The words over at Three Word Wednesday are early, jiggle and quality.
She tapped a fuchsia-lacquered nail on bleached-white teeth, wary that the diamonds embedded into the finish would pop loose and ruin a perfectly good $49.95 manicure.
Whether the chips were diamonds or not – for $49.95 she though not – it didn’t matter. The tiny Asian lady who did them was a fucking genus craftsman and the quality was superior to any and all previous manicures she’d ever paid for. Who cared that all those tiny ladies jabbered in their exotic language, probably talking the whole time about the men’s ribbed tank top she wore, braless so her full C-cup breasts had a freedom of movement that was probably was a little too provocative for the glass storefront shop in the mall. So fucking what. Bras leave welts on the skin.
Tap, tap, tap. Sigh. Tap, tap, tap. Sigh. Hours yet to go.
It was early. She sat at her tiny kitchenette and contemplated a strong cup of coffee, but downed the bitter-tasting energy shot instead. Coffee stains the teeth and her dentist wasn’t about to give her another bleaching kit. Not after she talked him out of the last one while wearing a very revealing black front-buttoned dress that accentuated her breasts.
Swathed in a terrycloth robe, she ran a hand between her thighs and checked to see if there was any stubble. None. Skin so smooth and supple, coated with enough expensive lotion that it looked glossy. Waxing was an expense, but at least it lasted. Shaving meant red bumps, ingrown hairs. Gross.
She worried that she had gotten way too much sun – tanning beds and sprays were to her a stupid expense – so she had been carefully timing her trips outside to 15 minutes on each side, from noon to 12:30 p.m. daily. While face-up on the chase lounge yesterday, she had dozed and went a good 10 minutes past her time limit. Her nipples looked a little red, so she took a cold, exfoliating shower, then pampered her skin with a layer of aloe, then a coating of lotion. She had even pulled the drapes and walked around her flat naked, taking care to sit on a sheer silk scarf, so as not to mark up her skin any further.
Nothing ruins a photograph more, she thought, than atrocious, uneven skin tones. Or indents left by undergarments or rough textiles.
Oh, and razor stubble. Nasty.
This was to be her fourth photo shoot. A few full-frontal nudes, just to see her body as a whole canvas. Boudoir, mostly. Mens crisp white shirts, ties. Thigh-high stockings, black heels. Expensive underwear in a rainbow of colors and styles.
Enlisting friends with high-end camera gear, she’d been captured nearly nude in more than 1,200 photographs thus far, hair and makeup done by other friends who doted on her free-of-charge, since playing dress-up was – and had always been – in their DNA.
Losing 80 pounds, well that was the impetus behind the first photo shoot. Seeing herself naked, skin taut and glistening rather than saggy and jiggling, had been a trigger, a drug. A sweet-and-salty taste. Being naughty and nice all at once as the blood coursed through her veins and beat out a rhythm that raced her heart.
The next two sessions, well, she tried in vain to recapture that initial feeling. Oh, seeing herself on a computer screen, bronze skin and white panties stretched tight across her smooth mons pubis, stirred such intense feelings inside, but nothing quite as juicy and delicious as the first. No amount of eyeliner, waxing, silk was getting her any closer to that first session, the exhilaration, the high.
This one would be different. It would bring back that first flood of emotions, seeing herself lustrous and thin, rather than chunky and plain. A stand-out, the sex kitten feel. Just a few more hours.
She’d enlisted a professional photographer with all the expensive gear, the lights, a studio, even his own hair and makeup team. He quoted her a price of $1,000, a deep discount he said. He also told her no cheap lingerie, nothing tawdry. He’d have full veto power on her outfits, he was in control.
She’d gotten used to the idea, gotten over the power he held over her. And once she gave herself over did she relax.
Paying for the shoot, well, that had been a problem. She thought about selling plasma, but at $25 a donation, it would take a good 10 months to come up with enough cash. She certainly couldn’t wait that long. And what about needle marks? Fuck. No.
Borrowing was out, too. She’d called in every favor, hit up every family member. A $20 here, a $20 there. And all of that had gone toward outfits, waxing and bleaching for the previous three shoots.
He said it over iced tea in sweaty glasses, sitting outside of a café on Main Street, under the protection of a giant umbrella.
“Get your friends together, get into bikinis and have a car wash,” he said. “At $40 a wash, that’s like 25 cars – and maybe a Saturday afternoon of your time. Besides, the rednecks will love you for it.”
“Do you need a permit for something like that?”
“You’re not serious, right? I’m kidding. It’s not like you’re sending kids to band camp or raising money to feed Ethiopian orphans. You want your tits photographed.”
“Fuck the joke – it’s brilliant. I’m so going to do this.”
She flipped on her mobile and looked at his last text.
“You’re addicted. A nude photo addict. And yes, I so want to see the results.”
She reached a hand inside the robe, felt again for stubble. Nothing. She marveled at the sheer smoothness of her flesh, the even skin tones.
And tapped a fuchsia-lacquered nail on the nearest stack of twenties, $6,800 worth of cash that neatly lined her kitchenette, smiling as she did so.