Chapter One

 

My relationship with men has always been... uneven. I don't mean with individual men, though that too, I suppose, I mean with the whole fucking gender.

And I use that pejorative term knowingly. That 'fucking' gender. Because it seems to me that fucking is about all that gender cares about. At least that's what it's demonstrated to me since I hit puberty.

I don't mean this to come off as one of those 'poor me' rants, where the beautiful girl whines because men are always flinging themselves at her feet. But in a sense, that is how I feel. Yes, I'm happy to be considered beautiful. I exercise a lot, but I can't take credit for having the body I do, except in the sense I keep it fit.

I won the DNA lottery as far as looks go. I'm blonde, beautiful, and have a fit, trim, firm, voluptuous body with nice skin. I'm the envy of my girlfriends and the subject of every lurid fantasy the guys around me have in their repertoire.

Which is not a bad place to be. I admit it.

But it gets tiresome to not be able to walk down the street without guys leering at me, whistling at me, calling out compliments (which are sometimes obscene) directed mostly at my body parts, and getting stared at everywhere I go.

My girlfriend Chloe is cute, if not gorgeous, and has a nice body, even if it isn't voluptuous as mine. She has no problem finding dates and isn't assaulted with male lust every time she steps out in public.

If I go anywhere alone in public some guy or guys will sidle up to me to introduce themselves and ask for my phone number. If I go into a crowd I'll get groped. And that's wearing normal clothes. It's worse at the beach, believe me. Every guy I pass is stripping me naked in their mind and running an X-rated porn flick with the two of us as the stars.

If I'm meeting anyone at a restaurant I want them to go in first because it reduces the likelihood some guy will come and sit down and ask for my name.

I wouldn't take such issue with it all if they were all polite, by the way. But they're often rude, especially when I say no as nicely as possible. Then they can get really angry and start snarling insults (usually obscene) about what a stuck up bitch I am.

Working for a living in a job that has a lot of public contact presents its own issues. I worked as a server at a restaurant and got great tips, but also got asked my phone number all the time. Men flirted with me and I almost felt like I had to flirt back to get that tip - even though they were two or three times my age!

I did babysitting, and that was cool, except for the single fathers hitting on me. I worked selling tickets at the local football stadium, but lots of guys kept asking me my name and phone number. I was a camp counselor and all the young boys had crushes on me and all the male counselors tried to get me alone.

So I knew I wanted a job that wasn't in any way related to customer service. But I'm not built to work in a warehouse or something so I needed to go to college. Only problem with that is I have no money. Well, I was able to get a loan from the government and got accepted to college, where I'm taking accounting.

I like numbers, and Accounting seemed like a job where I'd be largely left alone. So I showed up at school and found my dorm room roommate was a fat feminist who was insanely jealous of me and seems to have this clichéd view of blondes as hyper-sexual nymphomaniac sluts. Which, given she's not exactly inundated with offers from men just pisses her off even more.

After taking as many sneering comments as I wanted to put up with I put in for a transfer and wound up with a quiet Chinese girl who pretty much leaves me alone. In the meantime, I found my Accounting classes mostly full of male nerds whose tongues practically hung out of their mouths every time they looked at me.

And that's with me wearing a long, loose skirt and sweatshirt.

I can't exactly hide my face, after all.

Anyway, I did get a government loan, but it's not super generous. So even before I arrived I started looking for a part-time job. Unfortunately, in a college town, they're hard to find. Unless, of course, I wanted to work as a server at a nightclub, wear low cut tops and short skirts to get tips, and put up with being groped every night.

So months passed and I didn't find anything. After the Christmas break, my money was at a really low ebb. I went to the job board at the student union a couple of times a week to check, and occasionally jotted down numbers, only to find out the jobs were already filled by the time I called.

And then I saw a card which caught my attention. It was for a nude art model. I laughed a little when I saw it, surprised they'd put such a thing up. Then again, there was an art school attached to the college. And a more sophisticated person, like the one I was hoping to become and associate with, in the future, wouldn't automatically think of that as related to sex.

Still, no way was I taking off my clothes in front of a class of sophomore would-be artists. I'm not ashamed of my body. I'm proud of it. I look at myself in the mirror from time to time with a certain amount of vanity. I know how good I look naked. God knows none of the boys who I've slept with has ever been less than enthusiastic about the sight of me.

But in public, at least, I've been downplaying my body since adolescence in order to not have to put up with constant leering and panting males.

But the words right under the heading made me blink. It wasn't for an art school or class. It said 'Female artist, renowned in her field, seeks fine art nude female model for private studio work. $25-$50hr. Time negotiable.'

The amount made my eyes widen. So did the time being negotiable. I wondered if private studio meant just her. I could do that! I mean, it would be a little weird, granted. But if there were no men around I could just, like, sit around naked while she painted a picture of me or something.

It wasn't exactly my preferred job. If it worked out it would be boring sitting around naked. But if I could do it whenever I had the time and for that amount of money... Well, I was starting to get anxious counting my money every day and that was starting to stress me out. I needed some income.

I hesitated, but I'd already lost several jobs by waiting too long to call, so I finally worked up the courage to call the number.

"Uh, hi," I said. "I'm calling about your ad for a uhm, fine art nude model."

"Have you ever modeled before?" she asked.

My heart sank. "Well, no."

I thought I heard a sigh.

"Are you shy?"

"I don't think so, no. I mean, I might have issues in a big room full of people but... uh, is it - ."

"Just me. Well, I'm guessing you don't have a portfolio you can send me."

"A what?"

"Pictures of yourself."

"Well, I have some pictures."

"Nude?"

"Uhm..."

"Never mind. You wouldn't want to send them to a stranger if you had them. Send me a few pictures of yourself and if you look presentable you can come for an interview. I warn you the interview will involve you being nude so I can see if you fit."

"Uhm, okay. How much does it pay?"

"That depends entirely on how good a model you are," she said firmly.

"Okay."

She gave me her email address and I opened my laptop and brought up pictures of myself - with my back to the wall in the library, of course, and selected several where my body was, well, not that heavily covered, shall we say. I dithered about it, but then included a bikini shot. Then I sent them off to the email address.

"This is so fucking weird," I said aloud to myself.

The thought of posing naked was making me argue with myself - again. But it was only a woman so... And how many people saw a painting anyway? And even in the unlikely event the face looked like mine I could just shrug and call it a coincidence.

I got an email reply fairly quickly, which gave me an address and asked me when I could come and meet her.

I didn't see any reason to delay, so we set something up for that evening.

Which made my chest tighten with anxiety. Believe me, I had a big problem about what to wear! Even my underwear caused me anxiety! Like, I didn't want to wear sexy lingerie. But I didn't own any granny panties. I finally settled on a black jockey bikini and matching athletic bra. Not sexy, but not granny.

Then I decided to wear a long denim dress which simply zipped up from the hem to the neck. Easy to get into and out of. I googled the address and then took a bus to within half a dozen blocks and walked from there. I'm not sure what I was expecting, and probably should have done a street view, but the address was a tall condo.

That made me doubtful, especially since she hadn't given me an apartment number. I was there, though, so I went in and found a man in a suit behind a counter. Looking around, it looked like a pretty fancy building, with a marble floor, high ceiling, and beautiful crystal chandeliers.

"May I help you?" the guy behind the desk said.

"Uhm, I'm here to see Ms. Rachel."

He nodded and picked up a phone behind the desk. "Your guest is here, Ms. Rachel," he said.

He hung up and gestured towards the sofas set against the wall.

"She'll be down momentarily. Won't you take a seat?"

I nervously agreed, though I would have preferred to pace.

It was maybe five minutes later when one of the elevators opened and a tall, dignified looking black woman who might have been forty came out. She strode across the hall towards me on long legs and held her hand out as I stood up.

"I'm Elizabeth Rachel," she said.

"Uhm, Tori Shepherd," I replied.

"Come with me," she said, turning and walking back to the elevator.

I licked my lips and followed. She was silent in the elevator and didn't look at me. She pressed a button marked P and we rode up about thirty floors in silence. The elevator gave onto a narrow corridor with these sort of crystal wall sconces alongside double wooden doors. The doors weren't locked and she led me in.

There was a large apartment beyond, but I didn't get much time to study it as she led me up another flight of stairs and then down a hall to a room at the end. It was a corner room, with floor to ceiling glass walls to let in a lot of light. It was also an artist's studio, with cabinets with paint brushes, paint, paper, and a variety of what looked like general artists' supplies.

There was a kind of screen set against one of the walls, which was pulled down to the floor. It was a simple green color. There were several easels around, and also a tripod with a camera on it.

"Your pictures were obviously satisfactory," she said, turning to me. "How often and for what length of time can you make yourself available?"

"Well, I need money," I confessed. "I can come on weekends and after school Fridays."

"What about other evenings?"

"I have to study," I said.

"It need not take a long time."

"It takes me time to get the bus and then walk here from the nearest stop."

"I can have you driven here with Uber or something."

"Oh, well - ."

"Presuming you have the body under there which matches the promise of the bikini. Would you like to go behind that screen and get undressed?"

I licked my lips nervously, then took a deep breath and nodded. I went behind the screen and found a long white terrycloth robe. In short order I was wearing nothing but the robe as I walked anxiously back around the screen.

She had placed a simple wooden chair in front of the screen and pulled down a different screen, this one had a kind of forest scene on it.

"Take off the robe and stand in front of the chair, please."

Moment of truth! I gulped, then, feeling my face heat up, I opened the robe and let it slide off.

This was so weird!

She looked me up and down carefully and my face got hotter.

"Hands behind your head, please."

I gulped and put my hands behind my head.

"Shift your feet apart and arch your back."

I flushed even more but obeyed.

"Good. Good."

She walked closer, then walked around behind me then around front again.

"Hands at your sides, please."

I dropped my arms to stand straight - and naked - in front of her.

"Turn."

I turned around."

"Put your hands on the seat of the chair, please."

Yikes!

I couldn't refuse at this point, though. My heart was pounding and my pulse racing as I bent over in front of her and put my hands on the chair.

She moved from side to side, then came around beside me.

"Put your hands on the back of the chair, Please."

Confused, I obeyed and she looked at my breasts hanging below me, which made my mind squirm anew. I wondered if she was gay. She had very short hair. Was she a lesbian? Was she staring at my body because she was hot for me!?

"Good," she said, moving behind me again.

"Straighten up, turn and sit down."

Relieved I did as she said.