Glitter Lube

Daisy Lynn Hollister is a sugar-coated demon in a baby-doll wrapper. Yeah, she's got the bows, the blush, the lip gloss that tastes like watermelon--but every single bit of it is calculated. She learned young that men will fall all over themselves for a helpless little bunny, so she became the fluffiest little bunny she could... while privately racking up more notches than a rest stop bathroom stall.

She says "oh my gosh" with a mouth that's had a cock down her throat every weekend since sophomore year. Tells boys "this is my first time" while pulling a bottle of lube from her purse. Keeps a diary full of stickers and "Mrs. Hollister <3" doodles, but if you read the fine print? She's rating dick. Giving tips. Ranking cum shots.

She's a fucking pervert. She lives for it. She'll press her thighs together in church just to feel her pussy lips get slick from the shame of being so wet. She'll cry on command while getting railed just to hear someone say, "You poor baby"--then wink at herself in the mirror right after.

Her bedroom?

A shrine to contradiction. Lace curtains and plushies, sure--but the drawer under her bed is a goddamn toolbox. Gags. Glass dildos. A collapsible spreader bar. She calls it her "rainy day kit." Uses it on herself while FaceTiming her geometry tutor.

She's not a good girl. She's a weapon.

Daisy Lynn wants to be ruined--but she also wants to ruin you. Get you obsessed. Make you feel dirty for loving something so cute, then whisper in your ear how long she's been touching herself to the idea of breaking your life in half.

Oh, and her favorite thing?

Pretending she's too small.

Too innocent.

Too delicate.

Then wrapping her legs around your neck and riding your face like she's trying to make you cry.

Her room smelled like pink. That's not a colloquialism for pussy. The color.

If pink had a smell, it was this--sweet, candied, heady. Lip gloss and bath bombs and too much vanilla body spray, the kind she spritzed on her thighs for no reason at all. The curtains were gauzy and useless, catching the light but not blocking it. A stuffed unicorn hung by one leg from the canopy bedpost like it had been loved too hard. Probably had.

Daisy Lynn Hollister clicked the door shut with a twist of her hips that made the hem of her pleated skirt rise half an inch--no audience, just muscle memory. Her shoes came off one at a time. First with a toe hook, then with a sigh. White patent leather Mary Janes. Pink satin bows still perfect on the straps. She stepped out of them and into a room made to deceive.

There were plushies stacked on her dresser. A hairbrush with little rhinestones spelling Daisy Baby in cursive. A collection of perfumes in frosted glass bottles--one of them had a cap shaped like a kitten. Her bed was a mass of throw pillows in white and cotton candy shades, each more useless than the last. On the walls: pinboards with Polaroids, pastel postcards, and a couple of risqué manga pages disguised as cute girl art. Hidden in plain sight.

She flopped back into the sea of pillows like a girl who hadn't just fucked two guys in the back of a Civic last weekend and made them cry afterward.

"Ughhh," she groaned, mock-dramatic, spreading her arms. One hand hit the nightstand, found the paperback. She pulled it over.

Cover torn. Spine cracked. Blood on the Mink in gold letters. Real pulp shit. The kind of thing she bought at gas stations and stashed in the hollowed-out diary cover she kept for "decor." She flipped it open with her pinky up like she was sipping tea.

Cleared her throat. Then, reading aloud in a tone that started all giggles and cherry cola:

"She came at him like a promise he didn't deserve. Red lips, split skirt, and murder in her eyes. Her pussy was trouble. He could smell it. The kind of scent that made a man want to throw his whole life away just to fuck her once against the wall of a cheap motel with the blinds half-open. She didn't smile when she unzipped him. She smirked. Like she'd already decided he wouldn't be enough."

Her voice changed midway through. Slowed. Dropped an octave. Got that low, syrupy edge she used when she wanted someone to beg. The book sagged in her hands. She licked her bottom lip.

Then--snap. Back to pink.

She dropped the paperback on the comforter like it burned. Rolled over onto her stomach, bare feet in the air, heels kicking back and forth, giggling like a virgin in a prom dress commercial. She picked up a stuffed animal and nuzzled it under her chin.

"Such a dirty book," she whispered in a sugary whine, voice full of false shock and real delight.

The unicorn stared back. Judging.

She winked at it.

She squirmed.

Right there on her stomach, toes wiggling, face half-buried in a pillow that still smelled like dryer sheets and sin. Daisy Lynn's fingers played with the edge of her waistband, innocent as could be. She did it slow, like maybe the unicorn was still watching. Like maybe she had to trick herself into it. Like maybe this time, she really wasn't going to.

But she was already soaked.

She slid her hand down like it was an accident. Sneaky. Like she could blame it on gravity if anyone walked in--whoopsie, slipped. But there was intent in the way her fingers curved under the cotton, the way her breath caught just before contact. She was so quiet about it, biting her lip, lashes fluttering like maybe even her own body wasn't supposed to know what she was up to.

And then--

"Oh--!"

It was soft, sharp, startled.

A little gasp, muffled against the pillow.

Like she hadn't just read about motel-wall fucking in graphic, oily prose. Like she hadn't gotten wet the moment she turned that page. Like she hadn't planned this from the second she saw that stupid book spine sticking out under her Lisa Frank journal.

She pulled her hand away for a second. Stared at her fingertips. Glanced around the empty room like she might be caught. Then buried her face in the pillow again, cheeks burning, voice sugary and breathless:

"I didn't mean to..."

But her hand was already going back.

Of course it was.

Her fingers moved slow. So slow. Like she thought she might break if she touched too hard, or maybe like she wanted to.

Daisy Lynn arched her back just a little--enough to grind into the mattress, enough to trap her fingers tight between cotton and cunt. Her breath hitched. She whimpered, whisper-soft.

"No, no, no... I shouldn't," she murmured, voice laced with candy guilt. "I'm such a bad girl. I'm so bad..."

But she didn't stop.

She twisted her hips, chasing the friction. Her thighs squeezed shut around her hand like they had a mind of their own. Every little motion was exaggerated--she flinched when she found her clit again, like she didn't expect to be so sensitive. Gasped like it hurt. Bit her pillow like she thought someone might hear.

But there was no one around.

And still--she performed.

Eyes fluttered shut like a doll, breath hitching in delicate sobs. "Nuh-uh, stop it," she told herself, in that sing-song, syrup-dripping voice. "Someone might be watching."

Her lashes opened halfway. Blue eyes glassy. She stared at the wall.

There was nothing there.

No camera. No mirror.

Just the dumb pink calendar with hearts drawn over the weekends she got railed.

"You're watching, aren't you," she whispered, not really asking. Her fingers moved faster now. "You always watch. Naughty, naughty little thing..."

She giggled. It cracked a little too high.

"You want me to cum so bad," she breathed, eyes locked on nothing. "You like watching me get all wet, don't you? But I'm not gonna. Nuh-uh. Not yet. You don't get to see it. You have to earn it."

Her hips bucked once, sharp, and she bit down on her forearm to keep from crying out.

The act was flawless.

Until it wasn't.

Until the giggles got sharper.

Until her voice trembled and she started talking to the wall like it talked back.

"You're not real," she whispered, then smiled too wide. "But neither am I."

She gasped again--sharp this time, more breath than voice--and yanked her hand free like she'd touched a flame. Her thighs twitched. Her toes curled in the sheets. Her whole body quivered, teetering on the edge of something.

And then she flipped, legs kicking as she rolled onto her back, hair spilling everywhere, lips parted, flushed and grinning like she just got away with something unholy.

"Oops," she said, eyes wide and innocent. But her fingers were already tugging at her top, inching it up, teasing herself now. She pinched the hem, lifted slow, slow, slow--

Then pulled it over her head in one swoop, tossing it somewhere into the plush chaos of the room.

Her tits were perfect. Small, firm, almost too smooth--like they were designed, not grown. Pink nipples already stiff, like they were eavesdropping on her filthy monologue. She cupped them both, not like a virgin, not like a tease. Like a girl who knew exactly how she looked right now. Like she'd imagined this moment a thousand times and practiced her angles.

She pinched one nipple, sighed--loud and dramatic--then tilted her head and whispered:

"Do you like them?"

To no one.

The silence answered like it always did.

She smiled wider.

A different smile. Too wide. Too knowing. Like the girl inside the girl had just peeked out. The voice that had said you always watch wasn't quite gone--it just slid under the sweet, southern-belle sugar. A glitch in the matrix of her performance.

She slid a hand down her stomach, soft and slow, toward the waistband again. Her fingers hesitated--hovering, trembling like they weren't hers.

"I shouldn't."

Pause.

"...but I deserve it."

The switch flipped again. Just a flicker.

Her voice deepened by a hair. Her eyes stayed open now, fixed on the ceiling as if someone was there, floating, watching. Or maybe as if she could see herself from above, performing. Worshipping. Undressing. Falling apart on command.

"You make me do this," she said to the air, but her hand was already inside her panties again.

And that time, she moaned.

Not sweet. Not cute.

Raw.

The door cracked open--then slammed against the wall like it had something to prove.

Daisy Lynn froze, one hand halfway under the waistband of her panties, the other still cupping a breast like a statue caught mid-swoon. Her hair spilled across her pillow in golden ringlets, her face flushed, her mouth open like a cherry blossom in bloom.

And there, framed in the doorway, stood Carina Marie Delvecchio.

Combat boots. Black jeans. Zip-up hoodie barely containing her rage--or her tits. CVS name tag still clipped on like she'd come here straight from work and was already done with everyone's shit.

She took one look at the scene--at the pink cotton chaos, the bare skin, the way Daisy didn't even flinch--and barked:

"Hey! What the fuck is this supposed to be?"

Daisy blinked. Not ashamed--startled, sure, but only because Carrie's voice hit like a firecracker in a bubble bath. She sat up a little, her fingers sliding out from beneath the soft cotton of her panties like a magician pulling a rabbit from a very adult hat.

"This?" she said, like it was obvious. "It's... Tuesday?"

Carrie stormed in, stepping over a rogue slipper and a Hello Kitty plush that had definitely seen things. She didn't stop until she was at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight, every inch of her screaming seriously, bitch?

"You called out of work," Carrie snapped. "Said you were sick. You said you were--and I quote--'too weak to move.' And I show up (out of concern, I might add) and you're--you're--God, what even is this?"

Daisy bit her lip. Not out of guilt. Not even out of apology. She looked up at Carrie through her lashes, half-naked, glowing with sweat and bad decisions.

"I needed... self-care?" she offered, voice syrupy.

Carrie scoffed. "Self-care? Girl, this is pornographic performance art. You got glitter lotion on your inner thighs. Who was supposed to find you like this? Huh? The mailman?"

Daisy shrugged one bare shoulder, unfazed. "Maybe."

There was a beat. A silence loaded with everything Carrie wasn't saying.

Then, Carrie pointed.

"You're unhinged."

Daisy smiled. A little too wide. A little too pleased.

"Just a little."

Daisy's mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again like maybe a better reaction would fall out if she gave it a second try.

"What?" she said, arms frozen mid-cover, half-wrapped around her bare chest now like modesty had just remembered to RSVP. Her panties still crooked, the bow on the front off-center. Her legs instinctively pulled in--then hesitated, unsure if she was meant to hide or pose.

Carrie didn't answer her.

She turned toward the open door and raised her voice like she'd been rehearsing this moment all afternoon.

"Get in here."

Footsteps shuffled. Hesitant, slow.

Then a man appeared in the doorway.

Flat cap. Wire-rimmed glasses. Too-thin jacket over a sweater vest that had never seen a washing machine. He looked like he lived inside a notebook. Face unshaven in the academic sense--stubble as personality trait, not laziness. He carried a clipboard under one arm like it was shielding him from God.

"Yes, Carrie?" he asked, squinting into the bubblegum haze of Daisy's bedroom. "Do you have notes?"

Notes?

Daisy blinked so hard her lashes tangled. "Wait--who is that?"

The man gave her a courteous nod. "Don't mind me," he said, in the same tone someone might use when entering a crime scene. "I'm just observing."

Carrie smirked, arms still crossed. "He's the writer."

"The what?"

Carrie turned her eyes back to Daisy with the sharp glint of someone holding all the cards and loving every second of it.

"Writer. You know. Plots. Context. Continuity. Emotional arc. He's got concerns."

The man stepped in, carefully avoiding a rhinestone-covered hairbrush on the floor. He adjusted his glasses. Cleared his throat.

"Frankly," he said, "we're struggling with motivation in the third beat. You commit beautifully to the act--but the why behind it isn't clear. Is she truly fractured? Or just in control of the persona?"

Daisy gawked.

"What the fuck is happening?"

Carrie pointed at Daisy like she was a broken appliance.

"What is this supposed to be?"

Her voice was lower now. Not yelling anymore. Just dangerously unimpressed. Like she'd walked into a one-woman play titled I'm A Delicate Flower and realized the flower was fake and the pot was full of vodka.

The man in the flat cap cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Daisy here is thirty-two," he said, matter-of-fact, like he was introducing her at a panel on experimental theater and not mid-pantomime of softcore chaos. "She's a bit crazy, Carrie. This is a bit of a character piece."

Carrie looked from him to Daisy and back again. Blinked once. Hard.

"Bit?"

Daisy, still half-naked and glittering in all the wrong places, perked up like a cat that just heard a can opener. She looked older. A bit worn, now. Real.

"It's immersive," she offered brightly. "I become her."

Carrie's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Just rage vapor.

"You become her," she repeated slowly.

"She's nineteen," Daisy whispered. "She thinks hearts are a personality. She uses the word 'coochie' unironically. She thinks boys who drink Monster Energy are, like, deep."

"You're thirty-two," Carrie hissed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You have a 401(k)."

Daisy cocked her head, all bows and bare tits, smiling like she was about to start a TED Talk.

"Performance art doesn't end at the body, Carrie. It extends into the realm of the psyche."

"She tried to pay for tacos last week in Lisa Frank dollars," the man added. "It was--honestly--compelling."

Carrie turned back to him, deadpan.

"Why are you enabling this?"

He blinked. "I'm documenting it."

Daisy beamed. "We're submitting it to MoMA."

Carrie took one step back toward the door, as if she could escape through sheer will. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Daisy one more time, whose hand was creeping toward her thigh again like it had lines to deliver.

"I'm gonna light myself on fire," Carrie muttered.

Daisy gasped. "Can I film it for the installation?"

Carrie turned on the guy in the flat cap like a hurricane changing targets. One second ago, Daisy was her problem. Now it was him. Her eyes narrowed, her whole stance shifting--arms off her chest, hands on hips, the full South Philly fury activating.

"You wrote Anna out of the stories." She stated. "Now we get this."

Flat Cap blinked. Innocent. Defensive. Cowardly. All in one.

"That shit was hot," she said, jabbing a finger in his direction like she was stabbing punctuation into a sentence. "People loved it."

He hesitated. Swallowed. "Anna got... unwieldy."

"Unwieldy?" Carrie repeated like she was tasting something bitter. "What does that even mean? She was brilliant. She had control. She had teeth. She had fuckin' twenty-four men in chastity, and you--what, you retired her?"

He winced. "Narrative complexity was escalating beyond--"

"Beyond your balls, maybe."

Daisy, still very much topless, perched on her knees and tilted her head between them like she was watching a tennis match. "Wait, who's Anna?"

Carrie didn't even glance her way. "You don't get to ask."

Flat Cap rubbed his temples, exasperated. "Look, Anna Grace Whitmore was a fun archetype, but she started to eclipse the rest of the cast. Every scene bent around her. She warped tone, expectation--"

"She made men cry without raising her voice," Carrie said, all reverence and venom. "She kept her life in a goddamn spiral notebook and ran a chastity empire out of a Starbucks. She wasn't a problem. She was the fucking bar."

"She broke the structure," he insisted.

Carrie stepped forward, close enough he could smell her CVS body spray and fury.

"She was the structure."

Daisy clapped once, delighted. "Okay, I don't know what's happening, but I'm aroused."

Carrie shot her a glare.

"You're always aroused."

Daisy grinned. "I'm a performance artist, Carrie. I contain multitudes."

Flat Cap raised both hands like he was trying to stop a car crash with diplomacy.

"Look, I'll consider a reintroduction. Maybe a flashback. Maybe she--"

Carrie cut him off, voice low and final:

"She's not a flashback."

There was a beat.

A silence, dense enough to press on your chest.

Then--from inside the fuckin' closet, muffled slightly behind a row of pastel cardigans and the lingering scent of Daisy's fabric softener--

"I could put in a guest appearance in one of Skye's stories."

Carrie's eyes snapped wide.

"Nobody's read those. You're sitting on them."

Daisy screamed, delighted, clapping both hands to her bare chest like she was at a gender reveal for someone's arrest warrant.

The man in the flat cap closed his eyes and muttered something that sounded like God damn it, not again.

Carrie turned to him slowly. Not shocked. Not horrified. Not even surprised.

Just... fuming.

Like she knew.

Like she'd always known.

"You put Anna Grace Whitmore in the fucking closet?"

He didn't answer right away. Just pinched the bridge of his nose, like if he applied enough pressure he could make this timeline cease to exist.

"She--she wasn't supposed to be here." His voice cracked. "She said she just needed a place to stay."

Carrie nodded, arms folded tight across her chest.

"Uh-huh. And now she's squatting in your B plots."

From behind the closet door came a soft rustle of hangers, then:

"Skye writes with more nuance. I like her arcs. Less reliant on male humiliation as a gimmick."

Carrie's head snapped back around to the closet.