The Stylist

Mrs. Rochester needs the right dress tonight. Her husband’s business partner will be watching, and she refuses to look too young, too eager. She calls Lilly, the stylist, over after work. Lilly walks in with garment bags and a tape measure around her neck, already studying the bride like fabric she plans to cut. Mrs. Rochester stands in the bedroom in nothing but a thin slip while Lilly circles her, pins between her teeth. Every adjustment brings Lilly’s hands higher, slower, until the pins drop and her fingers slide beneath silk instead. Mrs. Rochester feels the first deliberate stroke between her legs and catches her breath, but she doesn’t pull away. Lilly’s other hand cups one full breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it tightens, then she presses two fingers inside, steady and sure. The room stays quiet except for Mrs. Rochester’s uneven breathing and the soft sound of Lilly’s wrist working between her thighs. When she comes, she grips Lilly’s shoulder hard enough to leave marks, and Lilly simply smiles, already reaching for the next dress as if nothing happened.