Delivering the Virgin: A Romance Novella

by Cassandra Dee

  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 thought 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 photos, 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.

  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 res
earched 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.