Oliver told himself he was just returning her casserole dish.

That was the whole story, from start to finish. Marina had lent it to him three weeks ago; he’d washed it, and now he was standing in the hallway outside apartment 4B with a clean Pyrex dish in his hands and absolutely no other reason for being there.

Oliver kept repeating these thoughts, hoping that the mere act of doing so would make them come true. He was, of course, lying. Oliver wanted to see her because if there was a woman in his life worth seeing, it was definitely her.

Marina had been his neighbor for almost a year now, a stunning brunette beauty who was half Argentinian, half Greek. She was a model and a cosplayer, and her Instagram feed was a haven of bikini shots and elaborate, tight outfits from across the spectrum of online fandom. Standing six feet tall, she looked particularly enticing in a Wonder Woman costume, and he was not ashamed to admit he often returned to those pictures whenever he was feeling… lonely.

He listened for any sounds coming from inside her house. Sometimes, Marina had guests coming over, and he didn’t want to be a bother. Since he heard nothing, he knocked, strengthening his shoulders as he waited for her to unlock the door.

Marina did so almost immediately, like she’d been waiting on the other side. She was as gorgeous as ever, wearing a burgundy silk robe that stopped somewhere in the general vicinity of her upper thighs. Every part of Marina’s body was delicious, and not a day went by that he didn’t wonder how on earth he was so lucky to have her living so close to him.

“Hey, Oliver,” she said nonchalantly while playing with the hem of her robe. “I was hoping you’d drop by today.”

“You were?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but her exposed flesh. “Just the dish,” he added, and then felt stupid for saying it out loud. Jesus, dude! You’re already blowing it, he thought.

“Honestly, I’d forgotten you had it.” Marina shrugged and gently moved away from the door to let him have a peek inside. “Want to come in?”

“Hmm… I just might if you’re not busy or anything…” he replied, still lacking the self-confidence he was so desperately trying to project. God, why was she the only woman who got his tongue tied up like that?

“I’m not doing anything special,” Marina giggled, disappearing deep into her apartment. “Just trying out some new costumes. Maybe you can give me your honest opinion about them.”

“I’d love to,” he replied, but what he really wanted to say was: Oh, my God! Jackpot!”

Oliver walked inside and locked the door behind him. Her apartment had a strong flowery scent as he navigated the main corridor into the living room. He recognized the aroma but couldn’t really name it. It was nice, though. Warm and inviting, just like her curves in that inebriating robe.

“Can you please leave the dish on the kitchen counter?” she asked. “Thanks.”

He hurried to the kitchen and placed the glass dish on the cool granite countertop. From the next room came the rustle of fabric and the Marina’s voice, lightly muffled. “Come on in, don’t be shy.”

Oliver followed the sound, his heart hammering in his chest. The door to what he assumed was a bedroom stood ajar, and a soft light spilled into the hallway. He pushed it open.

The room was her personal studio, a cozy place filled with dreams of seduction. LED panels were mounted on the walls, and a large professional camera sat on a tripod in the corner. Racks of colorful costumes in clear garment bags lined one wall, creating a chaotic rainbow of spandex, lace, and leather. However, his eyes didn’t linger on them for too long. They snapped to her delicate form, instead.

Her burgundy robe lay discarded at her feet. Marina stood with her back to him, the curve of her spine a graceful line that made his fingers itch to trace it. She was stepping into a gown of deep emerald leather, working it up over his hips. The material whispered as it slid over her tanned skin, hugging her generous ass. She glanced over her shoulder with a playful and unbothered smile on her lips as if she’d just thrown on an old sweater and not stood nearly naked before him moments before.

“A little help?” she asked, in the casual and friendly tone that suggested everything was perfectly normal.

He moved forward, almost tripping on himself as he got closer to her feminine perfection. She turned, holding the front of the costume against her chest, and presented him with a long line of silver clasps. His fingers trembled slightly as he took the first cold metal clasp.

“Do you like it? It’s a new one,” she declared.

“It’s very nice,” he said. “But not sure I know who you’re meant to be.”

“Not sure either. Princess of some forgotten swamp planet or something. What do you think?”

What did he think? He thought the green leather made her tan skin look like honey. He thought the cut was going to be dangerously low in the front, even with all the clasps in place. He also thought it was even more seductive than her Wonder Woman attire. He focused on the task, his throat too dry to form a coherent sentence beyond a rough, “It’s… incredible.”

He fastened the last clasp just below her neck and almost stopped breathing when the full effect reached his eyes. The costume was indeed a masterpiece, a second skin of tooled leather that sculpted her every curve, from the dramatic cut of the bodice to the way it flared at her hips into a short, sleek skirt. She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, and grinned. “Well? Do I look royal enough?”

“You look like a Goddess,” Oliver replied.

Marina laughed, hoping to see him blush, but he held it together as hard as he could.

“You’re sweet, Oliver, but don’t waste all your compliments on the first costume. Let’s see if the next one gets an even better review.”

She shimmied out of the emerald leather and let the gown fall to join the robe on the floor. He tried to keep his gaze politely averted, but the brief, breathtaking glimpse of her in nothing but a pair of tiny black panties was seared into his vision.

Marina moved to the nearest rack, her fingers dancing over the clear plastic covers before selecting the next ensemble. Unzipping the zab, she revealed a cascade of brown suede, brass fittings, and intricate hand-sewn clockwork gears. “This one’s a bit more complicated,” she said, laying the pieces out on a large ottoman.

Oliver watched, mesmerized, as she stepped into a pair of high-waisted trousers made of a rich, coffee-colored suede. She fastened them with a series of leather straps and buckles that ran up her hips.

Next came a corset of the same material, but this one was studded with what looked like miniature bronze pistons and had tiny, whirring cogs stitched along the boning. She struggled for a moment with an almost invisible zipper at the back.

“I think I’m going to need your help again. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

His fingers, more steady now, worked the stubborn brass catch. The oily smell of metal filled the air around them.

She pulled on a tailcoat with asymmetrical tails, one of which was shorter and revealed a glimpse of a complex-looking tool belt filled with fake brass instruments. Finally, she placed a pair of goggles with multi-colored lenses on her forehead and picked up a prop. It was a rifle that seemed to be made of polished wood and copper tubing, with a pressure gauge on the side that glowed with a soft, internal light.

Marina placed one foot on the ottoman, aiming the prop rifle into an imaginary distance. “So? What’s the verdict?”

Oliver took in the entire ensemble. It was detailed and impressive, but once again, the character, if there was one, was a complete mystery to him. He recognized the style, the aesthetic of brass and steam, but any specific reference was lost. He was just happy to be standing here, a privileged audience of one. “It’s… really detailed. All the gears and everything. Very… steampunk?”

Marina lowered the prop. “Yep. The client asked for a steampunk adventurer, and I was happy to oblige. I like the freedom of it.”

She spun around, making the tails of the coat flare out. “The boots are the best part.” She lifted a foot to show him the chunky, lace-up boots with more tiny, useless gears spinning on the heels.

He could only nod, his vocabulary having once again deserted him. The spectacle was everything. The way the suede hugged her form, the contrast of the warm brown against her skin, the sheer creativity of it all. He didn’t need to know any more details. Her performance was the story.

“I think I need a different backdrop for this one,” she mused, walking over to the camera and peering through the viewfinder. “The plain wall isn’t right. Maybe the brick one in the hallway?” She glanced back at him, her expression thoughtful. “You wouldn’t want to hold a reflector for me, would you? It’ll only take a minute.”

The question was casual, but the look in her eyes was a direct challenge, an invitation to step even deeper into her world. His heart gave a hopeful, painful thud.

He nodded, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.” She handed him a large silver disc. He followed her into the hallway, the heavy reflector feeling awkward and conspicuous in his grasp.

“Just stand over there,” she directed, pointing to a spot where the light from a nearby window pooled on the hardwood floor. “Tilt it a little toward me. Perfect.”

He held the disc steady, his arms beginning to ache almost immediately, but he wouldn’t have moved for the world. Marina fell into a series of poses against the exposed brick wall, her gaze fierce and focused through the multi-lensed goggles she’d pulled over her eyes. The camera shutter clicked rapidly, a soft, mechanical sound that punctuated the quiet concentration in the hall. He watched her work, the professional shift in her demeanor as captivating as the costume itself.

After a dozen shots, she lowered the prop and pulled the goggles back up onto her forehead. “That’s the one. Got it.” She walked over and took the reflector from him, her fingers brushing against his. “Thanks, Oliver. You’re a natural at this.”

She disappeared back into the studio, and he lingered in the hallway for a moment, the ghost of her touch still tingling on his skin. When he followed, she was already unstrapping the tool belt, letting it clatter onto the ottoman. The tailcoat came next, followed by the intricate corset.

Then she reached for a garment bag he hadn’t noticed before, hung separately from the others on the back of the door. A sly, almost secretive smile played on her lips as she unzipped it. “Okay, one more. And I bet you a drink you’ll never guess this one.”

From the bag, she pulled out not spandex or leather, but a uniform. Crisp silver and blue wool with sharp, military creases and a double row of gleaming brass buttons. She stepped into the surprisingly loose-fitting trousers and buttoned the high-collared tunic. The final touch was a cap, which she set at a precise, jaunty angle on her head. She turned to face him, her posture ramrod straight, her playful expression replaced with a look of stern authority.

Oliver’s mind raced through every movie, every show, every comic he could think of. A naval officer? A pilot? Nothing fit. The costume was too generic, yet utterly specific in its detail. He was completely, wonderfully lost.

“I give up,” he admitted, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. “You win. What is it?”

She held the stern look for a heartbeat longer before her face broke into a triumphant grin. “You’re looking at a highly decorated commander of the Zephyr Corps, from Starchaser: Galaxy’s Edge.” She said the title with a flourish, watching his face for recognition.

He shook his head, still smiling. “Never heard of it.”

“I know!” she laughed, delighted. “It’s an obscure TV show from the early eighties. Are you familiar with Hypnotist From Outer Space?”

“That name does ring a bell, yes. Is that another TV show?”

“70s B-movie, but the same producers went on to make Starchaser almost a decade later. The show is quirky, but it’s also a guilty pleasure of mine. My parents met for the first time while working on the set.”

“Really? That sounds awesome! But why do you say the show is quirky?”

“It’s not something I can explain, but if you’re willing to see for yourself…”

She sashayed over to the living room to find a small lacquered cabinet. Opening the double doors revealed a meticulously organized collection of media. Rows of DVD cases, some faded and worn, stood next to a sleek, modern Blu-ray player. Her fingers, tipped with burgundy polish that matched her abandoned robe, traced the spines until she plucked a thick box set free. The cover was a vibrant, slightly pixelated space scene, with the title Starchaser: The Complete Series emblazoned in a retro font.

“You are looking at one of only a few hundred copies that survived the great format purge,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The stern commander was gone, replaced by a woman sharing a secret. “The pilot is… an experience. A product of its time, you know? They really pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable back then.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips, and she took a step closer. “You don’t mind a little kinkiness, I hope,” she purred, her eyes locking with his as she pointed at the TV.

His mind went blank for a second, the words “kinkiness” and “Marina” colliding in a way that short-circuited higher thought. “Uh, no. Not at all,” he mumbled.

Marina knelt by the entertainment center, the wool of her uniform trousers pulling taut. She slid the disc into the player and powered on the large flatscreen TV. The screen flickered to life, displaying a menu screen of swirling nebulae and a synth-heavy theme that sounded both futuristic and hopelessly dated.

“Sit and make yourself comfortable,” she said, gesturing to the plush sectional sofa. She remained on the floor, leaning back against the couch directly beside where he sat. The proximity was electric.

The screen went black for a moment before the opening credits began to roll. A narrator’s voice, deep and melodramatic, boomed from the speakers, introducing the interstellar conflict of the Zephyr Corps.

Oliver tried to focus on the screen, on the slightly grainy image of spaceships battling above a ringed planet, but his attention was fractured. The show was bizarre, a mix of earnest space opera and strange, psychosexual undertones he couldn’t quite parse.

A scene unfolded where the commander, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Marina in her current costume, interrogated a prisoner with a method involving pulsating crystals and a lot of suggestive leather straps on the antagonist’s outfit.

He felt a shift in the air next to him. Marina had tilted her head back until it was resting against his knee. She wasn’t looking at the TV anymore; she was looking up at him, her dark eyes glinting with amusement in the flickering light. “See what I mean?” she murmured. “They weren’t exactly subtle.”

Oliver could only nod. The flickering images on the screen and the weight of her head against his leg created a surreal, intoxicating cocktail. He was hyper-aware of every breath she took, and quietly understood that this was no longer about a forgotten television show. It was a test, and he was desperately trying to figure out the right answers.

((to be continued))