Jenna
“You must be Jenna,” purred a melodious female voice. “I’m Deborah.” I turned, more in shock than anything else. A middle-aged brunette strode confidently towards me, perfectly groomed in an elegant but sexy black suit, her hair swept up into a chignon. She was fully dressed, thank god.
“Yes, that’s me,” I stammered, looking down at my feet. It was unlike me to be shy, but then again I’m not confronted with rampant nudity all the time.
The woman chuckled throatily at my obvious discomfort.
“You’re beautiful honey, you’ll fit right in,” she said soothingly. With a more critical eye, she added, “Hmmm, tall, slim, big boobs, long blonde hair … just the ticket. Patrick!” she called off in the distance, “come take a look at the goods.”
I bridled a bit. The goods? I was a woman, not some inanimate object, but I checked myself. You know what? I was an aspiring model, “the product” so to say, out to make money off of my looks and my body, getting paid cold hard cash to sell cars. I could do this.
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 Lambo 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 told. 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.”
Patrick nodded wearily. “I’ll make sure you get it,” he said.
And that’s all I needed to hear. I dropped my hands, letting my Double Ds bounce free, the creamy mounds tasty and ripe. Teasingly, I cupped them, deepening the valley in between as I straddled the door to the car like I’d seen the redhead do.
“Lick your nipples,” said Max. “Make me want you,” he commanded all the while the shutter going off in a non-stop whir.
I was only too happy to oblige. I lifted my girls to my mouth, savoring first one ruby red nip, then the other, licking them lasciviously while smiling at the camera before lifting them both to do a double suck.
It only got dirtier though. Patrick reached for the string tie of my bikini bottoms and pulled it loose so that the front flap flopped open. I grabbed at the fabric with a pretend gasp, holding my hand over my mouth for added effect as the cloth slipped over my pussy.
“Oh my god!” I whispered, just audible enough for the crew to hear. “It slipped!”
But of course I knew what was going on. I wasn’t getting paid nine hundred dollars to strut around in my clothes. I was getting paid to go nude, baring my assets, making men want me and that car.
So coyly, I dropped my hand, letting the fabric slip through my fingers until the front of my pink slit was revealed, the lips bare, plush and juicy.
“Mmm,” I moaned, throwing my head back, one hand rubbing circles around my clit as the other pulled and tugged at my nipple, “feels amazing.” My long blonde hair hung down my back and both Patrick and the photographer had their mouths agape now, although I noticed the photographer’s finger was clicking non-stop on the camera.
And that, reader, is how I ended up posing nude for a couple of skin mag flicks. It started slow. I was a student after all, and couldn’t come up to the City all the time for photo shoots. Plus, I had my doubts. Being naked came easy to me, I’m totally comfortable in my body, but I knew what was happening –I was being recorded and someone, somewhere, would see these pictures.
But I steeled myself. I needed the money and would never meet the people who bought these photos. They were probably car aficionados, dudes who wouldn’t even see me as anything more than accessory, the exotic cars being the main draw. That is, until the agency asked me to start posing without the cars altogether ... just me, open, revealing, available for all.
It was a little intimidating at first, my legs open, the camera guys circling 360 degrees. I felt uncomfortable, those guys could see right up my snatch, my wet pussy oiled up and lubed! But they were total professionals, not batting an eye, and I told myself they saw naked girls all the time – I was just the latest in a long line. And so I sank into the work, smiling, hissing, working my body, letting it all hang out, reveling in my youth and beauty.
In all, I didn’t do much, it was probably only a week’s work total. Seven days of nude photo work, my cunny and breasts on display. Thinking back, if I hadn’t been so hard up for cash, with no friends, no money, and no fiancé, I don’t think it would have happened. I probably would have just mooched off my latest victim, taking him for all he was worth.
I shouldn’t have done it, I know that now, I was young and stupid, poor and in a bad place. But now there were nudies of me out there … and I didn’t realize how they’d come to haunt me.