Car Show Slut

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'd just like to say thanks to everyone who voted for Amateur Photographer and made it number 1 in the top lists, even if only for a few days. It's much appreciated - and there will be more chapters coming soon).

"What's the matter, Kelly?" I asked, placing my tray of food on the table before sitting down to join her for lunch in the company cafeteria. Kelly looked as though she was about to cry. She was just 19 years old, a junior secretary in the large advertising and marketing firm for which we both worked. She was a lovely, bubbly young girl of whom I was quite fond. She had a heart of gold, and unlike many of the other juniors who worked on her floor, she tried very hard and cared about her job and getting the right outcome for the company and the clients. In my much more senior capacity as one of the account executives I had unofficially taken her under my wing in a sort of big sister capacity, helping her through problems when I could. I liked her and I felt that with a bit of guidance she could have a big future ahead of her. So I was a bit concerned about her apparent state of distress, and now she was struggling to hold back her tears. What could be wrong?

"I, I can't get anyone to help me!" she almost sobbed.

"Help you with what?"

"It's my boyfriend. There is a car show on this weekend, and I promised to model for him at the show with his car – he is a car racing driver – but there's supposed to be two of us, and my girlfriend Shona who was going to do it with me just rang my cell phone to say she can't..."

"That doesn't sound that bad," I said. "Why don't you just do it yourself alone."

"But Rick wanted two girls, and he's got this sponsor he's hoping to get and he's expecting two girls, and I don't know anyone else who can do it with me."

For such a seemingly trivial setback, her forlornness almost seemed comical. But my heart went out to her nonetheless; even though I was so much her senior within the organization – in a roundabout way within the bureaucracy of the firm, I was basically her boss – I counted her as a friend.

"What about hiring professional models?" I asked.

"It's too expensive. We haven't got the money. His racing costs a lot, and that's why it's so important to put on a good show, because of the sponsor – he really needs that sponsor."

She'd been looking down at her food most of the time, pushing her braised lamb around the plate with her fork. She seemed at a total loss. Then, with pleading, anguished red eyes, she looked up at me.

"Anne, I, would you help me? You could do it, it's not much work! Oh, please Anne?"

Me, model in skimpy clothes at a car show? What a suggestion! It was absurd, out of the question, and I had to let her know.

"Kelly, I'd love to help you with this problem, but I can't. It wouldn't be proper for someone in my position."

"Yes, I know," she mumbled. "I'm sorry, I apologize for asking. It's just that I'm desperate – it on tomorrow morning!"

"Well," I said, "maybe something will turn up. Cheer up girl."

We returned to our meals in an uneasy silence. Now she seemed even more dejected. I didn't know what was more disappointing to her: my rejection or the fact that she'd been desperate enough to ask in the first place. I felt almost relieved when my pager beeped a message calling me back to the office to attend to some matters that had suddenly arisen.

"Kelly," I said to her as I got to my feet, "cheer up. Really, it's not the end of the world. I'll drop down later and see you before you go home."

I scurried back to my 13th floor office. As I attended to the drama – a pedantic enquiry about the wording of one of our TV ad campaigns - in the back of my mind the lunchtime encounter with Kelly was troubling me. It hurt me to see her so distressed. But it was more than that. I had to admit that I was also a little ashamed of myself to have so idly dismissed her cry for help with a simple 'it wouldn't be proper for someone in my position'. Were I in her position, I thought to myself, I would have taken that comment as a snub, a put down.

What made me so high and mighty? Yet on the other hand, within this firm I in fact was rather 'high and mighty' – especially compared with Kelly's status. I was only 29 years old, but had worked hard for seven years to rise to the position I now held, which included a great degree of authority and autonomy within the firm, as well as a ludicrously large salary. I was the youngest senior account executive, easily the highest ranking woman in the company. I owned my own home, a top floor unit in a fashionable part of town, and with an easily manageable loan I was about to add small rented flat to my property portfolio. And I had done it all on my own. Life was good; I loved my job, and my job gave me all the good things in life that I could want.

But as I stared out of my window-walled office, absent-mindedly scanning the bustling city vista beneath me, I kept thinking about Kelly and her distress. It kept nagging at me. Maybe I could just hire a pro model for her and pay for it myself? It wasn't as though I couldn't afford it. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that it wasn't that I actually wanted to help her at all. Rather it was that I wanted to make myself feel better about having snubbed her, a friend in need. And in any case, while she was my friend, I was also her work superior – there was, I had to admit, something patronizing about throwing money at her that she couldn't afford and, knowing Kelly, she would forever feel as though she was in my debt.

I felt bad about this, and I felt for Kelly. I couldn't help but wrack my brain for a solution. That, in fact is my job: my whole working life revolves around problem solving for others. Was there anyone I knew who could do it? Well, no – it wasn't as though I regularly hung out with bikini models. No one I knew would consider doing such a thing in their wildest dreams.

The more I thought about it this problem, the more it troubled me, the more I kept coming back to the single solution: if she cannot find anyone, I must do it myself. She was in a jam and she asked for my help, because she thought I was her friend. But I snubbed her. So now I must help her. And it wasn't as though I had major plans for Saturday; it was going to be a relaxing day of cleaning the flat, reading, interspersed with a few hours at the gym. Nothing that couldn't be put off till another day. Problem solved.

I got Kelly on the phone.

"Hi Kelly, how are you doing?"

"Not bad," she said.

"Any luck with finding a second model?"

"No," she sighed. "I just don't know anyone else. I mean, like anyone I know with the figure that could do it."

"Kelly, I've been thinking. What does this entail? I mean, if I was to do it with you, exactly what is it we have to do?"

"Oh, Anne, it's not that hard! Not much, really – would you really help me?"

"Just tell me what's the deal."

"OK!"

I could almost feel her spirits rising over the phone.

"We just have to model with the car. Really, just stand around, look good and hand out stickers. That's about all it is."

"What do we wear?"

"They've got a special outfit with the sponsor's logo on it. All you'd need to bring is a pair of boots. I've got these gorgeous knee-high black ones that I'll be wearing. So something like that."

"Alright, I'm in," I said.

"Oh Anne, thank you – thank you so much! You've saved my life!"

"No problem, just email the details – I guess if you've got the outfits I probably should just meet at your place in the morning. What time?"

She gave me her address and I was to be there at 8am. With that all sorted I went back to my work, tidying up the various loose ends until I left for home later that evening.

Working as a model at a car show, I pondered as I gunned my BMW onto the freeway, heading for home. My parents would be so proud, I chuckled to myself. Actually, that probably wasn't untrue. Both mom and dad had been actors in the theatre, and they always hoped that I would follow in their footsteps. And they pushed me hard in that direction. From an early age I was enrolled in countless dance classes and kids' acting workshops, and I even ended up with a part in a TV commercial for a kiddies' ice cream. In my teens they put me through a couple of modeling courses, and I earned some spare cash by modeling teenage fashion wear in a big department store catalogue magazine.

It was kind of fun, and I did enjoy the rush of performing, being the centre of attention on stage. But for true actors, that feeling is more than just fun; it's the centre of their universe, their entire being. It's what they live for. My folks were like that. Acting is like a drug that you either need or don't, and in the end I found I didn't need it.

You could say that my parents either stayed true to their convictions or they simply weren't able to kick the addiction, because neither of them has ever done a day's conventional work in their lives. But all through my childhood years nor did either of them ever get that Big Break, and that meant that most of the time as a family we were pretty short on even the most basic things in life. I didn't want to end up that way, and that's why I studied hard to make something of my life. And I did just that.

And now here I was returning to 'stage', as it were. In a way I was kind of looking forward to that rush of performing, such as being a car model was going to be. Maybe my parents wouldn't be that proud...

I slept restlessly that night. I had some strange dreams. In one, I was in a private meeting in our work video room with one of our biggest clients. But instead of the conservative pants suit I normally wore, I was dressed in Victorian era garb, a beautiful, stiffly starched full-length crimson dress and white frilly laced blouse. I looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The client, Luca, a swarthy Italian only a few years my senior, sat across from me, staring lustily at my generous cleavage the whole time I delivered my pitch about the media campaign we had devised for his company. It was obvious he wasn't listening to a word I was saying. I have never liked Luca. With his black hair and dark Mediterranean features he was a physically attractive man, definitely, but I found him rude, over confident and arrogant. I didn't care for his attitude, but his company was one of our biggest clients. And I mean big - we're talking a business deal almost in the millions here.

When I finished speaking, he continued to eye off my boobs, saying nothing. Then he suddenly got to his feet, stretched his arms, removed his expensive Italian suit jacket and loosened his tie. The bulge in his trousers was obvious, enormous. He walked over to me and grabbed my hand, gripping it hard. Then he maneuvered my fingers gently onto the zipper of his pants.

"Come on Anne, let's cut the crap," he snapped, with an insolent smile as he encouraged my fingers to slide the zipper down. "I think we both know what's coming. Let's seal this deal." He was right. We both knew what was required for a satisfactory conclusion to this business arrangement. I slowly unzipped him and my hand slipped inside his clothing, reaching in to feel the hard outline of erect cock against his expensive silk boxers. I slid them down and released his member. Freed from its confines, it suddenly sprung out and away from his torso to point straight at me, its tip oozing menacingly. It was right in front of my face.

"Suck it, slut," he commanded.

I hated him. But there before me was that huge, beautiful appendage, mesmerizing in its size, its power. I gently wrapped my hand around it, feeling the texture of the soft skin contrasting against the hardness under the surface when I strengthened my grasp. My mind seemed to spin as conflicting emotions of shame, outrage and desire assaulted my nervous system as I slowly moved my lips closer to the head of the shaft.

"That's right," he snarled down at me, "do it, bitch!" Kneeling at his feet as I was, when I looked up at his face he seemed 20 feet tall.

Resigned to my fate, for this was how it had to be, whether I wanted it or not, I knew it, the price that had to be paid in this client/servant relationship, I opened my mouth wide and slid my lips over that huge, warm, wet, glistening Italian cock.

Next morning I rose bleary eyed and wandered out onto the balcony to greet the dawn with my regular morning yoga ritual. But as the rising sun pierced through the gaps between the trees and buildings to spill into the flat to announce the new day, I felt a surge of blood through my body as the full realization suddenly dawned that in a few hours I would, for the entire day, be swapping my identity as a high-powered marketing executive for that of a cheap bikini model at a car show.

Bikini model. But exactly what, it also suddenly occurred to me, did that mean? What exactly would we be wearing? What was the outfit? No doubt it was going to be something skimpy, something sexy; that was the whole point of these things. But how skimpy, how revealing? How could I, as one who prides herself at always being completely across the detail in any dealings in my job, have so readily agreed to this without knowing exactly what it entailed? Very soon I was going to be on display in front of hundreds of leering males wearing... wearing what?

My breath quickened. I felt agitated. Why hadn't I asked Kelly more questions? What was I thinking? What if someone I know sees me? What if someone from work sees me? A person of my status in business does NOT become a car show model on the weekend! And someone from work – I was DOING this with someone FROM work!

I went inside and made a coffee, trying to rationalize the situation and quell my growing anxiety. Annie, I told myself, you've made a commitment, now you've got to stick with it. It's not as though any family members were going to see me – for this promotion within the company I had transferred clean across the country. I had lived in this town for several years, but my social set remained quite small. I did not have a current boyfriend. To a large degree, my work was my life. And anyway, who among anyone I knew would be going to a car show? Pretty much no one. But what if one of our clients was there? Again, who among our clients would be at a car show? None that I could think of. And anyway, I thought to myself: so what? Why I am I so uptight about this? It's not like I was going to be naked. You agreed to do it, I reminded myself again: just do it.

I arrived at Kelly's house on time. She greeted me at the door, obviously already wearing the 'outfit'. She embraced me in a warm hug.

"Morning Anne, and thanks again for this – I really owe you so much!"

"Don't mention it, Kelly. Now, I presume what you're wearing there will be what I'm wearing."

"Yeah, come through and you can get changed."

I had to admit she looked great. Somewhat sluttish, but great all the same. Kelly was a very cute looking girl, with her blonde bob hair style, slim figure and generous boobs. Little wonder her boyfriend wanted her to be his model.

She had the boots on, as she described. But they were the largest component of the outfit. Essentially it was red bikini bottoms, only they were half bikini, half running shorts, so they only covered half her ass. The top was a red midriff singlet, with the sponsor's logo across the breasts, but it was rather low cut, showing off a lot more cleavage than your average singlet. She was also wearing a black peaked cap with the sponsor's logo across the front in red. A weird combination of reds and blacks to this outfit, I thought to myself, but then the focal point of this fashion exercise, one had to concede, was tits and ass, not color coordination.

Kelly and I were of similar build; about the same height, slim, B-cup, so size wise everything looked like it would fit fine as I began to strip off my jeans and t-shirt.

"Here," Kelly said, rushing into the room just as I was pulling on the top, "the final touch. I thought these would go well."

It was a pair red rose tinted sun glasses. I put them on and studied my reflection in the mirror.

"Oh Anne, you look great!"

"You think so?"

"Yes! Very hot. You look fantastic!"

I did look fantastic. Whorish, yes, but there was a certain touch of style to the look. And the pants fitted just right, nice and snug. My boobs looked pretty good in the top, with just a moderate amount of cleavage on display. As I studied my reflection, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself: 'girl, you may be nearly 30, but you've still got it!'

But it was more than that. I could hardly reconcile the fact that the image in the mirror was really me. With my long brown hair flowing freely under the cap (at work, I always have my hair tied in a conservative bun), and my eyes shielded under the rose-colored glasses, my facial features further camouflaged under the hat, it actually didn't look like me at all. I looked, well, I looked just like a car show slut.

We drove out to the show in her car, Kelly wearing nothing but her outfit but me modestly shrouded by the coat I brought along exactly for the purpose. I was glad of that, too, as the poor girl was copping lustful stares from the men in the truck alongside us at the first red traffic light we stopped at. Soon, though, I thought to myself as we drove away on the green, men would be staring at me too.

Thankfully, and just as I suspected, the car show was in one of the outer suburban exhibition halls – a fair way from my trendy city neighborhood. As a relative newcomer to this city, I'd rarely been out to this part of town, so in a way it was though we'd traveled to a whole new metropolis. I felt a bit more at ease, partly for the fact that I had Kelly for support, but also because this all seemed in so many levels a long way out of my real world. It would be like a strange day off from my regular existence, and tomorrow everything would be back to normal.

The car show certainly was some kind of other world. We arrived at about 9am, and things were still being set up. Already there was a scattering of people wandering through, looking at the brightly colored machines and other displays: car seats, music systems and all sorts of electronic car accessories. Music was pumping across the large hall from all directions.

"There they are," Kelly pointed, "over there." I spotted the small red sedan bearing 'our' logo. Sitting beside the car in a foldup chair was a young man wearing black trousers and a red, short-sleeved shirt, also bearing the sponsor logo. He rose quickly to his feet and Kelly introduced me to Rick, her boyfriend.

"Anne, I'm so pleased to meet you, and I can't thank you enough for doing this for us," Rick said.

"Don't mention it," I said. "I have to admit, it's not something I've got much experience with, but I'll do my best."

Then Rick's mechanic, Paul, arrived with a tray of coffees.

"Good job Paul," Rick said. "Coffee, ladies?"

It was comforting to see that these guys were organized. We sat and exchanged small talk while we sipped our coffees. The deal was exactly as Kelly had said: I learned that Rick's ambition in life was to be a pro auto racer, and it was important that he made a good impression with the potential sponsor - he badly needed this sponsorship deal to make the next step up the racing ladder. Racing was his dream. No wonder she was so distraught at not having that extra model. Rick wasn't my type of man; a bit rough, rather uncultured, though nice enough, but it impressed me that he was a young guy trying to pursue a goal and putting everything into it. That was something to which I could relate. Already I was feeling better about this. And with us all sitting around together chatting, all dressed in regulation red-and-black colors (although I still had my coat on), I actually felt part of a team trying to achieve a goal.