Not That Kind of Girl (erotica)

Am I Really Doing This?

It was funny. She made no confirmation with the photographers (whoever they were) but somehow she felt like she was obligated to go. After the call with Sam to free up her schedule, her fate was sealed. She was going.

She didn't recognize the address that they gave her. As she got closer in her car, she started to get more concerned. The area was a warehouse district. She had never been in this neighborhood and doubted she knew anyone who had. It seemed almost deserted.

As she got within 1/4 mile, her pessimism waned. She recognized lofts and hipper, newer businesses. "Hey, this is actually pretty cool," she thought to herself, not entirely convinced.

She parked directly in front of the building. It looked to be an old warehouse space converted into an office building. Was this right? An office?

The lights in the office were on but, of course they would be. It was only 4:55 (being scared of what would happen next didn't mean she shouldn't be early). This office surely was still bustling with activity and with workers. This didn't seem like somewhere she would be modeling underwear.

Knowing that there seemed to be a mix-up with the address or, even worse, that this was some sort of joke, made it easier to get out of the car. The pressure was off. She grabbed her backpack just in case. She doubted she would be needing the pink lace bra and panty set, the aquamarine teddy, or the sheer negligee that were packed inside.

As she neared the door, she noticed the sign for the business: "Weaver Architects". She gingerly opened the door, took a deep breath and considered what she would say next. If there was a receptionist on the other side of the door, she had no idea what she would say. Every option that ran through her head sounded ridiculous. Hell, the situation was ridiculous.

There was a reception area but it was empty. She peeked into the rest of the office and saw an open space with clusters of desks. Nobody was at the desks. No sign of anyone, in fact. She did a lap around the office peering into conference rooms as the clicks of her heels reverberated against the high ceilings. After a few fruitless minutes of this, she gave up and headed towards the door.

"There you are," she heard him say as he approached her from a hallway she hadn't noticed. "Thank you for being on time. I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you. You must be Vanessa." He extended his hand.

"Yes," she gave him her friendliest smile, the same one she used as a waitress in hopes of getting a few extra dollars in tips.

"I'm Ted Weaver. I'm the one who emailed you. This is my firm," he said gesturing to the space.

"It's, uh, great." She felt herself grow flush at such a pedestrian word choice. Ted was not at all what she expected. He was so adult. She assumed the men would be older but Ted was so put together. With his young face and trim physique, he could've easily passed for thirty but late thirties seemed more likely. Through the pepper of his black hair were a few flecks of salt that implied he wasn't quite as young as he looked. His outfit of a sports jacket, pressed oxford shit, flat trousers, and black rimmed glasses looked the part of an architect, that's for sure. A very good architect, if the size of this space was any indication.

"Should we head back to my office?" He guided her back down the hall he came from. They entered an enormous office. It must have been five times the size of her dorm room. His desk was situated prominently but there were also couches and plush chairs. Lest she forget why she was here, there were also two tripods set up with expensive looking cameras. They were facing a leather couch.

"The email said it all but let me reiterate it again. We are an amateur photo club. We will share this pictures among ourselves only. We pay $100 an hour. Do you have any questions?"

She was taken aback at his directness and the fast pace at which things were moving. "Well, yes, actually. Who is we?"

"Yes, of course. There will be four of us here. Me, the camera man, who is named Gus, and two other guys."

"Do the other guys not have names?" she asked, trying to be as flirtatious as she believed the situation called for. He hadn't smiled since she met him. He was efficient and direct with his words but he was no nonsense. It made her comfortable and nervous at the same time.

"They do. I just have to apologize in advance for them. I don't get to choose everyone who is in the club."

"What does that mean?" she asked curiously.

"Just let me know if they do anything that bothers you and I'll take care of it." She appreciated the chivalry in the gesture, even if he avoided her question.

She heard a soft knock on the door and turned to see what had to be Gus. He was around 40, medium build, with a kind smile. He wore a camera around his neck.

"Gus, I'd like you to meet Vanessa. Vanessa, Gus will be photographing you. He's a sweet guy. You can trust him."

Gus gave her a shy wave. She liked him instantly and sensed that sweet really was the perfect word to describe him. She felt a little more comfortable that Gus would be the one taking the pictures of her.

"So, what do you say? Should we get started?" Ted asked. He sure didn't waste any time with pleasantries.

"Well, hold on now. How long is this going to be? How much will I get paid?" If he wanted to be all-business, she could do the same.

He looked surprised at her audaciousness. "Good. I like a girl who stands up for herself. Why don't I give you $400 now so we don't have to worry about it?" Not waiting for an answer, he pulled out his wallet, removed four hundred dollar bills and handed them to her.

She smiled, pleased at herself for getting so much. That was a week and a half's worth of waiting tables. "Now, if you'll just excuse me, I left something in my car. . ." She pantomimed a 'make a run for it' gesture. Gus chuckled. "At least Gus has a sense of humor, unlike Mr. Sourpuss over there." Gus chuckled loudly, the jab at Ted clearly resonating with him.

"I'm very busy, Vanessa. I don't tend to have a lot of time for jokes. You've taken the money so I assume you'd like to move forward with this?"

"Yes, sorry. I tend to overcompensate for being nervous by being extra outgoing. Believe it or not, this is new for me."

"I'm sure it is. Let me know what I can do to make it comfortable for you. What we are going to do is take your picture in a few different outfits. I will help you with the poses we'd like and Gus will snap the shots. We'll do some standing shots and we'll also use that couch." Ted replied. He reminded her of a doctor, both with the detached, clinical way he dealt with her but also with the thoughtfulness in detailing out what would happen next.

"Just tell me what I should do. Should I go behind this and change?" She motioned to a privacy screen in the corner.

"No," he replied cryptically.

"No?" She felt her heartbeat escalate. "Hold on now. I'm not changing in front of you. That wasn't part of the deal."

"Remove your clothes and strip down to your underwear."

"Now? No. . . you see . . . I brought my fancy underwear in my backpack. I can change into that. You'll like it better. What I'm wearing now is nothing special. . . "

"Vanessa, you told me to tell you what to do and now I'm telling you. Strip down."

Her heart was racing. "OK." Gus moved over to a tripod and began positioning his shot.

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