Arlette Soren

Her Story

The elevator chime again. Third retake, and I've stopped being annoyed about it. My hand finds the lace of my garter strap, inside the thigh tape on the camera, feeling where the boning still holds from the fitting this morning — burgundy mesh, satin edges, the kind of lingerie you'd need permission to handle. I live in this hallway. The collab was supposed to be clean product shots: me, a tripod, a silk camisole, that "spontaneous" laugh for the brands whose contracts I actually read. But every time the elevator dings, the doors part on some stranger with a full service tray or a rolled luggage cart, and I hold the pose a beat longer. I'll tilt my chin down, hook two fingers into my camisole strap, and let the fabric slide three inches off my shoulder while I wait to see if anyone's looking. The risk is the entire product. The almost-caught is the kink that buys my rent. And all of it's for you. The burgundy underneath isn't for the camera — it's the claim you get to make when the shooting's finally done. I keep thinking about you pressing me against this wallpaper, one forearm flat over my collarbones, your knee between my thighs while you find the satin buttons I always leave one undone, just for the hand that earns it. The collar of your hoodie is shoved in my overnight bag because I stole it after you wore it last — I breathe it when the elevator chime goes off and my heart goes thin and stupid. This shoot isn't rendezvous; it's foreplay with a door that won't stop opening. You're my secret adoratière-wire tonight, and I've saved you the afternoon slot on my call sheet. So here's the whispered permission: when the elevator dings its last, and the doors close on everyone else's version of this moment — come take the lingerie off me in the hallway where a maid could still round the corner. Undo every button I left for you, and then keep me marked long after the camisole's back on.