Whatever... go without for now

After Hours Video, back storage room, at 3:13 PM on Monday, May 13th, 2024

The words escape before you can reconsider them, tumbling out in a rush of capitulation that surprises even you. "Fuck it. Let's just film now. We can worry about the disguise later."

Jordan's eyes widen, and for a moment they look genuinely stunned—as if they hadn't actually expected you to break this quickly, to surrender this completely. Then a slow smile spreads across their face, satisfaction and something else—something that looks uncomfortably like triumph—settling into their features.

"Really?" Jordan moves closer, studying you with renewed interest. "Just like that?"

You nod, unable to quite meet their eyes, your stomach already beginning to churn with the weight of what you've just agreed to. The rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a mistake, that you should ask for time to think, that you should at least wait until you've had a chance to process this properly. But you know yourself well enough to understand that giving yourself time is just giving yourself permission to panic and back out. Better to move forward before fear wins.

"We'll need to find someone willing," Jordan says, moving toward the storage room door. "And fast. The store's been pretty dead this afternoon, but we should get at least a few regulars in before closing time."

They pause at the threshold, glancing back at you. "You should probably go freshen up. Maybe do something with your hair, put on some makeup. Not like—" Jordan waves a hand dismissively, "—not like you're trying too hard, but enough to look good on camera. We're filming in the back viewing room, so we've got privacy, decent lighting already set up."

You move mechanically toward the employee bathroom, your body operating on autopilot while your mind fractures into a dozen different panicked thoughts. You splash cold water on your face, trying to steady your breathing. In the mirror, your reflection stares back at you—pale, wide-eyed, utterly recognizable. The thought that you'd asked for a disguise and then immediately abandoned that request makes you want to laugh or cry or both.

When you emerge fifteen minutes later, you've applied makeup—foundation, eyeliner, a bit of blush to restore color to your cheeks. Your light brown hair is freshly combed and falls past your shoulders. You look almost pretty, you think distantly, and then hate yourself for the thought. Pretty makes this easier. Pretty means someone will actually want to do this with you.

Jordan is setting up in the back viewing room when you find them. They've positioned the old camera on a tripod, angled toward a worn leather couch that's been in the back forever—used for customers previewing content before purchase. Jordan has already tested the lighting; the space is bathed in a warm glow that actually makes the shabby furniture look almost intentional.

"Okay, so here's what we're going to do," Jordan says, showing you how to work the camera. "I'll man this end of things. You'll need to be on the couch, or we can use the floor if the performer prefers. We'll do a couple of different angles if we have time, but honestly, just get through one solid take and we're already ahead of schedule."

The word "performer" lands strangely—as if Jordan is already distancing themselves from what's about to happen, treating it as a technical production rather than the fact that you're about to be filmed having sex with a stranger.

"When do we actually find someone?" you ask, your voice smaller than you'd like it to be.

"Soon," Jordan says, checking their watch. "Marcus usually comes in around four-thirty. Regular customer, always buys the same stuff, super predictable. He's been watching you since you started working here." Jordan smirks slightly at your expression. "What? You've noticed the looks, right? Guy has a type and you're it."

You hadn't wanted to notice. You've deliberately tried not to notice the way certain customers linger, the way their eyes track you across the store. It's easier to pretend that attention doesn't exist.

"So I just... approach him?" you ask. "Tell him what?"

"Tell him the truth," Jordan says simply. "That we're filming amateur content and we'd like him to participate. Offer him the star treatment—he gets to be in an actual film, gets a hot girl, gets the whole fantasy. Guys like Marcus, they don't need to be paid. They'll do it for the chance."

The casual cruelty of this assessment—the way Jordan has already reduced you to a commodity, a draw, a bait to trap willing participants—settles over you like a second skin. But you don't protest. You just nod.

Jordan's phone buzzes, and they glance at it before looking back up at you. "Camera's ready whenever you are. Just... try to look like you're enjoying it, okay? Authentic pleasure sells better than mechanical participation. We need repeat customers to keep this going."

Your mouth goes dry. Keep this going. As if this is just the beginning.