Delivering the Virgin: A Romance Novella

by Cassandra Dee

  “Fine Mom, I will,” I said shortly, ending the conversation. But my mind had already turned to other things because right now, I just needed money. I’d been living on Jake’s largesse for the past couple months, reveling in a luxurious lifestyle and clearly that was over. But I couldn’t bear going back to being a penniless grad student either, so I began calling around.

  I’d seen an ad in the student paper for a modeling gig a few days back, and I knew I was photogenic. Maybe I’d check that out, it’d beat being a teaching assistant or some waitress job for sure.

  “Hi, I’m inquiring about the modeling job I saw in Craigslist,” I dialed the number. “The one where the girls promote a premium craft beer?”

  “Oh right,” said the disembodied voice on the other end. “Are you five two and Latina?”

  “Not exactly,” I said slowly. “I’m blonde and five nine.”

  “Then no can-do,” said the voice. “Premia Modela is geared to the Latino market, we’re only looking for girls with spice.”

  Um, okay, they could have said that in the ad. But if the WASP look wasn’t what you were looking for, then fine, I’d move on. After a couple more calls, I finally got a bite.

  “Hi, I’m calling about the modeling ad in the paper,” I said in a clipped voice, my temper short. “The one that pays two hundred per hour,” I said emphatically.

  This whole process had been far more annoying than I thought. You’d think that being blonde and hot would open plenty of doors, but that hadn’t been the case with these gigs so far.

  “Oh right,” said the silky voice in response. “And may I ask your cup size please?”

  Cup size? They asked this stuff straight off the bat? But I had nothing to hide.

  “Double Ds,” I said shortly. “Not natural.” I really wasn’t holding back on the nastiness.

  “And height and weight?” she positively purred.

  “Five nine and one twenty,” I snapped. “Listen, should I come in or what? You’re not going to get anywhere with stats, I could be a wretched hag for all you know.”

  The voice wasn’t perturbed by my rude behavior. “Of course, honey,” the woman said sweetly. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow at 11 a.m.? It’s 243 Divisadero Street. Bring two bikinis,” she added. “One in black and one in red.”

  “Wait, I didn’t know I had to provide the clothes,” I shot back, but it was too late. The woman had hung up and I was stuck going to the mall later today. WTF? I thought models sold outfits, not supplied them. But it was too late now, and two hundred dollars per hour was cash that I desperately needed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jenna

  I showed up at Divisadero Street, looking around dumbfounded. There were only warehouses here, nothing to indicate a professional photography studio or anything artistic. Instead, it was clearly an industrial area, everything grey, from the sky to the asphalt, the faceless buildings grimy and dirty. Oh god.

  I found the bell to number 243 and rang the buzzer, the electric squawk making me jump. Chilled, I rubbed my arms, hunching my shoulders against the cold San Francisco wind.

  After a pause, after which I can only assume I was surveyed by the camera in the corner, the door clicked and I was able to shoulder the steel-reinforced door open. There was a steep, narrow staircase going upwards and I tiredly hoisted my bag over my shoulder, trudging upstairs.

  The truth is I’ve been studying out of boredom and necessity. I’d been cribbing off of Tina before and obviously, that wasn’t an option anymore given our contentious relationship. Plus the girls I’d always thought of my “friends” at law school were curiously dismissive.

  “Oh yeah, your bridal shower, I’m so sorry to hear about that,” said Courtney from my contract law class. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Well, I’d love to be taken out to dinner,” I’d hinted. “It’d mean a lot to me.” I’d just been publicly shamed with the break-up of my engagement, and I was hoping some girls would band together and take me out, make me feel like a princess.

  But Courtney was curiously evasive.

  “I’m sorry Jenna, I’m just so busy,” she said. “Henry’s got exams too, we’re both trying to cram before things really get hectic.”

  That made no sense to me. She’d had time to come to my bridal shower but had no time for a regular dinner? Plus she hated Henry, she was always begging me to set her up with one of Jake’s millionaire friends.

  But I guess once I didn’t have the Jake connection, Courtney’s hopes of marrying rich had gone up in flames and she saw no reason to invest in our friendship anymore. She’d hemmed and hawed some more and I’d let it go because there was nothing else to be said. She clearly wasn’t interested in hanging out unless I had a hook-up to wealthy dudes.

  Sadly, that’s how it was with a lot of my so-called friends. They disappeared like smoke once my broken engagement became widely known, giving the most random excuses and not returning calls.

  And so I ended up studying instead, making the most of my time alone. I could have gone on the prowl immediately, started looking for another man, but my reputation was already damaged enough. It’s not every day your sister steals your billionaire fiancé out from under your nose, and even I recognized that a break was needed to let the drama dispel before I started up hot and heavy with a new guy.

  But studying doesn’t pay money and so here I was, lugging my bag to this modeling gig or whatever it was. Given the dingy surroundings, things didn’t bode well.

  Finally at the top of the stairs was another steel-reinforced door, this one just as heavy and imposing. However, as soon as I reached to knock I heard the lock click open, surveillance cameras whirring towards me once again.

  I pushed open the massive steel and was greeted by a wave of warmth. Thank god, it was chilly and I was shivering, so the humid heat was a welcome respite. There were blinding lights and I put up a hand to shield my face. Holy shit, those were Krieg lights blasting a bright, white glare onto everything on the stark floor space.

  And inside, multiple cars were parked, how they’d gotten them up onto the second level, I have no idea. Lambos, Ferraris, Maseratis, you name them, they were all there. The staff was there too … photographers, assistants, make-up people, and … costumers, if you could call them that.

  Because the models were barely dressed, some altogether nude except for stripper heels. They sprawled across the vehicles, posing provocatively, and there was even one redhead straddling the door to a fire-red sports car, grinding against it, letting her bare pussy do the talking as she moaned for the crew, cameras flashing.

  Was that moisture I saw on the leather? Sure enough, the redhead was turned on, her pussy spilling its wet secrets onto the pebbled material.

  Holy cow … did they expect this of me too?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jenna

  “You must be Jenna,” purred a melodious female voice. “I’m Deborah.” I turned, more in shock than anything else. A middle-aged brunette strode confidently towards me, perfectly groomed in an elegant but sexy black suit, her hair swept up into a chignon. She was fully dressed, thank god.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I stammered, looking down at my feet. It was unlike me to be shy, but then again I’m not confronted with rampant nudity all the time.

  The woman chuckled throatily at my obvious discomfort.

  “You’re beautiful honey, you’ll fit right in,” she said soothingly. With a more critical eye, she added, “Hmmm, tall, slim, big boobs, long blonde hair … just the ticket. Patrick!” she called off in the distance, “come take a look at the goods.”

  I bridled a bit. The goods? I was a woman, not some inanimate object, but I checked myself. You know what? I was an aspiring model, “the product” so to say, out to make money off of my looks and my body, getting paid cold hard cash to sell cars. I could do this.

  A curly-haired guy ambled over, rail-thin, scruffy looking in raggedy clothes.

  “Thi
s it?” he said, giving me the once over casually.

  “Yeah, this is our new girl,” purred Deborah. “Isn’t she delicious?”

  I shot Deborah a suspicious look. No way was I interested in anything lesbian and this woman was giving me weird vibes.

  But she just laughed again throatily and said, “Patrick is our wardrobe assistant. He’ll be helping you with your outfits, making sure they fit right, alterations and all that good stuff. You brought the bikinis? Black and red? Oh good, you’ll match the Lambo over there.”

  I turned and saw the sexiest car I’d ever seen. Gleaming red paint, so low-slung the chassis almost hit the floor. The tires were oversized and the car was fitted with a double-valve exhaust and three-inch spoiler. I was in love.

  Both Deborah and Patrick laughed to see me gawking over an inanimate object, my lust obvious.

  “You’ll be a good model if you can emote that in front of the camera,” advised Patrick. “Let’s head over to the dressing area and take a look at what you’ve brought.”

  I followed him to an area of the floor that had a canvas modesty curtain draped over a small corner space. Pulling open my bag, I took out the black and red bikinis, the scraps of fabric nothing but the tiniest band-aids. They’d cover next to nothing.

  But Patrick looked them over thoughtfully.

  “Put on the red one,” he said, fingering the glimmery fabric in his hands slowly. “It’ll look great under the lights. Plus, it’s smaller,” he said with an odd expression.

  Hmm, my spidey sense was going off but I did as he told. I slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the bikini, making sure to double-knot the strings behind my neck and at my hips. Don’t want to lose control of those babies! I slipped my feet into four-inch heels Patrick had handed me and slipped out from behind the curtain.

  “This way!” called a strange man with a camera draped around his neck. He gestured to the Lamborghini. God, that car was calling my name and I almost tripped over myself, rushing to the gleaming metal.

  Drawing on my inner siren, I posed against the door seductively, leaning forward provocatively so that the inner swells of my breasts thrust forward, the creaminess delicious and beckoning.

  “Fantastic!” growled the photographer. He was a paunchy, middle-aged dude, wearing a beret like a serious artiste, and gestured for a lighting guy to come closer, holding a silver reflective surface strategically so that it hit my curves.

  I could tell that I looked good, the refracted light gleaming off of my golden skin, and I went with it. I struck a couple of poses, swaying my hips, pushing my butt out, making sure my rear-end was a shelf of goodness, the curves lush and firm at once.

  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.