by Andra Lake
When we reached his building, he got out and quickly shut his car door before walking around to open mine. The doorman greeted us, addressing Mr. King with a smile. The lobby seemed to be made entirely out of marble. It was the most expensive looking building I had ever been in. There was even someone to push the elevator button for us.
Mr. King scanned a card once we were in the elevator and pushed the button for the 33rd floor. “I own the entire top floor,” he explained.
“Wow,” I breathed. “Do you have a big family?”
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and a smile twitched on his lips. “No, Amy, I do not. That life is not for me.”
The elevator doors opened and he breezed into the living area. “Please, feel free to look around. I’ll get you a drink.”
I walked around slowly, looking around me in awe. Like him, his penthouse exuded money and power. All the artwork and furniture was modern, of course, and expensive. Through the windows I could see a balcony that seemed to wrap around the entire floor. It was a lot of space for one person.
Mr. King was in the kitchen, which looked out into the living room. He poured two glasses of champagne and handed me one, his eyes boring into mine.
“To hopefully making a deal,” he said and we clinked glasses.
We both took a sip and he watched me over the rim of his glass. I suddenly felt shy and glanced away. I was undeniably attracted to him, and I was sure he knew it.
He pushed a contract toward me across the breakfast bar. “This is a simple non-disclosure agreement, not an official work contract. If you accept the position, we can prepare a contract together. This agreement simply states that if you do not accept the position, you will not reveal the nature of my artistic project. I hope you understand that it is here for my protection.”
He lowered his head slightly, looking at me intently, before releasing the contract so I could look through it. I didn’t know anything about non-disclosure agreements and certainly couldn’t afford a lawyer if I wanted to, but it didn’t seem to matter anyway. I had no desire to tell anyone the details of Mr. King’s project. So, I signed and dated the agreement and passed it back to him.
He smiled and placed the contract in his briefcase. “Come, I’ll show you the studio.”
He led me down the hall and stopped at a set of closed double doors. For a moment he looked unsure, but it was a very brief moment, and then he was pushing both doors open at the same time to reveal the studio.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. The white backdrop, yes. Clothing racks full of outfits, yes. But a bed in the middle of the room?
I could feel him watching me.
“What color is your bra?”
The tone of his voice had changed, grown lower. I couldn’t look at him when I responded, even though I knew I should have; I didn’t want him to know I was afraid. There was a strange energy in the room, like the one I’d felt earlier in his office, but magnified.
“Black.”
Mr. King walked up to a clothes rack and shuffled through the items, pulled off a plaid skirt. “I think we should try this one,” he said, cocking his head to the side.
I stopped breathing. This was the moment that decided whether or not I could be what Mr. King needed. It was time for me to choose the timid, appropriate girl I had always been, or a new version of myself that could live a little.
He held the skirt out to me and I took it.
“Now, I know this is all new to you, but if we try some practice shots, you will have a better idea of what the job entails. What do you think?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling in a way that was more confident than I felt.
“Wonderful,” he smiled. “I’ll help you out of your dress.”
My heart began to race, but I ignored it and nodded before turning around to give him access to the zipper. I felt him before he touched me: an electricity that raised the hairs on the nape of my neck. He gently lifted my hair off my back and put it over my shoulder before slowly, leisurely unzipping the dress down to my bottom, pausing briefly before pulling it over my head.
“Face me.”
I obeyed, wearing only my bra and panties and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. Luckily I’d foreseen stripping down and was wearing a nice matching pair.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said, looking pointedly at my arms, which were across my chest protectively. “Being comfortable with your body is an important aspect of modeling.”
I dropped them but still had difficulty meeting his gaze.
“You are a very beautiful woman, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Clair.” He looked me up and down appreciatively. “Exactly what I was looking for.”
I hid my blush by focusing stepping into the skirt. While I fiddled with it, Mr. King pulled off his suit and slacks and changed into a pair of worn jeans with holes in them and a simple black T-shirt. I averted my eyes as he changed, but not before I caught a glimpse of his muscular back. Now looking the part of a photographer, he swaggered over to a nearby shelf, picked up an expensive-looking camera.
“When we’re in here working, think of me as a director. Do not question me—just obey my requests. Understood?”
I nodded, and then spoke. “Yes.”
“Good. We should be able to tell very quickly whether or not this arrangement will work.”
My stomach clenched momentarily. I wanted more than anything for the arrangement to work.
“Lie down on your right side and prop yourself up so you’re facing me.”
Easy enough. I got into position on the bed and he snapped a few pictures.
“Don’t smile, just look into the camera. Stare like you’re looking right through it. Perfect. Now, roll onto your back.”
Mr. King climbed onto the bed and stood above me, snapping away. From my vantage point, I was looking up between his legs, and my mind traveled to places I didn’t want to go.
“There’s that blush, Amy,” he said softly, using my given name for the first time. “It is really starting to grow on me.”
I heard the shutter go again and then he was sitting beside me, whispering as he gently moved my limbs.
“This is my true passion, Miss Clair.” He pulled my right ankle, opening my legs. “Put one arm under your head and the other on your stomach. Look relaxed, like you don’t even know I’m taking a picture of you. Wonderful.”
I found myself basking in the glow of Mr. King’s compliments. He called me a natural. Exactly what he was looking for. But it wasn’t just that; I wanted to impress him.
He took a few pictures of me standing with my hand on my hip and then said, “I’m very pleased, Miss Clair. Just a few more and we can discuss our contract.”
I smiled and waited for his next instruction.
“Now turn around and face the bed.”
I turned and faced the bed.
“Bend over.”
I froze.
“I said bend over, Miss Clair,” he said warningly. “Following instructions is an integral aspect of this position.”
My heart started to race. Why did he want me to bend over? Was he hoping to get a shot between my legs?
I bent over the bed and heard the snap of the shutter. When I moved to stand, he growled. “Stay there please, Miss Clair.”
The authority in his voice stilled me. I closed my eyes, trying not to shake. I couldn’t do this. I was too naive, too shy.
“Show me that you’re able to follow instructions, Amy,” he said in a tone that made me feel like an errant child.
I felt him approach me, and then his finger under the elastic of my thong. I swallowed hard but didn’t dare move. Was he going to ask me to take it off? It seemed too early for nudity shots.
“These were a good pick.” He pulled my thong taut, let it go with a snap. My breath hitched as his hands caressed my behind, moving down my thighs. I was pretty sure photographers didn’t touch models that way.
Then, out of nowhere, he spa
nked me.
I reared up out of instinct, but he was prepared, pushing me right back down again. He spanked me for a second time and I heard the snap of the shutter. I could only imagine what the pictures must look like, and the thought was humiliating. Still I stayed in the position, my arms shaking, threatening to no longer support me. I couldn’t bear to face him.
“Good girl, Amy. You were perfect.”
I inhaled sharply as his fingers suddenly dipped between my legs, finding my wetness. Slowly, he began to rub me in small circles. I didn’t stop him. I was lost in the confusion of the moment and the feel of his fingers between my legs.
Then he abruptly stopped and walked away, telling me to sit on the bed. Somehow I managed to stand and lean against it, focusing on a spot on the ground. My heart was in my ears. I was embarrassed and confused and incredibly aroused. It was obvious now what Mr. King wanted me for, and I couldn’t sort my thoughts out fast enough. Somewhere I knew I should be telling him off, but I wasn’t.
“Look at the camera, Amy.”
The command was issued in a soft voice, but there was something else behind it. Something darker. I barely managed to look up, biting my lip.
“You look so shy. I love it.”
Snap.
Mr. King put down the camera and approached me slowly. I stayed in my position, afraid to do anything else. It wasn’t until he was standing directly in front of me that I was able to look him in the eye. Even then, I couldn’t stop my legs from shaking.
“I think this might work,” he said, smiling down at me approvingly.
I looked up at him, my throat dry.
“You’re nervous,” he said, smiling down at me. “Do you want to please me?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
He trailed his fingers along my jaw. “We’ll work on that, too.”
Gracefully, he tugged a silk robe off the rack and wrapped it around me. “I’ll give you the tour,” he said and put out his hand.
I let Mr. King lead me through the apartment, dressed in only the silk robe, my head in a daze. What had happened in there? Why had I let it happen?
Meanwhile, Mr. King seemed blissfully unaware of my internal struggle, or else he was cheerily ignoring it. He seemed different than when we first met; less formal and charismatic and more carefree and… arrogant.
He showed me the many rooms in his home, grinning the entire time. It was the most amazing apartment suite I had ever seen, even more amazing than in the movies. He started on the main floor, which was composed of the Master bedroom, living room, dining room, and study. The second floor was half the size of the main floor, leaving eighteen-foot ceilings in the living room, dining room and kitchen. Then we returned upstairs, where he showed me an empty room, guest bedroom and bathroom beside the studio.
At the guest bedroom, Mr. King stopped and told me to enter. It was a fair sized room with a queen-sized bed with beige duvet. The only other furniture in the room was a dresser and mirror.
“I’m willing to pay you $1500 a week, regardless of whether or not you live here, but I would expect you to come when I request.”
I spun around to face him, surprised. That was an obscene amount of money, but it was the living comment that shocked me the most. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed so that muscles in his forearms stood out, watching me intently.
“You want me to move in?”
“It would be an extra benefit for you,” he said carefully. “And yes, I would prefer it.”
“That’s part of the… job?”
He smiled and stepped into the room casually. I immediately stepped back.
“I think you’re perfect, Amy. Like I said, you’re exactly what I have been looking for. I’m willing to make it worth your while.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m not a prostitute.”
Mr. King looked almost hurt; his grey eyes widened momentarily before he ran a hand through his hair. “I would never think of you as a prostitute. You would be my muse.”
I looked down at my hands, wishing I’d grabbed my clothes before following him on the tour.
“I would be willing to turn one of the rooms into a studio for your art,” he continued. “That way you would have time for everything.”
I felt like I was in a dream. Last night I was jobless and homeless and now a man that barely knew me wanted me to move in and be his muse and… something. Lover maybe. Slut likely. I felt like I was going to cry.
“Just say yes and I’ll draft the contract up right now,” he said softly, almost pleadingly. “Whatever you want, Amy.”
The longer I stayed silent, the more irritated he seemed to get. Finally, he marched into the room and opened the closet to reveal clean sheets neatly
“It’s the weekend, so stay here tonight. I expect your answer by tomorrow morning. Perhaps if you don’t want to move in, it’s not meant to be.”
With that, he left the room.
***
I sat on the bed, alone and wondering what I should do and whether I should call someone to come get me. Who was this man and what made him think he could treat me this way?
When I was sure a few hours had passed, I tip-toed back to the studio and opened it quietly. I had to feel around in the dark for my purse, which I’d left a few feet away from the door. Once I had it, I turned it on and used it as a flashlight to find my clothes. They were sitting in a pile where we’d left them.
I gathered my things and quickly made my way back to the room Mr. King had given me. There, I permitted myself to read the text message I’d noticed when I’d turned on my phone. It was from Sam. She was wondering where I was and how my interview went. She also wanted to know what job I’d interviewed for—the text I’d sent her had been super vague. I texted back that I’d met up with a friend afterward and that I’d be home soon.
Then I quickly changed and snuck out of Mr. King’s apartment, hoping I’d never have to see him again.
Chapter Two
I let myself sleep in until noon the next day. I felt I deserved it after the disaster that had been my interview with Mr. King. All night I’d tossed and turned, chastising myself for letting him command me around that way, and all for a job. I’d let him spank me. I’d let him touch me without asking me first. I hadn’t even known him! To say I felt ashamed would be an understatement. I burrowed deeper into my covers and didn’t emerge until mid-afternoon.
When I finally padded into the living room, Sam was packing her things into boxes.
“Hey! So you did make it home last night. I was worried about you.”
“Sorry,” I said, avoiding her eyes as I made my way into the kitchen. “The interview didn’t go that well, so I ended up meeting Jeremy for some drinks.”
“Jeremy?” Sam asked skeptically. “As in the law student hottie that you said you aren’t interested in?”
“That’s the one,” I smiled weakly. I really wished I was interested in Jeremy; he was two years behind Luke and a really nice guy. I bet he wouldn’t take half-nude photos of me for some unknown purpose, let alone spank me.
I almost dropped the milk I was about to pour into my cereal. What had been the purpose of those photos? Mr. King had never told me and I’d never asked. I was stupid. A naive idiot.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick. Hungover?”
I didn’t respond; instead, I raced back into my room and turned on my phone. Maybe there would be an email from him wondering where I went, and I could demand that he tell me what the pictures were for. I tapped my foot anxiously as I waited for my email to update. Emails loaded from Mom, Crate & Barrel, more spam… Nothing from Dallon King.
Asshole.
With shaky fingers, I wrote a response to his original email and sent it before I could chicken out.
Mr. King, I know I signed a non-disclosure agreement and am thus not able to tell anyone about your “artistic project”, but I demand that yo
u delete the photos of me. I also demand that you not sell them to anyone or any site.
—A.
I stomped back into the kitchen and continued making my cereal. Artistic project my ass! He probably lured a bunch of young women into his luxurious penthouse and took pictures of them spread-eagled or bent over his bed. His artistic project was probably nothing more than a porn website.
Tears pricked my eyes and I wiped them away angrily. How could I have been so stupid?
Sam walked back into the living room holding some books to pack. When she saw me, she instantly put them down and ran to comfort me.
“Amy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m okay,” I sniffed. “Just stressed out about finding a job and sad that the year has ended and everything.”
“It’s okay, you’ll find something,” Sam said and rubbed my back soothingly. “It’s a shitty and long process, but it will work out. It always does.”
I smiled weakly through my tears. “I hope so. I’m starting to think maybe I should have applied for law like you.”
Sam made a face. “Why? You hated the Business Law course we took together. There are thousands of other things you can do.”
I sighed. It was true; rushing to apply for law wouldn’t be the answer. I had to be patient and wait for my future career to reveal itself.
The rest of the day and then Sunday went by without any response from Mr. King. I drove myself crazy checking first every hour, then every half hour, and then every minute until Sam yanked my phone away from me and told me to watch the movie. It was Sunday afternoon and we were spending it in our PJs.
“I’ve never seen you so obsessed with your phone before,” she said suspiciously. “Are you sure nothing happened between you and Jeremy? You got home super late last night.”
“Nothing,” I sighed. “I just… applied for a job and am waiting for a response.”
“Oh?” Sam perked up. “What kind of job?”
“Um, sketch teaching assistant,” I said lamely.
“That sounds promising!”
