“Duality.” It’s a concept that’s been played on again and again since the dawn of art, but I have the perfect model.
She has the beauty and confidence of a woman, but what she has between her legs puts her above all the rest. And I adore her for it.
I need to make Jean all mine, but there’s just one problem: she’s my wife’s daughter. I shouldn’t feel the way I do about her, but I do.
And by the time this photo shoot is over, she is going to do more than just pose for me.
This is my chance to be something more than just a fashion model. This could be art.
But can I really pose nude if I’ll be photographed by Otto? His glance alone drives me crazy.
The thought of taking direction from him, being completely at his mercy, blindfolded, with my hands tied…
It makes a certain part of me feel like it’s ready to burst.
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“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” I say, “but I think you would be ideal for this project. For obvious reasons.”
I take another sip of the whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass as I set the glass back down on the end table. Condensation drips down its side, and if I were a different man, I would say it was like sweat down my forehead. But I am not that kind of man. I can’t be if I’m going to ask Jean to do this for me. She sits in the lounge chair, raising a glass of water to her own lips as she thinks. Her legs are crossed, twin streams of fresh cream and just as sweet.
“Forget ‘uncomfortable,'” she says, picking at an invisible spot on her flawless knee only she can see. “If I have to squeeze into another wannabe designer’s hack job dress, it’ll be too soon. I’ve been looking for a gig like this forever. It’s funny that it’s coming from you.”
She tilts her chin down and raises an eyebrow, the ghost of mischief hinted in her smirk. It is a look of flirtation, but it is one that she can default to. A side effect of making a career out of getting dolled up and looking as desirable as can be for the camera lens.
“Are you sure you’re worried about my level of comfort, ‘dad’?” she asks with a giggle. “How comfortable were those nude models you shot in the snow? Or the guy in that blindfold project? You know, if it were any other man, people would raise their eyebrows if they heard he was photographing his stepdaughter in the nude. It must be liberating to be the infamous Otto Bray.”
“Nowhere near as liberating as it must be to be Jean ‘Wilder,’ the tabloids’ favorite model.” I take a breath and let it go. She is trying to get a rise out of me, and I am not going to bite. I’ve always known the type. Artistes who thought they knew everything about composition and the fragile poetry of light just because they had been shot by a few big names in the industry. It’s an argument I’ve had with Jean herself a few times in the past. Who is the one who holds the paintbrush? The model or the photographer? But I’ve barely had even one full glass of liquor tonight so I steer clear of that road. I continue.
“Good and evil. Hot and cold. Day and night, yin and yang, male and female–you see examples of duality everywhere you look. I can’t name one other theme that’s cropped up more in every piece of man-made media between film and dusty comic books. There’s that old saying. ‘Opposites attract.’ It’s a natural thing to question where you are between black and white. Where am I on the spectrum of good and evil? Where are my beliefs? How do I fit into the grand, cosmic scheme of things? That’s where you come in.”
I pause to reach for my glass, and I find Jean gazing at me with the kind of admiration you reserve for your favorite professor. Her lips are parted in fascination and her body draws toward me like iron to a magnet. She seems so susceptible to instruction in this moment. So vulnerable to corruption…
I am suddenly aware of the heat, even in our dim, sunset-filled living room. I am suddenly aware of the loose shirt Jean is wearing. Her legs rub against each other, and the sound of her flesh grinding against her own flesh is like an autumn fire. Does she know what I see when I look at her? Can she hear the thirst in my voice when I speak to her? Maybe. But I do not break. I am calm and collected, even sitting before this vision in front of me.
“You’re the perfect model for this project,” I say. “You are both man and woman, and as a result are someone who transcends both genders. When I look at you, I can see the two sides of the same coin at once. Love and war. Mars and Venus. Power. Submission. I want to capture that. The other photographers you’ve shot with have only seen your outer appearance. All of your potential, wasted on flared jeans and denim jackets. Listen, I’m having a gallery show next week and I’m making this an addition. It’s last minute, and I know that, but you… inspire me.”
That was close. For a moment I think she noticed my hesitation, but whether it’s her lack of care or her ego that blinds her to it, her face breaks out into a smile. She uncrosses her legs, the black nail polish on her fingers and toes like dark orbs floating in the darkness, and strides to my chair. I don’t know if she’s going to slap me or kiss me. The horny, all-too-male side of my brain hopes it’s the second one.
“Don’t knock the denim jackets, old man.” She holds her hand out. “But when you put it that way, I’m your girl.”
I allow myself a smile as I get up and take her hand in mine. But we don’t exactly shake. At least, it doesn’t seem that way to me. Instead, we feel how we fit in one another’s hands. The subtle grooves and lines crossing each other and creating a friction that only makes me hotter. Such a simple thing, a handshake, but how sensual it can be under the right circumstances. Or it might just be my whiskey-buzzed brain sending all of the wrong signals down the nerve that leads to my cock.
“We’ll start work tomorrow,” I say, towering over her petite frame. “First thing in the morning. You won’t regret it.”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times, like she is having trouble finding what to say before settling. She lets go of my hand and gives my beard a friendly (too friendly?) scratch.
“I know I won’t. Good night, Otto.”
What the hell did I agree to last night? And why am I so nervous now, as I step into Otto’s studio?
This is what I do for a living. I get put on an outfit (or take off the one I brought) and then I remind the camera why it loves me. True, I romanticize the job from time to time, but it’s still my job. Day in, day out, nothing special. So why do I feel like my first day being a model?
My stepfather’s studio is a room in the backyard, separate from the rest of our house. I used to refer to it as The Greenhouse. The walls were all floor-to-ceiling windows, no panes, able to take advantage of natural light when it was needed and plenty of curtains if it wasn’t. The glass ceiling itself could be covered at the whim of our master photographer. The Greenhouse was a little bubble that shut out the rest of the world, the wind, the rain, a 3-dimensional picture that Otto could afford. Today, the curtains surrounding me are a deep purple, and my scene partner, a proud, dull-red wingback recliner, is centered on the floor.
I have on nothing but a robe as he fiddles with his camera. I am proud of the way my body looks. I’m strong like a dancer, tight like a hairpin turn, and graceful like the tornado. I look nice, goddammit. But what will Otto’s camera lens see? What will his steely eyes, set beneath his salt-and-pepper hair, find in me? I can ask as many rhetorical questions as I want, but the truth of it was I was too willing to say yes. Too ready to bare myself in front of him.
“Are you alright, Jean?” he asks, looking at me through the camera. His eye is the lens, and I almost feel better. “You look like you have something on your mind. It’s not too late to back out.”
He reads me like a book and he has the gall to ask me to turn tail now. He knows as well as I do that I never go back on my word.
“Funniest joke you’ve ever told, Otto.” I gulp, a physical reflex that betrays me, as I drop the robe to the floor. It tickles my nipples and kisses my mushroom tip on the way down.
He stares at–admires?–me for a moment, his brow furrowed. There really is no going back now. Every inch of me is exposed. I’m sure he must have seen my work in the past. How could he not, in this business? But it’s a stark difference in the here and now. His discerning eye dissects me like some kind of animal, and maybe that’s the best comparison. If we were wolves, then he would be the alpha of the pack, trying to decide whether to send me away or rip into me. I like it. My mother would kill me if she ever heard me say that, but God rest her soul, I like it.
His gaze travels from my neck, to my breasts, to my cock. Yes, the main star of this show, in the flesh and hanging low. I shaved this morning. I’m so smooth, rain wouldn’t stick to me. I turn my body and I can feel myself swinging into my thigh. It’s a nice, reassuring feeling. I’m still 100% percent here.
“So are you doing alright yourself?” I ask. If he wasn’t going to put the ball back in my court, then I would take it. I reach down and give my member a playful yank. “You act like you’ve never seen a dick before.”
“We’re just a family of comedians, aren’t we?” he says as he resumes his place behind the camera. His face is hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s bored or merely acting bored. If Otto ever became bored of photography, then he should consider entering show business.
He points to the recliner, looking at me through the lens again. As if he wanted to distance himself from the reality of what was happening. Or because he’s a photographer and this is his fucking job. I’m starting to think I over-think things.
“Sit in the chair. Let’s start with something strong. I want you to think high status. Royalty. Ownership.”
I kick my robe away and somewhere deep inside me, the little woman flicks on the switch that makes me feel at home in front of the camera. I sit on the chair, my legs wide, and I raise a foot up onto the seat. I lean back, my body a straight line from my chest to the tip of my cock. The soft caress of the fabric on my underside stirs me to somewhere between half and full. The line grows, so to speak.
The camera takes one, two, several pictures. I play with the pose, spreading my legs further, raising my arms over my head, and biting my lip. It feels like an act. I knew who was really in charge here.
“Let’s try something different,” he says, his voice a notch quieter than it was. As if he read my mind, he says, “Show me vulnerable.”
I clear my throat. “I think I’m already pretty fucking vulnerable, chief.”
He frowns at me. “Are you going to joke about this all day? I thought you were serious about this?”
My shame burns red on my cheeks and without another word I slink into the next pose. I curl into a ball on the wingback. The feeling of the chair on my bare skin is ecstasy but I shrink out of a very real shame.
“Good,” he says, “that’s really good. Keep going. Don’t give me scared. You’re at the mercy of something stronger than you.”
I turn away from him, the camera clicking away, until my back faces him. I get halfway up and place my hands on the back of the chair, my legs slightly spread. I look back, a look on my face that accepted punishment. I try to fight myself limp, but… well, it’s hard.
Otto’s picture-taking becomes less of a frenzy. He times the shots, waits for the right moments. The perfect pout, the perfect angle. The next time he speaks, his voice is even softer.
“Now give me both. Strength and weakness.”
At first, I freeze. My body doesn’t know how to take that direction. But I want to please him. More than I have for any other photographer I’ve worked with. And I see the picture in my mind.
I bend over a little bit more. I’m still on the seat, but my knees are on the edge and my breasts are arched against the back of the recliner. The tighter the muscles in my back get, my cock responds harder. I reach down and stroke myself, running my fingers along the engorged veins with the loosest definition of a grip. My tip rubs against the chair and the shock of pleasure makes me scrunch my toes. The camera is going off like a madman, and every click captures me in the progression to an orgasmic state. I moan, losing myself to my own play and wonder.
The camera stops. I don’t know if it’s Otto or me that’s heavily breathing.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he says, suddenly.
“Good job. I’ll see you for dinner.”
He rushes out of the studio, his camera in hand, and I’m alone in the greenhouse.
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