by Penny Wylder
I look around as we cross the gallery. There’s definitely an aquatic theme going on with the art and the lights, everything drenched in teal and blue. Unlike the last exhibition, which was for an already existing Xellum line, both the art and Andrew’s new line of bathing suits are debuting tonight. I’m not the only model this time—which is a relief—but I still think he has something special planned.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been down to his studio so they could take measurements of my entire body. Now that I’m working with him, they’ll make the designs to fit me. Even though I don’t get to keep them, it feels amazing putting on clothes I know are going to fit perfectly. I’ve only seen Andrew in passing, but the spark between us is there. I can feel it.
Walking into the back room, he’s there. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s a professional smile, not at all like the sultry little ones I catch him sending my way. “I’m glad you’re here. Your make-up is the most complicated, and we need to get started, plus I want to see the final look. Trish,” he calls over his shoulder as he guides me to a chair.
The same make-up artist from last time comes over smiling. Andrew points to my cheekbones. “Masque make-up, heavy blues and greens, think mermaid. Lips need to match. Hair loose and as smooth as you can possibly get it.”
I look up at him. “A ‘hello’ would be nice.”
He stops for a second, “Hello. Find me as soon as you’re finished. We have a lot to do.”
“Wow,” I say quietly as he hurries away.
Trish laughs softly, “Don’t take it personally. That’s just how he is, especially on show days. He’s got a lot on his mind and he knows what he wants.”
We fall into conversation while she does my make-up, and I find myself relaxing. Trish has a very musical voice and it’s nice to hear her speak. It’s also nice to get a little more insight into the mysterious Mr. Xellum. I like hearing stories about him, like the time he got drunk and thought that lime green disco pants were a good idea, or how he made sure that a sick seamstress got all the rest she needed even though it was fashion week. Sure, she tells me, he’s a hard ass, and he errs on the cold side, but he’s a good guy.
When she’s finished and I look in the mirror, I don’t even recognize myself. I’m a sea creature come to life, my face patterned with gentle ripples and a blend of colors so seamless you would never know it’s not my skin. My hair is shiny, and seems darker than normal as it catches the light. “I think you’re a miracle worker.”
Trish laughs, “If I were a miracle worker I’d be able to make everyone’s wrinkles and grays go away.”
“Okay, temporary miracle worker then.”
“That, I’ll take. But you may not think I’m such a miracle worker when you have to wash it off later.”
I give her a wink. “I’ll be sure to curse your name plenty.”
Hopping out of the chair, I go to find Andrew. I find him at another model’s station, directing what he wants her look to be. I wait until he’s finished and sees me. He gives me a once-over and nods, gesturing for me to follow. I do, and he pulls a swimsuit off the rack. It looks complicated and gorgeous even on the hanger. With it is a sheer robe in colors that match my make-up. “This is yours for tonight. Let me see it, I want to make sure it’s perfect.” Then he leans in suddenly, and I’m overwhelmed by his sudden closeness. “You’re the centerpiece.”
And then he’s backed away like nothing’s happened. My heart is thundering, and I scold it. I can’t get worked up every time he pays me any kind of attention. But he is paying attention. Even though he’s professional, I can see the way he’s looking at me. My body reacts to it in a way it never has with anyone else.
“Hurry,” he says, “I still need to show you your choreography.”
“Choreography?”
He smirks. “Something like that.”
I duck behind the screen and pull on the bathing suit. It’s a one-piece, but it’s so scandalous that it might as well be two. The fabric is woven in tight knots that form patterns over my skin. Some places are webbed with lace and sheer gauze, others are open to my skin. One strap is intentionally off the shoulder, and the colors are the same deep blue and teal that seem to be the theme. I put the robe on over the bathing suit, and I have to admit, it really works. I look like some sort of wanton mermaid or siren, ready to call to sailors and wreck their ships. With my make-up and hair, I look like someone who would do it with delight.
Coming out from behind the screen, I see that Andrew has walked a little ways away and is consulting with someone dressed in black who has a headset in his ear. They’re looking at a clipboard, and the headset guy seems really animated. Again, I wait. Trish was right, Andrew has about a million things to deal with at the moment.
But then he turns and looks at me, and he freezes. The air between us goes tight, and I can feel the magnetic pull between us like it’s a physical thing. I do feel like a siren, and I will him to come to me. He does.
“You look absolutely perfect,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say softly, grateful that my face is covered in paint and he can’t see the fiery blush now gracing my cheeks. I have to look away from him. “That’s nice of you.”
He shakes his head. “I know we don’t know each other well, but I never say anything I don’t mean. And I don’t think I’ve ever said that to someone before.” I lock eyes with him again and it feels like an electric eternity. He turns away quickly, breaking the moment. “Come with me.”
I follow him into the main gallery, and I practically blend into it between the lights and the artwork. In the center of the room there’s a low, oval platform. The lights play across the platform with a texture that makes it look like it’s underwater. “You will be here,” he says. “Lay down.”
I raise an eyebrow, but I do. Then he’s kneeling next to me, positioning me. “Start like this.” He pulls my arms above my head, and the way his skin feels on mine is electric. Fingers brush my knee. “One up.” If I’m not mistaken, his breath is a little short. Then his hand slides under my back and brushes my skin. “Arch as high as you can.”
The position stretches the suit, and I can feel that I’m inches away from being indecent, but I also feel sexy. Andrew is leaning over me, looking down, and I see him glance at my lips. Oh god, I want him to kiss me even though I shouldn’t. I want to pull him down on top of me right here in the middle of the gallery. Focus, Delia. “You mentioned choreography?”
“I did,” he leans closer, and I can smell the subtle, spicy cologne on his skin. I let my back sink back to the floor as he stares at me. “The choreography is simply this: ecstasy.”
“Like the drug?”
He laughs, and it echoes through the room. “No. Like sex. All of the models will be moving in slow motion, like they’re underwater. You just happen to be having the best orgasm of your life while you’re down there.”
I laugh softly. “So I am a siren. I wondered.”
“You certainly are.” I can tell he’s not joking.
Meeting his eyes, I arch my back again. “If I am, is it working? Because I can think of a few things that would get me in the mood to pretend I’m having the best sex of my life.”
Andrew’s eyes go dark, and his hand drifts down my waist grazing skin and fabric. Just as he reaches my hip, he pulls away suddenly, like he remembered where he was. He meets my gaze again. “Nothing is too far,” he says. “As long as it’s slow. If you want to touch yourself do it, if you want to moan, make whoever’s watching you feel your pleasure.”
I take a long, slow breath, making sure he takes note of the way my chest rises towards him. “Will you be watching?”
He’s silent for a long moment, and then. “I don’t think I could ever look away.”
6
It’s another thirty minutes before the gallery opens, and I spend that time trying not to ruin my make-up, and trying to go through in my head just how I’m going to pretend to have sex and orgasms for
as long as this gallery is open. I keep seeing Andrew rush around, seeing to last minute details, and every time I do, I feel his hand run down my skin. I love the fact that he forgot himself, that I could make him do that. I want to see him forget himself a little more.
Five minutes before the doors open, I’m lying on the little platform. All around me are other models. Some are standing in the middle of the gallery, others are slouched against the wall by some of the gorgeous paintings. But Andrew didn’t lie—I’m clearly in the center of it.
Andrew and a woman who I assume must be Heather walk toward the front doors, and May snaps all of us to attention. I put myself in the position Andrew chose, arching my back to the point of pain as I hear the outside doors open and the waiting crowd starts to enter. It’s a launch, so the people invited are all from the fashion world. There won’t be just anybody walking in who thinks they can touch the models. That’s a relief.
I hear the gasps from the crowd as they walk into the room. It is a beautiful sight. And as the music starts to flow, I start to move. It’s awkward, trying to move my body in slow motion, and how on earth am I supposed to pretend that I’m having sex?
A person pauses beside me, and I feel myself blush. This is ridiculous. Someone is watching me writhe on the floor. I don’t know why I thought that this wouldn’t me humiliating. I know my movements are awkward and jerky. Not what Andrew wants. Not what he described, and I feel the heat in my cheeks grow. Thank god I’m painted blue and no one will notice what a red mess I am at the moment.
Slowly turning my head, I look toward the door. Andrew is there greeting people, but as if I called his name, he looks right at me. That pull between us snaps into place, and I feel it. I feel how to move. I imagine that the arch in my body is arching up into him. That the way I spread my legs and close my eyes is so that he can taste me. Slowly, slowly, I let my mind linger on images of his tongue inside me, fingers gripping my thighs until they shake and I’m moaning his name. A real moan comes from my throat and I bite my lip. He said nothing was too far, but that moan is just for him. I don’t want to share it with the rest of the audience.
And audience there is. They mill around, watching the performances and commenting on the clothing and art. I hear Andrew’s voice weaving through the crowd, talking and selling and making small talk. I focus on the sound when I can’t see him, let that voice weave through my head so I can feel that hand on my skin again. Imagine that he’s sliding inside me. That his head has dropped close enough to mine to kiss me while he plunges deep inside, taking me slowly until I’m screaming. I shiver, the images too real.
God, I’m aroused right now. The temptation to reach down and touch myself is so strong, but I don’t. Because it’s all for him. I’ll give this audience what they want. I’ll give them a siren’s ecstasy, but my pleasure, that’s all mine.
I feel it when he comes and stands next to the platform. I’m blinded by the lights above me but I know that it’s him. I put every ounce of passion that I’ve been imagining into my face, into the way my body strains in the slow motion. The way I subtly reach for him.
It’s a long time before he moves on, and I wish I could have seen his expression. Or maybe I don’t. If it’s not what I hope, then maybe I don’t want to know.
When the last person has left the gallery, I collapse in a heap on the platform. Every muscle in my body hurts and the pent up sexual energy I have has me craving sex or chocolate. Okay, really only sex, but since I don’t think it’s an option, I’ll settle for chocolate.
I grab some water and change into the clothes I brought with me. No chance I’m getting this make-up off until I get in the shower, so I don’t even try. But I need to see Andrew. I need to at least ask him what he thought, and see if I can tell if he can feel what I’m feeling. It’s impossible that he didn’t, right?
I spot him across the room, and head towards him where he’s in conversation with someone. He spots me coming and excuses himself before I get there, and I arrive where he was standing just as he’s disappearing around the corner. I follow him into the main room of the gallery where he’s speaking to May. Again he sees me coming and leaves. This time I don’t follow. It stings after what happened before the show. After what I felt was obvious between us.
May approaches me. “He doesn’t.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t anything with people who work for him. No matter what he feels, he is a professional first. So if you’re looking for that from him, don’t expect it.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t.” It comes out too defensive, and I know it. “I mostly wanted feedback on my performance, but he seems to be avoiding me.”
She smiles kindly at me. “He thought your performance was lovely. I’m sure he’ll tell you himself when you see him next. He’s just left to go home.”
“Oh, okay.” I try to ignore the stab of disappointment in my chest. “Thanks, May.”
“He’ll have something more for you soon, so I’ll be in touch after the weekend, all right?”
“Sure.”
On the way home I find the biggest chocolate bar I can find, and even that isn’t enough. But it isn’t like we even know each other that well. He’s my boss. We’ve never dated; there are no promises. Do I really have a right to get upset with someone over something they never offered? No. But it sucks all the same and I’m going to make sure I get some action, even if it’s solo. When I get home I relive the evening, this time with a vibrator. I recreate those phantom images of Andrew making me come, of him fucking me until there’s too much pleasure, and I don’t stop until I’m exhausted and tumble into sleep.
7
Videos of my ecstasy performance are all over the internet, and even I have to admit that it looks amazing. From the outside, the entire cast of models looks like slow-moving otherworldly creatures. And even though it’s sexy, it doesn’t look like we’re all imagining orgasms. I was afraid that it would look the way it felt, and the way it felt is not exactly something that I want on the internet. Even though the way it felt has provided more than enough inspiration to fill my orgasm quota.
It’s only been a few days since the event, and every muscle in my body still aches from the strain. I’m glad that I haven’t heard from May yet. As much as I like this job, and the absurdly large direct deposit that came right after the show, if everything I do for Andrew is going to be that intense, I’m going to need to rest my body.
Knocking on the door of the Blind Scorpion, Fleece appears to let me in. “I swear that you live here now,” I tell her. The bar is closed since it’s only noon.
“I swear, I feel like it lately.”
“When is Barbara coming back?”
A loud voice calls from the storeroom. “I’m here. Don’t worry, I’m not dead yet.”
Fleece rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
Barbara sweeps out of the back room in all her glory. A woman in her sixties whose very essence screams ‘New York.’ She’s carrying a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vodka to replenish the stock behind the bar. “How you doin,’ Delia?”
“Good. Feeling better?”
“Oh, you know,” she grins, “five days of pulling my guts up. Will teach me to eat street tacos with a cold. It’s a deadly combination.”
I laugh even though that sounds awful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My phone chimes and I pull it out to see a text message from May. An invitation. “Hey,” I say to Fleece, and toss her the phone. “Want to go?”
She reads the message out loud: “Delia, Mr. Xellum wanted me to extend an invitation for you and whoever you’d like to bring to the Whitman & Crown party tonight. It is, in part, a celebration of them picking up the new swimsuit line. Let me know if you’d like to attend and any guests. If you stop by the studio beforehand, we’ll provide styling as well.” She looks at me, her mouth open. “This is one of the biggest parties of the year.”
“You should go,” Barbara says from behin
d the bar. “Lord knows you’ve earned a night off.”
“Sure you’ll be okay?”
The look on Barbara’s face is priceless. “Baby, I’ve been runnin’ this bar by myself since before you could walk. Of course I’ll be okay. Go have fun.”
Fleece tosses me back the phone, and there’s a sparkle in her eye that from experience I know means trouble. “Looks like we’re going to a party.”
Styling is an understatement. Fleece and I are made over from head to toe, and Fleece gets a choice of gowns to wear. I, on the other hand, had something left for me. There’s a note pinned to the neckline of the dress. It just has a few words.
The whole damn fire.
The dress itself is stunning. Exactly the same gauzy cut as the one I walked in in for my first audition, this one is all flame. The top is a deep maroon that fades into orange, red, white, and the deepest blue as it falls into the skirt. I remember the way this dress works, and I take off everything, so it’s just me and the dress. The back swoops low, and this version of the dress feels even better than the first one did.
Andrew must have spoken to Trish before he left because the make-up and hair perfectly complements the look, turning my eyes smoky and dark, and sweeping my hair back into a messy low knot. A pair of bright red heels completes the look. And looking in the mirror, I do look like the whole damn fire.
Fleece whistles when she sees me. “Damn, girl.”
I fight to suppress a giggle. “I guess it pays to be someone’s muse?”
“I’ll say.”
Fleece has chosen a daring green dress with a skirt that splits nearly to her hip, and sleeves that drape gracefully off her shoulders. She looks magical. I’m about to tell her so when May pops her head in. “Your car is here, ladies.”
“We have a car?”
“Of course,” she says. “We can’t have you showing up in Mr. Xellum’s designs walking from the subway or in a yellow cab.”
