Model

I wanted money and a lot of it. Now I wasn't just going to luck my way into money. I'd have to work for it, so I needed a job where I could earn big money fast. I didn't have any big business or financial smarts so that ruled out going into business for myself. I did an assessment of what I had going for me.

Sports people make big money but, while fit, I wasn't star material on the playing field. Hollywood and TV likewise. I could probably make a living there but I was unlikely to make big money. Quite frankly, my acting abilities sucked. So what were my good points?

I was young, only recently turned nineteen. I was intelligent and had a good education. I had an excellent memory. The big things in my favour were my looks and my voice. I had a voice that sounded like tinkling bells and sent shivers down a man's back. (That was according to one would-be boyfriend.) I did have a voice that seemed to attract men, as long as I wasn't trying to sing. I had an excellent body, absolutely flawless skin of a fine silken texture, and a face that Helen of Troy would have envied. All in all, I was gorgeous.

It seemed to me that my best choice of career was modelling. I should be a hit as a model and top models got big bickies. I just had to make it and make sure I hung onto it.

Don't get me wrong. I also considered the down side of modelling as a career. You had to work bloody hard, but that didn't worry me. Parties, drugs and sex could also be involved. The parties wouldn't be a problem as I have excellent social skills. Drugs and alcohol I would have to try to avoid. Sex? I could take it or leave it, preferring to leave it. I have let a couple of boyfriends make love to me but it didn't really do much for me, although they were almost reverently awed by my beauty. So sex I could probably use as an asset, if I had to.

What I needed to get my new career started was a portfolio. There was no way I was going to let some local yokel with a camera take photos. I'd book in with a professional outfit and get a decent portfolio. It would cost, but I had some money saved and my parents would be willing to contribute. I went looking for a good agency.

I eventually found an agency and made an appointment to talk with them. I arrived at my appointment on time and was directed to this office where a casually dressed man was lounging behind a desk. As soon as I saw him I just knew that there was no way he could be a decent photographer. He looked like a bit of a tough to me.

Would you believe that the insolent swine took one look at me and told me that I'd come to the wrong place.

"Wrong place? What do you mean? I have an appointment. You were expecting me."

"Yeah, but I don't think we're the sort of agency you want. We don't do porn."

Porn? Who mentioned anything about porn? I certainly didn't.

"Fine," I said, "because I'm not interested in doing porn. What makes you think I am?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the dyed hair, the falsies, the bad makeup and the porn-star clothes."

"My hair is not dyed and I don't have falsies," I snapped, furious. "And exactly what is wrong with my makeup and clothes."

"Do you really want me to tell you? We charge by the hour, you know."

"What I require," I said, speaking very carefully, "is a portfolio I can send around to agencies. I want to be a model, specialising in cat-walk and television commercials."

From that point on things went a little better. He explained the sort of photos they did, showing me a couple of portfolios. He also told me the price, which was horrible but not out of my reach. Then he told me the first free date they had, which was months away.

I indicated that I was still willing to go ahead with the shoot and he gave me a considering look.

"Not wanting to waste our time," he said, "would you please take your clothes off so I can see you properly. You can change behind the screen if you're the shy type."

"No, I will not," I told him. "What on earth makes you think that I would?"

"If you'd paid attention to the portfolios I showed you, you'd have seen that there are nude shots of the models. Artistic shots. The agencies expect a couple of them. Among other things it lets them know you're not going to get all coy when you have to start changing clothes in a busy dressing room. If you can't strip in front of me then it's highly unlikely that you'll be able to relax enough to strip in front of the camera. Still, it's your choice. The door's over there."

Callous brute. I hesitated, but I really wanted to do this. I stepped behind the screen and stripped off. Geez my face was burning when I stepped out from behind the screen.

"Decent breast structure," he said, looking at me as though he was a vet and I was a horse. "Turn around, slowly."

I did a slow circle, fuming as he added a couple of pointed comments about my figure. It seemed he also approved of my bottom and my hips.

"OK. Get dressed and we'll set up an appointment. Oh, and make sure you shave before you come for the sitting. People expect their models to be clean-shaven these days."

I got dressed, thoughts of thumb-screws and boiling oil passing through my mind. I'd just finished when this guy comes bursting into the office.

"James, Angelica has had an accident. She won't be here for her appointment. Ring around and see if one of the would-be's would like an early abbreviated shoot."

"How abbreviated?" the guy behind the desk (James, I assumed) asked.

"One hour, max. That's all the time that Angelica required."

"Ah, I'm here," I said quickly. Maybe I'd get lucky.

What was with these guys? He took one look at me and laughed.

"Sorry, duckie," he said with a smile. "Pierre does not do porn."

"Actually, Pierre, the lady doesn't want a porn shoot. She wants some shots that can go in a model's portfolio."

Pierre looked at me and then then looked at the guy behind the desk.

"You're kidding. That hair! That bust!"

"All perfectly natural."

"The makeup and the clothes? The woman has no sense of style. No sense of fashion."

(Pierre was going to be lucky to live through the day.)

"Maurice would have been working on Angelica. Have him scrub her face and do his own artistry. You can get some decent clothes from the wardrobe. Think of it as a challenge. If anyone can make her look like a proper model, you can. You may be able to set a new style in models."

"The face is good," Pierre granted, "and Maurice is a genius in his own limited manner. Pierre will do this. Come with me."

He turned and stalked out. The man behind the desk gestured for me to follow, so I did, wondering what I was getting into. James trailed along behind. Pierre ushered me into what looked like a room from a hair salon and pointed me to a seat.

"Maurice, sweetie, I have a challenge for you," he called. "You are to make this woman look young and beautiful."

(Pierre was going to be lucky to live through the next hour.)

A nice friendly looking young man came strolling through a door.

"Another challenge?" he drawled. "If we're talking Angelica she will not be a challenge. She will be a miracle."

"No. This woman. What's your name, dearie?"

"Denise."

"So, Denise," drawled Maurice. "Being buying junk from Avon, have we? That stuff will ruin your skin. Go away, Pierre, and see if you can find Denise some respectable clothes."

And just what the hell was wrong with my clothes?

Pierre bustled off and Maurice started producing lotions and things. Before he actually started on me James handed me a contract to sign.

"Basically it's our standard contract," he told me. "Because this is an abbreviated session and you haven't had time to prepare for it we're giving you a reduced price. All photos taken during this session will belong to you and we may not use them without your approval. They will be stamped on the back with our trademark as proof that we took them. We will print a dozen photos as part of the contract. Additional copies are extra and you can order them at any time."

He pointed out the various clauses and I signed where he indicated. The revised cost was very attractive. I could afford it quite easily without hitting up my parents for extra. Once they saw the photos they might then be willing to pay for more to be printed.

After that Maurice tried to remove the skin from my face. To atone for using sandpaper to clean my makeup off he proceeded to very delicately apply his own cosmetics. When he'd finished and I looked in a mirror I had to agree with Pierre. In his own way, Maurice was a genius.

Maurice took me down to Pierre's studio to show me off. Pierre, blast him, just looked at me and grunted, "Adequate."

Maurice smiled and winked at me.

"Pierre's an angel but he does get jealous of my skill," he said smugly, and marched triumphantly out.

Pierre looked at me, muttered something that sounded like, "Oh my god. Those clothes," and directed me to stand at the end of the studio.

"Pierre will take a couple of photos of you in your own clothes," he stated. "You will then be able to compare them with the clothes that I have selected for you. Perhaps you will learn something. Perhaps not."

The first few minutes of the shoot were rather fun, even if Pierre was having tantrums and tearing out his hair and yelling at me. It stopped being fun when he declared himself satisfied with the shots of me in my own clothes.

"Good," He said. "Now we will try a few artistic shots. You will remember that these are to be artistic, I hope. They are not supposed to be photos of you with your legs spread, pointing out that you have a vagina. People who see these photos will know you're a female and will assume that you come with standard equipment. Leave your clothes on that table and sit on the couch in front of the green screen."

"Ah, can we leave these ones to the end?" I asked nervously.

"No. If you can relax properly when naked you will find the rest of the shoot a breeze. I consider it best to find out if you've got the right sort of mettle before I waste all my time."

I reluctantly stripped off and sat on the couch. Crossing over to the couch I was going to put a bit of a swish on my hips as I went but decided not to. It would, I figured, be a total waste of time with a man as gay as Pierre. I know, I know. I shouldn't jump to conclusions but, trust me, Pierre was way gay.

You wouldn't believe how fastidious Pierre was about having me sit just so. Smile, I was told. Not a grin. A simple smile to show how you're enjoying yourself. Try for sexy. Not trampish, woman. I said sexy. Don't you know what sexy is? Try and put some passion on your face. No, no, no. I said passion, not pain. This is a photoshoot. Not a dentist's chair.

If he hadn't been harrying me so much I might have felt some sympathy for him, he was getting so upset. But what about my feelings. I was beginning to think he didn't know what he wanted and I was starting to get a little uptight.

"Can't you relax a little," Pierre demanded. "Everything is captured by the camera. If you're too tense it shows and no-one will hire a tense model."

He finished up stalking over to an internal phone and barking something into it. Then we waited for a couple of minutes until James strolled into the studio.

"She is hopeless," snapped Pierre. "She sits there like a statue, forever frozen in marble. I can't shoot cold stone. I need a living vibrant woman."

I was going to have a word or two to say about temperamental photographers who were too sensitive to do their job but James held up a hand indicating I should be quiet.

"Why don't you go and have a chat with Maurice, Pierre," James suggested. "I'll take a peek at Denise through the lens and see if I can suggest anything."

Pierre left. If he'd been a woman I'd have said he flounced out of the room, but being at least nominally male all I'll say is he had an odd way of walking. James turned and looked at me.

It was odd. I'd been nude in his office and, while a touch embarrassed, it hadn't really bothered me. Then I'd been posing nude for Pierre and it hadn't even embarrassed me. Now James was giving me a considering look and all at once I felt naked.

I braced my shoulders slightly, which had the unfortunate side effect of pushing my bust forward. James noticed, lifting his eyebrows as though amused. He took up a position behind the camera and told me to smile.

"Pretend it's your birthday and you're opening a present. That sort of smile. OK. Can we have you smiling at your boyfriend?"

He wasn't actually taking any pictures, just telling me to smile and show various other facial expressions. Deciding he'd seen enough he strolled over to stand looking down at me.

"Do not," he told me firmly, "pursue a career as an actress. You don't have the talent for it."

I just looked at him, irritated. He wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know but I saw no reason for him to tell me at all.

"It's odd. You don't come across as a virgin but I don't see any of the passion that you should show. Are you actually a virgin?"

"No," I replied, keeping it short and sweet. There was no way I was discussing my sex life, such as it was, with him.

"Interesting," he said softly, rubbing his chin. "I can certainly see what Pierre means by a statue. You're far too tense, even if you don't realise it yourself. We need to get you to loosen up."

"Well, what do I need to do to loosen up the way you want? Try yoga or something? I'm willing to have a go."

"I don't know about the yoga but I will go with the something."

I had no idea what he meant by that but I sure found out fast. He bent down grabbed my ankles and lifted. Just like that I was flat on my back on the couch with my legs high and wide and him standing between them. He sort of held my legs there with one arm around them while he dropped his own trousers.

So one moment I'm smiling for the camera, the next I'm flat on my back watching what looked like a very large erection threatening my pussy. I just lay there staring at it, not believing this was happening. I mean, men just don't treat me like this. The times I'd let a boyfriend make love to me he'd been gentle and considerate and honoured that I was letting him adore me in this fashion.

James wasn't looking honoured. Neither did he look as though the words gentle and considerate meant anything to me. Foreplay? What's that? His cock was already pressing against me, bullying its way into me. I was going, "Argh! What? But, but. Oh my god." And his cock was steadily sinking into me.

I will admit he didn't just ram it in. Thinking back over the incident I suppose I have to admit that he moved slowly enough for me to adjust and have my natural lubricants flowing, but at the time he just seemed to plunge into my helpless body while I stared at him with my mouth open in shock.

I lay there as he started to pump into me. I know men like doing that but I was amazed that he seemed to be just driving in hard, not caring about what I might want. I got an even greater shock when he slapped me on the bottom and yelled at me.

"Move your hips, woman," he snapped. "Try and remember that you are a woman and not a blow-up sex-doll. Get with the action."

The nerve of the man. I'd never had complaints before this. Both the boyfriends who'd got this far had been truly appreciative of my beauty. This jerk was just yelling at me to move my hips. And he had his hands all over my breasts, rubbing them and playing with them as though he owned them.

I started moving my hips, pushing tentatively up against him. Did that satisfy him? Not noticeably.

"Come on, woman. What is your problem? You're not made of glass, you know. You won't break. Put some effort into it and hump your hips."

I wanted to scream some very rude things at the great oaf. Instead I did as instructed and humped my hips. I was starting to feel very peculiar. Instead of the pleasant sensation invoked the previous times I'd made love I was starting to feel the weirdest excitement. His cock was charging in, and my passage was screaming with pleasure, and my hips were bouncing as I tried to keep up with him. I didn't understand a single thing that was going on. This wasn't making love. This was something wild.

James bounced and thrust and bounced some more. I wanted to scream at him to stop but I also wanted to scream at him for more. I was in two minds, but my body was dictating which mind I was listening to and I just kept going. He thrust and I pushed to meet him, taking him deep, and then doing it again, and again, and again.

I couldn't understand it. I'd been with men before and they would only take a few minutes and then collapse, looking very smug and assuming that I felt the same way. (I never did.) James on the other hand just kept right on going and the whole thing was starting to drive me wild. I was gasping and grunting with the effort I was putting in which I never had to do prior to this, but I wasn't even objecting. He was taking and I was giving and it just seemed to be right.

I lost track of what was going on. I was so aroused I couldn't believe it and my excitement was growing by the moment. (By the stroke, anyway.) When he suddenly pulled out I almost lost it.

I was like, "Hey, what? What? Why?" and he was rolling me over, bending me over the side of the couch, and then (thank god) he was driving fiercely into me from behind. His arms were around me, his hands holding my breasts, and his cock was driving home like nobody's business. I was frantically bouncing, trying to keep up with him, when I really and truly lost it.

A climax smacked into me with a force I couldn't believe. I think I screamed, but I can't be sure. I wasn't really aware of anything but that climax pulsing through me, only vaguely aware that James seemed to be jerking around.

By the time I got myself together properly James was wiping me down. I quivered slightly when he wiped in some areas, feeling dreadfully sensitive right then. I was wondering what the hell had happened.

"I think we can call Pierre back in now," James drawled. "You seem a lot more relaxed."

Relaxed? Yes, the way an old sock is relaxed when you drop it on the ground. A boneless, immobile, heap, unable to do anything but lie there.

"James," wailed Pierre. "Her makeup. It's ruined. Maurice will have to do it all over again."

I don't really remember too much about the rest of the sitting. Maurice came in and performed some very minor touch-ups on my makeup and Pierre took a few nude shots. Then into the outfits that he'd got from their wardrobe for the rest of the photos.

"What," I wanted to know, "is the difference between what I was wearing and some of these outfits. They're exactly the same."

"Only to you, darling," sneered Pierre, "because you're devoid of good taste. Look at the colours. These are much more suited to you. Your choice of colour screams porn star. These shriek elegance and class."

(He was so going to an early grave. Also, damn it, he was right. Same outfit, different colour, and I looked a hundred percent better.)

Anyway, I got my portfolio and I send it off. James gave me a few places that I could try. I did have one stroke of luck. After viewing the nude photos I showed them to James and he agreed that they weren't quite the sort of photo I should include in a portfolio, and he gave me an additional rebate on the cost. Made the whole thing very affordable.

Oh, the nude photos. Um, let's just say that if these were an example of Pierre's skill he has a wonderful future shooting porn. Even though I'm nude, and so artfully posed that you can't actually see any of the naughty bits, the photos still looked like a woman who'd just had sex and wanted more. If my parent had seen those they'd have had heart attacks. (Hard-on material, James called them.)