screen.

She pulls the white thong up first, the fabric so thin it feels like nothing against her skin. Then the micro skirt, which barely covers the tops of her thighs. She steps into the white knee-high socks, rolling them up her calves, feeling the soft cotton settle against her skin. Finally, the pink tube top — she has to tug it over her breasts, the fabric straining against them, the hem riding high enough to show a strip of her midriff.

She turns to face him. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the laptop fan and the faint sound of the video still playing behind her.

"Okay," she says, her voice steady. "I'm ready. Show me where you want me."

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