Exposed to You (3 page)

“There’s that blush,
Amy,” he said softly, using my given name for the first time. “It is really
starting to grow on me.”

I heard the shutter go
again and then he was sitting beside me, whispering as he gently moved my
limbs.

“This is my true
passion, Miss Clair.” He pulled my right ankle, opening my legs. “Put one arm
under your head and the other on your stomach. Look relaxed, like you don’t
even know I’m taking a picture of you. Wonderful.”

I found myself basking
in the glow of Mr. King’s compliments. He called me a natural. Exactly what he
was looking for. But it wasn’t just that; I wanted to impress him.

He took a few pictures
of me standing with my hand on my hip and then said, “I’m very pleased, Miss
Clair. Just a few more and we can discuss our contract.”

I smiled and waited
for his next instruction.

“Now turn around and
face the bed.”

I turned and faced the
bed.

“Bend over.”

I froze.

“I said bend over,
Miss Clair,” he said warningly. “Following instructions is an integral aspect
of this position.”

My heart started to
race. Why did he want me to bend over? Was he hoping to get a shot between my
legs?

I bent over the bed
and heard the snap of the shutter. When I moved to stand, he growled. “Stay
there please, Miss Clair.”

The authority in his
voice stilled me. I closed my eyes, trying not to shake. I couldn’t do this. I
was too naive, too shy.

“Show me that you’re
able to follow instructions, Amy,” he said in a tone that made me feel like an
errant child.

I felt him approach
me, and then his finger under the elastic of my thong. I swallowed hard but
didn’t dare move. Was he going to ask me to take it off? It seemed too early
for nudity shots.

“These were a good
pick.” He pulled my thong taut, let it go with a snap. My breath hitched as his
hands caressed my behind, moving down my thighs. I was pretty sure
photographers didn’t touch models that way.

Then, out of nowhere,
he spanked me.

I reared up out of
instinct, but he was prepared, pushing me right back down again. He spanked me
for a second time and I heard the snap of the shutter. I could only imagine
what the pictures must look like, and the thought was humiliating. Still I
stayed in the position, my arms shaking, threatening to no longer support me. I
couldn’t bear to face him.

“Good girl, Amy. You
were perfect.”

I inhaled sharply as
his fingers suddenly dipped between my legs, finding my wetness. Slowly, he
began to rub me in small circles. I didn’t stop him. I was lost in the confusion
of the moment and the feel of his fingers between my legs.

Then he abruptly
stopped and walked away, telling me to sit on the bed. Somehow I managed to
stand and lean against it, focusing on a spot on the ground. My heart was in my
ears. I was embarrassed and confused and incredibly aroused. It was obvious now
what Mr. King wanted me for, and I couldn’t sort my thoughts out fast enough.
Somewhere I knew I should be telling him off, but I wasn’t.

“Look at the camera,
Amy.”

The command was issued
in a soft voice, but there was something else behind it. Something darker. I
barely managed to look up, biting my lip.

“You look so shy. I
love it.”

Snap
.

Mr. King put down the
camera and approached me slowly. I stayed in my position, afraid to do anything
else. It wasn’t until he was standing directly in front of me that I was able
to look him in the eye. Even then, I couldn’t stop my legs from shaking.

“I think this might
work,” he said, smiling down at me approvingly.

I looked up at him, my
throat dry.

“You’re nervous,” he
said, smiling down at me. “Do you want to please me?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I
whispered.

He trailed his fingers
along my jaw. “We’ll work on that, too.”

Gracefully, he tugged
a silk robe off the rack and wrapped it around me. “I’ll give you the tour,” he
said and put out his hand.

I let Mr. King lead me
through the apartment, dressed in only the silk robe, my head in a daze. What
had happened in there? Why had I let it happen?

Meanwhile, Mr. King
seemed blissfully unaware of my internal struggle, or else he was cheerily
ignoring it. He seemed different than when we first met; less formal and
charismatic and more carefree and… arrogant.

He showed me the many
rooms in his home, grinning the entire time. It was the most amazing apartment
suite I had ever seen, even more amazing than in the movies. He started on the
main floor, which was composed of the Master bedroom, living room, dining room,
and study. The second floor was half the size of the main floor, leaving
eighteen-foot ceilings in the living room, dining room and kitchen. Then we
returned upstairs, where he showed me an empty room, guest bedroom and bathroom
beside the studio.

 At the guest bedroom,
Mr. King stopped and told me to enter. It was a fair sized room with a
queen-sized bed with beige duvet. The only other furniture in the room was a
dresser and mirror.

“I’m willing to pay
you $1500 a week, regardless of whether or not you live here, but I would
expect you to come when I request.”

I spun around to face
him, surprised. That was an obscene amount of money, but it was the living
comment that shocked me the most. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed
so that muscles in his forearms stood out, watching me intently.

“You want me to move
in?”

“It would be an extra
benefit for you,” he said carefully. “And yes, I would prefer it.”

“That’s part of the…
job?”

He smiled and stepped
into the room casually. I immediately stepped back.

“I think you’re
perfect, Amy. Like I said, you’re exactly what I have been looking for. I’m willing
to make it worth your while.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m
not a prostitute.”

Mr. King looked almost
hurt; his grey eyes widened momentarily before he ran a hand through his hair.
“I would never think of you as a prostitute. You would be my muse.”

I looked down at my
hands, wishing I’d grabbed my clothes before following him on the tour.

“I would be willing to
turn one of the rooms into a studio for your art,” he continued. “That way you
would have time for everything.”

I felt like I was in a
dream. Last night I was jobless and homeless and now a man that barely knew me
wanted me to move in and be his muse and… something. Lover maybe. Slut likely.
I felt like I was going to cry.

“Just say yes and I’ll
draft the contract up right now,” he said softly, almost pleadingly. “Whatever
you want, Amy.”

The longer I stayed
silent, the more irritated he seemed to get. Finally, he marched into the room
and opened the closet to reveal clean sheets neatly

“It’s the weekend, so
stay here tonight. I expect your answer by tomorrow morning. Perhaps if you
don’t want to move in, it’s not meant to be.”

With that, he left the
room.

***

I sat on the bed,
alone and wondering what I should do and whether I should call someone to come
get me. Who was this man and what made him think he could treat me this way?

When I was sure a few
hours had passed, I tip-toed back to the studio and opened it quietly. I had to
feel around in the dark for my purse, which I’d left a few feet away from the
door. Once I had it, I turned it on and used it as a flashlight to find my
clothes. They were sitting in a pile where we’d left them.

I gathered my things
and quickly made my way back to the room Mr. King had given me. There, I
permitted myself to read the text message I’d noticed when I’d turned on my
phone. It was from Sam. She was wondering where I was and how my interview
went. She also wanted to know what job I’d interviewed for—the text I’d sent
her had been super vague. I texted back that I’d met up with a friend afterward
and that I’d be home soon.

Then I quickly changed
and snuck out of Mr. King’s apartment, hoping I’d never have to see him again.

I let myself sleep in
until noon the next day. I felt I deserved it after the disaster that had been
my interview with Mr. King. All night I’d tossed and turned, chastising myself
for letting him command me around that way, and all for a job. I’d let him
spank me. I’d let him touch me without asking me first. I hadn’t even known
him! To say I felt ashamed would be an understatement. I burrowed deeper into
my covers and didn’t emerge until mid-afternoon.

When I finally padded
into the living room, Sam was packing her things into boxes.

“Hey! So you
did
make it home last night. I was worried about you.”

“Sorry,” I said,
avoiding her eyes as I made my way into the kitchen. “The interview didn’t go that
well, so I ended up meeting Jeremy for some drinks.”

“Jeremy?” Sam asked
skeptically. “As in the law student hottie that you said you aren’t interested
in?”

“That’s the one,” I
smiled weakly. I really wished I was interested in Jeremy; he was two years
behind Luke and a really nice guy. I bet he wouldn’t take half-nude photos of
me for some unknown purpose, let alone spank me.

I almost dropped the
milk I was about to pour into my cereal. What
had
been the purpose of
those photos? Mr. King had never told me and I’d never asked. I was stupid. A naive
idiot.

“Are you okay? You
look like you’re gonna be sick. Hungover?”

I didn’t respond;
instead, I raced back into my room and turned on my phone. Maybe there would be
an email from him wondering where I went, and I could demand that he tell me
what the pictures were for. I tapped my foot anxiously as I waited for my email
to update. Emails loaded from Mom, Crate & Barrel, more spam… Nothing from
Dallon King.

Asshole.

With shaky fingers, I
wrote a response to his original email and sent it before I could chicken out.

Mr. King, I know I signed a non-disclosure
agreement and am thus not able to tell anyone about your “artistic project”,
but I demand that you delete the photos of me. I also demand that you not sell
them to anyone or any site.

—A.

I stomped back into
the kitchen and continued making my cereal. Artistic project my ass! He
probably lured a bunch of young women into his luxurious penthouse and took
pictures of them spread-eagled or bent over his bed. His artistic project was
probably nothing more than a porn website.

Tears pricked my eyes
and I wiped them away angrily. How could I have been so stupid?

Sam walked back into
the living room holding some books to pack. When she saw me, she instantly put
them down and ran to comfort me.

“Amy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m okay,” I
sniffed. “Just stressed out about finding a job and sad that the year has ended
and everything.”

“It’s okay, you’ll
find something,” Sam said and rubbed my back soothingly. “It’s a shitty and
long process, but it will work out. It always does.”

I smiled weakly
through my tears. “I hope so. I’m starting to think maybe I should have applied
for law like you.”

Sam made a face. “Why?
You hated the Business Law course we took together. There are thousands of
other things you can do.”

I sighed. It was true;
rushing to apply for law wouldn’t be the answer. I had to be patient and wait
for my future career to reveal itself.

The rest of the day
and then Sunday went by without any response from Mr. King. I drove myself
crazy checking first every hour, then every half hour, and then every minute
until Sam yanked my phone away from me and told me to watch the movie. It was
Sunday afternoon and we were spending it in our PJs.

“I’ve never seen you
so obsessed with your phone before,” she said suspiciously. “Are you sure
nothing happened between you and Jeremy? You got home super late last night.”

“Nothing,” I sighed.
“I just… applied for a job and am waiting for a response.”

“Oh?” Sam perked up.
“What kind of job?”

“Um, sketch teaching
assistant,” I said lamely.

“That sounds
promising!”

I sighed. “Sure, if I
get it.”

The conversation felt
somewhat morbid—me pretending to want a position when really I
had
been
offered a position, it was just beyond what I’d ever imagined. Part of me was
dying to tell Sam the truth, but my embarrassment won out. Like my parents, I
wanted her to think that I was going to make it. I also wouldn’t be able to
explain to her why I hadn’t punched Mr. King the moment he’d put his fingers
between my legs. There was no way in hell that Sam would have put up with that.