I look down at my body. Tiny goose bumps cover my arms, stomach, and breasts, poking through my lace and ribbon bra and panty set that I stayed up late sewing last night. Among all the goose bumps I saw a single string hanging from my bra. Did I forget to cut it? Or was the bra coming undone? I twisted my body trying to see if there was anymore lose threads or even a hole. Nothing. My eyes return to that single thread. It’s only an inch long, and I can’t look away.
The only props for the photo shoot are a satin ottoman, a whip, and of course, the camera. The ottoman is set in the center of peeling duct tape right angles on the floor, in front of a white wall that is spotted with tiny black scuffs from people carelessly moving furniture. The click of my stiletto heels echoes though the room as I step on the concrete floor.
“Bettie,” Irving yells, “no one wants to see a pin up girl covered in goose bumps.” I force my attention away from the tiny imperfection, and tuck it under the seam.
“Well, Irving dear, there is a simple solution. You don’t want your girls covered in tiny bumps, turn up the heat.”
I walk over to the ottoman. When the skin between my panties and stockings touches the satin my goose bumps multiply. I shudder.
“Heat. I mean it,” I yell.
“You’re precious, doll, precious. You’ll get used to it in a few minutes. Start moving around, get some body heat going.”