Just The Tip - Cassandra Dee Page 0,4

have no idea. Lambos, Ferraris, Maseratis, you name them, they were all there. The staff was there too: photographers, assistants, make-up people, and costume people, if you can call them that.

Because the models were barely dressed, some altogether nude except for stripper heels. They sprawled across the vehicles, posing provocatively, and there was even one redhead straddling the door to a fire-red sports car, grinding against it, letting her bare pussy do the talking as she moaned for the crew, cameras flashing.

Was that moisture I saw on the leather? Sure enough, the redhead was turned on, her plush folds spilling their wet secrets onto the pebbled material.

Holy cow … did they expect this of me too?

3

Jenna

“You must be Jenna,” purred a melodious female voice. “I’m Deborah.” I turned, more in shock than anything else. A middle-aged brunette strode confidently towards me, perfectly groomed in an elegant but sexy black suit, her hair swept up into a chignon. She was fully dressed, thank god.

“Yes, that’s me,” I stammered, looking down at my feet. It was unlike me to be shy, but then again I’m not confronted with rampant nudity all the time.

The woman chuckled throatily at my obvious discomfort.

“You’re beautiful honey, you’ll fit right in,” she said soothingly. With a more critical eye, she added, “Hmmm, tall, slim, big boobs, long blonde hair … just the ticket. Patrick!” she called off in the distance, “come take a look at the goods.”

I bridled a bit. The goods? I was a woman, not some inanimate object, but I checked myself. You know what? I was an aspiring model, “the product” so to say, out to make money off of my looks and my body. I was getting paid cold hard cash to sell cars. I could do this.

A curly-haired guy ambled over, rail-thin, scruffy looking in raggedy clothes.

“This it?” he said, giving me the once over casually.

“Yeah, this is our new girl,” purred Deborah. “Isn’t she delicious?”

I shot Deborah a suspicious look. No way was I interested in anything lesbian and this woman was giving me weird vibes.

But she just laughed again throatily and said, “Patrick is our wardrobe assistant. He’ll be helping you with your outfits, making sure they fit right, alterations and all that good stuff. You brought the bikinis? Black and red? Oh good, you’ll match the Lamborghini over there.”

I turned and saw the sexiest car I’d ever seen. Gleaming red paint, so low-slung the chassis almost hit the floor. The tires were oversized and the car was fitted with a double-valve exhaust and three-inch spoiler. I was in love.

Both Deborah and Patrick laughed to see me gawking over an inanimate object, my lust obvious.

“You’ll be a good model if you can emote that in front of the camera,” advised Patrick. “Let’s head over to the dressing area and take a look at what you’ve brought.”

I followed him to an area of the floor that had a canvas modesty curtain draped over a small corner space. Pulling open my bag, I took out the black and red bikinis, the scraps of fabric nothing but the tiniest band-aids. They’d cover next to nothing.

But Patrick looked them over thoughtfully.

“Put on the red one,” he said, fingering the glimmery fabric in his hands slowly. “It’ll look great under the lights. Plus, it’s smaller,” he said with an odd expression.

Hmm, my spidey sense was going off but I did as he said. I slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the bikini, making sure to double-knot the strings behind my neck and at my hips. Don’t want to lose control of those babies! I slipped my feet into four-inch heels Patrick had handed me and slipped out from behind the curtain.

“This way!” called a strange man with a camera draped around his neck. He gestured to the Lamborghini. God, that car was calling my name and I almost tripped over myself, rushing to the gleaming metal.

Drawing on my inner siren, I posed against the door seductively, leaning forward provocatively so that the inner swells of my breasts thrust forward, the creaminess delicious and beckoning.

“Fantastic!” growled the photographer. He was a paunchy, middle-aged dude, wearing a beret like a serious artiste, and gestured for a lighting guy to come closer, holding a silver reflective surface strategically so that it hit my curves.

I could tell that I looked good, the refracted light gleaming off of my golden skin, and I went with it. I struck a couple of poses, swaying my hips, pushing my butt