Fix Yourself

Willow's fingers are slick and trembling when David's voice sharpens through the speaker: 'Enough. Fix yourself and come back to the table—you look like a call girl.' She drops her dress, the hem falling to her knees as she smooths the fabric with shaking hands, the plug still humming inside her. The maître d' steps back from the doorway, his eyes lingering on her face as she meets his gaze, and she sees the judgment there. She walks past him on her heels, the cage pressing between her thighs with every step, and finds David waiting at the table with a slow, knowing smile.