Reporter Shayla, investigating the Girls, Limited modeling agency gets far enough inside the organization to view a photo shoot on the beach…

Shayla headed for the nearer of the two RV’s.  Whatever Rainier’s game was, he was going to find out Shayla Whitten was a player in her own right.  Pulling the trusty notepad from her purse she set her mind into journalist mode.  He’d underestimated her, by a long shot, and one day soon he’d open his morning newspaper and get the surprise of his life.  That is, if he wasn’t already in jail by then.

       The trailer door was ajar.  When Shayla tapped her knuckles delicately on the dented aluminum, she heard female voices inside.

       “Who’s that knocking?” someone said as though it were the most unusual sound in the world.

       “Obviously no one we know,” said another.

       A moment later the door swung open.  A naked blonde who was holding an ice cube on her left nipple looked at Shayla and blinked.  “It’s a new girl,” she said over her shoulder to the others.

       “No wonder she knocked,” said a raven-haired woman, petite but well curved in her tiny pink bikini. “I’m Kitten,” she smiled at Shayla, extending her left hand, dainty and feminine.

       Shayla’s eyes were glued to Kitten’s other hand, which was tucked inside the waistband of her swimsuit bottoms.

       “I - I’m Shay,” she stammered trying to ignore the fact that the girl she was talking to was masturbating herself calm as can be.  “Shay Whitten.”

       “Are you here for the shoot, then?” asked Kitten casually, as though thrusting one’s fingers in and out of one’s vagina were a normal public function.

       “I’m a reporter.  With the Daily Standard.”

       Kitten looked at the blonde, whose chest looked frostbitten.  She was holding two ice cubes now, one on each of her thick, pink nubs.

       The blonde, thin enough to be a super model, shrugged.  “Ours is not to reason why,” she quipped.  “I’m Honey,” she said to Shay.  “Sorry I can’t shake your hand.”

       “What exactly are you doing?” Shay asked, unable to take her eyes off the girl’s chest.

       “Oh, this?” Honey looked down at her icy breasts.  “I’m making my nipples hard.”

       “Why?”

       Honey laughed.  “Because they have to be.”

       Kitten nodded.  “Ice works good.  I pinch mine.  Candy over here uses clothespins, but those hurt like hell.  She’s been to the Camp, though, so she’s used to that sort of thing.”

       Shay looked over to where Kitten was inclining her head.  An auburn haired girl, with the body of a centerfold was lying on the floor on her back, teeth gritted.  Just as Kitten had said, there were wooden clothespins, one each on her large, meaty nipples.  Her knees were drawn up, too, and between her legs there was a large purple phallus-like object that she was thrusting in and out with her hands.

       “Are these going to be pornographic pictures?” asked Shayla.

       “Oh, no,” said Honey.  “These are for next year’s Girly Girl calendar.  We all work at the Girly Girl Number 417 on Eighth Street.  Each Club gets its own calendar this year, which is good for all of us.”

       Kitten winked.  “You get to keep your clothes on for the calendar shots.”

       “Plus it’s a night off from the VIP room when we get back.”

       “Ooh, I know that’s right,” she heard a pretty African American girl say as she stood in front of a mirror pinching her nipples through her skimpy Lycra swim top.

       “That’s Sweet Cheeks,” explained Kitten.  “She was a finalist for Miss Girly Girl last year.  We all think Honey is a shoo-in this year.”

       “I really want to win,” said Honey, her eyes lit with excitement.  “First prize is a dinner at Burger World.  Anything I want off the menu.  Even a milkshake.”

       “Sweet Cheeks took the regional last year and got a candy bar,” Kitten said.  ‘Would you believe she shared it with all of us?  Is that sisterhood, or what?”

       Shayla looked at the lot of them.  “Tell me you’re not serious?” she asked, trying to keep a straight face.

       Kitten closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.  “Bingo!” she cried in triumph, pulling out her fingers to reveal a thin moist coating over the tips.

       “Show off,” Honey grumbled.

       “Pardon my asking,” Shayla said boldly, asserting herself as their interviewer.  “But why are you all, er, playing with yourselves?”

       Kitten wiped her fingers on a towel.  “They like you to be wet,” she explained.  “Same as at the Club.  Even when you’re just waiting tables.”

       Honey nodded knowingly.  “The pictures turn out better that way.  Everything turns out better that way.”

       Shayla made a note on her pad.  “But what if you can’t get yourself wet?”

       The girls looked at each other.

       “That’s not an option you want to take,” said Kitten.  “Trust me.”

       Just then the door flung open.  “Two minutes,” the man called brusquely, barely glancing at the girls. 

       Honey made a beeline for the white bikini that was hanging from a hook on the wall.  The one called Candy ran for a blue one right next to it.  Kitten was squatting, trying to keep herself moist.  Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she scrunched her face awkwardly, one hand back between her legs, the other on her breasts, manipulating the smallish nubs.

       One by one, they rushed past Shayla, falling out of the trailer to line up on the sand.  Kitten, who’d seemed so confident just a few moments ago, was the last to emerge.  They stood like soldiers now, breasts thrust out, palms at their sides as the director began his inspection.  Shay could only look on in shock as he handled each of them, putting his hands on their bodies at will, assessing them as though they were mere chattel.

       “We need to put you on a diet,” he said, gripping Sweet Cheeks’ gently convexed belly.

       “Yes, master,” she replied.

       “How about you, Honey?” he quipped, seizing her nether area with stabbing fingers.  “You going all the way this year?”

       Honey parted her legs to give him better access.  “Yes, master.”

       He grinned when he got to the curvaceous, wild-eyed Candy.  Yanking back her hair in his fist he punished her lips with a deep, openmouthed kiss.  “You’re mine after the shoot.”

       “Yes, master,” Candy gasped when he’d released her.

       When he got to Kitten he glared.  “I hope we won’t have a repeat of last time,” he said menacingly.

       Kitten turned pale.  “No, master,” she shook her head vigorously.

       The man scowled.  Snapping his fingers he pointed to his dusty brown work boots.  The nimble Kitten fell at once to her knees, putting her lips to the rough surface.

       “You taking notes, reporter?” The director asked as Kitten licked his boots clean with her tongue.

       Shayla stood tall.  “The only thing I’m missing is your name,” she told him, pushing the pencil point deliberately onto the paper.

       The director looked at her for a moment and then laughed. “Get up,” he growled to the groveling pinup girl.  “You’re on first.”

       Kitten was all eyes and ears as she trotted to the little area they’d set aside.  There were several still cameras in addition to the large video unit that seemed to have been repaired.  The crew was on three sides of the girl and they began to shout out orders, rapid fire, indicating poses she was to strike.

       “Head back,” ordered one of the men, a pony tailed blonde.  “Tits out.  Eyes closed.”

       “Hands in your hair,” said another.  “Left hip out.  Purse your lips.”

       “Now give me a good pout,” demanded the director as the cameras continued to roll and snap.  “No, that’s not it.  Try harder.  On your hands and knees.”

       Kitten fell to all fours, panting.  Her eyes were going wide.  She was getting that lost deer look in front of headlights.

       “Cut!” shouted the director.  “Damn it, where are you, girl?”

       Kitten looked up at him, terrified.  “Please, master, I’m here.  Give me another chance.”

       “She just doesn’t have it anymore,” he said to the man on his left, the one with the backwards ball cap.  “You can see that.  She’s good for brothels now, and that’s about it.”

       The man nodded.  “Either that or the Camp.”

       Kitten trembled, though she dared not break the last position they’d put her in.  “Give Kitten another chance,” she pleaded.  “Kitten will do better.  Kitten promises.”

       Shay felt a tremor down her spine as she remembered Rainier’s warning about the meaning of promises in his world.

       “Give me five minutes with her,” said the blonde ponytail.  “I think I can pull it off yet.”

       The director threw his hands in the air.  “I must be crazy,” he said.  “All right, all right.  Five minutes.”

       “Here, girl,” the man commanded Kitten.

       Kitten scooted across the sand on all fours.  When she got to the fellow, who was sitting down in a canvas-backed chair, she crawled up onto his lap.  Shayla’s mouth went dry as she saw what Kitten was doing.  Head and feet to the sand, buttocks in the air, she was positioning herself like a small child, one about to receive a spanking.

       The man, whose biceps were firm and large, peeled down the little scrap of cloth.  Kitten’s ass was creamy and taut.  Placing his palm down over the twin globes he told her she was to keep count.

       “Yes, master,” Kitten said, her lips pressing into the sand.

       Kitten winced at the first blow.  It was neither light nor easy.

       “One,” she called, her voice straining already.

       There was a red streak on the girl’s soft behind, its shape that of the man’s hand.  As it crashed down a second time, Kitten emitted a small whimper like a punished dog.

       “Two,” she cried.

       The third blow was harder. 

       “Oww!” Kitten wailed.

       A finger dug into her anus, making her go ramrod straight.  “Count,” the man reminded her.

       “Three!”

       Shayla felt her own breathing increase.  Seeing the hapless Kitten like this, her sexy little body sprawled across the man’s legs, her bikini bottoms dangling from her upturned left ankle even as the toes of her right dug into the sand impotently.  Meanwhile her half exposed breasts were flopping in the air while her palms were pressed to the sand, powerless to protect even an inch of her punished flesh.

       “Four!”

       Again the pert little buttocks quivered as yet another layer of red was added.

       “Five!”

       On and on it went, to ten, fifteen and eventually twenty.

       “Enough,” called the director.

       Kitten was allowed to get down and pull up her bottoms.  There were tears in her eyes, but Shayla could see her chest was heaving and her pupils were dilated.  The girl was clearly aroused now.

       Shayla felt a wave of weakness, sweet and warm, as she watched them wipe off Kitten’s face and take her down to the surf.  They made her lay on her belly, half in the sand, and half in the water.  They shot both still and video footage, the girl rolling and squirming, wet and hot in the water, obeying their every command with delicious precision as if she was in a trance.  And with her every motion, pure female energy poured out, from the way she flexed her calves and kept her lips and eyes half open with desire to the way she unconsciously offered herself to the camera, clumps of sand collected between her breasts and round her belly button, her hair wet and salty, so grab able and possessable.

       Shayla felt her own breasts swell and her belly surge with warmth as the men continued their assault, giving Kitten suggestions, invisible cues to ratchet up the tension and passion to fever pitch.  Almost unconsciously, Shay ran her hands over her hips, sliding down her soggy, ruined stockings.  She needed her legs bare; her body, too, if she could get away with it.

       “That’s it,” coached the director.  “Crawl, Kitten.  Pretend there’s a man’s shaft an inch from your face.  Can you see it?  You want it, but it moves when you do.  You must kiss it, Kitten, you must serve it.  You’re a bad girl if you don’t.  You’ll be beaten for disobeying, but the shaft keeps moving away.  You want to scream, you want to cry.  You can’t help yourself.  Beg for it, Kitten.  Beg with your eyes.  Show with your lips what you’d do if you could get it in your mouth.”

       Kitten was moaning.  You could see she wanted to touch herself, to bring herself to climax, but her every move was being controlled and prescribed, and it was obvious that her own sexual satisfaction was not on the list.

       “On your back, Kitten. There’s a cock between your legs.  Show us that—with your eyes only—show us what that cock can do.  It owns you Kitten.  But wait.  It’s gone now.  Beg to have it back, Kitten.  Show how you beg.  Nothing X rated.  Good.  Now crawl to us, on your belly.  This is it, Kitten!  The next thirty seconds, you’re on your stomach, writhing and crawling.  This is how you show us you still have what it takes to be a club slut.  A Girly Girl.  It’s a privilege, Kitten.  Dancing on a clean, lighted stage, laying only for gentlemen, being used in the VIP room where there’s pillows for your knees and arse and carpet on the floor.  Think how good you have it, Kitten.   

       “Serving drinks to real men who’ll tell you how pretty you are while they stroke your head or your arse, getting to earn treats with your mouth and cunt, having the right to beg for the best scraps from the kitchen, having your own cot to sleep in, the right to wear clothes, bras, panties and perfume, getting little sips of liquor from the customer’s glasses or caviar and shrimp from their hands.  And your name, Kitten.  You’re lucky to have that, too.  Remember what they almost called you?  Do you, Sweet Fuck?  Show us how grateful you are, Kitten.  Show us that you want to keep all your privileges!”

       Kitten had stopped crawling.  Humping herself on the sand, she began to shudder, ashamed, the words having fallen on her flesh like whips, tearing at her pride, igniting in her the rawest, most animal passions.

       “Damn it!” The director screamed.  “She’s coming!  Now we’ll never finish!”

       Two of the men were running down into the water.  One on each side of her, they yanked Kitten to her feet.  Half running, half stumbling, the girl was conveyed to the side of one of the RV’s. Using handcuffs, one pair for each wrist, they bound her to overhead brackets, her arms wide apart, her back against the vehicle.  With their boots, they kicked the sand out from under her feet, so that she ended up on tiptoes, her body stretched painfully.  As a parting gesture, they ripped away her bikini, leaving her naked.

       “Give me something to goddamn write with!” the director shouted as he stormed towards the helpless girl.  Shayla gasped in horror as she saw him take the black marker and write the words across Kitten’s breasts and belly.

       Sweet Fuck.

       “Candy!” He screamed, tossing the marker into the sand.  “Get your bony arse over here!  You’re next.”

       Candy’s full, barely concealed breasts flapped in the air as she ran in front of the cameras.  She was going so fast that she stumbled, falling hard into the sand.  The girl’s clumsiness launched the director into another round of screaming about useless sluts.

       Forgetting Candy for the moment, Shayla looked at Kitten, the perfect sacrifice, eyes downcast, hung in submissive shame, her naked, marked body a thing of ridicule to be seen by all.  Did it hurt very much, she wondered to be humiliated that way?  Or were there other feelings she might be having; hot, wet feelings that were anything but painful?

       Unwittingly Shayla let her fingers brush the front of her dress, across her taut stomach and down to the juncture of her thighs.   She let the hand rest there, casually.  Did she dare to push the fingers deeper, where they needed to go?  Would anyone notice if she did?  And if so, what would they say or do in response?  Would they be disgusted and demand she leave the shoot at once, or would they laugh at her cruelly, maybe even strip her naked and force her to put on one of the demeaning little bikinis so she too could pose for them, for their pleasure?  And if she did pose, would she please them, or might they punish her, too, writing abusive, obscene words on her, chaining her to the RV as an object of scorn?

       She closed her eyes.  The shame of such a thing would be too much to bear.  She had to restrain herself.  On the other hand, if she did not satisfy herself soon she would explode right there upon the sand, dissolving into a molten ball of heat where once a girl had stood.  Maybe if she confessed all this, maybe if she begged for the men to take control of her, to take away her choices, to force her to . . .

       “I see you made it through the afternoon.”

       Shayla dropped her hands to her side like a guilty child.  “Yes,” she managed, her voice a dry whisper.

       “You were fortunate, today,” he observed, hands clasped behind his back.  “The weather is perfect.”

       “Yes.”

       Rainier was beside her. Uncomfortably close. His words, his presence, felt like penetration somehow, a breaching of her space, her natural barriers.  She tried to regard him, to contain him surreptiously in her mind.  From the corner of her eye she saw that he had changed into a black silk shirt and trousers.  The sleeves were rolled onto rugged but not overdeveloped forearms.  The slacks hugged his strong waist, accentuating the powerful thighs and taut buttocks.  Further down, she saw he’d retained the tasseled loafers.  He must have showered, too, because his hair was wet and combed back and he smelt thickly of musk and jungle and tobacco.

       “It’s unusually warm, in fact,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the plight of Kitten and the others. “I’ve seen them carry out these type of sessions under much colder conditions.  As low as fifty degrees, actually.  In that case the crew must wear jackets.”

       “The crew wears jackets?” she breathed.  “And the models?”

       He laughed.  “It would hardly be a swimwear shoot without swim wear would it?  It must be cold for them, I imagine.  But schedules sometimes dictate it that way; the high degree of exposure being required to meet the needs of the market.”

       Shayla clenched her fists in heated fury.  The very thought of these girls being forced to lay their bodies in the icy water, having to display themselves before warmly dressed men, their only covering being a few square inches of material designed not to protect but to entice and arouse was nearly enough to make her blood boil.  Then again, she thought, imagine the thrill, the overpowering rush that must come from being made to display one’s self in utter discomfort solely for the amusement of strong men.

       She suddenly felt faint.  Her only hope of staying conscious right now was not to respond to anything, not to look at the man or allow her body to acknowledge his presence in any way.  Keeping her eyes forward, she focused on Candy who was performing now for the cameras.  She watched as the girl played to the lenses as if they were lovers, letting them have their way with her supple flesh. Candy was good, very good.  No doubt the market found her pleasing.

       “Would you like to go to dinner now or stay on awhile?”

       Dinner?  Had that much time passed already?  Shayla crossed her arms over her chest.  Candy was leaning forward at the moment, legs spread, the points of her nipples clearly visible through the suit as she thrust out her bosom.  The posture reminded Shayla of the clothespins, the way they’d pinched and warped the girl’s pink nipples back in the trailer. 

       “I think I’d like to go,” she said with sudden force, her hair whirling to the left as she spun away from the torturous scene.  “Now, if you don’t mind.”

       Rainier studied her for a moment.  “Very well,” he agreed, his voice devoid of even a trace of emotion.  “Dinner is a bit far, so we’ll be taking my helicopter.”

       He led Shayla by the arm to the waiting machine.  She’d been so absorbed in the photo shoot, she hadn’t even heard it land.

       “Keep your head down,” he warned, putting a hand on her back as they approached the still spinning blades.

       Fighting to keep her gait steady, desperately trying to resist the urge to fall helplessly into the man’s arms, Shay ran the mantra through her mind, the few simple words that had gotten her through the day and which in turn would get her through dinner with Gustav Rainier.