It is Mr. Schneider who speaks next, as I have lost the ability. I can’t even utter a heartfelt thank-you – the exact gratitude I desperately feel, as the revelation of his passion sinks in.
‘Anyway, I’ll take some time to look through the images we have taken today. I’ll see if any of the others are usable for my exhibition. Your lips and hands are exquisite, after all, and I’d hate to lose out on them. We’ll phone when we’d next like you in, though I’m not sure when that’ll be – if you can make sure you get details from Isabelle at reception, so you can invoice us for your time,’ he is all business again, the passionate drive in his voice dissipated.
I feel a little dejected, as he gestures towards the door. I sense that this is over, and it makes my chest ache. I want to say something, but the words are still lost on my tongue.
‘Thank you, Martin,’ is all I can manage, as I pick up my bag and head out of the office, throwing on my leather jacket so my breasts aren’t exposed on the long journey home. At least I have the money, I think, as I push through the second door and out into the reception room, trying desperately not to let the tears flow. I wish I had the strength to run back through and give him my gratitude, and yet I do not; I hear again the dismissal in his words and know I have messed up.
I gather the details I need from Isabelle, who smiles apologetically from the front desk as she writes it all down for me, and head back out into the grey, dismal world, feeling like an utter failure. I know I took one good image, but one good image does not a viable career make.
At home, I don’t bother telling them how it went, or even where I have been. I lie and say I swung by a café to see if they had any waiting-on jobs, and my mother looks thrilled, as if I have finally come to my senses. I tell her I’ll have to go to college the year after, maybe even the year after that, and she claps her hands together in pleasure, professing how wonderful it will be to have me around for another couple of years to keep her company. It pains me to hear the joy in her voice at my potential misery; at the idea of me not achieving the goal I have always had, since I was tiny. I know she is worried I’ll leave and never come back, but still, I know I deserve more.
I could have been a good model, I am sure of it, if only I’d had the courage not to mess it up. I wait for the phone to ring, but it doesn’t, and I hate myself for it.
CHAPTER FIVE
A few weeks pass by, and I can’t take it anymore. I am livid with Martin Schneider, that he could cast me aside so quickly, so easily, after all he said about me.
In the dead of night, in my childhood room, with the same pink wallpaper and ceramic forest fairies staring down at me from the shelves, I find myself unable to think of anything but Martin’s words to me. Those last ones, said with such zealousness, his voice dripping passion. Lying half-asleep, I can’t help but think of his mouth discovering the porcelain skin he adores so much, the plump, reddened lips he likes to perfect in his mind’s eye, the delicate hands he longs to have touch him. I imagine touching him; I can’t keep the images away, no matter how hard I try. With that longing comes anger; rage at the way in which he dismissed me, simply because my shock would not let me speak. He didn’t give me chance, and I know I won’t let him have the last word on this. I can’t let him have it.
And so, I wander the same route as before, only the day is brighter this time; a crisp, clear day, the sun shining brightly, almost warm on the face as I walk along to the bus-stop and wait for it to come along. I hop on, and get off at the same place as last time, my head held high, as I press the buzzer and demand to be seen. It is the same girl as before, and she seems surprised to hear my voice, but buzzes me up anyway.
I storm into the office reception, across to the desk, and tell the girl I would like to see Mr. Schneider. She nods and picks up the phone; I can hear muffled speaking on the other end, but Isabelle says nothing, only nodding, before replacing the phone in the cradle. She tells me to take a seat, which I do, my heart hammering, blood rushing in my ears, hands trembling with nerves as I wait to be called through. Suddenly, it seems like a bad idea, but I have come too far to run away. I will not.
'Zoey Miller?’ it is his voice, calling me from behind the studio door.
I get up and follow the sound but, once again, he is nowhere to be seen in the clean lines of the studio.
‘Zoey Miller?’ the voice calls again, from behind the office door at the far end. I know it well, by now.
I go to it and knock, waiting for the customary ‘come in’ before I walk through. I hope I seem defiant, because I don’t feel it as I step through. He is sitting behind the desk, sipping from a mug of coffee; he looks disarmingly relaxed, as he looks up, our eyes meeting. I try not to drop my gaze, but his stare is intense, and I find myself looking away, looking back to the eyeless masks on the wall, as they observe me silently, judging me.
‘Mr. Schneider,’ I say, though I have no idea what is coming next. He gestures for me to take a seat, but I shake my head. ‘No, thank you, Mr. Schneider, I am here on business,’ I state, my voice trembling.
‘Oh? What business?’ he asks.
‘I have come to resign. Your receptionist signed me to your roster, and I would like to remove myself. I do not feel this is the right place for me, and you clearly do not want me,’ I explain, my voice catching a little, making me wince. I hope he hasn’t heard it.
He frowns. ‘What?’ is all he says. I can’t gauge it; whether he is happy or sad about it, or merely ambivalent.
‘I wish to resign from your studio. I don’t want to model for you again,’ I insist, strengthening my resolve.
He puts down his coffee mug, his expression close to furious. ‘What?’ he repeats, though the intention is clearer. He is mad.
‘I wish to resign,’ I say again.
‘No, absolutely not,’ he shakes his head.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Schneider, but I have made up my mind. You have shown little desire for me, and so I shall take my hands and my lips elsewhere,’ I cut, hoping to shock him; hoping I sound fierce enough to make him sit up and take notice.
‘Zoey, I refuse to let you resign,’ he says firmly, his eyes glistening with ire.
‘I’m afraid you can’t do that, Mr. Schneider,’ I reply sharply.
‘You are the best hand and lip model we have, Zoey; I can’t not have you on our books. Who else am I going to use? I can use any one of these girls for beauty shots and full-body shots, but I haven’t got anyone who can do just hands and lip like you, Zoey,’ he explains, and his words sting me like well-aimed arrows.
‘How dare you!’ I shout, feeling wounded by him. After everything he said, it was just the hands and lips after all; the pieces of me where nobody has to see the rest. I want to cry, but I won’t let him see. He is the same as the rest of them; the same as those boys in school, the ones who ‘would never fuck me sober’. I am not the girl who gets the guy; I am not the looker who everyone wants to see on print. No, I am the hand and lip girl; the girl whose face and body nobody wants to see – who nobody thinks are beautiful, after all.
I turn and stride out of the room, having heard enough and worried I might let him see the tears. For him to make me feel so good, only to tear me down – nothing is crueler than that. I get to the door of the studio, to head back out into the reception area, when I feel a hand grab me and pull me back into the room.
‘Zoey, stop,’ he demands, and I can’t help but acquiesce, though I know he can see the pain and anger written across my face.
‘How dare you,’ I repeat, my insides all but crushed.
‘Why are you running?’ he asks, his hand still gripping my wrist.
‘You meant none of it,’ I whisper, the hurt evident in the shake of my voice, the quiver of my lip, the glisten of my eyes, as I say it.
‘What?’ he asks, a confused expression on his face.
‘What you said!’ I shout. ‘I’m just here for my hands and my lips – the bits nobody cares about. The rest of me doesn�
��t matter, and you made me believe it did. You told me I was beautiful, and you meant none of it!’ I cry, not meaning to say so much and yet unable to help it from spilling out of my mouth in an emotional tirade.
He pauses, a look of horror passing over his handsome features. ‘God, no! That’s not what I meant at all. You are the best hand and lip model we have, yes, but you are also one of the most exquisite models we have, full stop. I meant every word, I just meant I couldn’t lose you for this project – my next exhibition is purely hands and mouths. I couldn’t lose you for that, is all I meant. I want to use the rest of you in so many ways,’ he says, finally, his voice throaty and laced with emotion as he speaks. ‘I want to see your beautiful body, your exceptional face, your whole, otherworldly self in so many pictures and projects and exhibitions to come – I have so many things I want to do with you as my muse. I only meant I couldn’t afford to lose you now, because of the upcoming exhibition. Please believe me, Zoey – that is all I meant by what I said,’ he explains desperately, grasping my other wrist with his hand. He is close to me; so much closer than I realised. I can almost feel the ridge of his belt against my stomach as he stands before me, holding me there.
‘Really?’ I ask, not sure what to believe.
‘You have to believe me, Zoey,’ he pleads, pulling me back towards his office. ‘Let me show you what I mean,’ he says, a smile playing upon his lips as we re-enter the room, the masks staring.
‘What are they?’ I ask, pointing at the masks as he rootles around for something in one of the drawers of his desk.
‘What?’
‘Those masks,’ I say.
‘Oh, I pick one up every time I travel – I always buy one that interests me. Every culture, pretty much, has a mythology around masks and the power they can give. People even as far back as Ancient Rome used to wear them, to draw on the power of the gods and goddesses of the time. They’d have these incredible orgies, where each one would put on the mask of a god or goddess. Happens all over the place – it fascinates me, that idea of not knowing who is under there,’ he explains, as he draws out a picture. It is one I haven’t seen, of me in just knickers, my back bare, having removed my bra to put the dress on, my head tilted over one shoulder. He shows me it. ‘See, exquisite beauty,’ he says, and I see that, perhaps, he is right. I look serene and still and otherworldly in the image – perhaps that is beauty. Either way, the image seems to make Martin giddy, and his enthusiasm is infectious.
He takes my hands in his, and lifts them.
‘See, all of you is beautiful. It is like nothing I have ever seen. These hands are the most graceful hands,’ he says, circling the pale skin with his thumb. ‘And those lips – they are the most perfect lips. Almost sinful in their redness,’ he murmurs, his body suddenly very close to mine. He lifts his thumb to my mouth and strokes my bottom lip with a delicateness I did not expect, the friction sending a shiver down my spine.
Before I realise it, his lips are on mine. I don’t know if I moved in or he did, but his mouth his pressed to mine, grazing it. His fingers are in my hair, stroking my neck, his other hand slipping down the curve of my spine. My hands lace around his neck, the pace increasing from the soft, tender beginnings of the kiss; my mouth is harder on his, and then his lips are seeking out the skin of my neck’s curve, nipping sensually at my earlobe. It makes my body tremble as he kisses my skin, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of my top, tracing a line down my spine and making me shiver with his touch.
‘You are the most beautiful woman,’ he whispers breathlessly in my ear as he picks me up and sits me down on the edge of the desk. I wrap my legs around him, holding him to me with my thighs as he kisses me passionately, his hands in my hair, letting it loose from its hair-tie so he can pull it gently into a ponytail. He does this as he kisses me, my hands exploring his stomach as I lean in to kiss the hard, lean muscle there. I bite along the indent of his hip, making him shiver, a gasp escaping his lips as I gently run my tongue along the slope of his hip. I reach for his belt, unbuckling it, feeling bold all of a sudden, but he stays my hand. Gently, he pushes me back against the wooden surface of the desk, so I can lie down, my eyes staring up at the ceiling as he drops to his knees before me, pulling me to the edge of the desk, reaching his hands out to me, his fingers enclosing the slender shape of my thighs as he smooths his hands slowly up them, gripping a little at the top, scratching lightly. I sigh as I feel his fingers go to work on my buttons, pulling off my jeans and throwing them to the floor.
‘You are beautiful,’ he says again, his lips pressing lightly against my bare leg, just above my knee. He lifts my thigh and places it on his shoulder, kissing the length of my calf and ankle as he leans back, his hand stroking across my thigh with a delicate, sensual touch. ‘You are beautiful,’ he repeats, as he takes the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it over my head. I don’t stop him. I have no bra on, and his mouth seeks out the sensitive, hard rise of my nipple, aroused and ready for his mouth as he sucks gently at first, then harder, making me cry out and buck against his body, as he slips his hand between my thighs and brushes the thin material of my underwear in just the right place. I am wet, the fabric of my knickers damp with lust as I wrap my legs around him, his mouth exploring every inch of my body. He pinches one nipple as his mouth sucks at the other, and I pull him to me, biting at his neck, kissing his chest as I pull his shirt over his head. I give him a taste of his own medicine, sucking hard on his nipple as he pulls me up to him from the desk, grinding the hard length of his cock, still confined to his jeans, against my underwear. I moan against his mouth as he kisses me, overwhelmed by the feel of his lips all over my body, exploring every inch of skin, his hands the same, stroking and biting and kissing and rubbing in all the right places.
I feel sexy and sensual – something I have never done, and the feel of his lips on my body gives me a thrill like no other. There are no nerves anymore.
I reach for his belt and unbuckle it fully, undoing the zipper and pulling down his jeans and boxers until he is naked in front of me. His cock is thick and hungry, rising up as I take it in my hand, his eyes closing in pleasure as I move it up and down. He stops my hand and gets down on his knees once more, peeling my underwear from me and throwing it over his shoulder with a grin.
He kisses my thighs gently, moving up and over the rise of my hips, then down over the mound of soft, curly blonde hair there and then his tongue his against my clit and an explosion goes off inside my body; my body tightens and electricity courses through my veins. He knows exactly what to do, his tongue expert, as he licks and sucks my clit, gently pushing a finger inside the hot, wet depth of my pussy as I cry out, bucking against his tongue and his fingers as he fucks me. It is like nothing I have ever known, and I want more. I want his cock inside me; I know I do, and I am impatient for it.
‘Fuck me,’ I cry, but he doesn’t stop, his tongue moving faster against my clit, another finger pushing into my hot pussy as I feel the electricity building inside me. I can feel myself moving towards orgasm as he pulls his fingers from me and places his tongue in its stead, his fingers rubbing at my clit instead. Within seconds, a cry escapes from my lips, a wave of pleasure crashing around me as he brings me violently to orgasm. My body shakes and trembles, as he kisses my thighs and pussy, kissing all the way back up, across the taut, porcelain skin of my stomach, across my breasts, careful to pay attention to both with his mouth before kissing his way up my neck and back to my mouth, where he kisses me hard, tasting of my lust. I kiss him back, pulling him tight to me, feeling the hard length of his cock against the entrance to my pussy. He holds back a moment or two, as I moan against his ear, holding him to me, wanting him inside me.
‘Fuck me,’ I beg.
He picks me up off the desk and lies me down on the rug on the floor, stretching me out, his body over me so that his tip is almost inside. The teasing is unbearable, as I thrust my hips carefully forward, taking him deep into my pussy. He groans with pleasure as he ente
rs me, his eyes closed as he slips inside. It is a peculiar feeling, the first time, and yet I am thrilled by it; pleasure courses through me at the feel of his thick, hard cock filling me entirely. I didn’t know what I was missing, and I grin against him as he slowly pulls out, just to the end, and then thrusts firmly back inside. He is biding his time, and it feels incredible. His mouth is on mine again, kissing me hard as he slowly starts to fuck me, with steady strokes, my hands gripping his ass as he thrusts back in, my legs wrapped tightly around him as his speed builds. We kiss hard, my hands raking at the flesh of his back as he starts to fuck me harder, his thrusts coming quicker and harder, his hand slipping down my stomach to my clit, rubbing fast as he his cock slides in and out of my wet pussy, so ready for him. I cry out as I come again, my pussy tightening around his cock as I come hard, my body trembling. The tight grip of my orgasm pushes him over the edge, as I hear the deep moan of his own orgasm, his lips hard on mine as he quickly pulls out of me, the sensation making me moan, his hand working his cock for the last second as he comes on the smooth flat of my stomach, in hot spurts.
Spent, I wrap my legs around him once more, a tissue from the desk quickly disposing of his come, so he can lie against me, the weight of his body on mine a pleasant one. He kisses me, brushing his hands through my hair, stroking my skin, a grin on his face.
‘You are beautiful,’ is all he says, as he holds me to him.
CHAPTER SIX
In the time that follows that first time, I take a full-time job, modelling at the studio for his exhibitions and his projects, and the money starts to roll in. He pays me handsomely, and I do the job well; I know it is not pity money. The photos come out and they are beautiful; they capture his vision, and I smile each time I get it right, knowing we have made art together. He knows my hopes and dreams for the future; I tell him them one night, wrapped up in his arms, the sheets smelling of sex and cologne, and his promises to help come through. Most days, I am at the studio, in front of the camera, my confidence growing every day; his words and his actions build it. With him, I feel beautiful; I feel the truth of the words he spoke to me. At home, however, I am the same girl I was before him; when my parents ask what I’m up to, I tell them I’m at the café – they don’t question it. I’m not ready to tell them yet. When I have enough money, I’ll come clean.
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