by L. DuBois
“About me? What for?” The business line, separate from the shop’s line, was supposed to be for vendors only. Addie was a clerk and seamstress—there would be no reason for anyone to call her on that number.
“It’s for a modeling job.” Lulu clutched the phone as if it were an Oscar statue and squealed in delight.
Addie blinked, blinked again, then snatched the phone from Lulu, who had broken into an impromptu one-person Charleston. Yes, yes! This was exactly what she needed today. Something good. Something to indicate her life was moving forward.
She hit the voicemail button and mashed the phone against her ear.
“Hello, my name is Helen Renwald from C&C Productions. I’m looking for Adelita Sanchez. We ran across her photos and are interested in her for a project we are putting together. Please have her give us a call at—”
Addie threw herself across the counter, scrambling for a piece of paper and pen. With the phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder, she scribbled the number. Lying over the counter, she hit the voicemail button again. She was barely able to hear the recorded message over the sound of her too-fast heartbeat.
“If I were a straight man I’d find this appealing.”
Addie looked over her shoulder to see Pissarro, the owner of the designer shoe store next door. Pissarro, who went by one name like Cher and whose real name was probably John or Bob, was thin, stylish and just edgy enough to be interesting—all the things a gay man in L.A. had to be if he wanted to play in the lively, glittery waters of West Hollywood. He was caustic and elegant and a good, if sharp-edged, friend
“Guess, guess! Someone called about a modeling job for Addie.”
“You didn’t give me time to guess.” Pissarro leaned against the counter next to Addie’s hip and pinched her thigh. “Oh, to be a woman and be accepted with fat thighs.”
“Fuck you.” Addie wiggled off the counter. “I’ve got the number. Should I call?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t you?” Lulu demanded.
“Is it weird that they called instead of emailing?” Addie stared at the phone, fingers trembling slightly.
“Maybe? Oh who cares, call.” Lulu was vibrating with excitement. “You think phone calls are weird? I must be getting old.” Pissarro sighed heavily.
“Pose. I’m taking a picture.” Lulu held up her phone. “I’m documenting your rise from Instagram sensation to rockabilly superstar, then on to fashion mogul.”
Addie puffed up her cheeks and then let out a slow breath. “Why did they call?” Now that the initial burst of excitement was ebbing, with each passing moment her enthusiasm faded.
Addie looked at Pissarro, whose eyes widened slightly as he realized why she was hesitating.
“Did they say what type of modeling they want you for?” He reached up to smooth down her Betty Page bangs, then touched her cheek with the back of his tanned finger. He was a bit of an ass, but he was a shrewd businessman, and, unlike Lulu, didn’t get carried away.
“No.” Addie looked at the scrap of paper she held, creasing it with her deep-indigo nail. That was the problem.
“Oh. You think they want...” Lulu’s voice trailed off as she slipped around behind the counter and pulled out an eight-by-ten portfolio—Addie’s portfolio.
When Lulu had opened an online store and needed models for the clothes, Addie had been a natural fit, not only because she looked the part, but because many of the exclusive pieces Lulu was selling had been designed by Addie. Between the two of them they’d modeled all the clothes in the store. A photographer friend had taken the photos in exchange for a few custom pieces and a bit of cash. That same friend had later asked Addie if she’d be interested in modeling lingerie for a store in San Diego. Addie didn’t consider herself a model, but with each modeling gig she gained social media followers, which in turn grew the Lulu L’amore online sales. Bit by bit, like by like, she was building a following, the kind of following that might one day translate into an audience for her own label.
She enjoyed working with Lulu, and would be forever grateful to her friend for giving her the opportunity to design and sell pieces, but Addie wanted more. She wanted to design clothes that would retail in every store in the country, then internationally. She wanted to bring the aesthetic she’d grown up with to the mainstream.
“It’s been months since the porn people called.” Pissarro patted her hand. Addie sighed.
The first lingerie gig had led to a second, then a third, until she’d been asked to model for a shoot recreating some of Betty Page’s most famous photos. Since Betty was one of Addie’s personal heroes—the hairstyle wasn’t a coincidence—she’d jumped at the chance. When she’d been asked to pose for hairbrush spankings, mock bondage and even with a bit in her mouth Addie hadn’t blinked. The sexy, powerful photos had shown that being feminine could still be tough, and Addie liked that.
What she hadn’t counted on was the flood of invitations to do pornography that had come her way once the ad campaign—which was for nail polish—came out. Overnight her social media accounts doubled in size, but while Lulu celebrated and start talking about business plans and investor meetings, Addie just felt slightly dirty. She wasn’t sure how many of those hundred thousand followers were hoping for something pornographic, rather than pictures of retro clothes, style advice and sewing tips.
Lulu flipped through the portfolio, past pictures of Addie with her hip cocked, arms up, modeling clothes they sold in the store, to the lingerie photos.
“You’re gorgeous, and these pics are gorgeous.” Lulu patted the photo like it was a pet.
“Of course she’s gorgeous. But they want her to be a gorgeous porn star.” Pissarro flicked his fingers in the air.
“So a few adult entertainment people called, but like he said, that was months ago. These people are calling now. What’s the last thing you posted to your account?”
Addie patted her stomach. “This top. Took a pic this morning.”
“See, then they’re not calling about porn.” Lulu grinned.
“But they called.” Addie was still stroking the paper with the phone number on it.
“I thought you put the office number up on your website?” Lulu frowned.
Addie shook her head. “The only people I gave that number to were the nail polish people. I wanted to seem more professional, giving them a business number.”
That meant that—Addie checked her note for the woman’s name—Helen Renwald was calling her because she’d seen the Betty Page photos. As much as Addie liked the photos themselves, they were proving to be a double-edged sword.
“Oh.” Lulu gently closed the portfolio. “I still think you should call.”
“Don’t pressure her.” Pissarro rolled his eyes at Lulu.
Though they claimed to be friends, Lulu’s enthusiasm didn’t always work well with Pissarro’s world-weary cynicism.
“I’m not pressuring her, I’m encouraging her! She’s amazing, and just because some people don’t understand the difference between art and porn doesn’t mean she should give up.”
Ignoring their bitching, Addie took the portfolio. Flipping through pages, she stopped when she reached the now-infamous pictures.
A blonde woman wearing a short, silky nightgown was bent at the waist, her forearms braced on the wall, legs spread. Addie stood beside her in heels, stockings, garter belt, corset and panties. She was holding up the hem of the blonde’s nightie with her left hand, the right bringing the wood back of a hairbrush down toward the blonde’s bare ass. Addie’s lips were inches from the other woman’s ear, but she was staring at the camera, her dark eyes mysterious.
The image was black and white except for the blood-red paint on Addie’s nails and the gold varnish on the nails of the girl she was spanking.
There was only one way to find out what they wanted. Addie walked away from the bickering pair and dialed.
** * *
Helen flipped to the next picture. “Here’s another photo f
rom this same series. I want you to remember that this is all just for a nail polish company.”
The dark-haired woman they were considering was posed against a black-and-white patterned wall. She wore a see-through black lace teddy with a black bra and panties
underneath. Her legs were spread, arms down but held away from her sides. Wide black ribbon bound each wrist and disappeared into the edge of the photo. Her nails were creamy purple, and clearly meant to be the focus, but her face stole the show.
Lane sucked in a breath, captivated by the way her face showed both defiance and hesitation. There was strength in her face—high cheekbones, a wide, strong mouth, her skin burnished like copper. The woman’s chin was lowered, her hair mussed and tangled, destroying some of her retro-pinup-girl style. One corner of her mouth was drawn up in a fuck-you half-smile. But her eyes, looking at the camera through her thick lashes, were vulnerable.
“Look at the tension she has on the restraints.” Emory was seated beside Lane at the conference table.
“Those aren’t restraints. They’re ribbons, props.” Alton, sitting on the opposite side of the table, arms crossed, radiated arrogant derision.
Lane kept his eyeroll to himself and looked at Helen. “Any more photos?” “Of course.” All three men sat forward when the next image popped on screen.
She knelt on a bed, her caramel skin dark against the ivory sheets. She wore a blood-red teddy with lacings up the sides and a matching red leather collar. Her hands cupped her breasts, her nails painted gold. A shiny silver bit between her teeth forced back red lips and showed off pert white teeth. Her eyes were wide, almost startled. She seemed scared, vulnerable.
“An interesting woman.” Emory adjusted the cuff of his shirt with a small, precise tug.
“She’s perfect.” Lane couldn’t stop staring. If he’d seen the image when flicking through a magazine he would have stopped. Though he probably wouldn’t have been flicking through a magazine with nail polish ads in it.
“That’s what we think.” Helen was a plump woman in her mid-fifties. She didn’t look like the president of an erotic media empire, but she was. Her latest project was an introduction to BDSM coffee-table book, complete with high-quality erotic photos. Lane, Emory and Alton, all Doms from L.A.’s various BDSM scenes and cultures, had been recruited to both participate in the photo shoots and write some of the text of the book, each man offering his unique perspective.
The writing was done, and now came the good part—generating the pictures to go with all that text. Helen didn’t want a professional sub or an adult-entertainment veteran. The book was meant to capitalize on the recent public interest in, and seeming acceptance of, BDSM. It would show BDSM in an elegant, erotic light. The photos would entice, and the text would provide guidance, encouragement and tips for anyone who wanted to try it themselves.
“Well, gentlemen, what do you think?” “I say yes,” Lane answered immediately. “Yes,” Emory added.
“Any woman can be trained to some degree. She’ll probably be fine.” Alton uncrossed his arms, resting his fists on the table.
“Delightful.” Helen looked relieved at having finally found someone all three of them could agree on.
Alton stood. “We’re done.”
“Was that a question or a statement?” Emory raised a brow as he watched Alton walk out.
“Statement. Master Alton would never ask a question.”
With a rueful shake of the head Emory too left.
The original plan had called for multiple women for the shoots, but a marketing study indicated that the book was most likely to be purchased by women, and the all-female focus group showed a marked preference for a single female “character” they could relate to. It seemed simple enough, until it came time for Lane, Emory and Alton to agree on who that woman would be. Their task was made all the more difficult when they decided against using industry professionals or professional submissives. They’d spent months reviewing photos Helen’s team pulled from various sources, from modeling agencies to tumblr accounts.
Helen straightened the scarf draped over one shoulder and smiled at Lane. “Now all I need to do is convince her. She’s stopping by in,” she checked her watch, “fifteen minutes.”
“Does she know what the project is about?”
“No, all we told her was that we were interested in having her model. I think it will be easier if I can show her other books. We lost several promising candidates after I failed to successfully explain what the project was.”
Lane could understand the women’s hesitation. He’d hesitated himself when he was approached with the project. For him, BDSM was something he craved in the bedroom, but he was far from rabid the way men like Alton were. He had a normal life, a normal job, and participating in this project put all things “normal” at risk. It wasn’t until he met with Helen and saw a prior book—one focused on foot fetishes—that he understood that C&C’s projects really were informational and artistic more than pornographic. When it was done, the “BDSM 101” book would be the kind of thing that if someone connected to his normal life found it, he wouldn’t be ashamed. Embarrassed, maybe, but not ashamed.
Plus there was the very enticing fact that he’d get to introduce a woman to BDSM. That he was looking forward to, especially if it was the dark-haired Latina in the pictures.
Carrying her portfolio, dressed in her best retro suit complete with real stockings, Addie entered the nondescript office building in North Hollywood. While it seemed nice enough, with discreet name plaques beside doors, a security desk and potted palms in the lobby, it was in the north part of North Hollywood. It wasn’t far from here to Van Nuys, the porn capital of the world. The proximity was reawakening Addie’s fears as to what exactly this modeling job was for.
Addie spotted a bathroom and stopped to check her appearance one last time. Lulu had helped her put her hair up in victory rolls and a bun, so she looked both professional and retro. While keeping her trademark red lipstick, she’d toned down the cat-eye eyeliner, making her brown eyes appear rounder and softer.
She checked the placement of the wide belt and then the cute little flares at the back of her jacket to make sure they hadn’t creased in the car. With five minutes to spare, she struck a few test poses.
“You can do this, Addie.” She put her hand on her hip, tipped her chin and smiled. “If it’s porn just walk out and all it cost you was gas.” Flipping to the other side, she put her fingertips on her shoulders and thrust her chest out in a pose she’d seen in an old pinup calendar.
Confident in her appearance if nothing else, Addie left the bathroom and headed for Suite 1430, which said “C&C Productions” on the plaque beside the door.
She knocked softly and opened the door. A small waiting room with six chairs greeted her. The carpet was thicker than usual, the waiting room chairs leather and wood. The reception desk looked like a solid block of marble, a stylize logo of the letters “C&C” mounted on the front.
Behind a reception desk a hallway stretched to the left and right. A bell chimed when she walked in, and Addie wasn’t surprised to see someone appear from the left hallway seconds later, while she was still taking in the nicer-than-expected atmosphere.
The woman was heavyset and well dressed with a sharp haircut. Her scarf was hand-painted, her long jacket tailored to fit and made of raw-silk. Butterflies fluttered to life in Addie’s belly—she’d come here prepared to be disappointed, prepared to walk away, but it didn’t seem likely that this woman was recruiting girls for porn. Maybe this was a chance at another big modeling job, one that could take her to the next level, build her brand enough that she’d be ready to take the leap and start her own label.
“Adelita?” She skirted the reception desk and Addie took a quick peek at her shoes. Peep toe booties. Bold choice.
“Please, call me Addie.”
“I’m Helen, thank you for coming.” Helen held out her hand and they shook. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take yo
u to my office.”
Behind the reception desk, right turn, down the hall and then another right into a well-appointed office. Unlike the reception area the office furniture was modern—glass top desk, cube-style bookcases. Addie perched on the edge of a purple suede chair with legs made of stacked acrylic balls, portfolio on her lap, her small, hard-sided cherry clutch on top of that. She took a copy of her modeling resume—headshot on one side, list of modeling gigs, stats and skills on the other—out of her portfolio and held it out.
“Wonderful, thank you. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then let me first start by once again thanking you for coming in.” Helen perched on the edge of her chair and crossed her legs.
“I was excited to receive your phone call.”
“That’s good to hear. The second thing I want you to know is that the other models involved in this project, who are also the writers, have agreed that you’re our missing piece.”
“I’m flattered, but I have to ask...writers?” Addie hoped she wouldn’t be expected to write anything. She hated writing.
Helen smiled. “I know I was vague on the phone. In this case it might be easier to show you what we’re doing rather than explain it. Things can get lost in translation.” Helen stood and pulled a large book off the shelves to the left of her desk. She brought it back and placed it face down on the glass.
“What my company wants to produce is a book that is not only informative—hence the writing—but beautiful. It’s not an instructional book and not a book of pictures. It’s somewhere in between. Some would even call it an art book. It’s going to tell a story in both pictures and words about a world most people would never dare to be a part of.”
The fluttering in Addie’s stomach had morphed from excitement back to vague dread.
“And what is the subject of your book?” Addie asked slowly.
Helen’s smile was bland. “BDSM.”
Addie’s breath released in a little rush and she looked down at her fingers, which were gripping her clutch so tightly the individual rhinestones were making impressions in the pads of her fingers.
