Sunset ^beta

Melissa stood stock-still, with her arms stretched out to the sides and her hands splayed. She didn’t flinch when the fitter stabbed her with a pin. She felt a drop of blood ooze down her ribs. It was warm, ticklish.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Miss Velvette for the body binder, the one that made breathing a struggle and twisting at the waist impossible. It would absorb the blood, so the designer blouse she had on—currently the only one of its kind—would not be stained.

Again, the fitter pricked her. Again, Melissa did not react.

The fitters here had all learned from the best. Their priority was the clothing; they had no sympathy for a model who couldn’t handle some discomfort. Mopping up tears wasn’t their job. It wasn’t their fault if the body they worked on got in the way of their pins.

Some of the other models—the ones who hadn’t worked for Miss Velvette long enough to know better—whined amongst themselves that the fitters hurt them on purpose. They whispered that the fitters hated them, resented them for their beauty, for their value in Miss Velvette’s hierarchy.

Melissa knew better than those less experienced models. She knew it didn’t matter whether the fitters hurt them on purpose. The fitters were an ugly, resentful lot, and all well aware that they would never move up the ladder. They were talented, perhaps, with their sharp eyes and quick fingers, but too ugly to be in the spotlight, too cowardly or unoriginal for Miss Velvette’s attention. They could never be models, nor would they ever be welcome in Miss Velvette’s gaggle of underling designers.

Whenever Melissa overheard those whispered complaints, she made sure to tip off the fitters with the names of the complainers. The next time they handled those models, they went out of their way to make it hurt. Melissa had to hide a smile whenever she heard those treacherous women cry out in pain.

Another pin stabbed her. It was warm from the fitter’s hand, but the sharpness gave it the illusion of cold. Melissa did not flinch, did not cry out.

The low chatter in the workroom died when Miss Velvette came striding down the hall. Each footstep struck the floor like the crack of a whip. Her hair flounced behind her, alluring as always. Her marketing team followed at her heels, yapping and complimenting her incessantly.

They were like dogs, Melissa thought snidely. Loyal, obedient, tripping over one another to praise their mistress’s every word, each hoping to win her unwinnable favor, if only for a minute. Stupid, ugly, slobbering dogs lapping at their mistress’s heels for crumbs—as they should. As everyone here did.

If you managed to get made with Miss Velvette, you were made. High risk, but high reward. Melissa had successfully cleared the steep entry hurdle. She’d survived the first day, the first month, the first year, years, more years. Her grip on her current ladder rung was stable, and stability was something many in Hell could only dream of. She was safe on the inside, safe from the horrors of outside.

She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d signed her soul away. She couldn’t remember; she didn’t want to remember. It didn’t matter.

Another pin stabbing, digging, blooding. It almost felt good this time.

“The fuck were you thinking?” Miss Velvette snapped, striding up to a pair. The model began to tremble, and the fitter silently lowered her gaze.

Miss Velvette turned the model this way and that, tugged at her clothes, tightened the collar until it strangled. She magicked the outfit away with a look of disgust, and the model’s hands fluttered over her body in a feeble attempt to hide her nakedness.

Miss Velvette struck the fitter across the face. The fitter fell to the floor with a grunt, but knew better than to rise. Miss Velvette seized the model by the hair and snapped, “You thought this was the right body to put in that fit? You thought these fucking boy scout hips were the way to show off that skirt? Find a-fucking-nother one, you stupid twat!”

“Yes, Miss Velvette. Right away, Miss Velvette,” the fitter mumbled. She hastily gathered up her supplies and fled the workroom in search of a better figure.

“Very astute, ma’am,” one of her lackeys piped up.

“No detail escapes!” squeaked another.

A third added, “That’s why you’re the best, ma’am!”

“What are you cunts still doing here?” she snapped, whirling on them. They shrank from her voice, the voice that was like the cut of a blade, the prod of a needle. “Get those fucking posters downstairs! What was that hour-long meeting for, if you’re not going to do what I fucking told you? Go!”

Her sycophants scrambled to obey, piling haphazardly into the elevator. Melissa and several others had to hold back giggles.

The naked model was still standing on the fitting platform with one forearm across her breasts and a hand cupping her groin. Silent tears streaked her face, and her shoulders trembled with contained sobs.

Good. This model relied on her height and her beauty; inside, she was weak. That weakness was on full display now, just like the rest of her. Melissa knew she wasn’t the only one inwardly cheering the humiliation of her competition.

Velvette cocked her head and prompted, “You gonna stand there groping yourself all day? Don’t bother with a robe. Just get your arse to the pattern room. They’re short on bodies today, and some dumb fuck miscalculated his measurements.”

The model nodded tearfully and hurried away. Once again, the other women had to smother their laughter as they watched her pert, pale buttocks disappear down the hall.

Melissa knew better than to ask, but she couldn’t help wondering what happened to the worker who’d fumbled a pattern.

Maybe he was sent to the potions department to help with testing. Melissa sometimes wandered down there in her spare time to listen to the screams and the sizzling and the vomiting, to press her face to the crack at the bottom of the door and inhale the acrid fumes until she came close to fainting. Whether the test subjects on any given day were sent there for disobedience or mere negligence, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Either way, they were being rightly punished.

If he’d done a bad enough job on his pattern, perhaps he would be sent to Organic Accessory Storage. Or as employees called it, the ‘special pantry’.

Whenever Miss Velvette decided that abstract, alternative fashion was in season, her designers would dip into the special pantry for inspiration. Sometimes they incorporated skin or scales, sometimes hair or horns, sometimes teeth and bones. The unfortunate inhabitants of the special pantry were stripped for parts, and given just enough time to regenerate before having their bodies raided again.

One recent line of gowns incorporated thoracic vertebrae. Not all of the bodies in the special pantry had spines that fit the design, so supply was limited, making this batch of dresses particularly expensive. They’d become highly coveted among the upper echelon of Hellborn demons, so Miss Velvette had her harvesters working overtime.

Out of necessity, today’s pattern blunderer would likely end up down there. It was a gruesome punishment, but it wasn’t just for incompetent workers. It was for anyone unlucky enough to be deemed an enemy: fashion journalists who remarked critically on Miss Velvette’s designs, or worse, didn’t remark at all; aspiring overlords who made the mistake of thinking she was an easy target; dissenters in her livestreams that Vox tracked down for her; and it was rumored that a former lover had been kept down there longer than anyone else.

Melissa never felt the urge to wander near the special pantry.

Miss Velvette strode through the workroom, correcting stitches and hemlines, berating clumsy hands. At one point, she made two models switch. Melissa was so thoroughly disassociated, thinking about the butchery in the special pantry and the stomach-turning experimentation in the potions department, she didn’t notice Miss Velvette’s approach until she was standing right in front of her.

Melissa’s breath caught in her throat. She was always taken aback by how beautiful Miss Velvette was up close, from her intense red eyes to her flawless dark skin to that incredible mane of hair.

“Melissa, I need you in my office. Berthy, drop the pins. You can have her back as soon as I’m done.”

Miss Velvette didn’t wait for a response. She seized Melissa by the wrist and dragged her off the fitting platform. Despite her petite stature, her grip was strong. Melissa would certainly have bruises. There was a strange thrill at the thought of her flesh being personally marked by Miss Velvette.

Into her office they went. The door shut with an ominous clunk. Melissa walked with care, not wanting to displace the pins or muss the blouse. She looked around curiously, having only ever gotten glimpses inside Miss Velvette’s office.

It was red and dark, like her. There was a full walk-in closet, a lush carpet, a sewing counter that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. There were standing ring lights, fairy lights strung over the windows, wall-mounted lamps, desk lamps, more lights. Everywhere, lights, but they were soft, muted, casting the room in a severe glow. Perfumes and lotions scented the air, strong enough to make Melissa lightheaded. The walls were covered with posters advertising past shows, and the floor was scattered with stray sketches. The designs Melissa saw were beautiful, and she dearly wanted to pick them up, to run her fingers over the smooth graphite lines, but she didn’t dare.

Miss Velvette walked to her desk, muttering under her breath, and began fishing through the drawers, checking things on her phone. Every time she lifted the phone, Melissa flinched, knowing what that small device was capable of in her hands. For several minutes, Miss Velvette completely ignored her. Melissa just stood where she was, awaiting instruction, unsure what to do with herself. She felt like an intruder.

At last, Miss Velvette cleared a space in the middle of her desk. She snapped her fingers and ordered, “Come here. Sit.”

“Sit. . . on the desk?” Melissa asked weakly.

Miss Velvette looked affronted.

“Are you fucking slow? Yes, walk your arse over here and sit on my fucking desk. Just pretend it’s a washing machine.”

Melissa hurried to comply, silently cursing herself for her own stupidity. When Miss Velvette gave her an instruction, she ought to follow it right away. The sudden quick movement made Berthy’s pins pierce her again, but she knew she deserved it.

Hoisting herself up onto the edge of the desk was an arduous task. The pins didn’t like to be shifted, and she had to bite her tongue to keep quiet as one stabbed deep into her left buttock. Thankfully, it was high enough that it was covered by the tail of the binder. No blood would ruin the fine clothes.

Miss Velvette sat down in her desk chair and rolled it closer. She pushed Melissa’s short skirt up and shoved her legs open. From her phone, she summoned a slim purple blade, and panic overcame Melissa’s creeping excitement.

Would Miss Velvette cut her? Stab her? Mutilate her? Had she done something unforgivably wrong or stupid? Was this a punishment? Miss Velvette had taken models into her office before. Sometimes there were soft moans and whimpers, stifled sounds of pleasure. Sometimes there were screams, and those women were later carried out on stretchers. The latter were disobedient, negligent, clumsy women, deserving of pain. They had to learn not to displease her, and learn they did.

Miss Velvette did not cut her. With surgical precision, she sliced open the bridge of Melissa’s thong. She ripped it off and carelessly tossed it away.

Melissa’s face heated up. Her breath quickened. Her exposed sex twitched, and a warmth that she hadn’t felt in a long time bubbled up deep inside. She started to tremble—from anticipation, from fear, from want, from the strain of having to hold up her own rigid body.

She wetted her lips and softly said, “Miss Velvette, I. . . I didn’t know you wanted—”

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I only meant—that is, do you want me to—”

“I want you to shut your mouth, or you’ll get what that dumb bitch Lydia got,” Velvette growled.

She slapped Melissa’s thigh for emphasis. It stung, but it was a delicious sting, like the non-pain the pins evoked after enough stabs. Melissa felt her entrance twitch again, felt dampness on her inner thigh when she shifted her legs.

She remembered Lydia. Lydia, who had been bold enough (stupid enough) to ask if she could wear something less painful on the runway. Her mouth was sewn shut for her impertinence. When she cried, her eyes were sewn shut, too. In a stroke of inspiration, Miss Velvette colored the stitches with glitter and had an assistant paint gold stitch patterns across her arms and legs. Matching patterns were quickly embroidered into the dress. Lydia was stuck with the painful outfit, and was forced to walk the runway blind. Magic threads were embedded in her soles to guide her, so she wouldn’t fall.

Her walk received a standing ovation. Melissa and the other models seethed, clenched their fists, gritted their teeth, because Lydia was beautiful. She was a glittering golden obelisk, outshining them all. None of them could hope to match her splendor that night.

The press later asked who the model was. They wanted to know who had endured such pain to present such beauty. Miss Velvette laughed off the question, and the model went unnamed. Miss Velvette would not soften a punishment with the reward of recognition.

Lydia’s eyes were unstitched after the show, but her mouth remained sewn shut for a week. Two years had passed since the incident, and Melissa hadn’t heard her utter a single word.

Melissa was not bold or stupid like Lydia. She knew better. She knew to be grateful for every opportunity she was given. She understood pain was a small price to pay.

So she kept her mouth shut and her body still as Miss Velvette gripped her thighs and put her face between her legs.

She licked her methodically, perfunctorily, sucked her clitoris with just the right pressure. She licked open her labia and buried her face to lap at the sensitive flesh concealed within.

Melissa whined through her teeth. She gripped the edge of the desk so hard her hands started to cramp. Her legs shook, twitched, her heels threatened to slip from where they were planted. This was something she had never dared to wish for, never dared to imagine except in her most private fantasies in the dead of night.

How long had it been since someone touched her like this? How unbelievably fortunate was she that the one touching her was Velvette? How many times had she longed for this very thing, fumed with envy for the models Velvette had pulled aside in the past—not for pain, but for pleasure?

Velvette slapped her thigh again, harder, making her cry out. She glanced up from between her legs and snapped, “Make some noise. I want everyone to hear what a slut you are.”

Melissa’s heart soared. She did not have to be silent; Velvette wanted to hear her. She wanted to hear all the sounds Melissa had been longing to give her.

She moaned, whimpered, gasped. She yelped when Velvette thrust her tongue inside her roughly, without warning. When she came, she let out a choked keening noise that she couldn’t recall ever making before.

Velvette straightened and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. Melissa was quaking from head to toe, almost in tears at the thought that the ecstasy was over, because she hadn’t felt anything this good the entire time she’d been in Hell. But it wasn’t over, as Velvette removed her own leggings and underwear with a flick of magic. She reclined in her chair and lifted a foot, braced it on the armrest. She focused on her phone as it rang with an incoming call, but spared enough attention to snap her fingers at Melissa and point down to her crotch.

Melissa understood. This was a trade: pleasure for pleasure. She slid gracelessly off the desk and lowered herself to her knees. The binder strained around her ribs, and the pin in her buttock was forced deeper, but the discomfort was all peripheral. Nothing else mattered as she scooched closer and put her mouth on Velvette’s sex.

Her flesh was strange—hard in places where it should be soft, with a sort of rubbery flexibility in her innermost parts. She was completely dry, which Melissa at first thought was due to her own shortcomings, but she soon suspected Velvette wasn’t capable of getting naturally wet. There was a smell, too, an underlying plasticky smell that was normally obscured by her heavy perfumes.

Melissa was cautious at first, dotting soft kisses and giving small, tentative licks, until Velvette yanked her ponytail, pressing her face closer. Her pelvic joints pinched the delicate skin of Melissa’s cheeks.

Velvette draped a leg casually over Melissa’s shoulder as she answered the call. Melissa briefly faltered when she recognized Valentino’s voice. It was small and tinny over the phone, but didn’t fail to make her stiffen up in fear.

“Hey, Babydoll, we’re getting food. You want anything?” he asked, twisting his voice in a crude imitation of her accent. The two overlords cackled.

“Nah, I just ate.”

“Who?” Valentino cackled again. “You slut.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” Velvette laughed.

She noticed that Melissa had stopped licking, and delivered a sharp kick to the back of her head. Melissa held back the pained tears in her eyes—and a moan of gratitude—as Velvette’s sharp heel drew blood. She did her best to focus on the task at hand rather than the cold purr of Valentino’s voice.

She thanked the powers that be every day that she’d sold her soul to Miss Velvette, and not to Valentino. He frightened her.

It was not for her to eavesdrop on the Vees, but she couldn’t help herself as Velvette said, “Oh, and you will never guess who the fuck came in late today.”

“Not me. I come on time.”

Velvette snorted, then said with a gleeful hiss, “It was Vox’s shitty assistant.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. All fucked-up looking. I think he got hit by a car on the way in. Hang on, I’ll text you a pic.”

When Melissa glanced up, she glimpsed a projected image of Vox’s assistant. She couldn’t remember his name, couldn’t remember if she’d ever spoken to him. Indeed, he looked like he’d been hit by a car.

“Oh. My. Fuck! He looks like shit!” Valentino crowed. “Oh my god. . .”

“Right? I didn’t even think he was allowed outside.”

“Well, he has to shit somewhere.”

They both laughed, low and mean.

As with Valentino, Melissa considered herself fortunate to not belong to Vox. The public loved him, but the staff knew better. He didn’t lash out as openly or as often as the other Vees, but everyone who worked in the tower could sense the monster lurking below the surface, the cunning and malice that were so expertly concealed under his charming smile. No one who worked for Vox truly knew him, and in her heart of hearts, Melissa wasn’t sure the other two Vees truly knew him.

If Melissa was ever unfortunate enough to be caught alone with Vox or Valentino, she hoped it would be Valentino. She knew what he would do. She didn’t know what Vox would do.

She wondered if his assistant ever regretted his choice.

When Velvette’s laughter ebbed, she said, “Oh, B-T-dubs, next time you’re sucking Vox off, can you ask for the surveillance footage? I wanna see that shit in action.”

“Wait, you wanna see us fucking?”

“No, no! Ew!” Velvette said, grimacing. She delicately clarified, “I just want to see a twink get hit by a car.”

Valentino chuckled and assured her, “I’ll ask tonight, baby.”

From his end, there came a third voice, distant but recognizable.

“Val, what does she want?”

“What?”

“Food.”

“Oh, she said she already ate.”

“Hi, Vox!” Velvette wiggled her fingers at a nearby camera and cheerily said, “Bye, babes!”

“Kisses,” Valentino purred. Velvette hung up on his playful smooching noises.

“I’m almost done. Pick it the fuck up,” she ordered, giving Melissa’s head a light smack. All trace of warmth was gone from her voice. Melissa nodded and earnestly sucked at her clit, nuzzled between her symmetrical folds.

She knew when Velvette was close, because she seized her ponytail in one manicured hand and pulled it hard enough to hurt. Melissa licked faster, deeper. Her lips were numb but she wouldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. She wanted to please this cruel, powerful witch, wanted to drown in her intoxicating scent and rub her lips raw against her unyielding flesh.

Velvette didn’t make a sound when she came. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head back. Her beautiful face scrunched up and the muscles in her legs twitched subtly. Her joints flexed, pinched Melissa’s cheeks again.

When Velvette drifted down from her climax, she shoved Melissa away with a harsh grunt. She sat back in her chair for a long time, panting. At last, she snapped her fingers, and both of their clothes were fixed as if nothing of note had occurred.

“Consider that your lunch break. Now get your arse back to the workroom,” she said.

Melissa struggled to pick herself up. Her body was stiff, exhausted. Her breasts ached in the binder, and her thighs were uncomfortably damp.

The very last thing she wanted to do was leave. Her mind and body were abuzz, as if she’d passed through divine fire. She wanted to stay there, spend the day on her knees for Miss Velvette, please her and obey her and bask in her favor. She wanted to touch her again, wanted to be touched back.

She returned to the workroom on unsteady legs, flushed but beaming. Berthy berated her for the creases in her clothes, for filthying the pins with her blood. Melissa took it in stride. She knew Berthy was just jealous, because she would never have the privilege of servicing Miss Velvette.

As the hour drew to a close, Miss Velvette returned to the workroom to oversee finishing touches. After handing out her usual criticisms, she made her way to Melissa.

“Open vest? Really?” she snapped at Berthy, who lowered her head in shame.

Miss Velvette strode up to Melissa and pulled the vest shut over her blouse, buttoned it up. As she did, she ranted, “This needs more adjustments. Can your tits go any smaller? No, don’t inhale, you dumb bitch, that makes ‘em stick out more! We’ll have to put you in a better binder next time.”

She adjusted a few pins, tightened the darts and side seams, grumbling all the while.

Melissa could feel every eye in the room lingering on her. She knew the other models were seething with envy.

When Miss Velvette wanted adjustments made, she used magic or directed the fitters. She rarely ever handled the models herself. Melissa was unable to repress the smile that tugged at her swollen lips. She was chosen; she was favored.

When Miss Velvette poked her with a pin, a gasp escaped her—a gasp of pleasure, because the strike came from her mistress, her goddess, this stunning creature who held so many souls in her perfect hands. Miss Velvette paused in her adjustments and looked up at her. She cocked her head, considering. For the first time, it felt like she was really looking at Melissa, looking through her.

“The fuck is that smile for?” she snapped after a moment.

“Sorry, Miss Velvette,” Melissa mumbled, still smiling. She turned her eyes away, but the blush in her cheeks betrayed her happiness.

“Make sure you wipe it off before you get on the runway. You need to be perfect, not pretty.”

She thinks my smile is pretty, Melissa thought giddily, but she didn’t dare say it aloud.

Miss Velvette’s operation was record-fast, as always, and the show was ready by that evening. As the models prepared for the runway, Miss Velvette prowled about with her squad of doggish sycophants, inspecting everyone with her eagle eye.

She eventually found Melissa alone, in the dark recesses behind the curtain. She adjusted her vest one last time and reminded her, “Make sure you keep your tits in.”

She suddenly seized her and shoved her up against the wall, pinned her to it with shocking strength. She gripped one of her breasts through the fabric, squeezed it too hard, and purred, “I’ll be wanting ‘em nice and warm later. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Velvette,” Melissa breathed.

Miss Velvette released her and strode away without another word. Her footsteps were like thundering glass, resounding, stabbing. She was beautiful, cruel, wicked.

As the models lined up backstage, Melissa had to pretend her heart wasn’t thudding against her compressed ribs. She had to pretend her shortness of breath was because of the binder, and not because she could still feel Miss Velvette’s nails digging into her breast. She had to pretend she was trembling with nerves, and not because she couldn’t wait for a chance to strip down and admire the bruises, the marks of her mistress.

She had to pretend she wasn’t crossing her fingers, praying Miss Velvette’s favor would carry over to tomorrow, to eternity.