For a tool shed, it could have been worse living.
A small bunk had been fashioned out of some shelving. The walls were lined with rumpled, moth-eaten tapestries. The window was sealed tightly shut with grime, but allowed for a fuzzy view of the lakeside.
Stacks of canned goods and jugs of lukewarm water lay scattered around the corners. A wicker chair with a hole cut through its seat rested in an alcove, under which lay a shallow trapdoor latrine.
Betty was unused to sleeping in such an environment. The plank beneath her creaked with even the slightest movements. The linens itched and smelled of mildew. The large cotton ball she'd been provided for a pillow only hurt her neck, so she simply cupped her hands behind her head.
Although still quite tired, she no longer had the nerve to close her eyes; several hours ago, a strange dream had further disrupted an already fitful sleep, waking her so violently that she bumped her head. She was in no mind to revisit it. Given her situation, it just felt altogether too premonitory.
She'd dreamt of two young girls, one blonde and one brunette.
They stood facing one another, their nude bodies partially obscured by a smattering of wild greenery.
Without a word, they clasped each other at the waist. They began kissing, at first awkwardly, then with passion, their lips appearing to move in harmonious tandem.
The synchronicity of the girls' movements then started to appear unnatural and strained. Soon their mouths began fusing together grotesquely. They began to flail their arms in increasing mutual panic. Betty cried out to them, but they could not hear her.
They began clawing at one another, trying to free themselves. The blonde gripped the brunette by the temples and squeezed until her thumbs sunk into her head. Her hands melded into the fleshy cranium like clay.
Soon the two bodies were beginning to become indistinguishable from one another, a writhing mass of skin and hair. Their screams united as they coalesced, and all the while, their kiss seemed to never end...
As Betty now lay awake, she found that fragments of this dream were all too fast to return to her, dancing across the backs her eyelids whenever she dared shut them. Deciding it wasn't worth trying to sleep anymore, she rolled out of her bunk.
She rifled through her purse, finding her pocket watch. Holding it to the nascent light of dawn, she squinted and saw that it was a quarter to 6 am. Since she was an early riser anyway, she began her daily stretches.
Still in her underwear, she fanned her lissome body out on the cold wooden floor. Running through her routine, she payed equal attention to each joint, for she was in no hurry to truly begin her day.
When she was done, she stood up and walked to the window. She could faintly see where the dark blue sky met the black treetops, and she held her eyes there, patiently awaiting her fate.
"Fancy meetin' you here."
Betty gasped and swiveled around, feeling a frosty draft lick her flesh. In her stupor she hadn't even heard the door open. Was she really being summoned so soon?
"H-hi," she softly replied, swiftly turning her eyes away from Eugenia's darkened grin.
"Nice undies," Eugenia said with a snicker. "But they're a bit too dowdy for your new profession. From now on, if you're going to be selling yourself, you have to dress the part. Off with 'em, love. You won't be needing 'em."
Betty paused, then turned her back. In all her years, she'd never known Eugenia to get up this early of her own volition; even back when they were in school, the girl hardly ever came to class on time. Which made the almost giddy eagerness in her voice all the more troubling.
Betty gently placed her watch on the windowsill, and then contorted her arm behind her, unhooking her beige bra. It silently fell to the floor. She then hooked her thumbs under the lining of her plain white bottoms, and tugged them down to her ankles.
"I never get tired of seeing that plump derrière of yours, Betty. You know what I realized it looks like? It looks like an outsize peach, it does. A nice, big, juicy, clingstone..."
"Please, let's just get on with this," Betty interrupted, chagrinned by Eugenia's obsession with that part of her anatomy. She couldn't fathom what made that girl so profoundly vulgar.
She turned again to look at her captor, shielding her smallish breasts with her forearm, and cupping her other hand over her fluffy mound in a vain attempt to conceal herself.
"Oh, I see. Chomping at the bit to take that ripe arse out for a spin on the other side, then? You've always been a go-getter, I suppose. I was going to offer you some proper breakfast, but I see that can wait."
"Wait, I'm hungry—"
"You'll live, dollface," Eugenia said, unslinging the satchel around her shoulder and tossing it on the floor near Betty. "That's your bag now. Your new clothes are in there. Get dressed, I'll wait outside. We gotta lotta work to do."
Eugenia turned, clomping the soles of her dusty boots with intentional noisiness as she walked away. Betty sullenly walked to the potato sack laying half-open on the floor. She lifted it, sifting through its contents. She found a ball of unironed clothes.
Laying the clothes out on the floor, she observed her options. First there was the single black skirt she'd been provided, which was unlike any she'd ever worn. It was sleeveless, fringed and flimsy, with dramatic plunges on either side. It was also ridiculously short, being cut nearly a foot above the knees.
The undergarments were much racier than her usual fare, as well. A single pair of fishnet stockings were provided, suspended by a frilly garter belt. There were also several pairs of semitransparent underwear which, quite tellingly, had zippers running down the backside area. No brassiere had been provided at all.
There was a velvet choker with a big bronze bell on it, which she found curious and particularly disconcerting. The sequined venetian mask provided deepened her distaste even further. The heels given were a size too small for her, their design tacky and workaday, but that was her only option outside of going barefoot.
The other accessories were purely ornamental—a feather-netted headband; some cheap beaded necklaces, clunky enough to all but hide her crucifix; a dark purple scarf too thin to provide any actual warmth. She threw on every item with an increasing feeling of despair.
Once she was fully dressed, she felt more naked than before. She stepped out of the shed and into a wide open yard swarming with mosquitos.
