Very carefully.

The black silk bikini felt like a spider trap on her skin: cold, sticky, and grotesquely insufficient. Every movement Magi made was a battle between the need to perform her job and the primal instinct to shrink, to cover herself. The air conditioning, always high in the studio, blew directly onto her, raising goosebumps and turning every task into an ordeal of self-consciousness.

Her first job was to clean the camera lenses. This involved leaning over the equipment table, a long surface of polished metal. As she bent, she felt immediate panic: the fear that the tiny triangle of the top would shift, that the dental floss of the bottom would become a mere dark line between her buttocks. Bending over, an uncomfortable tug on her back warned her that the fabric was more fragile than it seemed. She moved her arm awkwardly, rubbing the glass with a microfibre cloth, hyper-aware that her back was completely exposed to the room, to the gazes she knew were there, even if she didn't see them directly.

"A little more care, Magi," Elara's voice cut through the air from her office, whose door was open like a theater box. "That equipment is worth more than a year of your salary. Don't scratch it."

Magi held her breath. The comment wasn't about the equipment; it was a reminder of her relative value. One object tending to another object.

She continued with the task of reorganizing the photographic backdrops, heavy rolls of vinyl paper and canvas screens. Grabbing one and carrying it to the rack required flexing her knees and embracing the weight against her chest. The effort made her sweat, and the bikini silk instantly stuck to her skin, outlining every curve with humiliating precision. As she lifted the roll, she felt a sudden tug on the knot at her neck—a thread gave way, and for a terrifying second, she thought the top would completely give out. She froze, holding her breath until she felt the knot still held. As she put the roll away, she felt the back of the garment sink dangerously. A choked sound, a quick, stifled laugh, came from where a pair of assistants were preparing a set. Magi squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the heat rise up her neck.

"Magi, the cyan backdrop goes before the black, not after," Elara didn't raise her voice. She spoke with the calm of someone stating an unquestionable truth. "Order is fundamental. Like elegance. It's not just what you show, it's how you show it."

The humiliation was methodical, choreographed. Every correction, every instruction, was designed to emphasize her exposure. When she bent to pick up a clip that had fallen, the tension in the thin fabric of the crotch was so **** that she felt the seams protestingly creak. She believed, with sudden panic, that it would tear right there, leaving her completely naked in front of everyone. She felt the whole room hold its breath. The simple act of picking something up from the floor became an obscene performance.

The last straw was when Elara asked her to clean the floor around a set where a little water had been spilled.

"Use the paper towel. And be thorough," Elara said, with that icy smile that never reached her eyes. "Dirt in the studio is like imperfection in art. Unacceptable."

Magi knelt down. The position was so ****, so deliberately exposed, that tears finally blurred her vision. As she rested a hand on the cold floor for balance, the bottom piece shifted alarmingly, and she had to contract her muscles forcefully to prevent a false move from exposing her in the most grotesque way. She worked with quick, clumsy movements, wishing the floor would swallow her. The bikini felt like a cruel mockery—how could it protect her from dirt when it couldn't even protect her from stares or her own fragility?

Through her blurred eyelashes, she saw Elara's impeccable shoes approach and stop beside her. She said nothing. She only watched. Her silence was the most eloquent comment of all. Magi kept scrubbing the floor, every movement of her arms making her body sway slightly, a constant reminder of what was on display and the precariousness of her situation.

When she finished, she stood up trembling, feeling the fabric adjust treacherously to her body again. Elara was still there.

"Good," she simply said. "Now go prepare the coffee. Yesterday's clients are coming back this afternoon. They are eager to see how... their new muse is progressing."

The word "muse" sounded like the epitaph of the person Magi had been. She nodded, not daring to speak, and headed to the small kitchen, feeling every gaze, every whisper, like a brand of fire on her skin. The bikini was not just a uniform. It was a cage of silk and anxiety, and every task, no matter how mundane, was an act of submission and an imminent danger in the circus her life had become. And Elara was the tamer, smiling coldly from the center of the ring.