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A curly-haired guy ambled over, rail-thin, scruffy looking in raggedy clothes.
“This it?” he said, giving me the once over casually.
“Yeah, this is our new girl,” purred Deborah. “Isn’t she delicious?”
I shot Deborah a suspicious look. No way was I interested in anything lesbian and this woman was giving me weird vibes.
But she just laughed again throatily and said, “Patrick is our wardrobe assistant. He’ll be helping you with your outfits, making sure they fit right, alterations and all that good stuff. You brought the bikinis? Black and red? Oh good, you’ll match the Lamborghini over there.”
I turned and saw the sexiest car I’d ever seen. Gleaming red paint, so low-slung the chassis almost hit the floor. The tires were oversized and the car was fitted with a double-valve exhaust and three-inch spoiler. I was in love.
Both Deborah and Patrick laughed to see me gawking over an inanimate object, my lust obvious.
“You’ll be a good model if you can emote that in front of the camera,” advised Patrick. “Let’s head over to the dressing area and take a look at what you’ve brought.”
I followed him to an area of the floor that had a canvas modesty curtain draped over a small corner space. Pulling open my bag, I took out the black and red bikinis, the scraps of fabric nothing but the tiniest band-aids. They’d cover next to nothing.
But Patrick looked them over thoughtfully.
“Put on the red one,” he said, fingering the glimmery fabric in his hands slowly. “It’ll look great under the lights. Plus, it’s smaller,” he said with an odd expression.
Hmm, my spidey sense was going off but I did as he said. I slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the bikini, making sure to double-knot the strings behind my neck and at my hips. Don’t want to lose control of those babies! I slipped my feet into four-inch heels Patrick had handed me and slipped out from behind the curtain.
“This way!” called a strange man with a camera draped around his neck. He gestured to the Lamborghini. God, that car was calling my name and I almost tripped over myself, rushing to the gleaming metal.
Drawing on my inner siren, I posed against the door seductively, leaning forward provocatively so that the inner swells of my breasts thrust forward, the creaminess delicious and beckoning.
“Fantastic!” growled the photographer. He was a paunchy, middle-aged dude, wearing a beret like a serious artiste, and gestured for a lighting guy to come closer, holding a silver reflective surface strategically so that it hit my curves.
I could tell that I looked good, the refracted light gleaming off of my golden skin, and I went with it. I struck a couple of poses, swaying my hips, pushing my butt out, making sure my rear-end was a shelf of goodness, the curves lush and firm at once.
Patrick ran up to fix my make-up and I basked under the attention as strands of my hair were adjusted, my lips touched-up with some pink gloss, another costumer strategically adjusting the tiny strings of my bikini so that the fabric sat just so.
Suddenly, I felt the top slither off of my chest, my boobs suddenly bare to the audience, bouncing out in flawless form, my nipples peaked and erect.
“Oh my god,” I shrieked at the costumer. “You undid my bikini, you careless slut!”
“Oh I’m sorry,” stammered the girl awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just that Deborah said …”
The photographer, who’d I learned was called Max, intervened even as I tried futilely to cover my breasts with my hands. “You look fantastic,” he growled. “Why not try it without?”
“No way!” I squealed. “I’m a model, not some nude stripper.”
“Everyone’s doing it,” said the photographer reasonably. “Look at all the girls around you … some are bottomless as well as topless.”
I knew that was true, that’s what had arrested me when I stepped into the gallery on first sight. But I wasn’t totally ready to bare all.
“It’s only two hundred dollars, I can’t be showing people my privates for such a small sum,” I claimed boldly. “I need more.”
The photographer frowned but whispered into Patrick’s ear, who in turn held up a walkie talkie and murmured something indistinct, letting the equipment chatter a bit before giving an authoritative nod.
“Deborah says yes,” he pronounced. “Three hundred.”
But I was quick to clarify.
“Three hundred for this job or per hour?”
“Per hour,” he sighed. “That means if you’re here three hours, you’ll take home nine hundred bucks. Not bad for a morning’s work, eh?”
And I thought it over. Nine hundred dollars would get me so much … maybe I could buy myself a new outfit, take myself out to a nice dinner, maybe even splurge on that new perfume from Chanel.
“Nine hundred in a cashier’s check,” I said sweetly. “Ready by the end of my session here.”
