Double Exposure: A Dark MMF Bisexual Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  Patrick ran up to fix my make-up and I basked under the attention as strands of my hair were adjusted, my lips touched-up with some pink gloss, another costumer strategically adjusting the tiny strings of my bikini so that the fabric sat just so.

  Suddenly, I felt the top slither off of my chest, my boobs suddenly bare to the audience, bouncing out in flawless form, my nipples peaked and erect.

  “Oh my god,” I shrieked at the costumer. “You undid my bikini, you careless slut!”

  “Oh I’m sorry,” stammered the girl awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just that Deborah said …”

  The photographer, who’d I learned was called Max, intervened even as I tried futilely to cover my breasts with my hands. “You look fantastic,” he growled. “Why not try it without?”

  “No way!” I squealed. “I’m a model, not some nude stripper.”

  “Everyone’s doing it,” said the photographer reasonably. “Look at all the girls around you … some are bottomless as well as topless.”

  I knew that was true, that’s what had arrested me when I stepped into the gallery on first sight. But I wasn’t totally ready to bare all.

  “It’s only two hundred dollars, I can’t be showing people my privates for such a small sum,” I claimed boldly. “I need more.”

  The photographer frowned but whispered into Patrick’s ear, who in turn held up a walkie talkie and murmured something indistinct, letting the equipment chatter a bit before giving an authoritative nod.

  “Deborah says yes,” he pronounced. “Three hundred.”

  But I was quick to clarify. “Three hundred for this job or per hour?”

  “Per hour,” he sighed. “That means if you’re here three hours, you’ll take home nine hundred bucks. Not bad for a morning’s work, eh?”

  And I thought it over. Nine hundred dollars would get me so much … maybe I could buy myself a new outfit, take myself out to a nice dinner, maybe even splurge on that new perfume from Chanel.

  “Nine hundred in a cashier’s check,” I said sweetly. “Ready by the end of my session here.”

  Patrick nodded wearily. “I’ll make sure you get it,” he said.

  And that’s all I needed to hear. I dropped my hands, letting my Double Ds bounce free, the creamy mounds tasty and ripe. Teasingly, I cupped them, deepening the valley in between as I straddled the door to the car like I’d seen the redhead do.

  “Lick your nipples,” said Max. “Make me want you,” he commanded all the while the shutter going off in a non-stop whir.

  I was only too happy to oblige. I lifted my girls to my mouth, savoring first one ruby red nip, then the other, licking them lasciviously while smiling at the camera before lifting them both to do a double suck.

  It only got dirtier though. Patrick reached for the string tie of my bikini bottoms and pulled it loose so that the front flap flopped open. I grabbed at the fabric with a pretend gasp, holding my hand over my mouth for added effect as the cloth slipped over my pussy.

  “Oh my god!” I whispered, just audible enough for the crew to hear. “It slipped!”

  But of course I knew what was going on. I wasn’t getting paid nine hundred dollars to strut around in my clothes. I was getting paid to go nude, baring my assets, making men want me and that car.

  So coyly, I dropped my hand, letting the fabric slip through my fingers until the front of my pink slit was revealed, the lips bare, plush and juicy.

  “Mmm,” I moaned, throwing my head back, one hand rubbing circles around my clit as the other pulled and tugged at my nipple, “feels amazing.” My long blonde hair hung down my back and both Patrick and the photographer had their mouths agape now, although I noticed the photographer’s finger was clicking non-stop on the camera.

  And that, reader, is how I ended up posing nude for a couple of skin mag flicks. It started slow. I was a student after all, and couldn’t come up to the City all the time for photo shoots. Plus, I had my doubts. Being naked came easy to me, I’m totally comfortable in my body, but I knew what was happening –I was being recorded and someone, somewhere, would see these pictures.

  But I steeled myself. I needed the money and would never meet the people who bought these photos. They were probably car aficionados, dudes who wouldn’t even see me as anything more than accessory, the exotic cars being the main draw. That is, until the agency asked me to start posing without the cars altogether ... just me, open, revealing, available for all.

  It was a little intimidating at first, my legs open, the camera guys circling 360 degrees. I felt uncomfortable, those guys could see right up my snatch, my wet pussy oiled up and lubed! But they were total professionals, not batting an eye, and I told myself they saw naked girls all the time – I was just the latest in a long line. And so I sank into the work, smiling, hissing, working my body, letting it all hang out, reveling in my youth and beauty.

  In all, I didn’t do much, it was probably only a week’s work total. Seven days of nude photo work, my cunny and breasts on display. Thinking back, if I hadn’t been so hard up for cash, with no friends, no money, and no fiancé, I don’t think it would have happened. I probably would have just mooched off my latest victim, taking him for all he was worth.

  I shouldn’t have done it, I know that now, I was young and stupid, poor and in a bad place. But now there were nudies of me out there … and I didn’t realize how they’d come to haunt me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rafe

  “Jenna, Jenna, Jenna!” the crowd screamed. I’d heard a lot about this new model but hadn’t had a chance to meet her myself. As the chairman of Levast Corp., I take a personal interest in all the brands my company owns and that includes going to dozens of fashion shows, meeting designers, scoping out the crowd.

  The audience at Jason Alexander, our newest label, was promising. Between a mix of hoity-toity editorial staff, celebrity ingénues, Instagrammers, and serious buyers, we had a good turn-out. I could see Vanessa A., a hot new rapper, preening in the front row. There were cameramen all around her but the crowd kept screaming “Jenna!” without abandon.

  Hmmm, Jenna Walsh. Very interesting. She was the newest model to hit the scene, older than most, probably twenty-four or twenty-five. It wasn’t often we hired from the “mature division” of an agency, but in this case Jason had felt he had no choice. Jenna had come onto the scene so suddenly that it took everyone by surprise. The blonde bimbo was the absolute opposite of what high fashion was about – way too curvy, with boobs and an ass that bounced and jiggled with a life of their own.

  I have to admit, I was curious myself. Ms. Walsh had come to prominence in a roundabout way. Rejected by all the high fashion agencies, she’d turned to promoting herself via YouTube, Twitter and Instagram. She’d filmed multiple shorts of herself doing silly things, dancing around her room, shimmying on the sidewalk, probably even brushing her teeth.

  But the thing is that she was captivating. Her video doing the Cat Daddy in a bikini was riveting, her boobs jouncing out with every squiggle, the girl laughing as she danced, not at all like the cold, hard faces models present to the world.

  So I was curious myself. I wanted to see what this Jenna had, what had propelled her to ultra-stardom in such a short time.

  The lights dimmed and the music began. A fast cha-cha to match the tropical air, as Jason Alexander was presenting its resort collection. And Mr. Alexander didn’t disappoint. Right in time with the first beat, Ms. Walsh stepped out.

  I felt my body harden reflexively, its reaction to the goddess on the runway pure male instinct. Because Jenna really was gorgeous. Maybe she was considered fat by the traditional modeling industry, but to me she was perfect, with big, beautiful breasts and a sizeable rump. I could see her jugs bouncing inside the aquamarine bikini top, threatening to spill out and dazzle us all.

  She let out a gleaming smile, waving to the crowds, working the audience, a glow coming off of that radiant blonde hair, her golden skin. I wasn’t so naïve that I th
ought it was all natural, but damn, she was the picture of health, bouncy and flushed, the opposite of the anorexics the agencies always send over.

  The blonde was sassy and fun too. Reaching the end of the runway, she turned and strutted, rocking her hips, smiling over her shoulder, throwing a come-hither look at me. At me? I growled at myself. Please. I was just another man in the crowd, she couldn’t even see me from where I sat in the back. I try to keep a low profile, no need for the world to know that the boss was present.

  But the interplay stayed with me even as Jenna sashayed back down the runway, throwing one more dazzling smile over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner. It was as if a camera flash had gone off, rendering me momentarily blind to the other girls filing out from behind the wall, showing off their assets. The image of Jenna was imprinted on my mind, her curvy figure, that golden fall of hair, the undeniable charisma and sweetness.

  I had to have her. Uncomfortably crossing my legs, I realized just how aroused I’d become, my cock semi-stiff, my body gearing up as if for war … and dominance.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jenna

  I’d seen him. A lot of times, the runway is so brightly lit that you can’t see a thing. But in this case, when I got to the end of the runway a strobe light went off, illuminating everything in its arc.

  And that was when I saw the man. Tall, imposing, handsome, in an impeccably cut suit, seated elegantly with his legs crossed. His eyes were deep, penetrating, and I felt an immediate flush on my body as he stared, my chest growing heated as darts of lightning streaked down to my center, making me feel soft inside.

  I calmed myself, acting like nothing had happened, that I hadn’t just felt the clouds open. “Stop it,” I reminded myself. “You’re imagining things, your life’s been so crazy lately.”

  And it’s true. It’s been a short and surprising rollercoaster ever since I took those nudie pics. I’d done it for the money, nothing more, figuring that once I was paid it’d become a thing of my past. But Deborah had ideas for me.

  “Jenna honey,” she purred, sorting through some photos, “have you thought about modeling? I mean, real modeling, not this import car stuff.”

  I was stumped. Even though I’m beautiful, I know I don’t have a model’s body. Those girls are two inches taller and twenty pounds less, plus I was already twenty-four, too old to be competition for the sixteen year-old ingénues gracing the Paris catwalks.

  “I’m not sure I qualify,” I said slowly. “But what are you thinking? Some Sears catalogues? Maybe J. Crew?” I’d noticed that commercial models tended to be more normal looking, not the skeletal remains parading about in magazines. Plus, I could use the money.

  And Deborah was savvy.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “I’ve got a friend at MGC Models, they want someone to appear at a Giants game just to generate some heat, you know? They want someone real because it’s supposed to be candid, on the fly, but you know how these things are, they’re totally staged.”

  No, in fact I didn’t know that. But it was an idea and I wanted the free tickets to the Giants game. If I had to pimp myself in some way or other, that was fine, so long as it wasn’t too embarrassing.

  It’s terrible I know, but the money from the nudie shoots had already run out, I’d spent it on random things and I was penniless again. Dammit! I knew I shouldn’t have bought that new purple dress, but I’d felt so beaten down studying at 2 a.m. that I’d allowed myself to splurge and purchased the Versace dress on-line, my eyesight practically blurring, I was so tired.

  And maybe I could use those free tickets to my advantage somehow … I dunno, get some guy to buy me dinner at the game, I heard they’d amped up the catering at these fancy new stadiums, there was actually steak and oysters now, not just fries and hot dogs.

  So I agreed. It was easy enough -- I was supposed to go to the game and do a dance when my section cheered. The lensman would “accidentally” catch me on the Jumbotron and it’d provide the crowd with a glimpse of a pretty girl grooving out, relieving the boredom during a slow inning or whatever. Easy-peasy, no problem.

  I’d invited Courtney to come along. Although she’d disappointed me when she’d refused to take me out after the cancelled bridal shower, there weren’t many other people I could ask frankly. I didn’t have many real friends and hadn’t had much time to develop true friendships after my engagement blew up, that kind of shit takes years.

  So Courtney and I had gotten ready together, brushing out our blonde hair, making sure our baseball caps were angled just so, pulling on the fitted Giants jerseys Deborah had provided.

  “Where you’d get this gear?” she’d asked, curious. Courtney was pretty, almost competition even, but she never found the right guys. The guys who liked her were cute, sure, but they were just like us – graduate students, impoverished, studying for their PhDs or whatever. I liked my men a little more developed, imposing, commanding, and further along their career paths.

  “Oh I have a friend who couldn’t make the game so he gave me his tickets,” I said nonchalantly, making sure my hair was brushed to a glossy sheen. I adjusted the baseball jersey so that my girls pressed against the cheap nylon fabric, highlighting my deep cleavage, turning in the mirror to make sure my ass was juicy and perky in the tight jeans. As usual, I looked flawless and made a face at myself in the mirror.

  “Come on, you ready?” I asked. “You promised to drive.”

  Courtney finished brushing out her own long blonde hair. “I did, didn’t I?” she said slowly. “But don’t go crazy with the drinking okay? I’m borrowing Henry’s car and I don’t want to clean up puke like last time.”

  I waved my hand nonchalantly. “Don’t worry about me, that was Renata,” I said dismissively. “I can’t help it if she can’t handle her alcohol.” Of course, I’d been the one pouring the drinks that night and had done nothing to stop Renata from downing far more than her petite 5’1” frame could handle. But we’re all big girls, she should have known better.

  “Okay but not again,” said Courtney with a warning glance, like she knew my part in that debacle. Whatever, I was providing the free tickets and Courtney was nothing more than a bit player tonight.

  The game was raucous. Frankly, I know nothing about baseball and was much more interested in a group of cute guys seated a couple rows away. I’d seen them looking our way and whispered confidentially to Courtney, throwing them glances and pouting a bit. Maybe I’d get up and walk by their aisle, sashaying my hips provocatively.

  But then it came time to perform. In the fifth inning I bounced out of my seat when they started playing “Wild Thing,” the crowd roaring along.

  “Come on!” I shrieked at Courtney. “Get up and dance.”

  “Um okay,” she said hesitantly, looking at me askance. I was already up, bouncing around, smiling brightly, flaunting my assets.

  And just like that, I suddenly appeared on the Jumbotron doing the dougie. I pretended I didn’t know I was on-screen, instead smiling brightly as my body did the moves, swaying, jiggling, tilting my head and flashing a bright smile. I knew I looked good as the crowd cheered, the roar around us deafening, the camera zooming in on my assets, my pretty face, a moment of relief from an intense baseball game.

  “Jenna!” shrieked Courtney. “You’re live, you’re live, look!”

  And I gazed at the big screen, feigning shock at my image and then waving like a fan, happy to be at the game enjoying a night out with a million other people, loyal to the Giants.

  And that’s what launched my career as a public figure. People said I was too fat to be a model, too old, too curvy, too everything. But I just kept at it. I did the Cat Daddy for a famed photographer who posted it to his website, and got two million hits overnight. Isn’t that astounding? For a no-name blonde, not bad I’d say.

  And as for being a lawyer … well, that was a thing of the past. I realized I’d never pass the moral character requirement with my history of nudie phot
os, so what was the point of even trying? What was the point of even taking the bar exam, period?

  “Jenna, you have to take it,” said my sister exasperatedly. “You’re so close! You’ve already graduated from law school it’s just the last thing before you get your license.”

  Clearly she had no idea about my moral character problems.

  “I dunno Tina,” I said carelessly. “I’m not really feeling it, the bar exam is six straight weeks of full-time study, I’m not sure if I want to spend my summer doing that.”

  My twin made a face. “Seriously, don’t let this stuff about Jake get you down. I mean, engagements get broken up, it happens all the time.”

  “Oh right, and you’re in such a great position to lecture me,” I spat. “You’re the one who stole my fiancé.”

  “Jenna, I’m sorry,” said Tina. “It’s way more complicated than you think, I didn’t try to steal him per se. It just happened,” she shrugged helplessly.

  But I wasn’t about to let it go. “Don’t tell me ‘it just happened,’” I hissed furiously. “I know you’ve always been jealous and that you wormed your way in like a fucking spy. To make up for your past transgressions, how about you sit the bar exam for me? You’ve been doing a ton of studying, you could probably pass it now already.”

  “You know they check IDs,” reprimanded my sister, “and plus, it’s just plain amoral. What’s wrong with you Jenna? I mean, I never thought you were an angel, but you’ve really gone over the deep end. I mean, what about my bar exam? Who’s going to take my exam if I’m sitting for yours?” she asked plaintively.

  “I dunno,” I said carelessly. “It’s not like you need the money now that you have Jake anyways,” I said, nearly choking on my spite.

  Because the fact was I still hadn’t gotten over my immense anger at the turn of events. I’d come so close to my goal of landing a rich man, only to be foiled by my twin, leaving me penniless and broke once again.