She stood, trying not to look bored–no–trying not to be bored, as the photographer paced around the set.  Her clothing was perfect, her hair and make up perfect, though the make up woman dabbed at an imaginary spot on her nose.

Serena inhaled, exhaled. She looked gorgeous, of course, she always did. She examined her nails, and tried to keep impatience at bay. Her Sir was to meet her here shortly and the shoot was taking over-long.

“Phillip, can’t you just take a picture of the shoes and be done with it?”

He straightened up from the boxes he was pawing through, and stalked over to her. An inch from her nose, he stopped, glaring. Refusing to back down she met him, eye to eye.

“You go too far, woman. This is my craft, my art.”

“It’s a picture of shoes.”

He turned on his heel, snapping his finger at his assistant. The poor harried girl dragged the floral hassock across to where the impatient man pointed. That imperious finger turned in Serena’s direction.

“Foot, here.”

Taking a deep breath, she stalked to where Phillip had pointed, lifting her foot to the top. High heels and odd poses didn’t mix, but she had plenty of practice with heels and strange predicament poses, thanks to her Sir’s cruelly inventive mind.


“more to the left. No! NO! Naughty girl. Knee to the left, ankle to the right…yes…hold it…”

With a click and a whirr, he took a fast series of shots. Rubbing his hands together  he smiled.

A slow clap, that could only be sarcastic, made them all turn, startled. Her heart fell, then rose to a thumping crescendo. Her Sir stood there.

“Who is this…this…”

“Mr. Renoir, I presume?” He took a fast step forward and shook the perturbed photographers hand.

“This is my girl. And you say she’s been naughty? I think perhaps there is a way to …add an interesting element to your photo’s.”

The photographer had been prepared to verbally lance the intruder, but something in the older man’s stance gave him pause.

“What is it you’re suggesting? Exactly?”

Her mouth opened in shock as her Sir took the photographers arm and led him away, talking low and quietly. That He’d been able to deflect and deflate one of Phillips famous tantrums was a miracle in itself. She felt a bit nervous as they kept glancing at her. Her nipples rose to tight hard peaks, as she instinctively knew He was planning something very devious.


Phillip waved his hand in her direction.

“Go. I might like this idea. Let us see.”

Her Sir crossed the room, His smile making her tummy turn over in nervous figure-eights.  In moments He’d taken her hair down from its high bundle of curls, removed her jacket, her shirt, her slacks, until she stood clad only in her black lace bra and panties. Clothing in his hand, he crossed to wardrobe, and came back with a skirt.

Only a skirt.

A very tight, very short skirt.

When she put it on, it barely covered her ass.

“Position One.”

She stared at Him a moment. Reading the implacable gaze, she sank to her knees on the floor, pressed her forehead to His gleaming shoe.  He left her there a minute, two. She felt the blush growing on her cheeks, but her nipples were like the hardest granite.

“Position Two.”

She sat back, knees open, feet flared. The skirt rode high on her upper thighs. He took off his blue tie, draping it around her neck. He pinched each one as he settled the ends of the silk over the nipples that poked through her lacy bra. He stepped away.

The camera whirred, as Phillip took picture after picture. He moved from the tripod, moving around her, never stopping.

“it needs more,”  he muttered.

Sir stepped up in front of her, sliding his foot between her spread thighs. His head turned out of the frame, His fingers buried in her hair, arching her back. He shook her head, mussing her further, then smeared her lipstick with His thumb. Fist once more in her hair, her head was pulled back, exposing her lovely throat, the pulse beating wildly there. She didn’t notice the camera any more, only the growing wetness between her thighs.

“Yes! The best! The best!”

“Stand.” She moved to her feet, quickly. He swatted her ass firmly.

“Bend over and show me that pretty bottom. Turn those toes in a bit, hands on your thighs. Look at me.”

Since He stood behind her, she had to turn her head around. Her curtain of hair hid her tits, tantalizing Phillip.  He’d seen many a boob in his line of work, but the man was creating a living sex doll in front of him. Someone wanton and sensual, and far removed from the polished model who’d stood here minutes ago.

He filled his camera with the images as she moved through the poses, blushing, until he ran out of room in his digital storage device.

“We are done. Magnificent! Bravo! and I thank you, Sir, for your timely intervention. If I had more cards….” he sighed dramatically.

Her Sir smiled.

“Go thank your photographer.”

She didn’t want to ‘thank’ Phillip. She glared for a moment. His brow rose.

“On your knees, then, sashay that naughty ass over and thank him. Properly.”

To argue would add more punishment. She crawled across the floor on her hands and knees, her humiliation knowing no bounds. This was fucking Phillip, for gosh sakes. His eyes were wide, glowing. He’d never seen the like. Oh, he’d heard about that damned book from last summer, the titillating gossip about a movie being made but he’d never imagined the reality of it. He thought she didn’t want to do it…this crawling thing…yet she did it because HE had said so. His cock grew hard, swelling suddenly like a river in a rainstorm.

“Thank you Phillip.” Her voice was husky. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.  She glanced over her shoulder to see Sir leaning, one ankle crossed in front of the other, against the counter where her make up lady had been before Phillip had shooed her away. His assistant was in the corner, mouth agape.  She knew that look on His face. The “you’re not even close to done, slut” look. Closing her eyes and sending a prayer to the universe for a swift ending to this humiliation, she reached up for the photographers zipper.


She lay back on the bed, still tingling from their early morning play. He’d been fierce, yanking on her tits, slapping her pussy, fucking her brainless. He’d pussy fucked, then crawled up for her mouth. Back to her pussy for more brutal pounding, until He exploded in her belly.

Sated, they’d teased and kissed and cuddled until He rose from the warm wet nest for His shower. She reached for the fashion magazine that had come in the weekend mail. Thumbing through it she came to an add for Demon Shoes.

The ad.

Her ad.

She looked–ethereal, beautiful, drawing the eye deeper into the photo until they rested on the unmarred perfection of the shoes. Her hands were wrapped around His legs, head tilted back. He stood with His back to the camera, fingers cupping her chin, the blue tie nearly lost in the shadows. Her make-up was smudged, her hair a mess. In fact, the  photo was brilliant for what it didn’t show. No tits. No pussy, only the implication that she’d just gotten a face full of cock. Beneath her body, crouched as she was before Him, the red shoes stood out, but they were very nearly overshadowed by the submissive glow coming from her eyes.

“Captivate her,” she murmured, tracing the line of His back in the photo.

Listening to the sound of the shower in the next room she smiled. Indeed, He had.