Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Blasé. Jaded. World-weary. The kind of young woman who takes off her clothes for an intimate photoshoot.
I fought the heat that threatened to flow everywhere in my body. With trembling fingers I took hold of the fabric of the big t-shirt where it covered my hips and I started to bunch it up until I had the hem in my hands. I did everything in my mental power not to think about middle-aged, professional Mary Smith standing behind me, watching my panty-covered backside come into view.
Without warning, a flash went off and I heard a shutter click.
Instinctively I turned around. My inability to stop myself, or to keep my face from twisting into a weak expression of shame and horror, made it ten times worse. I saw Mary looking at me through her camera lens. She took another picture, the flash making me wince and blink.
“What…” I started to say, putting my hands up.
Mary took another picture.
“Take off the shirt,” she told me.
“But…” I said, without any idea what to say after that.
The photographer let out an exasperated sigh and lowered her camera.
“Look, Leah, you get to pick which of these photos you’ll put on your profile. Here’s a tip, though, from a real pro. The men who pay for platinum-level access expect to see something special.”
Unconsciously I had put my hands in front of me, my right placed over my left breast to cover the way my treasonous nipples tented the fabric of my t-shirt and my left smoothing down the shirt over my lap. Mary raised her camera and sighted through it. My eyes and mouth went wide and I clutched at my body protectively as she snapped another photo.
Something special.
“What… I mean, what is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“Something special?” Mary asked, keeping her camera up and starting to walk to the side and around me. She took a picture, then another, as I turned to follow her. “Take your shirt off, Leah. Let’s see those adorable little breasts.”
I could sense her skill—her professionalism, really—in the way she talked to me. The reflex to obey her, just because of the simple way she combined the command with the compliment, made my hands twitch. I didn’t give into it, though.
Mary gave another sigh, this one even more exasperated than the last. Again she lowered her camera and looked at me with an intentional sort of patience: the kind that clearly covered over growing frustration.
“Leah, sweetie, you need to help me help you. We’re telling a story, here.”
“A story?” I felt my forehead crease in consternation.
“You’re a New Modesty dropout, right?” Mary said it as if it didn’t represent any sort of shameful defeat, but I still felt my face go red.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, making a sour face.
“That’s hot,” the photographer said simply. “We’re trying to tell that story.”
“What?” I asked. “What’s hot? How does a… a… photoshoot like… like this…”
Mary shook her head. “I can tell you’re a very smart girl, Leah, and of course you’re incredibly pretty, or you wouldn’t be here, but—and I’m saying this in all honesty to help you—you’re obviously even more clueless than most NM dropouts.”
My jaw dropped and I felt a wounded expression break out on my face. Tears started to prick the corners of my eyes.
To my relief, Mary’s face became kind, rather than frustrated, as I had feared it would.
“I know,” she said with a sad smile, “it’s hard, but the thing is, the real reason—the most important one, anyway—why you’re here isn’t how beautiful you are, it’s what else Selecta has figured out about you, and let me tell you they’re never wrong.”
I shook my head, more thoroughly confused than before.
“Wrong about what?”
“What you really need,” Mary told me, looking intently into my eyes.
I felt my breath speed up, through my parted lips. I couldn’t say anything at all.
Mary continued, raising her camera to her eye and snapping a picture as she spoke.
“That blush is going to get you a lot of expensive dates, sweetie,” she said. “That’s what this story is about.”
Again I shook my head, more vigorously this time.
“But I don’t understand,” I said, hearing my words come out in a plaintive voice that sent a new wave of embarrassment rushing up my neck and into my face. “I mean… what… what is it—what do they think I need?”
“I could try to tell you,” Mary replied, as she took photo after photo of my confusion, “but you wouldn’t get it, and you’ll be happier in the end if you figure it out yourself—with the help of the kind of rich man these pics are likely to attract.”
I just kept shaking my head. Greatly to my distress, I realized that Mary had succeeded in weaving a sort of spell around me, with her talk of a wealthy sponsor. Even more dismayingly, I felt how that spell couldn’t have taken hold if there weren’t something buried in my heart, or maybe even my very flesh, that longed to answer it.