Dirty Shots
Page 1
Dirty Shots
Marissa Farrar
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One | Eric
Chapter Two | Eric
Chapter Three | Anya
Chapter Four | Eric
Chapter Five | Anya
Chapter Six | Eric
Chapter Seven | Anya
Chapter Eight | Anya
Chapter Nine | Anya
Chapter Ten | Eric
Chapter Eleven | Eric
Chapter Twelve | Anya
Chapter Thirteen | Eric
Chapter Fourteen | Anya
Chapter Fifteen | Anya
Chapter Sixteen | Anya
Chapter Seventeen | Eric
Chapter Eighteen | Eric
Chapter Nineteen | Eric
Chapter Twenty | Anya
Chapter Twenty-one | Anya
Chapter Twenty-two | Anya
Chapter Twenty-three | Eric
Chapter Twenty-four | Anya
Chapter Twenty-five | Anya
Chapter Twenty-six | Eric
Chapter Twenty-seven | Anya
Chapter Twenty-eight | Anya
Chapter Twenty-nine | Eric
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Further Reading: Defaced (A Dark Romance Novel)
Also By Marissa Farrar
Chapter One
Eric
‘Female Model Wanted for Photo Shoot.’
Eric Rutherford stared at the folded newspaper on his desk, and the advertisement contained within the small printed box. He didn’t need to read any further to know what the ad said—after all, he’d been the one who’d written it—but he continued nevertheless.
“Some alternative modeling expected,” he read. “Pay dependent on applicant’s experience.”
It sounded vague enough to generate interest for what he wanted, and he already had a surprisingly large volume of applicants lined up for interviews that day. He guessed the financial climate had something to go with it—people needed to bring in a little extra money. He’d scheduled their interviews thirty minutes apart, and the first interviewee would be arriving soon. He was anxious as to the type of women he’d meet today. In his heart, he felt he’d know the right one as soon as he saw her, but there was always a chance she wouldn’t make an appearance and he’d have to start from scratch. That was the last thing he wanted. He was working under the idea that once the right woman saw him, she’d feel less inclined to run away. He knew he didn’t look like a pervert—or a photographer either, for that matter—more like a young, successful investment banker on his day off. His clean-cut style, six-feet frame, shock of dark hair, and deep brown eyes normally captured a woman’s attention.
Eric chewed at a snag on his fingernail and stared over the top of his computer to look through the windows which stretched across the length of his apartment. It was one of the things he’d initially loved about this place—the amount of light. After moving in, he’d found the view of Lower East Side of Lower Manhattan’s busy cafés and even busier night life to be a great distraction when he needed it.
Having been published in numerous art journals across the world and his work displayed in multiple galleries right here in New York, Eric could use his name to find a model, but he didn’t want someone coming in expecting him to be the Eric Rutherford he portrayed to the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it would only take a few keywords plugged into Google to learn of his success, but that success was based on his portrait work, mainly consisting of older people and children. They wouldn’t find anything linking his name to the sort of work he desired so greatly to produce.
How could he explain what he wanted without looking like a pervert or a weirdo? He was simply a man who had an eye for the female form, for the perfect way light curved off a hip or breast. He wanted to photograph the dip of a woman’s stomach and the shadows cast as she spread her legs before him.
Yes, it was about sex. But it wasn’t about having sex. He wanted his photographs to inspire people to grab their partners and appreciate the beauty of each other’s bodies.
Creating this art meant everything to him. He hoped to find a woman willing to trust him enough to model with a few accessories. He wanted to bind rope across her breasts, tight enough that the coarse fibers left an imprint on her skin. He wanted to have her on her knees, with her hands handcuffed to her ankles. He wanted to whip a rounded pale bottom with a leather flogger, and then photograph the red stripes left on her skin. There was something about the purity of these marks and how exposed and vulnerable they left a person that he found beautiful.
Eric sighed. The chances of ever finding a woman keen to do that stuff seemed near impossible. In the past, he’d tried to persuade a couple of girlfriends to pose for him, but they either didn’t want to go much beyond a little light spanking in the bedroom, or didn’t like the idea of being photographed. The last thing he ever wanted was to create art a woman wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with. He wanted the model to enjoy the experience as much as he would.
The intercom buzzed and he bit down on his nerves and allowed the first woman up to his loft-style apartment.
It turned out he’d overcompensated with the thirty minute slot. The first woman had been keen, but too old for his liking. The next had blushed up to her bleached-blonde roots the moment he’d mentioned the possibility of photographing her tied up and had beat a quick exit. The next was a professional glamour model with fake tits and a portfolio, not the type of woman he was looking for at all.
Lunchtime arrived and Eric had a break for an hour. He fixed himself coffee and a sandwich, then sat back, his feet rested on the desk in front of him. He had a feeling his fears were coming true. The right woman wouldn’t be gracing his doorstep today.
A knock at the door made him sit up straight, his feet jerking from his desk and almost spilling his coffee. People didn’t normally knock—they used the buzzer on the intercom.
The knock came again, tentative this time.
“One minute,” he called.
Standing, he smoothed down the black slacks and dress shirt he always wore, then went to the door and swung it open. A slim blonde stood before him. Her blue eyes were huge in her petite face and they traveled up and down his body before lighting with a shy smile.
“Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you. Someone else in the building let me in ...” She trailed off, uncertain. “I’m early, I know. Sorry. I should come back later.”
The young woman began to turn away, but Eric reached out and caught her by the elbow. “No, no. Stay, please.”
He stepped back from the door, allowing her into the apartment. She walked past him and a hint of vanilla perfume wafted over him. Quickly, he closed the door behind her and she turned back to him, an expectant smile touching her lips.
Her angelic face transfixed him and he thought his heart might burst from his chest. This is her. The one. If she said it wasn’t her thing, he thought he would never get over the disappointment.
Flustered, Eric rushed back to his desk to pick up the list of applicants. Quickly scanning the list, he found her name, Anya.
“Are you Swedish?” he asked, assessing her blonde hair and fair skin.
She shook her head. “American born, but my parents are from Finland.”
“I see.” Despite the American upbringing, he could still detect a faint European accent he assumed she’d picked up from her parents.
“Did you want an all-American girl?” she asked, a teasing note to her voice.
He shook his head. “No, I just want the right girl.”
“How will you know when you find her?”
“I’ll know.”
The majority of his apartment a
lso served as his studio—only his bedroom and bathroom were divided from the rest of his work space. Mounted background rollers were positioned on the ceiling and held the nine feet of seamless white paper providing the background. Around the rollers was a rail system which allowed the lights to be positioned however he needed them. A stool was placed in the center of the studio, his camera resting on a tripod about ten feet away.
“Do you want me to sit there?” she asked, looking over to the stool.
“If that’s all right.” He watched her, carefully judging her reaction, but she just gave a slight shrug and crossed the room to hop up on the stool.
“Are you going to photograph me now?”
“Only if you want me to. People often look different on camera, and it allows me to assess how photogenic you are. Not that you’re not beautiful, of course!”
“And what happens to the photos if I don’t get the job?”
“I’ll delete them. It’s a digital camera.”
She smiled. “I thought using digital was frowned upon in photography circles.”
Eric placed himself behind the camera and flicked off the lens cover. “Digital has come a long way.”
“So what do you want me to do?” she asked, her head tilted to one side, her long hair flowing past her shoulder.
He snapped off a couple of shots—head and shoulders, nothing more.
“For the time being, nothing else. But I am looking for someone who will work with me to create more erotic images.”
She arched her fine eyebrows. “Erotic? So are you talking about nudity?”
He nodded. “But if you’re not comfortable with that, you’re perfectly welcome to leave.”
“How naked are you talking?”
“We’ll start off slow—the line of your back, arch of your foot, the length of your thigh. But, if you’re comfortable, I do want to take things further.”
“Further?”
He paused, considering his words. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he also didn’t want to mislead her. “Can I show you something?” He turned his back and headed toward his laptop. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was following.
She was.
He sat in front of his computer, clicked on the mouse and brought up a folder of images. “These are the sort of photographs I take my inspiration from. I hope you can see there is nothing tawdry about them. They’re erotic, but they’re also art.”
Anya leaned in, standing just behind and to one side of him, her body only inches from his. The faint halo of her perfume surrounded him—vanilla and citrus—and something thrummed deep in his loins. Her wide blue eyes focused on the screen and then she placed her hand over the top of his—the one holding the mouse—and pressed her own finger on his, clicking the images forward.
Black and white shots of a woman, chains bound around her full breasts, crushing them against her torso. Another photograph of a woman’s bottom, legs, and hands. She wore spiked heels, her ankles handcuffed to her wrists. Another woman blindfolded, the black silk scarf wrapped around her head and brought back around to gag her mouth.
She’s going to think I’m a pervert.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, a hint of a smile on her bowed lips.
“And so are you,” he replied. “What I want to create will be a joint project. This isn’t like a normal photographer and model relationship. I want us to create these kinds of images together. You need to be completely at ease with your body.”
She continued to stare at the monitor, but didn’t respond.
Nerves fluttered in his stomach. “So, what do you think?”
She turned her face to his and he couldn’t help admiring her flawless skin, her delicate bone structure.
God, she’s stunning! He felt a primal need to photograph her—a desperate hunger. If she said no, he thought he might have to stop searching for his model. No one else would do.
“Can I think about it?”
His stomach dropped. “Of course.” He gave her a bright smile, hoping to hide his disappointment.
“May I call you tomorrow?”
He reached across his desk and picked up a business card. “You can call me anytime you want. I’ll be waiting.”
His eyes locked with hers and she stared at him, a half-smile playing on her lips. He suddenly felt like the roles had been reversed and it was she who was interviewing him.
She plucked the card from his fingers and waved it at him. “I’ll let you know.”
With that, she headed to the front door of his apartment, her heels clicking on the dark wood floor. He rushed after her, opening the door for her. She threw a smile over her shoulder and walked to the elevator.
Eric closed the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh.
His mind made up, he crossed the room back to his desk and proceeded to cancel the rest of the day’s interviews.
Chapter Two
Eric
His cell rang a little after eight a.m. the following morning as he was about to leave the gym he frequented in downtown New York. He glanced at the screen, but didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello, Eric Rutherford.”
He recognized her voice, with that slight European twang, as soon as she spoke. “It’s not too early, is it?”
“Anya!” He dropped his workout bag on the floor and turned around to lean against the wall as he spoke. “No, it’s not too early. I’m just leaving the gym, in fact.”
“You work out,” she said, no question in her tone.
“I like to keep fit.”
“I thought so.”
In truth, his routine gym visits—every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday mornings at seven a.m. sharp—were a way of keeping himself in check. It was too easy to lose track of time when he was working, to lose himself in the piece only to emerge several days later realizing he’d not slept or eaten.
He hesitated. “So ... did you give my job offer any more consideration?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be paid.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he’d understood what she was saying. “But you want the job?”
“Yes. I would like you to photograph me. Naked, like the women in the pictures.”
Her voice was like something exotic, jasmine-scented honey. The way she spoke made his groin tighten, blood rushing to his cock. He bit down, forcing the reaction away. He couldn’t photograph her if he had that reaction at the idea of her being naked. It simply wouldn’t work. He’d only embarrass them both.
“Why don’t you want to be paid if you’d like to do the work?”
“I don’t need the money. Copies of the photographs would be enough.”
“I see.” He needed to be careful. He wanted her to be his model, but she needed to understand the rules. “You realize if I let you have copies of the photographs, you wouldn’t be able to distribute them anywhere.”
She laughed and his heart tightened at the sound. “Of course not, Mr. Rutherford. Why would I want to distribute pictures of myself like that? But what about yourself? If these are going to be images of me, will I have any say in what happens to them?”
He chose his words carefully. “I’d like to use the images for my portfolio, for my website. I’m a photographer and an artist, Anya, but these images won’t be sold.”
“They’d just be for you.”
A thrill went through him. When he spoke, his voice came out hoarser than he’d anticipated. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. When would you like to start?”
Eric glanced at his watch out of habit. He already knew the time. “Are you free after lunch? Say, two o’clock at my apartment?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you later.”
Eric hung up, surprised to find his heart beating harder than normal, his stomach churning in anticipation. He had a couple of meetings that morning—a newly refurbished five-star hotel who wanted to commission a set of huge landscape photographs for their lobby and then anoth
er appointment with a wealthy couple who wanted to have their family portrait done. It was comparatively mundane work, but it paid the bills and left a respectable amount over to play with. Then, that afternoon, he would have the opportunity to indulge in his new project.
He struggled to concentrate during his meetings, his mind wandering to Anya, with her porcelain complexion and innocent look. He wondered how far she’d allow him to go, if she’d spread her legs for him and allow him to photograph her most intimate folds close up. He wanted that desperately, to photograph right into the depths of her body, into what made her a woman.
***
Eric paced the floor of his apartment, checking his watch every two minutes. It wasn’t like him to be nervous, and the emotion sat uneasily on his broad shoulders.
What if she changed her mind and didn’t show? He thought he might lose a little piece of himself if that happened. He couldn’t explain his reason for feeling so strongly about a woman in whose company he’d only spent minutes. The possibility made him feel like a man dying of thirst in a desert who spots the most beautiful, clear pool of water and shade of green palms, only to reach the oasis and discover it a mirage all along, the promise of relief snatched from him at the final moment.
The buzzer sounded and his heart leapt into his throat.
She was here!
He went to his front door and pressed the intercom. “Anya?”
Her voice came back, sounding tinny through the equipment. “Hello, Mr. Rutherford. Are you ready for me?”
“Of course.”
Eric hit the button to grant entry to the building and then opened his apartment door, waiting for her, trying not to appear as flustered as he felt. Within a minute, the elevator doors slid open and she stepped out. Her almost white-blonde hair was free around her face, falling just past her shoulders. She had dressed simply in a close-fitting white t-shirt and jeans.
“Come in,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
To his surprise, she strode across his apartment, toward his studio, peeling her clothes off as she went. She pulled her t-shirt up over her head, exposing curvy breasts clad in a lacy bra, dropping the item to the floor. Next went her jeans, unbuttoned and shucked from her rounded hips, then kicked from her feet.