Emotions, contradicting and at odds with one another, ran roughshod through my soul. Feeling extremely foolish and out of place, I took stock of the most prevalent ones. Intimidation, discomfort, anguish, and regret flowed through my shaking, quivering body. Interwoven through all of them was excitement and extreme sexual arousal. The regret stemmed from my idiotic decision to audition for a famous photographer, putting me in direct competition with famous models and porn actresses. Furthering that despair was my idea to wear a domino mask to conceal my identity, thinking it would make me look chic rather than foolish.
The other feelings stemmed from the way the models had been treating me. The excitement and horniness, however, sprang from my sexual fantasy of being objectified by complete strangers as I acted like a slutty vixen, totally lost in extreme arousal. If half the stories I’d heard were true, I was about to be treated like a piece of sex- meat. It had me dripping wet, and the hotness just barely won out over the negativity.
With a shaking body, every nerve on high alert, I attempted to stand confidently. I was out of my element, outclassed, and on the verge of a panic attack from the constant teasing and ridicule over my red hair and the mask. Still, that heat in my core demanded that I see this through, if for no reason than to masturbate over it, later.
On either side of me stood dozens of beautiful, sexy, confident women. They were dressed in the latest specimens of high fashion, me in a lacy, off-the-rack sundress. Each one of them had probably spent more on their hair and makeup for the day than I did on my annual rent.
All the perfect-skinned specimens of femininity were professional, working models and actresses, some of which I’d seen on television, in porn, and in advertisements. They were also catty bitches, and, with only one or two exceptions, they had treated me like an ugly, impoverished peasant, a subhuman target of scorn.
Having been mercilessly teased and ridiculed had me on the verge of tears. However, I badly needed the money and convinced myself that, while I had a greater chance of getting struck by lightning on my birthday while holding a winning lottery ticket than of actually snagging a high-paying, erotic fashion modeling gig, I’d give it a shot.
I loved sex and kinky adventure, so the thought of acting horny for the camera while wearing clothes with four- or five-figure price tags seemed like a fun way to raise cash. I was always horny, anyway; my cunt was on fire. The lace domino mask would, hopefully, conceal my identity in case I got the job.
My very ill, extremely conservative mother, required surgery - the reason I needed this money - and if she saw her ‘little baby’ strutting her naughty bits for all to see, it would be the death of her. It wasn’t like I’d get the job; I was just doing it for the sexual thrill. I could indulge my twisted fantasy and try to help her out at the same time.
Glancing up and down the line of shrill women, I considered bolting for the door. I pretended to ignore the comments of “carrot top,” “Raggedy Ann,” “The Phantom of the Opera,” and “freckled ghost.” Their smirking at my expense was beginning to fracture the already-frazzled emotions cascading through me. Then, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a shuddering vibrato.
The photographer, the famous Esteel, known as much for his suggestive photos as his drug-induced antics and corrosive personality, stomped into the room with an air of authoritative superiority. Seeing him in person, I had to stifle a laugh, nearly forgetting the maltreatment I’d just received. Behind him was his girly-Goth assistant, Rayven.
Esteel was very short, standing just over five feet tall, but walking with a swagger that reminded me of a combat general. He even wore combat boots, fuchsia ones. His legs were clad in leopard-print tights, a black, crumpled linen poet’s shirt over his torso, the V-neck unlaced. His hair was straight and medium-length, swept over to one side, with black tips in spots. Atop his coif was a purple beret to match the plum ascot loosely coiled around his lithe neck.
His assistant, Rayven was decked out in a pink, laced dress, her hair awash in blues, green, and reds all splattered on white. Her makeup was pale and Gothic-inspired but very femininely sexy. Her nipples poked through her dress, and her breasts bounced with every confident step. An overstuffed manila folder was clutched in front of her, papers and photographs sticking out.
“What a sorry selection of sluts we have here,” the photographer scolded us. “Pathetic, all of you.”
Looking over the faces of the haughty models was sweet revenge. They cringed and cowered before his wrath as if he were God Almighty. They shrank before his scornful gaze, but his misogynistic bravado only amused me. Not only that, but they were looking for their big break; I wasn’t. I was looking forward to getting home and pissing on fashion magazines after meeting some of the bitches.
He, with his acolyte in tow, began appraising the models. They were sweating and quivering; I was on the brink of either robust laughter or a spontaneous orgasm. He stopped at the first one, a black-haired model of some renown that had called me a “country bumpkin.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “You’re Alison Greaves.” His tone was delightful. “You just did that swimsuit catalog.”
“Yes,” she smiled, meeting his eyes.
“Get the fuck out,” he snapped. “You look like a broomstick with tits.” I tittered when the bitch ran out crying. My pussy pulsated in anticipation.
He went down the line, “No. Too goth. Not Goth enough. Your ass is too big, get lost. Your ass is too small, fuck off. You might do.” two-thirds of the women on my right, then my left, were immediately dismissed. He passed me without a glance or word. He paused at the woman three away from me.
“And you are?” he reached out and squeezed her tit. “Never mind, they’re store-bought. Go do porn.” My body heat rose to an inferno level.
He stopped at the woman next to me, the one that bragged that she was going to get the job because her live-in boyfriend, Eli, was the male model for the upcoming shoot.
“Good muscle tone, skin, and nice body.”
Rayven leaned down and whispered into Esteel’s ear.
“Oh, really? Fuck you, get out, Clarice. I don’t need any lover’s drama on my set.”
She shot him a withering stare, her visage enraged. “You’ll be sorry,” she spat at him as the stormed out.
“Your ass doesn’t have the right shape, anyway,” he addressed her fleeing figure. I nearly convulsed at his blatant disregard for her feelings.
“And you,” he eyed me up and down, finally noting me. “Halloween isn’t for months. What’s with the mask?”
I was going to have fun going down in flames. “I don’t show my face. It keeps creeps like you at bay.” My nipples were already hard but they swelled even more under his withering stare.
“Creeps like me?” He studied my body and even slapped my overheated thigh. Then, he laughed, as if I’d just said the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Closing the distance between us to the point that his bloodshot eyes were millimeters away from mine, he softly asked, “What’s your name, Lone Ranger?”
Thinking quickly, I replied, “Domino.” It came out more like an orgasmic sigh.
“Hmm, nice touch. Mysterious and sexy,” he examined my body. “Nice rack, good cheekbones. Is your hair natural? Carpet matches the drapes?”
“You’re short enough to be eye-level, down there, have a look.” I pulled up the hem of my frilly sundress, exposing my trimmed and shaped pubes, all fire, matching my hair. Being appraised like a piece of meat was making me so wet. I had to fight the urge to masturbate right then and there.
He glanced down, then looked me in the eyes. However, he addressed everyone in the room. “If I haven’t already singled you out to stay, you can fuck the hell off and leave. Better luck next time.”
I laughed and stepped back to turn and leave. “Not you, masked bandit. Domino, was it? You stay.”
Stunned, I quickly got back into position, ignoring the high-profile models calling me a bitch. I smiled, feeling catty. Perhaps it was contagious.
“Something funny, Domino?” he snapped at me.
“Oh, wait,” I quipped back. “I have something in my pocket for you.” I plunged my hand into the front pocket of my dress and pulled it out, my middle finger outstretched, flipping him off.
“See, girls?” he lectured. “You can fuck and suck your way halfway to the top, as I’m sure most of you have done. But a good gimmick and attitude put you on the express train to fame. Learn from this one. Now turn around and show me your asses.”
“Umm, I don’t do nudes,” one of the first women he’d let stay said, her hand raised.
“Fuck off, then. Have a nice life.”
“Chauvinist pig!” she screeched as she stomped away. That left five of us.
“Ladies,” he began in his brassy, commanding voice. “In case your agent didn’t tell you, or you’re just fucking stupid, I’m Esteel. I do erotic fashion photography. For the brain-dead, that means hardcore, nudity, and fashion. You know, people pretending to comment on fashion while they jerk off to your tits. If you don’t like it, then Rayven, here, will show you the door. Otherwise, moon me, now.”
He walked up and down our ranks, surveying our butts. “I know, this is the enlightened age, and we’re not supposed to sexualize each other. Time for reality, sluts. You’re models; you are a commodity. You make a living off of objectifying yourselves, so let’s not pretend.”
