Double Exposure: A Dark MMF Bisexual Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  So I’d taken matters into my own hands and transitioned. I’d graduated from law school but didn’t take the bar exam, forgoing membership in the California bar. Instead, I exploited my ever-growing image and became a public figure of sorts. My fame buoyed me, making me feel good about myself, the ever-growing attention addictive. I was that blonde, the one who was the flavor of the moment … and looking to prolong my time in the limelight. Angling for a shot at Sports Illustrated, my agents were already making the right calls, exploring connections, talking to their contacts.

  But I’d never counted on meeting Rafe Connor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rafe

  I had to have her. She was delicious, gorgeous, sassy with an attitude that you don’t see in models often. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly cast in the high fashion mold, but there was a spark about her, a sense of life that animated everything she did.

  I guess some designers don’t like that. They want their models to be clotheshangers, channeling the spirit of the collection, but Jenna would always be Jenna. That flying blonde hair, the gleaming, glowing skin … she was 100% herself and I loved it.

  I made my way backstage even though the show wasn’t over. The folks in charge knew who I was and made way, security letting me through, not bothering to check ID or anything of that sort. This was unusual because there were about twenty half-naked girls getting dressed backstage, their assets on display as they changed in and out of various outfits. Usually it was a total lock-out, to keep prying eyes away from the nubile female forms, but there are always exceptions for the boss.

  I looked around and caught a glimpse of the blonde laughing with a make-up assistant but before I could approach, I was accosted by a ravishing redhead. Angelique Domaine was also a rising star, a nom de plume for a girl with humble origins – Sarah Jane Moses from Dayton, Ohio.

  “Hi Rafe!” she said brightly, placing a perfectly manicured hand on my sleeve. “Great to see you here!” she chirped. You can take the girl out of Ohio but you can’t take the Ohio out of the girl. Despite her exotically slanted eyes and ravishing red hair, her voice was as American as pie, her smile wide and Crest white.

  “Hey Angelique,” I said courteously. “It’s nice to see you.” I’d taken her out a few times but hadn’t felt any spark. Sure, I’d ravished her, fucking that tight little pussy, but she just wasn’t my style. Angelique wasn’t … tight you know? Lean, perfect body, but not snappy down there, where it counts.

  I guess I like my girls to fit me like a compression glove. I’m big and it usually isn’t a problem. In fact, a lot of women struggle, but Angelique … that girl has fucked too many men or used one too many Extra Large vibrators. It was like a bag down there, a loose leather bag filled with warm water, no way to get to release except by using other means.

  So I’d pulled the classic Rafe Connor escape move. I’d ordered up a sapphire necklace from Harry Winston and had it delivered to Angelique in Paris, and then refused to pick up any of her calls, directing my secretary to screen any communication from her. Ghosting is what they call it nowadays.

  But the girl was persistent. That’d been months ago and she was still calling, it was unbelievable. Someone as beautiful as Angelique could have had a million guys eating out of her hand, but instead she was still sending texts to my phone at night, hoping I’d respond, give her some sign of life. The latest had been particularly sad:

  Rafe, thinking of you

 

 

  Touching myself nood feels so good Answer me damn you! I can’t speak French, these frenchies driving me nuts

  I didn’t reply. I felt sorry for the redhead, with that misspelling of the word “nude.” These girls started modeling so early that they never finished high school, and some of them never even completed middle school. They were still at a sixth grade level, using emojis when they texted, their spelling and grammar horrific.

  Their emotional development also left something to be desired. New models are pulled out of school so early, at twelve or thirteen sometimes, their limbs long but their brains undeveloped. Isn’t adolescence a critical time for advancing brain function, learning higher level thought processes? These poor kids, they never had a chance. Pimped out for their looks, their careers would last a few years at best. Most would flame out, gaining weight as their figures became womanly, maybe making it to twenty-one or twenty-two before the bookings trailed off.

  I shook myself though. This was no time to feel pity. I was the boss and the money lining my pockets was in part from the efforts of these teens, these girls who were scooped up young to walk in the fashion shows on my behalf. This was a cut-throat industry and I had no business feeling pity for what were essentially my employees.

  So I turned myself back to the business at hand. Ah yes, Jenna, our newest internet sensation who’d somehow launched herself into the halls of high fashion. She was the opposite of a teen girl who could potentially be taken advantage of. First, she was twenty-four, way over prime modeling age. Second, management had already been contacted by her agent about upping her rate. The girl wanted ten thousand for every runway she walked going forward, no negotiation. We’d responded that ten grand was reserved only for the elites, but I knew her team was working on raising her profile even further – maybe the cover of Sports Illustrated or a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Not bad for someone who was a failed law student.

  Because, of course, I’d researched Ms. Walsh. I had a dossier on all key employees and Jenna’s was the latest to land on my desk. She’d finished law school but never sat for the bar exam, instead opting to move into arts and entertainment. Plus, there were a couple of very interesting photos in there, from a somewhat seedy, shady past. I looked forward to quizzing her on those.

  I approached the blonde, the assistant make-up artist gasping upon seeing my form. She whispered to Jenna while glancing at me furtively and Jenna spun around to look, her blonde hair flying.

  She took me in, almost drinking me, her eyes a deep blue, violet in fact, that perfect ski slope nose pert and upturned, her boobs jiggling in an electric green bikini, high heels with feathers at her feet. How did Jason Alexander dream up this shit? I guess she was supposed to resemble a jungle woman coming out of the forest – one that focused on providing sex to the men of the tribe, not hunting and gathering for sure.

  And I could see that I’d affected her. The blonde’s tits were heaving, her nostrils flaring slightly at my masculine presence. I could almost see a flush forming across her chest but there was so much body glitter and bronzer that it was impossible to say for sure.

  But her mind wasn’t impaired at all.

  “Hey stranger,” she purred. Now that, I wasn’t prepared for. Her voice was a low, melodious hum which reached my ears distinctly despite the babble around us. She smiled genuinely, real emotion in her eyes, and I was stunned again. These girls are usually so … practiced, you know? They feel nothing but are great at convincing you that you’re the best ever. By contrast, this wasn’t forced at all. Jenna was real and liked what she saw.

  “Hey yourself,” I growled. I know I have a slight Euro accent. I grew up in Italy, coming to the United States for college, naturally retaining that old world refinement that fashion executives cultivate.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, smiling at me, those blue eyes teasing me. I forced myself to look at her face, drinking in the luscious lips, the curve of her cheek, the perfect tilt of her chin.

  “I’m Rafe Connor,” I growled again. “CEO of Levast Corp., we’re the holding company for the Jason Alexander brand.”

  “Oh I know who you are,” she said with a wink. “I’ve been doing some research on Levast’s financials and I read your latest shareholder letter in the Annual Report.”

  I was floored. Evidently, the girl was literate, and not only that, but she’d probably looked over the financials as well, a mix of numbers
and accounting that wasn’t for the faint of heart. Levast has a lot of different interests and it’s not easy to understand the intricacies of corporate finance.

  And the blonde was smiling again, as if knowing my thoughts. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Connor?”

  Well, suck my dick for one, I thought silently. Make me come again and again until my cares are washed away, the stress gone. Let me pound you into submission from behind, take you standing up, explore all your holes, spray my cum on your face and in your body until I’m a destitute man.

  But I said nothing of that sort. The make-up assistant was still watching our interaction breathlessly, and I could see a number of hairdressers and seamstresses discreetly watching from the corner of their eyes.

  “Ms. Walsh,” I said courteously. “Thank you for participating in our show. I wanted to invite you to lunch afterwards to begin salary negotiations,” I said smoothly.

  “Oh Jenna!” squealed the make-up assistant excitedly. “Isn’t this what you were telling me about? Maybe a raise? Make sure to ask for smoothies at the craft table backstage, not just coffee and champagne,” she said breathlessly.

  And Jenna was kind about the interruption.

  “Kathy, I think Mr. Connor has more serious issues on his mind, he’s running a multi-billion dollar empire,” she said. “But I’ll be sure to ask about the addition of fresh smoothies, I know it’s hard to keep your energy up on caffeine and alcohol only.”

  “Awesome!” squealed the other girl. “And bagels too,” she threw in as an aside.

  I almost laughed right there, this exchange was so ridiculous. But I nodded to the blonde and said, “Noon at Le Bern? My assistant will send a car.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said the blonde demurely, but I could see a spark in her eyes. She flashed me one last smile before saying, “Oh I’m up. Time to get out there in this exotic parrot outfit,” she said with a wink.

  And as if on cue, another wardrobe person ran up and began helping her into a contraption which looked like blue and green feathers in the shape of giant wings. It was all glittery straps with a leather harness that looked really heavy, forcing the little girl over until she was bent over double, shouldering the burden. I reached out a hand to steady the load, testing some of the weight in my hand, and frowned.

  “They always put you in stuff like this?” I asked, concerned.

  “Always,” she confirmed, straightening her back and pasting another smile on her face. “And in four inch stilettos too,” she said brightly. “Now I’ve got to walk … scoot!” she said.

  And just like that, she was gone. I could hear thunderous applause outside, more fanatical screams of “Jenna, Jenna!” as she hit the stage. I watched from the sidelines with amazement and appreciation as her grace and beauty mesmerized the crowds. Lunch sounded amazing … and I was very, very hungry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jenna

  I walked into the restaurant in sneakers, a welcome relief from high heels. Le Bern was a Michelin starred restaurant but I just couldn’t handle stalking around in stilettos and a mini-dress, not after a fashion show where I’d been wearing almost nothing. Instead, I’d gone for comfort in a wrap dress, something that showed off my curves without being overtly sexy, and had paired it with flat shoes, cute New Balances that were urban and trendy.

  I threw the maitre’d a bright smile even as he looked at my outfit askance.

  “Madam?” he said politely, as if hoping I would go away.

  No such luck. “Reservation for Rafe Connor,” I said with a warm smile. Something I’ve realized since switching careers is that charming with honey can get a lot more done than being a straight-up bitch. Maybe it’s because of the atmosphere in fashion. Girls are expected to be docile, like furniture almost, so it was unexpected and even discouraged to have an opinion.

  Normally, I would have shut that down immediately, making my views known, even forcing them onto other people. But my initial attempts to be my old self had backfired.

  “Hey I think this hem should be longer,” I’d said at my first fitting, pointing to the tiny little swim skirt I wore over my bikini bottoms. “It would hang better if it was longer, especially since it’s cut on the bias.”

  Jason Alexander himself, international designer extraordinaire, had shot me a dirty look but said nothing.

  “Ms. Walsh,” interrupted his assistant, “I’m sure you can understand that we’re short on time with the show in five days. Besides, Mr. Alexander designed this piece himself, all the hemming was done with a five nine model in mind.”

  “I am five nine,” I ground out. “I didn’t lie on my comp card. I’m just saying that I think this skirt would do better with a little more material, maybe look a bit more flattering.”

  This time, the designer spoke himself, his voice pure acid.

  “Listen, you’re not getting paid for your opinions, so just hang tight, yeah?” he drawled nastily, his Australian accent thick. “We only hired you because we had to, our brand owed your agency a favor. Get out if you don’t like it, see if you’ll get work anywhere else after you critique a designer.”

  And I’d shut my trap immediately. He was right, I was a model, there to show off the clothes and I’d had no idea that the Alexander brand had been forced to hire me. God, what strings had Deborah pulled? Humbled, I stood silently, letting the wardrobe assistants pinch and fuss, Alexander ignoring me entirely after that.

  And I’d expected to be fired, I admit. Evidently I’d committed some crazy breach of protocol, offending the artistic types. But instead, when I got a call from my agency about the afternoon’s incident, it was the opposite – Alexander was inviting me to a private party.

  “Do I have to?” I’d asked. “I thought that douchebag hated me,” I confided to Deborah.

  “No, of course you don’t have to,” she said reassuringly. “But Jason Alexander is a hot young designer whose star is on the up and up. Keep an open mind, you know? You never know what will happen.”

  And so I’d agreed, showing up an expensive loft in Tribeca. Shaking my head resignedly, I held tight to the champagne I’d brought. Hopefully a fancy bottle of Chateau L’Anglais would put him in a good mood.

  But my instincts weren’t off. The minute the door opened, I saw that I’d been duped. I’d been invited to a gay party – Bears and Twinks, to be specific. The bears were great big guys, hairy and beefy, and the twinks were their boytoys, simpering and eighty pounds at most. Not that I have anything against gay men, I just didn’t expect to be the only female in a room full of grinding gay dudes.

  “Hey sweetie!” called Jason, sashaying forward in a caftan. He was built like a tank and I could see right through the gauzy material. Nope, he didn’t shave down below. “Glad you could make it last minute,” he sang insincerely.

  “Th- Thanks for inviting me,” I stammered weakly, holding forth the bottle of wine. “This is Chateau L’Anglais, I hope you like it.”

  “Oh we only drink French,” he’d said dismissively. “But thanks anyways. Make yourself at home … if you can find a spot.”

  Because I could see now that this was actually a gay sex party. We were in someone’s private apartment and they’d covered every item of furniture with plastic so that people could get down.

  And the guests weren’t wasting any time. The twinks were taking it in every conceivable position, showing off the elasticity of their bodies, their willing and supple limbs bent like circus acrobats. I could see spatters of semen everywhere, pooling and drying on the plastic tarp, condom wrappers strewn about.

  “Make yourself at home!” Alexander echoed in a singsong voice, before disappearing into the crowd.

  And I could have cried, I could have thrown a tantrum per my old ways, but instead I grit my teeth and made myself stay. It was tough, I admit. I witnessed more depravity that I’d ever imagined in my life and not that kind that’s soft-core.

  After about two hours, I said goodbye to Alexander, thanking h
im graciously for inviting me, although I’m not sure he could hear given that his face was planted in some other man’s butt. But I’d learned a lesson … know your place, don’t think you can get away with murder because you’re a pretty blonde. This is New York City where anything can happen, and that included my date with Rafe Connor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rafe

  She walked towards me with a warm smile, her hair a mass of gold down her back, her dress clingy but modest.

  “Mr. Connor, thanks for inviting me,” she said. “I’m so hungry after the morning shows, I’m going to eat like a cow.”

  I smiled at her words.

  “Call me Rafe, please. Plus, I’m sure you don’t eat like a cow, you’re svelte, perfect for modeling swimsuit attire,” I growled in response, eyeing her curves appreciatively. “Please, take a seat.”

  She dropped gracefully into the chair and threw me a teasing glance.

  “So are we really here to talk about a raise?” she asked mischievously, taking a sip of her sparkling water. I almost lost it right there. The glance she gave me over the rim of her glass was exactly what I hoped to see in an ingénue … so long as her lips were wrapped around my dick.

  “We are,” I confirmed. “Levast is prepared to pay ten thousand per show provided there’s fair play in return.”

  That made her brow crinkle.

  “Fair play?” she asked confused. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh we just want to get our money’s worth,” I said vaguely. There was no sense in bringing up the nudie pics now. I was just getting to know the girl and wanted to keep things light. “We pay you money and in return, we expect a little something, that’s all. We can work out the details with your agency. I understand you’re with Deborah?”