by Ash, Ingrid
“You can leave us now, Ronald. Take the rest of the day off.”
Ronald looks slightly nervous when he says that. He looks at me like he wants to say something more, but ultimately suppresses the urge. “Alright, sir. I will see you in the morning,” he says in a defeated tone, which throws me for a loop.
He exits the room and I hear the front door close just seconds later, leaving me alone in the penthouse with Mr. Cartwright. A man who's face I've yet to see at this point.
“Sit down, Tamara,” he instructs me. I hesitate, realizing there's still time to blow this joint with minimum embarrassment. Why did his butler make that face when he announced he wanted to be alone with me? Do I really want to blow off a potential opportunity on a hunch? I apprehensively take a seat in a chair in front of his desk, but I stay on high alert.
He finally puts down his newspaper and our eyes connect. Like an idiot, I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out—I'm far too taken by his pale green eyes. They're soft in color, but behind them laid a twinkle of something more devious.
He's surprisingly young. Older than me, perhaps in his early thirties or late twenties. My eyes study his sculpted jaw, his kissable lips and the broad shoulders that his suit hugs just right. His hair is parted and pushed mainly to one side, and is a dark bronze hue that catches the light. He could be a model himself—maybe he was at one time? He has that perfect mix of rugged and refined handsomeness that I can't help but fall for.
I almost don't notice that he's studying me as well; closely and intensely.
Kicking his legs off the desk, he stands up from his chair and saunters around to the front, perching himself off it's edge. He looks down at me, and I see his bottom lip get lost between his teeth as his eyes trail down my neck to my chest.
Shit, my clothes.
Actually, I don't think he's exactly looking at my clothes...
“My apologies, I'm being rude,” he says, “I'm Mr. Cartwright,” he introduces himself, extending his hand to me.
“Tamara,” I stammer nervously as I take his hand. My breath hitches at the electricity in our touch.
He chuckles. “Yes, I know. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Fuck. How am I supposed to tell this man in a designer suit, who lives in a freaking penthouse that I'm homeless, my mother tried to sell me for crack, and I only own one outfit because some other homeless bitch stole all my clothes?
Wait, why am I panicking? I'm an excellent bullshitter, after all.
“I, um, well I'm 20 years old. I'm 5'8”,” I lie again, “and I don't really have any experience modeling yet but I usually pick things up quickly. And I practice posing a lot in the mirror. And I really, really want this.”
He folds his arms in front of him. “I know all of that, Veronica told me.”
I cringe and wonder what else Veronica told him about me...
“I want to know about you. Something personal. Something about your life.”
Well that's what I'm trying to avoid...
“What do you like? What do you hate,” he leans in and his voice grows darker. “What scares you?”
My body stiffens at his tone. “I, well. I grew up in foster care,” I admit. Hey, the sympathy card works sometimes. “And I've been working to support myself on my own since I turned 18.”
The sympathy card doesn't seem to work too well with him – his face doesn't change.
“Go on.”
“I like...” I'm not even sure what I like. Hell, I never had time to think about hobbies or recreational activities – I was too busy trying to figure out where my next meal would come from. But I can make up something. “Animals. And art. I've always been fascinated by history.” Not a total lie.
He nods, slowly, his eyes traveling up and down me once again. “And your fears?”
Where do I start? I have far too many of them. “Um, well, being alone forever,” I say, and that's totally true.
He blinks as he listens to me intently. He watches me for a moment with his hand in his chin. “Anything else?” He asks in an almost whisper, his voice is low and growling, and it rattles me.
“Um...control. I mean, not having it. That's what scares me.”
A smile slowly crawls across his face. “Perfect,” he says. “Come with me.”
I didn't know what that meant, but I followed him out of the room, down the hall past a few doors and into another room. He flipped the light switch on and I see that it's a closet, an extremely large closet, that was probably originally a bedroom or an office.
“I'm going to need to take more photos of you. I'm sure you can find something nice to wear in here. And when you're ready, just go to the end of the hall, and to your left. I'll be waiting for you there.”
He exits the room as I move further into it. The walls are lined with shelves and racks full of all types of clothes, shoes, and handbags. In the middle there's a small armoire with a mirror and jewelry on top, and several drawers lining the outside bottom. I curiously open one— it's full of bra's, but not plain ones like the one I'm wearing. Beautiful intricate lace bra's and bustiers, some with bows and others without, in every cut and color imaginable.
And then I look directly in front of me, into the bathroom. There's a mirror there and I'm horrified at how my hair and make up looks. I rush into the bathroom and immediately splash water on to my face, dabbing it dry with a soft towel. I look around and I'm thankful to find soaps, lotions, even toothpaste – all the things I need to freshen up.
I emerge a handful of minutes later, knowing that he's waiting for me. There are too many clothing options, and beautiful ones at that, to consider. But I eventually settle on a gown. It's black and lacy, with one should strap and tulle coming out of the bottom. I change into a lacy bustier and matching thong, both in my size, that I find in boudoir.
With a pump of perfume and bit of eyeliner I eye myself in the mirror. It's the first time I've felt sexy in quite a while.
I exit the room and make my way down the hall. On the right side I pass a large metal door that looks totally different from every other door in the penthouse. I eye it curiously, and place my hand on the knob to find that it's locked.
“I'm in here, Tamara,” I hear him call out and I jump, rushing into the back room.
This room is almost empty except for a large photography backdrop, a few chairs, his camera, and a desk on the other side with a computer.
I notice him trying to hide a smile as he looks me over.
“Go ahead and stand on the marker. Let me adjust the lighting and then we'll get started.”
I take my place in front of the backdrop, smoothing out my dress nervously as he tests and adjusts the bright lights around me, before stepping back behind the camera.
“Alright. Go ahead and pose.”
I stand there like a deer in headlights. I have no idea what to do, but I know I better do something fast before I blow this opportunity.
“Relax,” he says, “and just do what comes naturally.”
I take a deep breath and place my hands on my hips. I look down and then back up directly into the camera, a little tip I picked up years ago on an episode of Top Model. He snaps the first photo and I see the side of his mouth curl up into a small smile from behind the camera. He's pleased.
“Wonderful,” he mouths, and that gives me the confidence to go forward.
“How did you get so good at photography?” I ask him.
“I wanted to be a photographer. Used to play around with it when I was a kid. But my father wouldn't allow it. You know, rich boy problems.”
No, I wouldn't relate.
I continue to pose for about the next 15 minutes until he stops.
“Alright, let's change things up a little. Maybe try something a bit more ...revealing this time.”
I nod in agreement, but I can't deny that it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.
I return to the closet and find a sexy, low cut romper. Perfect.
&nbs
p; When I return to the room he says nothing and just takes me in with his eyes. I assume this means that he's once again, pleased.
He stops and strokes his chin for moment. “No, this needs something,” he says and he moves to a drawer on the desk and pulls out something shiny. He rushes across the paper and stands close behind me – so close that it makes me shiver. His hand brushes my neck and is replaced with something cold and metallic to the touch. With a click he fastens the clasp of the necklace around my neck. I look down and it's a large collar covered with – diamonds? Are these real?
He resumes his place behind the camera and smiles. “Perfect.”
I begin to pose again and he coaches me more. He turns on music to help me get into it. “Turn around,” he instructs me. “Make it sexier.” I think he might be enjoying this too much.
He stops again and sits back in his chair.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask nervously.
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I just...I want to see more. More of you.”
My hand grips the seam of my play-suit.
“You should take that off,” he requests, and I freeze.
“I... I'm not wearing anything under this.” I say nervously, “Just my bra and underwear.”
“Exactly.”
I know I should get out of here quick, but there's something about Mr. Cartwright. I can't even pretend it's just about the modeling now because it's not. There's something commanding about his presence, and when he says to do something, I want to do it. I have to.
My hand shake as I unzip the side of the play-suit and remove the fabric from over my shoulders, letting it drop to the ground beneath me. His eyes travel over my barely clothed breasts and down to my barely there thong – why exactly did I choose a thong?
“Good,” he says with a nod. “Pose for me, Tamara.”
This is a bad idea and I know it. If these pictures ended up on the internet, I could kiss any hope of ever getting a job goodbye. But I can't help it – something about Mr. Cartwright makes me want to do very bad things, and I soon find myself moving sexily for him.
His mouth curves into a crooked half smile again.
“Remove the bustier.”
Did he? He did.
“What?” I blurt out.
He stops shooting and looks up at me from over top of the camera. “Did you not understand something I said.”
“But I...do I really need to take it off. I'm not really comf--”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because I asked you to,” he says with wicked eyes.
I reach around my back and unclasp my bra, letting it fall off my shoulders and on to the ground beside me. I stand there awkwardly with my arms over my chest.
“I want to see your beautiful body, Tamara,”
I swallow the lump in my throat as I relax my arms against my side, baring my half naked body for him.
He watches me intensely for a moment. Out of nowhere he pulls his chair across the room and on to backdrop. He removes his jacket and takes a seat directly in front of me.
“Come,” he says, beckoning me with his finger. I back away from him. “No, this way,” he says as he reaches out for my wrist, pulling me towards him. Before I can say anything his arm wraps around my back and he pulls me down onto his lap. I'm straddling him now, and I'm oh so close to him. I can feel his erection underneath my thigh and his hand gropes my ass.
I shouldn't be turned on, but I am.
He pulls me even closer into him – he smells like an intoxicating mix of leather and citrus and sandlewood, all things masculine. His eyes pierce mine and my lips part slightly. He takes full advantage of this, capturing my mouth with his.
I don't even know this man but I'm letting his tongue explore my mouth. And I want more.
He breaks the kiss.
“I have to admit, Tamara, you aren't quite right for my agency,” he tells me bluntly.
His words crush me. I've been hurt on a pretty regular basis during my fairly short life, but this stung. Sitting upon his lap, I can't help but feel used and degraded—embarrassed that I was naive enough to think this man brought me up here because he saw potential in me.
He would move, but he's holding me far too tightly against him.
“Because,” he continues, as his eyes travel down my cleavage. “I'd rather use you for...other purposes.”
His wicked green eyes lock with mine again and I'm speechless as he brings his face closer to my chest. His eyes close as he kisses right above my cleavage, his face soon becoming lost in the valley between my breasts and I feel his tongue flicker against the soft tissue.
His hand travels from my waist to my breast as he massages it and runs his fingers over my erect nipples.
I breathe out and arch my back against him, my hands tangled in his own locks. I haven't been touched in such a long time. Hell, I haven't been touched like this ever.
His tongue travels to my other breast and circles my nipple before taking it lightly between his teeth. Soft lips run over it as he flicks the tip with his tongue, and I clench.
I should stop him. I should stop myself. I only met this man about an hour ago and now I'm nearly naked with my body wrapped around him, but he's already almost driving me to ecstasy and I just can't stop.
But then he does.
He sits back in the chair and my hands come to a rest on his well muscled chest. My core is quivering and aching for him, but he just watches me. He looks pleased, too pleased. A wave of humiliation creeps over me once again.
“Get up,” he commands me, and like always, I do it without hesitation. Why is that?
He stands up and violently kicks the chair back behind him. He's a few feet away from me now and his eyes lock with mine again. “Remove your panties,” he tells me, and it's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever heard.
My thumbs rush to hook the sides of black lace thong I'm wearing—I rip them off and let them fall behind me. And now I'm wearing nothing but jewels and stiletto’s, completely naked before him.
He looks at me like he wants to taste every inch of me, and I kinda want to do the same to him too.
“Get on the ground.”
I sit, and the lie back fully, my ass and back touching the cold backdrop paper. He comes and stands over me, placing his feet in between mine. His hands slide up his sides and to his belt – I watch with anticipation as his fingers unlock the buckle.
“Open your legs,” he instructs me, and I spread them wide. “Wider,” he says as he taps his designer shoe against the inside of my shin, and I open them as wide as I can. My pussy is slick and fully exposed – it's awkward, but I just want him now.
Lying below him he flashes a wicked smile at me once again, like he wants to posses me. He slowly slides his belt out of the loop, letting it fall behind him. He unbuttons his white shirt, revealing his taut and toned chest. I bite my lip hard.
The shirt falls behind him, obscuring his belt and his pants soon follow. He crouches down at my feet, removing my heels and taking one foot in his hand. He runs his thumb down it's sole— it feels strangely erotic.
His hot tongue follows the trail that his finger made, and then slides in between my toes. I don't understand how this feels so good, but I can't help but slide my own hand between my legs, feeling the moisture between my slit.
“Not yet,” he says with bravado as he removes my hand. It's torture— beautiful torture.
He kneels between my open legs and removes his boxers. His cock is long, thick and wet. I grip the paper with my hands, wanting to touch it, wanting to taste it.
His head comes diving between my legs, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin of my inner thigh. My breathing deepens when I feel his warm breath against my core. His tongue teases my hole before sliding inside of me. I moan and my hands grab his hair roughly as he explores my depths with his mouth. He continues to writhe inside of me and I can't take much more of this— my sex becomes hotter, and wet
ter, until it gushes, leaving me panting and aching for more.
I feel his hands on my stomach and trailing up to my breast again. His face replaces them and licks my belly button, kissing up my body between my breasts, over my chest, and landing in the nape of my neck.
His lips tickle my ear and he says, “I want your legs around me.”
He rests his hips on top of mine and I bring my l hook my leg over his back. He gropes my thigh, roughly bring it up higher around his waist. The skin of my neck is taken in between his lips, his tongue darting out and swirling against it, tasting it. My legs tighten around him.
He brings his head up and places his forehead against mine. I lock eyes with him as he reaches between us to position himself at my entrance. His lips brush against mine and I feel his cock jump against me, right before he pushes the tip into me. I let out a loud whimper and grip the back of his neck tighter.
He holds on tightly to my thigh as he slides is full length inside. His chest rises and falls against mine as he rocks his hips against mine with a steady motion. Lifting his body off of mine, he grabs my wrists and pins them against the paper. My pussy tightens around him as he thrust harder against me, and my eyes roll back into my head. One thing is certain—this white boy knows how to work his shit.
I feel the sensation of my orgasm build up inside me, and then abruptly he stops and pulls out. Fuck! No.
He grabs my hips and flips me over on to my hands and knees, opening my legs around him and pulling my ass hard against his skin. He grips my hips tightly as I feel his cock fill me again, moaning as slides inside. He fucks me hard, thrusting into me and pulling my hips back against him— I can barely keep up. I hear him groan sexily and feel his orgasm, and then he releases into me. And my release follows.
We both fall on our sides, panting and attempting to catch our breath. His hand snakes around my waist and he pulls me against his chest.
Placing a kiss against his neck he says, “You pass.”
I turn to look at him out of confusion and he grins at me, cryptically, as he removes his body from mine to retrieve his clothes, leaving me naked and alone on the paper.