by Christa Wick
About Training Her Curves
Training Her Curves - Chicago
Pesky Legal Junk
About Training Her Curves
Plus-size fetish model Alexa Hunt is searching for a million-dollar payday as the spokesmodel for a new, upscale line of clothing for dominatrices and female submissives. All she has to do is survive the audition -- a photo shoot at Chicago's ultra private Century Club, a pleasure house for the rich.
House Master Jake Morgan has studied the lush beauty from the moment she stepped into his domain. Gauging her reactions to the club, he knows she has never played a scene, never felt the hard smack of an open palm on her bare bottom or the harsh whisper of a flogger up her pale thighs. Aching to teach her the joy of submission, Jake maneuvers Alexa into a public scene at the club during which she must submit to sweet torment at his hands or be revealed a fraud.
But, in an underground culture where the wealthy will do anything to hide their identity, who is the real fake?
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Training Her Curves - Chicago
I arrived at Century Club for a last minute audition wearing an oversized trench coat wrapped around a corset and panties. Only the black silk stockings visible on the bottom half of my legs and the impossibly high heels hinted at my barely dressed state. Loose red curls bounced around my shoulders, their direction dictated by Chicago's spring winds.
Entering the vestibule to find an imposing doorman, I clutched at my oversized duffel filled with the tools of the trade...
Showing the man my ID, I snorted and amended the thought. The duffel was filled with the tools of my trade, which was a very different trade from the business that went on inside Century Club. Rather, what unofficially went on inside the club. Heck, the place didn't even officially exist. But, working the fringes of Chicago's fashion industry, I had heard whispers about the club. Kinky, exclusive, Century was populated entirely by the city's elite, their trophy wives or husbands and their "pets."
It wasn't the type of venue to which a girl my size, her body decorated with tats and piercings, gets invited. Neither as a guest nor as the hired help. Only I had been invited. Sort of. Lena Kelly, my modeling agent, had called me on set as I was finishing up a Razor Girl shoot. Her initial squeal of delight when I answered told me there was enough money on the line to pay my rent for the month.
The hushed whisper her voice immediately dropped to sent goosebumps cascading down my arms. I didn't understand why at first. I mean, I've done plenty of fetish shoots -- you can't be a Razor Girl, skinny or fat, and not play a little make believe in the kink department. And I've been a Razor Girl since I was sixteen and trying to survive on the streets.
You don't get it, Alexa. You have to interact with a real submissive and...
Lena's voice had dropped lower, its quality breathless in a way that reminded me of a fainting virgin in a film I once saw.
A Master.
Following the doorman's outstretched arm as he pointed down a service hall, I let Lena's final words settle over me.
Submissive...
Master...
Not my thing, no matter how much leather I wrapped around my oversized flesh or how many times I pointed my bottom at a camera with a small paddle jokingly poised in the hand of another model.
I opened the third door on the left, just as the doorman had directed. The room was occupied by a type I knew well. A strap around his neck and the camera body at groin level with its long lens aimed in my direction, the photographer smiled warmly at me.
"You must be Alexa."
I returned the smile, more than a little relieved by the genuinely friendly look on his face. A paying gig is a paying gig, but not every photographer works willingly with plus-sized models. There's nothing worse than showing up to a shoot where you're supposed to pretend to be sexy and every little gesture and expression of the guy jabbing his lens in your direction screams that you have no business being in front of a camera.
"Rick Wells, but you've probably never heard of me." Grinning, he stepped to the side and showed me my wardrobe for the shoot. "You have forty-five minutes to dress and fix what the wind did to your hair."
Halfway to the door, he turned around. "Oh, and sign the model release."
I nodded, my gaze following the direction of his outstretched finger.
"That's the model release?" I stammered. "That has to be twenty pages!"
"Reading is optional. Signing isn't." He chuckled his reply, the sound of his deep laugh lingering as the door shut and the bolt clicked into place.
********************
I read the "release," all twenty-five pages of it. Every word, some parts more than once. Standard terms filled maybe two pages. The rest...
I didn't want to think about the rest, other than the fact I was getting three thousand dollars for a little over two hours of work and the chance for a much bigger contract as the spokesmodel for Wicked Threads, some new line of fetish clothing. I'd never heard of them, but, from the quality of the clothes Rick had provided and Lena's greedy squeal on the phone, I figured the kinky fashion line must be high end.
Just like the members of Century Club.
Opening the dressing room door, I found Rick waiting, his long body stretched against the opposite wall. The grin he had worn leaving the room remained in place, almost like someone had glued a "Happy Rick" face to his skull.
"All signed?" he asked.
I nodded and started to hand the contract to him.
"Hold your driver's license up to your face first so I can get proof of age." He folded the contract then stuffed it in his back pocket before pointing his lens in my direction.
Grimacing, I headed back into the changing room, grabbed my license from my bag and held it next to my face. Lights flashed, temporarily blinding me. When my vision returned, I found him flipping through the contract.
"Two minutes to spare," he noted, his index finger stopping at each instance of my signature or initials.
I had stopped counting the number of times I had signed at twenty three, when I still had a good third of the contract to read through. A signature for confidentiality, a signature for release of my photos for the sole purpose of selecting a Wicked Threads' spokesmodel, initials to acknowledge I understood I might be filmed topless...
I took a deep breath as Rick turned toward the hall and I followed after him. I had never done the topless thing. I know a lot of plus-size models have, especially the ones that like to pay their rent on time. I don't have any problem with that. I mean, heck, it's their tits, so it's their choice. I guess it was more about being topless around a man I wasn't going to sleep with. Would he be repelled by all the flesh once the magic corset holding it all in place came off? Would the nipple piercings make him think I was trashy -- if he didn't already hold a sneering opinion of me from my tattoos?
Today, with three quickly scratched out letters, I had agreed that I, Alexa Marie Hunt, not only consented to being photographed topless, but I would do so within a club setting.
With an audience!
Stopping for a second, I placed a palm against the wall and closed my eyes.
"Shoes fit okay?"
Cracking open one eye, I tried not to glare at Rick. He seemed like a nice guy who didn't have a problem with my size. I just wanted
to glare because I didn't know how to answer his question. I hadn't stopped because of the heels or his long strides. I had stopped because I was a few short steps away from a panic attack.
"Everything fits perfectly." I managed to wheeze out my reply.
"Was I walking too fast?"
No longer able to contain my sarcasm, I opened both eyes and rolled them at him. "It's not your walking speed I'm worried about, Daddy Long Legs."
"I'll match your stride." Laughing, he threw a wink and offered me his arm. "If I didn't know better, Alexa, I'd say you are as nervous as a cat at a dog show."
My cheeks started to burn from his far too apt analogy.
Giving my hand a short squeeze, he offered another wink. "But you're an old pro, right? An original Razor Girl if I'm not mistaken."
"No model likes to be told she's an old pro." I stuck my tongue at him then immediately sucked it back into my mouth as a set of double doors opened before us and I got my first look at the lobby of the Century Club.
A young male waited in the center of the room, on his knees and naked except for a thong with a pouch of leather at the front that barely contained a substantially sized cock and clean-shaven balls.
I wanted to cut right, away from the male with his downcast eyes, but Rick headed straight for him, only stopping once we were about two feet away.
"Freddie, this is Alexa."
"Welcome to Century Club, Mistress Alexa."
"Oh, no..." I started to explain before I caught the smirk slowly inching up Rick's face. I wanted to stick my tongue out at him again, but I had a feeling he relished such bad behavior -- especially with the way he seemed to provoke it. Instead, I lifted a brow at him.
Red, thick and finely arched, my brows tend to get me answers to unspoken questions when I lift them just right.
Rick's smirk turned into a friendly smile. "Freddie is your slave for the first half of the shoot. You get to play at being his mistress before the real fun begins."
Real fun...
I felt a fresh sense of unease, the sensation ten times worse than when I had listened to Lena's breathless whispers on the phone.
I arched my brow a little higher. "Real fun?"
"Second half of the shoot," Rick explained, reaching down to capture Freddie's leash. "When you play a submissive role."
I stared at Rick, my lips slightly parted and my brain too numb to realize he had placed Freddie's leash in my hand. I didn't like the way he had emphasized "play" either time or the sudden light that had flared in his eyes.
I cocked my head as I looked at Rick with a fresh perspective. Tall, lean, and confident despite the absence of his camera. There was something wicked about his mouth, with the expressive lips. Something even more wicked shone in his gaze. He was one of "them." Maybe not a patron, but at least one of the hired hands.
Realizing at last that I held Freddie's leash and was about to drop it, I tightened my grip on the leather as I stared at Rick. "You said I probably never heard of you."
He gave a short nod in response.
"Why is that?"
"Simple, Alexa." He placed a hand against my shoulder blade and directed me toward the second set of doors. "The pictures I take...are never published."
********************
Worst shoot ever, I thought as Rick sent Freddie to find satisfaction at the end of someone else's whip half an hour later. The most terrible thing I had been able to do convincingly during the shoot was tell the slave he didn't deserve to be whipped or spanked. If any of the revulsion I had felt while interacting with poor Freddie as his domme had found its way to the surface of my face, I'd be lucky to leave with the three thousand dollars.
Capturing my elbow, Rick led me to a stool in front of the bar.
"I have to upload the first set of images to the corporate server and make sure the lights are ready for the second half. So rest, rehydrate," he ordered and motioned for me to sit. "Someone will collect you when I'm ready."
I nodded, my relief at no longer being responsible for Freddie's care making me docile.
"Good girl," he joked, his hand landing softly on my shoulder.
I caught his gaze in the mirror and held it for a second before rolling my eyes at him. His grin, absent while shooting, resurfaced and then his tongue snuck out to lick at the center of his top lip. He gave a little shake of his head, like he didn't know quite what to do with me, and then his gaze wandered the reflections of the people in the room behind us.
Someone in that dark murmur of faces must have caught his attention because he gave my shoulder a squeeze then withdrew his hand. Still staring at the same section of mirror at which his gaze had halted, Rick leaned close and whispered in my ear.
"Don't worry about the shots with Freddie, Alexa. It's how you do next that will make...or break...the audition."
With that unnerving piece of advice, he signaled the bartender and left.
Alone, I studied the crowd through the mirror, just as Rick had done, my focus drawn to where his had last fallen. With the distraction of his hand and too close stance gone, it took half a second for me to spot the person whose reflection had most likely captured the photographer's attention.
My mystery man...
Of course it would be him -- the one face and body that had haunted me intermittently during the photo shoot, his presence cutting through the crowd, the noise and the flash bulbs. Barefoot and shirtless, he wore a pair of leggings, the kind that looked like they belonged on a football field. Old, their black re-dyed more than once, the pants formed a tight second skin that made love to every inch of the flesh they covered.
I had caught "Mr. Football" looking at me more than once during the shoot, his expression intense but unreadable.
My mouth quirked and I looked away from his reflection. I didn't need to read his face to know what he thought when he saw me. After the first time I had caught him watching, keeping a smile on my face had proven almost impossible. He dressed like a jock, and, despite the beautifully sculpted wear of time on his body, he probably hadn't grown out of thinking like a jock. The attitude was definitely there -- the post game prowl in the way he walked, victory glistening on his skin. Men like that wanted the cheerleader on their arm or some heroin-thin waif of a supermodel. Big girls like me need not apply.
Irritated, I chewed at my lip as the bartender slid a coaster in front of me.
"What can I get you, Miss Hunt?"
Surprised by his use of my name, I lifted a brow then lowered it in defeat. There was no point asking if everyone at the club knew who I was. I doubted any but a few people there would be curious, despite having had more than a few onlookers as I pretended to dominate Freddie. Tomorrow, I wouldn't register the faintest blip in the memory of the patrons of the Century Club and even less in the minds of the staff.
"Water," I sputtered when I realized I hadn't yet answered his question.
"Carbonated or--"
I shook my head. "Regular."
The kind I can afford, I thought as I looked at all the bottles of expensive alcohol lined up behind the bartender. Seeing him crack the seal on a bottle of Veen, I suppressed a gasp.
Clearly, I should have specified tap water.
"House compliments, Miss Hunt." The bartender threw me a knowing wink. "I'm Fife, by the way."
"Fife?" I asked, looking him over for clues on the origin of such an unusual first name -- if that actually was his name. I couldn't tell under the bar lights whether his hair was a dark chocolate or black, but the eyes were only a few minutes off midnight blue, with flint colored flecks scattered throughout the iris.
"My mother wanted to keep her side of the family in there somewhere," he laughed.
"Works for me," I grinned and took my first sip from the bottle. Relaxed by Fife's friendly manner, I forgot myself for a second and looked in the mirror.
Big mistake.
Mr. Football approached the bar, his gaze not on his path or the people around him but on the same s
urface I stared into. I closed my eyes for a second and snorted. When I opened them, I found Fife still standing in front of me, his attention firmly hooked eight inches south of my chin.
"Tell me," I said, hoping his focus on my cleavage would buy me an answer. "Who's the guy enamored with his own reflection?"
Fife gave a casual look behind him, threw the bar towel over his shoulder and started to walk away. He flashed one last wink in my direction then shook his head. "He's not looking at himself, gorgeous."
My gaze jumped back to the mirror.
Fuck...
Fife was right. Whoever Mr. Football was, his hard body appeared set on a collision course with my fluffy one. Trying to look like I wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the man, I grabbed my bottle of Veen and took another drink. Returning it to the bar top, I discreetly glanced up, confirming that the man hadn't changed direction.
At the last possible second before he would have run into me, he slid onto the barstool directly to my right. Watching Fife add chunks of freshly cut honeydew to a juicing machine, I pretended a disinterest for my bar mate that I was nowhere close to feeling.
Heat surrounded the man, either his own or from the way my skin flushed hot at his presence. A bit salty, with a hint of coconut and a heavy coating of sunlight and fresh air, he smelled like he had just arrived from a day spent on an ocean beach instead of spending the better part of the last hour moving through a haze of expensive cigars and cognac.
Fife returned, pushing a tall glass filled with the honeydew he had just juiced toward the man. Not finished preparing the drink, he chopped three quick slices of lime, letting them sink slowly in the thick liquid. From what remained of the lime, he squirted juice in then took a small spice spoon, dipped it into a serving bowl filled with sea salt and gave a light sprinkle to the drink.
My good intentioned agent, certain I would land a butt ton more paying gigs if I was just a "smidge" closer to the lower end of being a plus-size model, had sent me more than enough articles on healthy eating in general and juicing in particular, that I knew Fife had just handed my mystery watcher a glass full of electrolytes.