A costly form of assistance

The phone vibrated on the cold glass surface, breaking the heavy silence of the waiting room. Jessica, still drowsy from the lingering shock of the photo shoot, extended a trembling hand. The black lace of her glove brushed against the screen.

The message was terse and direct: “The next test requires knowledge. Go to the Central Public Library, east wing, third floor. It’s almost empty on Saturday afternoons. Find the book ‘The Garden of Forbidden Delights,’ by an anonymous author, in the occult philosophy section. Take a picture of yourself with it, showing the cover and your body. You have 45 minutes.”

Library. Public. Jessica swallowed. The familiar panic closed her throat. Walking down the street in that outfit was one thing; entering a public space, even a half-empty one, was quite another. The echoes of the old women’s stares still burned her skin.

Before she could fully process it, a second vibration. A message from an unidentified number, but the context gave it away:

“It’s Lucas, the photographer. I know the test is tough. I have something that might… help you. An accessory. Wide. It could cover you a bit, if you want. But nothing is free. Come to my office, at the end of the hall on the right, before you leave. If you don’t want to, no problem. Just an offer.”

An offer. An accessory. Covering you. The words echoed in his mind like a siren’s song. The possibility, however small, of having something to mitigate the exposure was tempting to the point of obscenity. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the “price” wouldn’t be money.

He hesitated. He looked at the exit door, then at the door to the hallway that led to the office. The clock ticked on. 45 minutes. The library wasn't far, but every second of indecision was a second less to comply, and the threat of the photos being made public still hung like a sword of Damocles on a thread of black silk.

With a sigh that was more of a surrender, she stood up. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, marking the path to the office door. She pushed it open.

It was a small room, crammed with photographic equipment, shelves of folders, and a cluttered desk. Lucas, the photographer, was sitting behind him, cleaning a lens with a microfiber cloth. Seeing her enter, he set the lens aside and studied her with that same analytical gaze as before, but now with a different glint, more personal, almost… businesslike.

“So, you agree to negotiate,” he said, without preamble.

“What’s the accessory?” Jessica asked, avoiding his gaze, her arms instinctively crossed over her chest. The metal chain tugged at her nipples.

Lucas opened a drawer and took something out. It wasn’t clothing. It was a large, square scarf of thick, opaque black silk. He unfurled it. It was large enough to cover her shoulders, or wrap around her torso, or even tie at her waist like a miniskirt. It wasn't a solution, but it was a veil, an illusion of coverage.

"It's Italian silk. Very durable. It might do... for certain parts," he said, running it through his fingers. "But like I said, it comes at a price."

Jessica stared at him. The silk seemed to absorb the light, promising shade, a respite. "What's the price?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Lucas leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes scanning her from head to toe, lingering on the silver paint, the crimson mark between her legs. "Your lips are a very vibrant color," he said, his voice low. "I'd like... a token of gratitude. An intimate gesture. Brief. Here, now."

The words, though expected, struck her with a new kind of rawness. A knot of disgust and terror formed in her throat. She had little experience. Very little. A couple of awkward boyfriends at her old school. Nothing like this.

“No…” she started, but the word died on her lips. She looked at the handkerchief. She looked at the door that led to the street, to the library, to full exposure. The scales tipped, once again, toward immediate degradation to avoid a public and catastrophic one.

“Is… is it quick?” she managed to ask, her voice a whisper.

“As quick as you want,” he replied, his tone neutral, as if discussing a lighting adjustment. “But it has to be convincing.”

Jessica closed her eyes. She nodded. A single movement of her head, the last vestige of her will giving way.

Lucas didn’t move from his chair. He simply watched her, expectant. She understood. He moved closer, the click of his heels like a countdown. The scent of his cologne, camera chemicals, and something masculine and sweaty enveloped her. She knelt on the cold wooden floor of the office, facing him.

Her hands, encased in lace gloves, trembled. She hesitated, glancing at the zipper of her black trousers. He offered no assistance. He merely watched.

With clumsy, mortifying movements, Jessica proceeded. It was swift, mechanical, devoid of any artistry.

She focused on the texture of the fabric, the metal of the zipper, anything but what she was doing. Her mind drifted away, floating above the scene, watching a masked girl, decorated like a fetish object, performing an intimate act in exchange for a piece of cloth. The humiliation was so profound it almost became abstract.

Lucas made a low sound, one of controlled satisfaction. One of his hands rested, not forcefully, but possessively, on her head, among the strands of her blonde hair. He didn't push her away. He just held her there, marking his control.

It was, as he had promised, quick. When he finished, Jessica jerked away, coughing, bringing the back of the glove to her mouth. The salty, bitter taste made her stomach churn. She didn't look Lucas in the eye.

He, for his part, calmly adjusted his clothing. Then he took the black silk scarf and held it out to her.

"Here. Your reward," he said. Her voice was slightly hoarse, but her expression remained professional. “A word of caution: this isn’t to hide from the game. It’s to wear in it. Later, there will be a specific place and time to wear it. But for now… you can wear it as you please.”

Jessica gripped the silk. It was soft, heavy, real. A tangible object amidst the surrealism of her nightmare. She stood, her knees weak. Without another word, she turned and left the office, feeling his gaze on her back like a brand.

In the waiting room, she faced the scarf. “As you please.” The choice, again, an illusion. What to cover? What to expose? Her mind, clouded by shame and disgust, made a practical, almost ****, decision. Her breasts, with the chain and the paint, seemed the most obvious points, the ones that would first attract attention. Her genitals, though marked, could be somewhat concealed by the position of her legs, by the shadow.

With still-trembling hands, she folded the scarf into a triangle and tied it behind her neck, letting the opaque black fabric fall over her chest. It covered from her collarbones to just above her navel, concealing the metal chain and silver discs. The silk was large enough that the ends hung down her sides, brushing her waist. She wasn't dressed, but she wasn't completely exposed in that area anymore. It was a tiny, bittersweet relief.

She left the rest uncovered: her belly, her hips, the red-dyed hair and silver paint, her legs encased in the net. She glanced at herself for a moment in the reflection of an abandoned camera lens. She looked like a concubine in some modern ritual, with a partial veil that only served to highlight what it didn't cover.

The phone vibrated again. The timer. She had to move.

She took a breath, adjusted the knot of the scarf at the nape of her neck, and left the “Night Vision” studio. The black door closed behind her with a final click.

The afternoon was still clear. She walked quickly, trying to project a determination she didn't feel. The black scarf fluttered slightly with her movements, a flag of her secret transaction. This time, she didn't encounter any old women. A couple of teenagers on a motorbike sped past, and one of them shouted something unintelligible, but they didn't stop. A man taking out the trash stared at her, his mouth agape, but she quickened her pace, her gaze fixed ahead.

She reached the library, an old stone building. She took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and entered. The echo of her heels was absorbed by the silent carpet of the lobby, the black silk scarf—bought at a price that still burned in her mouth and soul—concealing only a part of the humiliating work of art she had become. The search for the book awaited her in the silent gloom of the shelves.