Page 39 of Push My Buttons
"Look," she says, turning me toward the full-length mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger—powerful, dangerous, sensual. Not Wren the barista. Not even quite Vanta the cam girl. This is something new, a hybrid creation that embodies both my digital and physical personas. Silence made flesh, with Vanta's seductive edge.
"The set is ready whenever you are," Lorna says. "Want to see it before the boys arrive?"
I nod eagerly, following her through the hallway to the largest studio space. When she opens the door, I freeze on the threshold, momentarily stunned.
They've recreated the Wasteland Chronicles environment with astonishing accuracy—a post-apocalyptic urban landscape with crumbling concrete structures forming what looks like a maze of different walls and corridors and rooms, rusted metal fixtures, and strategic lighting that mimics the game's distinctive color palette. Tangles of dead vines and synthetic foliage create natural hiding spots and tactical cover. The floor is covered in a specialized material that looks like cracked earth but feels slightly slick underfoot.
"The surface is treated with a silicon-based compound," Lorna explains, noticing my careful steps. "It's going to get even more slippery once those oil balls you suggested start breaking. Speaking of which—"
She leads me to a side table where dozens of small, translucent spheres sit in neat rows. Each is about the size of a ping pong ball, filled with what appears to be clear oil.
"Sensual oil," Lorna confirms. "Soft shell. Warming on contact. Non-staining, hypoallergenic, safe for all activities. Each 'combatant' gets fifteen to start. Direct hit with one of these, and the oil creates a slick spot on the floor or on skin. Makes evasion... challenging."
I pick one up, feeling its weight. The game is taking shape in my mind—a strategic blend of capture-the-flag and erotic combat. The men will try to catch me, using their oil balls to slow me down or create traps. When they succeed in getting their hands on me, they'll then have to earn the right to remove one patch from my outfit, exposing more of me with each victory.The one who collects the most by the end of the session wins the ultimate prize—a glimpse of my face.
"Security will be stationed here and here," Lorna continues, pointing to discreet positions around the set. "They won't interfere unless the light turns red or you hit the panic button. Otherwise, the space is completely private. Cameras are set up at these angles," she indicates the multiple dots showing where the mounted devices are.
I take it all in, a mix of emotions churning in my stomach. Excitement, certainly. Nervousness, definitely. But also a strange sense of power. For once, I'm not running. I'm not hiding. I'm creating the scenario, setting the rules, controlling the narrative.
"Your guests will be arriving in about an hour," Lorna says, checking her watch. "Any questions before then?"
I shake my head, then reconsider and sign,"Will they know the rules before they arrive?"
"We've sent basic guidelines, but we will reconfirm everything and also explain the specifics when they get here," she winks. "Oh, and their outfits are ready too. Very tactical, very masculine—they'll complement yours perfectly."
She leaves me to familiarize myself with the set, and I spend the next forty-five minutes exploring every corner, identifying potential hiding spots and escape routes. There are hidden doorways and tunnels that unless you spend the time in the set like I have, you won’t easily see them. The strategic part of my brain—the part that's logged countless hours in Wasteland Chronicles—analyzes sight lines and defensive positions. The sensual part of me imagines being caught, being touched, being unwrapped piece by piece.
By the time Lorna returns to tell me they've arrived, I'm vibrating with anticipation.
"They're getting changed now," she says. "You want to meet them here or make an entrance after they're on set?"
"I want to watch them first,"I sign, a sudden idea forming in my mind."Without them seeing me."
Lorna's eyes light up with understanding. "Ah, voyeurism before participation. I like how you think." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "There's an observation platform above the set—it was meant for lighting adjustments, but it would give you the perfect vantage point."
She leads me to a narrow staircase hidden behind one of the set pieces. The metal steps are silent under my boots as we climb to a small platform suspended above the apocalyptic landscape. From here, I can see the entire set laid out below me like a tactical map.
"Perfect,"I sign, already strategizing. The bird's eye view gives me an advantage I hadn't anticipated—I can memorize the layout completely, note all the hiding spots, plan my routes.
"They’ve acknowledged all the instructions already, so I'll send them in, then," Lorna says. "Oh, and Chad will be taking photos during the initial interaction—just ignore him. He knows to stay out of your way." She grins wickedly. "The session is yours to control—as sedate or as wild as you want it. When Chad's satisfied with the calendar shots, he'll give you a discreet signal. That's your cue to disappear and get your head start for the hunt."
My heart pounds at the thought. A head start, then they'll be coming after me. Hunting me through this maze while I evade and entice them.
"How will I know the signal?"I sign.
"He'll adjust his equipment bag—it has a bright red tag. When you see him touch it, that's your cue." She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. "After that, it's just you, them, and the cameras. Live out whatever fantasy you want, honey. You've earned it."
With that, she descends the stairs, leaving me alone in my perch. I settle into position, my body humming with anticipation. Minutes later, I hear a door open below, and two figures step onto the set.
My breath catches in my throat.
They're both tall, athletic, dressed in tactical gear that complements mine—black with strategic cutouts that reveal glimpses of skin. Their masks cover most of their faces, and I can see small hints of skin where there must be seams or hinges to open them. One mask is matte black with respirator details, giving him a sleek, almost predatory appearance. The other is equally tactical but with subtle metallic accents that catch the light as he moves.
They stand in silence for a moment, taking in the set. I can see their heads turning, scanning the environment. Neither of them looks up, giving me the perfect opportunity to study them unobserved.
The one in the respirator mask moves with deliberate grace, his steps measured and precise. His shoulders are broad, his stance suggesting coiled strength rather than brute force. The other moves more fluidly, confidence in every gesture as he reaches out to touch a crumbling concrete pillar, testing its solidity.
