Chapter 56 – A Piece of Me

Chloe opened the door to Velvet Sleeve headquarters and stepped into the cool, minimalist lobby. The air conditioning was running at full blast.

The receptionist, an attractive young woman in a black outfit, looked up and immediately beamed.

“Chloe! It’s so great to see you again!”

“Hi! Yeah, it’s nice to be back!” Chloe smiled warmly and waved to her.

“Lawrence will be here in a minute. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you!”

The receptionist disappeared through a side door to get Lawrence, and Chloe sank into one of the two visitor chairs. She was wearing denim shorts and a simple black top. Not really a Chloe Heart outfit today, but the Chloe Heart smile was on her lips. That was now on autopilot.

Her gaze wandered to the framed photos on the wall. Various Sleeves, neatly lined up, in different skin tones and shapes, photographed like design objects in a glossy magazine. Next to one of the pictures hung a small sign: VelvetSkin™ – Engineered Intimacy.

Engineered Intimacy. Sounds like an album title from an emo band.

The side door opened and Lawrence, the project lead, appeared, wearing a navy blue polo shirt with the Velvet Sleeve logo on the chest. He was in his mid-forties, wore rimless glasses, and had a calm and unassuming demeanor. He shook her hand.

“Chloe, welcome back! I’m really excited to show you the results. Come on, I’ll give you a quick tour of the production facility.”

She followed him down a long, white-tiled hallway, past office doors with frosted glass panes, until they reached a double door, which Lawrence opened with a keycard. Behind it lay the production hall.

It was louder here. Machines hummed rhythmically and the air smelled of something synthetic, a slightly sweet chemical smell that was not unpleasant, but also not natural. Workers in white overalls and hairnets moved between different workstations on stainless steel tables. At one station, the VelvetSkin material was poured from large containers into molds, a thick, skin-colored mass that flowed sluggishly into the molds and solidified there in the exact negative shape that Chloe had provided with her body a few weeks ago.

Lawrence explained something about temperature control and curing times and quality testing, and Chloe nodded in the right places and asked a question about the durability of the material, which Lawrence was visibly pleased about.

“Ha, we’re pretty proud of that! VelvetSkin retains its texture for at least two years with proper care, but usually much longer. Of course, we supply care products, all included in the package.”

There are care products.

They crossed the hall and reached a separate area at the end, a kind of showroom with a long table displaying samples and packaging. Lawrence asked her to take a seat and disappeared briefly behind a shelf.

When he returned, he was carrying a box.

The packaging was deep dark red, with gold accents on the edges and the Velvet Sleeve logo discreetly in the upper corner. In the middle was her name in mock handwriting and a small painted heart.

Below that was her face. One of the promotional photos Julian had taken. Warm light, her gaze directed straight at the camera, a half-smile on her lips.

Chloe took the box. It was heavier than she had expected. The surface was matte and smooth under her fingertips, high-quality cardboard. Objectively speaking, it was professional, attractive packaging. Chloe could appreciate that. This wasn’t cheap junk wrapped in plastic.

Good. My name is on it. If it has to be done, then please do it with class.

She opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in black foam, lay a cream-colored plastic cylinder, about fifteen centimeters long, engraved with the Velvet Sleeve logo. The top was open. Chloe took out the cylinder and turned it over.

There it was.

An exact replica of her own vulva, embedded in the open end of the cylinder. The VelvetSkin material was at room temperature and felt alarmingly realistic under her fingertips. It was soft, yielding, with a texture that was almost like real skin, but only almost. She ran her thumb over the outer contours and was a little startled by how familiar the shape was.

The slight asymmetry of the left side. The proportions she had seen in mirrors and later on screens, and which now lay here in her hand, detached from her body, molded in VelvetSkin and packaged in a pretty red box.

Lawrence stood next to her, beaming.

“The material is truly our best. We revised the mold three times until every detail was right. Customers will be thrilled.”

Chloe nodded. “The quality is really impressive, Lawrence. Good job.”

I’m actually praising him for getting my pussy replica just right.

She put the sleeve back in the box.

Lawrence spread a stack of documents on the table. Brochures, press releases, marketing texts. Chloe leafed through the brochure. Glossy paper. Photos of the packaging, a few artistic close-ups of the material, quotes about innovation and intimacy and the unique VelvetSkin experience. They would do another photo shoot for the launch.

On the back, in curving script beneath her photo:

“As close as it gets.”

Chloe stared at the sentence. Then she smiled and signed the approval documents for the press materials that had already been created with an expensive pen that Lawrence handed her.

Nine signatures in total. She counted them.

Nine times I put my name under the approval for thousands of men to buy a copy of my pussy to put their…

She shook her head briefly.

Calm down, Chloe. They pay well.

Lawrence collected the documents, sorted them into a folder, and shook her hand again.

“We’re really looking forward to the launch, Chloe. It’s going to be a huge success, I’m sure of it.”

“Me too!” she said. “Thanks for everything, Lawrence. The team has done a fantastic job.”

He accompanied her back through the hallway to the lobby, where the receptionist waved goodbye. “See you at the launch event!”

“See you then!”

The glass door closed behind her. In her handbag was the brochure Lawrence had given her. As close as it gets.

She put on her sunglasses and called a cab with the app.

~

Two days later, Chloe was standing in a red micro bikini by the pool of a rented villa in the hills above Valley City, holding one of the plastic cylinders with her signature sleeve up to the sunlight.

“Chin a little higher. And turn that thing slightly to the left so the logo is visible.”

The photographer’s name was Derek, and he was a wiry guy with a full beard and a baseball cap worn backwards. At least he was professional. If he found it appealing in any way that Chloe was lolling around in front of him scantily clad, he didn’t let it show.

Chloe turned the Velvet Sleeve to the left.

“Perfect.”

The villa was what you would call an “aspirational lifestyle setting” in marketing. A beautiful pool, palm trees, white marble, a panoramic view over Valley City, which lay under a veil of haze in the afternoon heat.

Various setups had been prepared on a sun lounger next to the pool, with the packaging draped on a towel, the cream-colored cylinder next to a huge glass of iced tea, just as if it were a normal lifestyle accessory. An assistant adjusted a reflector and a makeup artist with short red hair and a belt bag full of brushes waited in the shade of the terrace.

Chloe changed position. Lying stretched out on the lounger, the sleeve casually in her hand, looking at the camera, half-smiling. Derek fired off a series of shots.

“Great. Now sit up, legs bent, box on your lap. Relaxed, as if you were chilling by the pool with your best friend.”

She sat up, placed the box and tilted her head.

“Can you touch up her lips quickly?” Derek called over his shoulder.

The makeup artist was there in a flash, dabbed some color on Chloe’s lower lip, and disappeared again like a well-trained pit crew mechanic.

Three more setups. Standing at the edge of the pool, the cylinder slightly raised. At the table, the brochure open as if she were reading. Once more in the pool, arms resting on the edge, the cylinder next to her.

Chloe knew her angles by now. She knew how to turn her body into the light, when to pull her shoulders back, when to lower her gaze, and when to look directly into the lens. She had become good at it. And it went quickly.

After an hour and a half, the shoot was over. Derek showed her some of the best shots on his laptop while his assistant packed up the equipment. The photos looked like they were from a glossy magazine. Chloe in red, the pool in turquoise, the packaging in rich dark red with gold accents. Professional, aesthetic, almost elegant even.

The pictures would be used for the website, for social media, and for the displays at the launch event. Her face, her body, her product. Everywhere.

Chloe thanked Derek and his team, threw an oversized T-shirt over the bikini she was allowed to keep, and made her way home.

When she arrived home, her apartment was sweltering. She lay on the bed wearing only a T-shirt, her hair pinned up in a loose bun, and scrolled through the photos Derek had sent her. She looked good. The pictures looked good. The product looked good. Everything looked good.

Her phone vibrated. Morgan’s name was on the display.

She answered. “Hey.”

“Hey! Do you have a minute?” Morgan’s voice sounded a little excited.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I spoke to my contact. About the deleted entries on Ben’s hard drive.”

Chloe sat up. The mattress squeaked beneath her like an offended animal.

“And?”

“His name is Tomas. He doesn’t voluntarily share his last name. He’s a specialist in forensic data recovery, works freelance, mainly for law firms and occasionally for people like me. Very good at what he does. Not cheap, but he owes me a pretty big favor.”

“How big?”

“Big enough that he’ll do it for free. Or at least almost for free.”

Chloe pulled her knees up and leaned against the wall. “Can we trust him?”

“As far as you can trust someone who won’t tell you his last name, yes.” Morgan paused briefly. “Don’t worry. Tomas is solid. I’ve worked with him a few times, and he’s never let me down. He’s not interested in what’s on the data. He’s interested in whether he can recover it. That’s his thing. The guy is obsessed with data structures, not the actual content.”

“What if he is? What if he looks inside and sees what it is?”

“Then he sees the customer database of a porn agent. That’s not illegal. Not even particularly interesting, if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” Morgan’s voice became calmer. “I give him the cloned hard drive, he restores what he can, and gives me the results. He doesn’t ask questions, I don’t tell him anything. That’s how it works.”

Chloe thought about it. The risk was manageable. The alternative was to be stuck with the deleted entries and never find out who those forty-six women were and why Ben had deleted them from his system.

“Okay,” she said. “Do it.”

“Good. I’ll meet him tomorrow evening.” A brief silence. “So, what have you been up to the last few days?”

“I was at Velvet Sleeve for the product launch of my signature sleeve.”

“What exactly is that again?”

“A sex toy. A kind of silicone mold of my vagina.”

“Oh my God! I mean… sure, what else. No, seriously, how was it?”

Chloe flopped back onto the bed.

“Surreal. I was at the factory watching them mold the things. The project manager explained to me that the material lasts at least two years with proper care. There’s a care product.”

“A care product for your pussy?”

“For the copy of my pussy. Nuances, Morgan.”

Morgan laughed a short, incredulous laugh at the absurdity.

“And then today was the promo shoot,” Chloe continued. “I spent an hour and a half holding a plastic cylinder with a replica of my genitals in different poses up to the sunlight. The photos turned out really well.”

“Wait, wait. How does that actually work? The manufacturing, I mean. Do you have to go somewhere-“

“I sat on a kind of gynecological chair while a Velvet Sleeve team made a cast and a 3D scan. It was about as erotic as it sounds.”

“So not at all?”

“Correct.”

Silence. Then, more cautiously: “Do you at least earn well with it?”

“Twenty-five thousand upfront. Plus ten percent of the net proceeds per unit sold.”

“Oh wow, that’s a lot of money.”

“Yup. And I still have the anal rights.”

“You still have the anal rights,” Morgan repeated slowly.

“If they ever want a second casting, we’ll renegotiate and then the terms will probably be much better for me.”

Morgan was silent for a moment. Then she said, her voice striking a tone somewhere between admiration and quiet disbelief: “You really are a tough businesswoman. That’s both the most impressive and the most disturbing thing I’ve heard this week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“I said what I said.”

Chloe smiled a genuine, small, tired smile.

“How about you?” she asked. “Everything okay at the Times?”

The pause that followed was a tad too long. “Yeah. Well, basically, yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“My boss is getting a little restless, that’s all. I missed two deadlines last week and wasn’t at my desk three times when he was looking for me. He’s started asking questions that sound like he’s suspicious I’m investigating something on the side again.”

Chloe frowned. “Is it serious?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Morgan sighed. “He gave me a new assignment today. A series on the best hot dog stands in Valley City. A five parter with photos.”

“He’s punishing you with hot dogs?”

“Apparently. Next week I’m visiting Doggy Mustard’s and write five hundred words about whether there’s too much gristle in the wiener.” Morgan’s voice was light, but the undertone wasn’t quite. “The funny thing is, I’d normally love an assignment like this. Five hot dog stands on the company’s dime? Dream job. But right now it feels like a muzzle.”

“You’re taking a risk,” Chloe said quietly. “Because of our investigation.”

“I’m taking a risk because it’s worth it.”

Is it? Is it worth risking your job for?

Chloe wanted to ask, but the answer was already in Morgan’s voice.

“Don’t get yourself into trouble, okay?” Chloe said.

“I won’t. And neither will you, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Good night, Chloe.”

“Night.”