1. The Studio
“Is it your intention to become a model?”
“No, not really.” She pointed to where her lover sat. “This was his idea.”
“You could be. You have a quality… Please do not turn your head. Raise your chin more.”
“Just this one time,” she insisted.
Caroline lifted her head, to gaze at an imaginary spot on the ceiling. The man stroked her cheek with greasy fingers.
She flinched, and he pulled his hand away. There was no hint of apology or discomfort in his face or his manner. He was short and unglamorous, not repulsive or creepy but unkempt and vaguely sinister, hardly the sort of individual she would associate with the fashion industry. But she guessed that it really didn’t matter what lurked behind the camera.
“Tilt your head a little to the left, please.”
He stood back, scratching his nose, studying her.
“Well-proportioned, fine features… not beautiful.”
“Thanks a lot!”
He raised his hands defensively. “Please do not take offence. Beauty is at best transitory, and it intimidates most men. You are pretty. This is more desirable in a woman.”
Unmollified, she peeked out of the corner of her eye at her lover. Roger allowed himself a vestige of a smile, but it vanished quickly under her acerbic glare.
“You may relax now.”
The man deposited his light meter and other bits and pieces on the nearby bench and took up a small white bundle. He shoved it in her general direction as he busied himself with resetting or recalibrating or retuning his equipment… whatever it was photographers do.
“You may change in there.”
She looked about. There was a simple curtained partition in the corner of the room.
“Shoes off, and no underwear, please.”
She stopped and stared at him.
“We do not want the lines showing under your dress.”
“No… of course not…” She looked again at her lover, her sense of unease growing more intense. He just shrugged and smiled.
She entered the makeshift cubicle. There was a full-length mirror and a stool for her discarded clothing. Her costume was a tiny dress, cut in the style of a Hollywood-Roman slavegirl’s tunic. It was very short, dipping in front to the corded waist and slashed on the right side all the way to the hip. She inspected her image in the mirror. With the décolletage, cleavage, side boob and bare thigh, she had to admit that she did look sexy. Maybe Mr Decorio’s suggestion about doing some modelling… She expelled the idea from her head with a vigorous shake.
Tugging forlornly downwards on the embroidered hemline, she sucked in a deep breath and pulled back the curtain. As she emerged, Roger almost leapt from his chair. Mr Decorio bobbed his head approvingly.
She performed a little curtsy and a pirouette, immediately regretting the latter as her skirt swirled upwards. The photographer frowned impatiently.
“Step onto the platform,” he commanded, fondling his tripod.
The tiles were frigid under her bare feet. The backdrop was a plain sky-blue, the sole prop a faux marble broken column, encircling the base of which was a chain. Decorio took some pictures and she struck some poses, the sort of thing she thought professionals might do. She was even beginning to enjoy herself, despite the coldness underfoot and the concern that she might be revealing more of herself to the lens than she intended.
“No no no!” he barked, all of a sudden. “Be natural… Now turn away from me and lean forward.”
Doing so, she felt the tickle of the hem of her little dress riding up over her posterior.
“You must not move!”
“You told me to lean forward.”
“You… cringed!”
“I’m sorry, but is this sort of shot really necessary?” She was looking straight at Roger. He moved towards her, arms outstretched.
“For my private collection,” he said, but stopped in his tracks, not wishing to trip over the joke that had fallen so flat. “They’re for your portfolio,” he went on, in a milder voice. “You don’t even have to keep them.”
She stared at him. His tone was odd, unsettling, almost pleading.
“Your fiancé is right, of course,” said Mr Decorio. “No pouting, please.”
“I’m not pouting, I’m thinking. And I’m his girlfriend, not his…”
She sighed and thrust her nude backside towards the camera. She heard the faint whirring click a few more times.
“Surely that’s enough.”
“Yes. Turn around and kneel please, up on your toes, resting on your heels, back straight, arms at your side, knees slightly apart.”
“Like this?”
He just nodded.
While Decorio was adjusting the light reflectors, Roger had opened a cardboard box and was taking things out… a metal collar, leather cuffs, chains.
Her eyes widened, her skin tingled.
“Don’t move,” he whispered as he placed the iron band around her neck. It was heavy and he secured it with a small padlock. Intrigued, she saw him drop the key into his trouser pocket.
The touch of his cold fingers on her throat had made her shiver. When he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and pushed the narrow straps down her arms, drawing the top of her dress down to the tips of her breasts, she trembled.
“Sorry, darling,” he said.
She smiled and looked up at him, as he hitched the end of the chain attached to the pillar to a ring on her collar.
“No, don’t raise your eyes; keep them lowered,” he told her, softly.
“Bow your head,” the other man growled.
She blinked and glanced about, but kept her eyes downcast. Yet the orders of the two men troubled her less than the fact that she obeyed them without further question.
Roger stood up and stroked her shoulders and neck, playing with the collar and its petite lock. He tenderly brushed away the wisps of hair that had fallen across her brow when she drooped her head. Then he crouched behind her, took a gentle hold of her forearms and pulled them back, closing the leather bracelets about her wrists and connecting them. They fit snugly, but only if she held her arms straight, which caused her shoulders to stretch rearwards, her chest to push outwards and the front of her dress to slip a little more.
She found herself gasping little “Ooh!” sounds as Decorio made small adjustments to her position. He took many photos, from all angles and directions, and long before he’d finished the novelty of her situation had worn off. The air in the room was chilled, deliberately so (she believed) for the stimulating effect it had on her nipples (which raised little swellings in the flimsy fabric of her dress… but were probably all that held it in place). Her feet had gone numb from the freezing bite of the floor tiles, and the dulling sensation was creeping up her legs. Goosebumps stippled her skin, but her calf muscles were burning from the stress of her kneeling posture.
At last, with a gesture of curt dismissal, the photographer brought the session to an end.
“May I get changed now?” Caroline asked as he began packing away his equipment. She got to her feet and found the chain would not allow her to move far from the waist-high column. She turned to face away from the two men, offering her wrists to be freed from their shackles.
Roger hesitated, just long enough to make her cheeks redden, before releasing her. She retreated behind the curtain in the corner of the room. As she pulled on her knickers, the caress of the cotton sliding over her loins felt both delicious and comforting. But from the other side of the screen she could hear an unfamiliar, feminine voice.
When she emerged, folding the little white frock, Roger and Mr Decorio were talking to a small, extremely attractive brunette. Her hair was cropped rather severely short. She was dressed in a business suit that was conservatively tailored except for the very brief skirt, which gave a tantalizing glimpse of the lacy tops of her stockings and the ribbon suspenders of a garter belt. Girding her slender neck was an elegantly crafted leather choker. Around her wrists, half hidden by the sleeves of her jacket, were golden bangles. Her eyes flickered only fleetingly in Caroline’s direction. They glittered a steely blue. She was asking peculiar questions.
“Has she been tied up before, or chained?”
“Never by me,” Roger answered.
“Whipped or spanked?”
“Not so far as I know.”
Caroline stepped forward to introduce herself, but the woman turned away.
“You’ve done well, Mr Decorio,” she said as she left the room.
Caroline and Roger followed soon afterwards. It was cold outside and he took off his coat to drape it over her shoulders. They kissed. It had been a strange evening. She had many questions. But they could wait.
To be continued…