I stumbled through the apartment door, breathless and still drenched. My blonde hair clung to my face like a wet veil, the white blouse still semi-transparent and sticking to my skin, revealing the delicate patterns of my black lace bra.
I dropped my bag to the floor, where it landed with a soft thud on the wooden boards, and sank into a chair, burying my face in my hands.
The day had been a disaster—the rain, the wrong bus stop, Tommy’s gaze lingering too long on my wet blouse, and that moment in front of the mirror when I realized what I’d unintentionally exposed.
My heart was still pounding in my chest, refusing to calm down, and the vanilla scent of Laura lingered in the apartment air mixed with the damp smell of my clothes and the shame I couldn’t shake.
Laura rose from the couch, a glass of wine in hand, its red contents reflecting the Los Angeles lights streaming through the window. She studied me with an amused look, raising one eyebrow.
“You look like you’ve been through a war,” she said, her voice carrying a teasing note. “What happened?”
I sighed, lifting my head, and began to speak—my voice quiet at first, then growing shaky as I reached the part about the rain and the blouse. “It was awful,” I finished, feeling my cheeks heat up again. “I wanted to disappear into the ground. Tommy… he saw everything. I don’t know how I’m going to go back there tomorrow.”
Laura burst into laughter, a loud and resonant sound that echoed across the apartment’s colorful posters and plant-filled shelves. “That’s fantastic!” she exclaimed, setting her glass on the table and stepping toward me.
“First day, and you’re already making an impression! That’s city life, Stella—things happen here. You just have to go with it.”
“Go with it?” I looked at her with wide eyes, my voice nearly breaking. “I don’t know if I want to go with an impression like that. It was… embarrassing. I’m a teacher, not some… I don’t know, model!”
Laura’s smile turned sly, her eyes sparkling like the stars over Hollywood at night. “You’re more than a teacher, trust me. And what happened today? That’s just the beginning.”
“Come on, we need to celebrate your arrival. Let’s go out—have a welcome shot. You need it.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Laura was already at my side, pulling me up by the arm. Her fingers were warm and firm around my wrist.
“I don’t know, Laura,” I mumbled, feeling the day’s exhaustion weigh down my body. “I’m wet and tired and…”
“No excuses,” she interrupted, pushing me toward my room. “You take a shower, put something on, and then we’re going. I’m not letting you spend your first night here sitting at home worrying about your blouse. This is Los Angeles—you live here!”
I gave in, knowing Laura wouldn’t relent. I headed to the bathroom, closed the door, and let the warm water cascade over my body again.
The shower filled the room with steam, the lemon scent mingling with the splashes of water hitting the worn tiles. The water rinsed away the rain and bus dust, but not that feeling—Tommy’s gaze lingering too long, nor the shame still swirling in my stomach.
I dried off with a towel, paused in front of the mirror, and looked at my body again—my slender, 168-centimeter frame, its pale skin now slightly pink from the heat of the shower.
My blonde hair, wet and wavy, clung to my shoulders, and I noticed my small but full breasts, narrow waist, and long legs. “I’m not like this,” I thought. “I’m not the kind of person who wears lingerie like that and gets into situations like this. But here I am.”
I slipped back into the black lace lingerie—the set my friends had gifted me, the one I’d dared to wear that morning. The lace was thin, almost sheer, accentuating my curves and leaving little to the imagination.
I looked in the mirror and blushed, feeling my nipples press through the delicate fabric. “This is too much,” I told myself. “But no one will see. It’s my secret.”
Yet I felt that the lingerie gave me something—a small spark of courage I needed to go along with Laura’s plan.
Back in my room, I opened my suitcase, searching for something comfortable—jeans, a blouse—but Laura appeared at the door, hands on her hips, her dark brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders.
“No boring clothes,” she declared, stepping in and taking charge. She pulled a short black dress from my suitcase—one I’d bought on a whim but never worn.
“This one,” Laura said, handing it to me. “And put on those heels too—you have beautiful legs, show them off!”
“Laura, this is too…” I started, but she raised a hand.
“Too fun? Too good? Stop worrying. You’ll look hot in this, and tonight, you need that.” She smiled encouragingly and left me alone.
I slipped into the dress—it was tight, ending mid-thigh, with a neckline deep enough that the edge of my lace bra peeked out slightly. I looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger—this wasn’t me; this was someone else, someone bold and alluring.
The dress clung to my body, accentuating my waist and revealing my legs, which looked even longer in the heels. “What am I doing?” I thought, my heart racing. “But maybe Laura’s right. Maybe I just need to… let go.”
I slipped on the heels and followed Laura, who was waiting at the door, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
The evening streets of Los Angeles were alive—neon lights flickered above bars and shops, music pulsed from somewhere in the distance, and the breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean, mingling with the spicy aromas of street food.
People moved in groups, laughing and talking, their voices blending into the city’s endless hum. Laura led me through the crowded streets to the outdoor terrace of a small bar near the Hollywood and Vine intersection.
Warm lighting spilled over wooden tables, cigarette smoke hung in the air, and somewhere nearby, guitar music mixed with the chatter of the crowd. We sat down, and Laura ordered two cocktails before I could say anything—something colorful, with ice cubes floating in the glass.
“This’ll be good for you,” Laura said, handing me a glass. “Relax a little.”
I took a sip—it was sweet, slightly tart, with hints of pineapple and rum, and it made my head spin lightly. I was just about to tell Laura something about the school when two young men approached our table.
“Laura!” one of them called out, a friendly smile on his face. He was Marcus—about 25, with a relaxed demeanor, dark hair, and a light stubble that gave him a bohemian look.
Beside him stood Sergei—27, tall and confident, with an intense gaze and broad shoulders that gave him a slightly dangerous aura, as if he was used to getting what he wanted.
“Marcus, Sergei!” Laura stood and hugged them, her movements light and playful, then gestured to me. “This is my new roommate, Stella. It’s her first day here.”
Sergei’s gaze landed on me, and I felt my heart skip a beat. “First day, and already here?” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You look like you were born for this place.” He smiled, and I felt my cheeks flush.
They sat down—Marcus next to Laura, Sergei next to me, too close. His knee brushed lightly against my thigh, and his scent—something smoky and masculine, mixed with a hint of sandalwood—filled the air around me.
I sipped my drink nervously, listening as Laura and Marcus chatted about something trivial—some party they’d been to last week—while Sergei watched me, openly, without shame.
“So, Stella,” Sergei began, leaning in closer, his voice cutting through the terrace noise. “What brings you to Los Angeles? Work? Love? Something else?”
“Work,” I replied quickly, a slight tremble in my voice. “I’m a teacher. I start tomorrow.”
“A teacher?” Sergei’s brow raised, and he smiled slyly. “You don’t look like any teacher I’ve ever known.”
His eyes slid over my dress, lingering for a moment on the neckline where the lace edge was faintly visible, and I felt my heart race faster.
As the evening progressed, the conversation grew more relaxed, but Sergei’s attention didn’t waver. He complimented me—“You have a beautiful laugh,” “That dress looks too good on you”—and with each word, I felt my nerves and curiosity mingle.
When the music on the terrace—some sensual Latin pop—grew louder, Sergei stood and extended his hand to me. “Dance?” he asked, more a command than a request.
I looked at Laura, who nodded encouragingly, her eyes sparkling. “I’m not a very good dancer,” I mumbled, but Sergei was already pulling me up, his hand firm on my wrist, his skin warm and rough against mine.
“You don’t have to be,” he said, leading me to the center of the terrace where a few people were already moving to the music’s rhythm.
His hand slid to my waist, the other holding mine, and he pulled me close—too close. I felt the heat of his body through my dress, his breath on my neck as he leaned in.
“Relax,” he whispered, his voice like velvet, making my knees weak.
His hands moved slowly—first on my back, then lower, along the curves of my body, until they rested on my lower back, too low. His fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of my dress, grazing the bare skin at the back, and my breath hitched.
Panic and arousal crashed into me like a storm. “This is too much,” I thought, my heart pounding. “I should leave, say something, push him away.”
But I didn’t. I let it happen, let Sergei’s hands stay there, let my body follow his rhythm, even though my mind screamed otherwise.
His touch was firm, almost possessive, and it threw me into confusion. I’d never felt anything like this—not in the countryside, not with any boy I’d ever been near.
It was terrifying, foreign, and yet there was something that drew me in—something that made my skin flush and my heart race faster. “What’s happening to me?” I thought, my eyes closed, as Sergei spun me slowly, his fingers squeezing my lower back lightly as if testing how far he could go.
My dress shifted slightly, revealing more of my thighs, and I felt the lace lingerie rub against my skin—that secret that was mine alone but now felt somehow more vulnerable.
The music ended, and Sergei stopped, holding me close for a moment longer. His face was just inches from mine, and I felt his breath on my lips—a faint scent of rum and smoke.
“You’re a better dancer than you think,” he said, smiling, and finally let go.
I stepped back, my legs trembling, and smiled awkwardly, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t dare say anything—I didn’t know what to say.
Laura and Marcus clapped from the table, their laughter echoing across the terrace, but my thoughts were elsewhere—on Sergei’s hands, his closeness, and the confusing feeling now filling me.
“I think we should head home,” I mumbled to Laura when we returned to the table, my voice barely audible over the bar’s noise.
Laura nodded, casting a sly glance at Sergei. “Nice to meet you, Stella,” Sergei said, his voice still low and teasing. “I hope this won’t be the last time.”
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, and I felt my skin flush again.
We walked home through the Los Angeles night, the lights reflecting off the wet asphalt, a siren wailing in the distance.
My feet ached in the heels, but my thoughts were still on the terrace—Sergei’s hands, his voice, and that strange feeling that had awakened in me.
“This is just the beginning,” Laura had said. And I was afraid she was right.
