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For my part I had felt very comfortable dominating her and training her a little, but we had been honest with one another from the beginning: neither of us felt really romantically toward the other. That happened to represent the way both of us liked it: expensive dates, satisfying ‘intimacy’ in the style that turned both of us on, minimal feelings beyond a basic enjoyment of each other’s company.
But last month there simply hadn’t existed enough time in my day to enjoy Dawn’s company, and I had let her know she could explore other connections though I would still pay her allowance that month. I had worked, and made an exorbitant amount of money from the work, and I hadn’t opened the Selecta Arrangements emails.
Now, though. Things had gotten slightly less busy, and my ten a.m. had canceled.
And Leah R’s eyes looked out at me from my screen.
Underneath, the caption said,Tune into Leah R’s intimate photo session.
I clicked.
* * *
Leah
I stood facing the blackout curtain, remembering the moderately stunning view of the Pacific I had seen out that window the previous night.
Moderately. Right. For a girl who had never seenanyocean before you looked out that window, you sure sound blasé, at least to yourself.
How was I supposed to sound? I should at leasttrynot to let myself get overwhelmed, right?
Especially when the woman I had just let into my new apartment had come to take nude pictures of me, so that I could attract a billionaire. Or at least a guy with comfortable enough income to pay me well for my company.
Blasé. Jaded. World-weary. The kind of young woman who takes off her clothes for an intimate photoshoot.
I fought the heat that threatened to flow everywhere in my body. With trembling fingers I took hold of the fabric of the big t-shirt where it covered my hips and I started to bunch it up until I had the hem in my hands. I did everything in my mental power not to think about middle-aged, professional Mary Smith standing behind me, watching my panty-covered backside come into view.
Without warning, a flash went off and I heard a shutter click.
Instinctively I turned around. My inability to stop myself, or to keep my face from twisting into a weak expression of shame and horror, made it ten times worse. I saw Mary looking at me through her camera lens. She took another picture, the flash making me wince and blink.
“What…” I started to say, putting my hands up.
Mary took another picture.
“Take off the shirt,” she told me.
“But…” I said, without any idea what to say after that.
The photographer let out an exasperated sigh and lowered her camera.
“Look, Leah, you get to pick which of these photos you’ll put on your profile. Here’s a tip, though, from a real pro. The men who pay for platinum-level access expect to see something special.”
Unconsciously I had put my hands in front of me, my right placed over my left breast to cover the way my treasonous nipples tented the fabric of my t-shirt and my left smoothing down the shirt over my lap. Mary raised her camera and sighted through it. My eyes and mouth went wide and I clutched at my body protectively as she snapped another photo.
Something special.
“What… I mean, what is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“Something special?” Mary asked, keeping her camera up and starting to walk to the side and around me. She took a picture, then another, as I turned to follow her. “Take your shirt off, Leah. Let’s see those adorable little breasts.”
I could sense her skill—her professionalism, really—in the way she talked to me. The reflex to obey her, just because of the simple way she combined the command with the compliment, made my hands twitch. I didn’t give into it, though.
Mary gave another sigh, this one even more exasperated than the last. Again she lowered her camera and looked at me with an intentional sort of patience: the kind that clearly covered over growing frustration.
“Leah, sweetie, you need to help me help you. We’re telling a story, here.”
“A story?” I felt my forehead crease in consternation.
