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I have to admit, I was curious myself. Ms. Walsh had come to prominence in a roundabout way. Rejected by all the high fashion agencies, she’d turned to promoting herself via YouTube, Twitter and Instagram. She’d filmed multiple shorts of herself doing silly things, dancing around her room, shimmying on the sidewalk, probably even brushing her teeth.
But the thing is that she was captivating. Her video doing the Cat Daddy in a bikini was riveting, her boobs jouncing out with every squiggle, the girl laughing as she danced, not at all like the cold, hard faces models present to the world.
So I was curious myself. I wanted to see what this Jenna had, what had propelled her to ultra-stardom in such a short time.
The lights dimmed and the music began. A fast cha-cha to match the tropical air, as Jason Alexander was presenting its resort collection. And Mr. Alexander didn’t disappoint. Right in time with the first beat, Ms. Walsh stepped out.
I felt my body harden reflexively, its reaction to the goddess on the runway pure male instinct. Because Jenna really was gorgeous. Maybe she was considered fat by the traditional modeling industry, but to me she was perfect, with big, beautiful breasts and a sizeable rump. I could see her jugs bouncing inside the aquamarine bikini top, threatening to spill out and dazzle us all.
She let out a gleaming smile, waving to the crowds, working the audience, a glow coming off of that radiant blonde hair, her golden skin. I wasn’t so naïve that I thought it was all natural, but damn, she was the picture of health, bouncy and flushed, the opposite of the anorexics the agencies always send over.
The blonde was sassy and fun too. Reaching the end of the runway, she turned and strutted, rocking her hips, smiling over her shoulder, throwing a come-hither look at me. At me? I growled at myself. Please. I was just another man in the crowd, she couldn’t even see me from where I sat in the back. I try to keep a low profile, no need for the world to know that the boss was present.
But the interplay stayed with me even as Jenna sashayed back down the runway, throwing one more dazzling smile over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner. It was as if a camera flash had gone off, rendering me momentarily blind to the other girls filing out from behind the wall, showing off their assets. The image of Jenna was imprinted on my mind, her curvy figure, that golden fall of hair, the undeniable charisma and sweetness.
I had to have her. Uncomfortably crossing my legs, I realized just how aroused I’d become, my cock semi-stiff, my body gearing up as if for war … and dominance.
5
Jenna
I’d seen him. A lot of times, the runway is so brightly lit that you can’t see a thing. But in this case, when I got to the end of the runway a strobe light went off, illuminating everything in its arc.
And that was when I saw the man. Tall, imposing, handsome, in an impeccably cut suit, seated elegantly with his legs crossed. His eyes were deep, penetrating, and I felt an immediate flush on my body as he stared, my chest growing heated as darts of lightning streaked down to my center, making me feel soft inside.
I calmed myself, acting like nothing had happened, that I hadn’t just felt the clouds open. “Stop it,” I reminded myself. “You’re imagining things, your life’s been so crazy lately.”
And it’s true. It’s been a short and surprising rollercoaster ever since I took those nudie pics. I’d done it for the money, nothing more, figuring that once I was paid it’d become a thing of my past. But Deborah had ideas for me.
“Jenna honey,” she purred, sorting through some photos, “have you thought about modeling? I mean, real modeling, not this import car stuff.”
I was stumped. Even though I’m beautiful, I know I don’t have a model’s body. Those girls are two inches taller and twenty pounds less, plus I was already twenty-four, too old to be competition for the sixteen year-old ingénues gracing the Paris catwalks.
“I’m not sure I qualify,” I said slowly. “But what are you thinking? Some Sears catalogues? Maybe J. Crew?” I’d noticed that commercial models tended to be more normal looking, not the skeletal remains parading about in magazines. Plus, I could use the money.
And Deborah was savvy.
“I have an idea,” she said. “I’ve got a friend at MGC Models, they want someone to appear at a Giants game just to generate some heat, you know? They want someone real because it’s supposed to be candid, on the fly, but you know how these things are, they’re totally staged.”
No, in fact I didn’t know that. But it was an idea and I wanted the free tickets to the Giants game. If I had to pimp myself in some way or other, that was fine, so long as it wasn’t too embarrassing.
