Emotions, contradicting and at odds with one another, ran roughshod through my soul. Feeling extremely foolish and out of place, I took stock of the most prevalent ones. Intimidation, discomfort, anguish, and regret flowed through my shaking, quivering body. Interwoven through all of them was excitement and extreme sexual arousal. The regret stemmed from my idiotic decision to audition for a famous photographer, putting me in direct competition with famous models and porn actresses. Furthering that despair was my idea to wear a domino mask to conceal my identity, thinking it would make me look chic rather than foolish.
The other feelings stemmed from the way the models had been treating me. The excitement and horniness, however, sprang from my sexual fantasy of being objectified by complete strangers as I acted like a slutty vixen, totally lost in extreme arousal. If half the stories I’d heard were true, I was about to be treated like a piece of sex- meat. It had me dripping wet, and the hotness just barely won out over the negativity.
With a shaking body, every nerve on high alert, I attempted to stand confidently. I was out of my element, outclassed, and on the verge of a panic attack from the constant teasing and ridicule over my red hair and the mask. Still, that heat in my core demanded that I see this through, if for no reason than to masturbate over it, later.
On either side of me stood dozens of beautiful, sexy, confident women. They were dressed in the latest specimens of high fashion, me in a lacy, off-the-rack sundress. Each one of them had probably spent more on their hair and makeup for the day than I did on my annual rent.
All the perfect-skinned specimens of femininity were professional, working models and actresses, some of which I’d seen on television, in porn, and in advertisements. They were also catty bitches, and, with only one or two exceptions, they had treated me like an ugly, impoverished peasant, a subhuman target of scorn.
Having been mercilessly teased and ridiculed had me on the verge of tears. However, I badly needed the money and convinced myself that, while I had a greater chance of getting struck by lightning on my birthday while holding a winning lottery ticket than of actually snagging a high-paying, erotic fashion modeling gig, I’d give it a shot.
I loved sex and kinky adventure, so the thought of acting horny for the camera while wearing clothes with four- or five-figure price tags seemed like a fun way to raise cash. I was always horny, anyway; my cunt was on fire. The lace domino mask would, hopefully, conceal my identity in case I got the job.
My very ill, extremely conservative mother, required surgery – the reason I needed this money – and if she saw her ‘little baby’ strutting her naughty bits for all to see, it would be the death of her. It wasn’t like I’d get the job; I was just doing it for the sexual thrill. I could indulge my twisted fantasy and try to help her out at the same time.
Glancing up and down the line of shrill women, I considered bolting for the door. I pretended to ignore the comments of “carrot top,” “Raggedy Ann,” “The Phantom of the Opera,” and “freckled ghost.” Their smirking at my expense was beginning to fracture the already-frazzled emotions cascading through me. Then, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a shuddering vibrato.
The photographer, the famous Esteel, known as much for his suggestive photos as his drug-induced antics and corrosive personality, stomped into the room with an air of authoritative superiority. Seeing him in person, I had to stifle a laugh, nearly forgetting the maltreatment I’d just received. Behind him was his girly-Goth assistant, Rayven.
Esteel was very short, standing just over five feet tall, but walking with a swagger that reminded me of a combat general. He even wore combat boots, fuchsia ones. His legs were clad in leopard-print tights, a black, crumpled linen poet’s shirt over his torso, the V-neck unlaced. His hair was straight and medium-length, swept over to one side, with black tips in spots. Atop his coif was a purple beret to match the plum ascot loosely coiled around his lithe neck.
His assistant, Rayven was decked out in a pink, laced dress, her hair awash in blues, green, and reds all splattered on white. Her makeup was pale and Gothic-inspired but very femininely sexy. Her nipples poked through her dress, and her breasts bounced with every confident step. An overstuffed manila folder was clutched in front of her, papers and photographs sticking out.
“What a sorry selection of sluts we have here,” the photographer scolded us. “Pathetic, all of you.”
Looking over the faces of the haughty models was sweet revenge. They cringed and cowered before his wrath as if he were God Almighty. They shrank before his scornful gaze, but his misogynistic bravado only amused me. Not only that, but they were looking for their big break; I wasn’t. I was looking forward to getting home and pissing on fashion magazines after meeting some of the bitches.
He, with his acolyte in tow, began appraising the models. They were sweating and quivering; I was on the brink of either robust laughter or a spontaneous orgasm. He stopped at the first one, a black-haired model of some renown that had called me a “country bumpkin.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “You’re Alison Greaves.” His tone was delightful. “You just did that swimsuit catalog.”
“Yes,” she smiled, meeting his eyes.
“Get the fuck out,” he snapped. “You look like a broomstick with tits.” I tittered when the bitch ran out crying. My pussy pulsated in anticipation.
He went down the line, “No. Too goth. Not Goth enough. Your ass is too big, get lost. Your ass is too small, fuck off. You might do.” two-thirds of the women on my right, then my left, were immediately dismissed. He passed me without a glance or word. He paused at the woman three away from me.
“And you are?” he reached out and squeezed her tit. “Never mind, they’re store-bought. Go do porn.” My body heat rose to an inferno level.
He stopped at the woman next to me, the one that bragged that she was going to get the job because her live-in boyfriend, Eli, was the male model for the upcoming shoot.
“Good muscle tone, skin, and nice body.”
Rayven leaned down and whispered into Esteel’s ear.
“Oh, really? Fuck you, get out, Clarice. I don’t need any lover’s drama on my set.”
She shot him a withering stare, her visage enraged. “You’ll be sorry,” she spat at him as the stormed out.
“Your ass doesn’t have the right shape, anyway,” he addressed her fleeing figure. I nearly convulsed at his blatant disregard for her feelings.
“And you,” he eyed me up and down, finally noting me. “Halloween isn’t for months. What’s with the mask?”
I was going to have fun going down in flames. “I don’t show my face. It keeps creeps like you at bay.” My nipples were already hard but they swelled even more under his withering stare.
“Creeps like me?” He studied my body and even slapped my overheated thigh. Then, he laughed, as if I’d just said the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Closing the distance between us to the point that his bloodshot eyes were millimeters away from mine, he softly asked, “What’s your name, Lone Ranger?”
Thinking quickly, I replied, “Domino.” It came out more like an orgasmic sigh.
“Hmm, nice touch. Mysterious and sexy,” he examined my body. “Nice rack, good cheekbones. Is your hair natural? Carpet matches the drapes?”
“You’re short enough to be eye-level, down there, have a look.” I pulled up the hem of my frilly sundress, exposing my trimmed and shaped pubes, all fire, matching my hair. Being appraised like a piece of meat was making me so wet. I had to fight the urge to masturbate right then and there.
He glanced down, then looked me in the eyes. However, he addressed everyone in the room. “If I haven’t already singled you out to stay, you can fuck the hell off and leave. Better luck next time.”
I laughed and stepped back to turn and leave. “Not you, masked bandit. Domino, was it? You stay.”
Stunned, I quickly got back into position, ignoring the high-profile models calling me a bitch. I smiled, feeling catty. Perhaps it was contagious.
“Something funny, Domino?” he snapped at me.
“Oh, wait,” I quipped back. “I have something in my pocket for you.” I plunged my hand into the front pocket of my dress and pulled it out, my middle finger outstretched, flipping him off.
“See, girls?” he lectured. “You can fuck and suck your way halfway to the top, as I’m sure most of you have done. But a good gimmick and attitude put you on the express train to fame. Learn from this one. Now turn around and show me your asses.”
“Umm, I don’t do nudes,” one of the first women he’d let stay said, her hand raised.
“Fuck off, then. Have a nice life.”
“Chauvinist pig!” she screeched as she stomped away. That left five of us.
“Ladies,” he began in his brassy, commanding voice. “In case your agent didn’t tell you, or you’re just fucking stupid, I’m Esteel. I do erotic fashion photography. For the brain-dead, that means hardcore, nudity, and fashion. You know, people pretending to comment on fashion while they jerk off to your tits. If you don’t like it, then Rayven, here, will show you the door. Otherwise, moon me, now.”
He walked up and down our ranks, surveying our butts. “I know, this is the enlightened age, and we’re not supposed to sexualize each other. Time for reality, sluts. You’re models; you are a commodity. You make a living off of objectifying yourselves, so let’s not pretend.”
It was all just so surreal, and my thighs were shaking in horny lust so much that they barely held me up. Rayven snapped shots as Esteel instructed us to assume various slutty poses and commit lewd, sexually depraved acts. My fantasy of being ogled by strangers was coming true, and I could feel my pussy juices flowing.
“Stick your fingers up your cunt and give me your orgasm face,” he told me.
Being nude and masked in front of haughty strangers had me in a sexual stupor. I didn’t just pose; I threw my head back, moaning as I caressed my velvety folds, then plunged two fingers inside, fucking myself with wanton abandon. All the while, the sexy Rayven took pictures. It was so hot and slutty that I bit my lip to keep from screaming in bliss.
“Enough, ladies,” he shouted. “If my boyfriend was as much of a dead fish as this, even Viagra couldn’t help me. Now, go wait in the next room.”
He pointedly ignored us as he and his rainbow-haired assistant started going over the pictures, talking in whispers.
“If I were an ugly whore like you, I’d wear a mask, too,” Evelyn Parker, a makeup model jibed.
“So,” I laughed at her, “did you take lessons or are you just naturally a cunt? You’re like a vagina with scrawny legs.”
One by one, they called us out. As soon as one left, the others would say terrible, vile things about them. They were gone for a minute or two, up to ten or so, each one returning with either an enraged expression or crying.
“You, Domino,” Rayven said, pointing to me from the doorway. I was the last one to be called.
I turned to the others. “Now, you bitches can talk about me.” Rayven snickered.
Esteel was intently studying the pictures they’d just taken Not even looking up, focused on a laptop, he just said, “Sit.”
He stopped, eyed me up and down, then spoke. “It’s obvious you’re not a model. Your poses are instinctual, rather than practiced; your tits look small in one shot, big in the next; your curves are not the skeletal, starved-model, heroine-chic look; and you dress like a peasant. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I dress like I’m poor? You dress like a color-blind mime on acid.”
He erupted in hearty laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hand slamming the table.
“But this,” he exclaimed as he turned the laptop around to show me a picture of myself. “The passion, the lust! This is what I need for Alucard’s clothing line. Maybe you’ve heard of it, Hardcore Fashion?”
“Alucard? Isn’t that Dracula backward?”
“Yes, yes,” he hand-waved. “You’re no model. What makes you think you can be one?”
“I need money,” I confessed. “My mother is very ill and needs surgery, which we can’t afford. I know what you do and know I’m outclassed, here, but I hoped…just hoped. The mask was in case I got the job. That way, the shock of her only daughter being a porn model wouldn’t kill her.”
“Erotic fashion model,” he corrected. “Put on that top over there, and we’ll take some test shots.”
I looked to where he’d gestured. One black, leather top hung on a roll-away clothing rack. It was glossy, nothing more than a bikini top, covered in chrome spikes. Long, waist-length fringe distended from it, all around. It was part heavy metal biker babe and part flapper girl.
Grabbing his camera, he instructed, “stay bottomless, this will be a hardcore fashion shoot. That fire crotch on your pale skin will be hot.” My breath was coming in panting sighs.
I hurriedly stripped and donned the top. It was heavy and uncomfortable, but it was incredibly sexy. My cunt was so wet that it was dripping down my thighs.
“Arch your back, stop. Spread your legs and stick out your ass, good. Now, gag yourself with your hair. You’re so fucking hot that I want to fuck you, and I’m gay.”
Time passed as I posed, actually enjoying myself and becoming more and more aroused. I don’t know how long it lasted, but it was far longer than any of the other women had been in there.
“I need more passion. Sit on the chair and spread your legs. Run your hands over your tits while Rayven eats you out.”
“What? You want me to get off?”
“Don’t tell me you’re retarded like the other cunts. It’s a hardcore shoot. If you’re not up for getting paid to fuck and suck while you wear high fashion, then you know where the door is.”
“More aroused than worried.”
“Good! Use that.”
Not waiting, I spread my legs, smiling at the sexy woman licking her lips in hunger. One of my hands caressed the designer top, the feel of the slick leather covered in spikes erotic and stimulating. My other hand shot between my open thighs, caressing my pubes.
“Dive in, Ray,” he commanded, the shutter of his camera constantly clicking. “You,” he addressed me. “Pretend I’m not here, get into it, and exaggerate your reactions. Keep in mind that we’re shooting mostly the top, so stick those melons out.”
His sexy assistant lowered her face to my dripping snatch, and she immediately found my clit and started swirling her tongue around the sensitive nub. I concentrated on him being there, taking pictures. It made it so much hotter.
“Hold that moan. Squeeze those tits. Suck in your stomach and arch your back.” Esteel’s endless stream of instructions was the background music to my moaning ecstasy. Rayven’s tongue was a magic, vibrating appendage that hit all the right places, Esteel’s constant commands adding dirtiness to an already slutty licking.
“I’m going to cum,” I screamed.
Rayven had one hand busy beneath her skirt, but, as soon as I announced my pending orgasm, she plunged her fingers into my pussy, fucking me while I bucked against her hand and face. With her lips clamped over my clit, her tongue flicking it furiously, the addition of her fingers in my snatch triggered an explosive orgasm that made my entire body writhe and undulate.
All the while, Esteel photographed us. He shot my face as I screamed in bliss; he shot my heaving tits as my body spasmed. I screamed out my pleasures, my entire soul clenching then releasing. It was the most intense orgasm I ever recall having.
“Now,” he commanded. “Fuck her, Rayven.”
Rayven stood, those pronounced, finely-separated breasts heaving under her dress. Her face was slick with my cum and juices. Slowly and seductively, while I reclined in the chair with my legs spread and swollen pussy on display, she unzipped the back of her pink pixie dress and lowered it.
“Holy fuck,” I exclaimed. “You’re a guy.” I hadn’t the slightest clue. Clothed, even topless, she was all woman, so lithe and sexy. It wasn’t until her long, erect cock was exposed that the truth was revealed in all its horny glory.
They both chuckled.
“I’m a trans man,” she told me. “I’m a lesbian at heart.”
“With a big dick. Fuck me with it.” While it was never a fantasy I entertained, the filthy sexuality of being fucked by a woman made me urgently need it.
She helped me onto the table, those perfect breasts only inches away from my moaning mouth, and crammed that turgid cock into me, burying the entire length in one thrust.
“Now fuck her hard, and I want lots of sexy action around Alucard’s bustier top.”
“Your pussy’s so tight,” Rayven moaned in my ear. Bending forward, she mauled my tits through the top as I tossed my head to and fro, screaming in delight.
“Suck her tits, Domino,” he commanded.
Rayven’s breasts were firm, the nipples engorged. I sucked, licked, and even bit into them a little. That elicited moans from my lover. Getting fucked, hot and hard, by a trans man with shapely breasts was a sensual overload. I was screaming, begging for more, and couldn’t get enough.
“Pull out and cum over the top. Do it quickly, I’m running out of space on my memory card. Domino, make her jizz on you.”
“How?”
Rayven moaned out, “Fondle my balls, tell me what a hot slut I am.”
I reached between us and grasped her testicles, caressing them with gentle firmness. “You hot, dirty slut, fucking me so hard. Cum on me. Shoot your lady-cum all over my tits.”
That was all it took. Grunting and moaning, Rayven pulled her impressive cock from my cunt and straddled my chest, aiming at the designer, leather top. Spurt after spurt of hot, white cum shot on my chest, the gleaming metal spikes, and the supple black leather.
“Art. Perfect,” the diminutive photographer kept chanting.
Rayven scooped up some of her cum from my body, wetting her lips with it, then kissed me passionately as the camera shutter kept clicking. Without ceremony, Esteel set down his camera and marched to the closed door, where the other models were waiting. He shoved the door open, loudly.
“Ladies, you all suck. Domino is my girl for this shoot. Get the fuck out of my studio.”
They filed out, hurling insults at me. I just smiled and waved.
“Contracts,” Esteel announced. “Before you ask, the standard contract is fifteen large for the shoot, plus you get to keep all the clothes. Rayven will cover the details. Deal?”
“You mean I’m hired?”
“Hired?! Your body changes type depending on the angle, and you’re all sexy sultriness, bitch. You’re not just hired; I’m going to make you a star.” He held his hands up as if framing a billboard. “Domino Black. Just picture it.”
He turned to the now-dressed Rayven. “Get her up to speed, and get her some decent clothes, for fuck’s sake. The press announcement is at six, so get her dressed properly. The plane leaves for the shoot tomorrow at 7:30 sharp.”
“Rayven,” I said. “I’ve never fucked a trans person before, but I loved it. Can we have sex some more, too?”
To be continued…