Factory Girl Chloe Tries Modelling

Notes:

This is a role-play fantasy story involving one-to-one consensual sex. There's no blackmailing, BDSM or gang banging, although the sex can get quite firm and spicy at times. It's written by a man to a woman, but I hope that men and women will both relate to it.

It's clearly about two people who know each other, but I have left out any details of their relationship so that readers can interpret it however they wish, and imagine the story is about them.

I have also left out much in the way of description of the couple's physical characteristics for the same reason. 'Chloe' could be blonde or brunette, skinny or full figured, 21 or 51 - it's up to you.

After our first full-on role-play encounter (see 'Chloe the Accountant is Picked Up) we discuss what happened. After a while we agree that each time we meet, you will still be Chloe, but a different Chloe. I'll also play a different role each time.

This is still early days in my attempts at writing erotic fiction. This time, I have tried to include a bit of humour in the story. I am already putting the finishing touches to a third 'Chloe' role-play story.

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The shopping centre is surprisingly busy for a chilly, windy Wednesday afternoon. Maybe it's because it's early in the month and people are still feeling flush so soon after pay day.

Despite the crowds, I have managed to get a table in a quiet corner in the most expensive of the many franchise eateries making up the large food court. My trendy foreign beer is still three quarters full when you come around the corner ahead of me.

You don't see me, but I see you stop to take one last look at your reflection in a shop window. You shake your hair out and make a couple of quick adjustments to your clothes, take a deep breath, say something to yourself and turn to find the franchise I told you about via text a couple of hours ago. It's three minutes before the time I gave you.

(It's been several weeks since our first role play adventure. We are both so ready for this one. Seeing you makes me even more ready.)

As you get close, you scan every face in the place, trying to work out which one is waiting for you. You even ask the only other lone male diner if he is expecting you, a masterful touch, clearly designed for my benefit. The chap is a scruffy bloke in his late sixties, and clearly devastated that he won't be enjoying your company.

You apologise to him, touching his shoulder briefly before turning away from him, now seeing me. As you walk towards me, I can fully appreciate why the poor chap looked so crestfallen, and why he gives me such a dirty jealous look when he realised I am the lucky bastard who has an appointment with you.

To put it simply, you look amazing. Stunning. Breathtaking. I drink in the sight of you as you take the last few steps to my table, but without letting a flicker of emotion show.

A pair of white high heeled shoes push your bum up and out, which heightens the effect of your tight, faded jeans. I love your bum. Every time I see you, I want to touch it, see it, kiss it. And these jeans make those urges stronger than ever. Every pair of eyes in the food court is on it as you wiggle across the floor.

If that wasn't enough, on top you wear a satin black strapless bustier. Your tanned shoulders look wonderful, but of course it's the effect the bustier has on your boobs that draws the eye.

It's a great outfit, but not something Chloe the accountant would wear. At this point I have no idea who you will be playing today.

"Mr Armstrong?"

Your greeting snaps me back in the room, reminding me that, once again, we are strangers. And I have a part to play.

"Yes. You must be Clare."

You look worried. "No, Chloe."

"My bad. Too many meetings today. Too many girls. All a bit of a blur. Chloe. Of course. Please, sit down. Drink?"

I don't get up. I don't offer my hand for you to shake. In this role play I'm a busy man.

"Yes please, if it's no bother."

I catch the waiter's eye and you order a vodka and Red Bull. Classy.

"Look, thanks for coming. I don't have much time so let's get down to business."

"Of course. And thanks ['fanks'] for seeing me." You are polite and professional despite me being a little short with you. But there is something different from our first role play adventure, and it's not just the clothes. Gone is the slightly posh accent of Chloe the accountant. This Chloe is far from posh, but not a bad working class stereotype.

"Yeah, no problem. Now, first of all, the reason we're meeting here in such a public place is for your protection. Nothing is more important to me than the safety and wellbeing of the women I work with. So, unless we're with other people, I always conduct meetings in public places. It's one of the ways I safeguard you. Also, it does give me some protection against false claims of inappropriate behaviour."

"Got it. No problem."

"Good. So, today is a quick chance to meet you and see if I think we can use you. Obviously if we go on to do some test shots there will be a camera man, myself as art director, and a specialist professional chaperone to ensure your safety and wellbeing."

You look a little surprised: "Oh, wow. I didn't know that was how it was done. It seems very professional."

"Well, yes. I didn't build my agency to be so successful by accident. I do things correctly, and that includes putting my models' welfare first. This industry has had a seedy reputation, and I don't want to be part of anything seedy. And on a personal level, I am a big believer in equality and women's rights."

"That's very reassuring, Mr Armstrong."

I lean back in my chair. "So let me ask you, do you have any modelling experience?"

"A little. I'm on the menu for the local pizza delivery firm. And I once modelled flowery blouses and padded jackets in a flyer for the Factory Shop."

"To be honest, that doesn't fill me with much confidence. But I am open minded, and you were on time, which is rare these days. Now, let me get a better look at you. Sit up straight please."

You sit upright, throwing back your shoulders and pushing your boobs out.

"Can you just walk over to the door and back again? I wasn't really paying attention when you walked in."

"Err, OK, sure."

You stand and carry out my instructions. Eager to please, it's like you are on a catwalk in Paris or Milan rather than a UK shopping centre food court. Or at least an inexperienced woman's interpretation of what catwalk modelling might be.

Your bum wiggles, your boobs bounce, and you even toss your hair as you turn before the walk back. Once again, all eyes are on you, but now with added interest as you command attention. I even see a jealous wife punch her husband on the arm for tracking you across the floor.

"Not bad," I say as you take your seat. "I think it's worth scheduling a test shoot."

"Oh, that's great," you squeal, clapping your hands together three times in front of your chest.

I flip open the calendar on my phone. "What's your diary like for November?"

"November?" You look devastated. "Will it really be that long?"

(It's currently mid-September.)

"I'm sorry but I'm busy. I see a lot of girls. And it takes time to organise a studio, photographer and chaperone. But we do pay five hundred pounds for a two-hour test shoot, so that should be worth waiting for."

You look down at your hands, now clasped together on the table. You take a deep breath

"What's wrong?"

"It's just, I, I really need to start making some money as soon as possible."

"Aren't you in work?"

"I was. I had a job in a shoe factory, but it all went wrong. Some problem with my boss."

"What type of problem?"

"This is difficult. You see, he took a shine to me and wouldn't take no for an answer. When I made it clear I wasn't interested, he got me fired. And now my rent's due and my landlord is pulling that 'Surely we can come to some arrangement' crap. People think just because I'm pretty, with great tits and a killer ass, they can treat me like a piece of meat."

"That's disgusting. And it certainly won't happen with my agency. But I can't just click my fingers and arrange a shoot. And we do need pictures of you in, well, various poses in order to assess whether we can send you to our clients' shoots."

"I understand. I know this is about lingerie, topless and nude modelling, like we discussed on the phone. I know you need to see how photogenic I am, how my body looks."

You pause. I let the silence hang in the air.

"I have an idea, Mr Armstrong. How about I take some selfies and send them to you? That way you can see how I look, and it will save you the time and cost of a - what did you call it?"

"A test shoot."

"Yes, a test shoot. And of course, it might mean I get some work sooner, which would mean the world to me."

(Your voice is almost pleading, but not quite. Fuck, you are so good at this.)

"It's not as simple as that. We need professional pictures, not iPhone selfies. And we need to know how you are in a studio environment, how relaxed you are, how well you take direction. That sort of thing."

It looks like you are about to cry.

"Look, I know you have your procedures, but can't you please help. Can't you take some pictures today? You must know what you're doing. I mean, it's your agency."

"Yes of course I do. And I have cameras in my hotel room not far from here. But I just can't take the risk of you accusing me of malpractice. There's nobody to chaperone and I don't even have a model release form handy for you to sign."

"OK. I'm sorry."

Again, that on-the-edge-of-tears look.

"Please don't get upset. I can't remember, where did you say you came from today?"

You name a grubby town at least 100 miles away.

"Well let me give you some petrol money at least."

"That's kind of you but I didn't drive. My car's in the garage. It needs a new clutch, and I can't afford to pay the bill. I got a return train ticket with my last thirty pounds."

"Oh, I see. This interview obviously meant a lot to you."

You nod, pick up your bag and start to stand: "Sorry, I shouldn't even mention my problems. I'm very grateful for your time and hopefully I'll hear from you about that test shoot."

"Sit down, please. Look, I can see how upset you are and how much this means to you. I shouldn't really do this as it goes against everything I stand for, but you are my last meeting of the day so I could squeeze in a test shoot. But it would have to be in my hotel room, so there are a few things we must do to make sure you feel safe."

"I feel safe already, with you. But sure, whatever you want."

You're smiley again now.

"First, I want you to take a picture of me, and then the hotel, and send them to a friend. Make sure they know where you are and what's going on."

"Got it."

"I'll also need you to give me verbal consent before we start the shoot, which we will both film on our phones."

"No problem."

"And to give you even more reassurance, let me just make it clear that I have a simple rule. I never proposition models or in any way get involved with them."

"Oooh, so I'm a model now?"

The cheeky way you say this is quite lovely. You are playing the role of a factory girl flattered and excited at the prospect of modelling perfectly.

"Not quite. But my rule applies just the same."

We drink up and head to the hotel, which is just a short walk away. Once again, all eyes are on you, in the food court, through the shopping centre, and out in the busy street. Your bare shoulders are especially striking on this cold Autumn afternoon.

You look impressed and excited when you see that I am staying at the best hotel in town.

You take the pictures as we agreed, of me and the hotel, and fiddle with your phone, seemingly sending them to a friend.

I'm really struggling to play my part in this. You look sensational in your tight jeans and even tighter bustier. I get glimpses of your smooth armpits as you try to control your slightly messy hair as it blows across your face in the wind.

I want to kiss you. On your mouth, your neck, your shoulders and your shaved armpits. I really don't know if I can restrain myself in the next hour or so, as we planned it, but I know it will be worth it.

I guide you through the hotel's huge revolving door and lead you up to my room on the top floor. I hold the door open for you to step through. You let out a gasp as you see that it's a big and expensive room.

"Wow. This is lovely. I've only seen hotel rooms like this in films!"

(The deliberate irony that we were in an even bigger suite in an even nicer hotel just a few weeks ago doesn't pass me by.)

"Sorry, that wasn't professional of me. I know we have work to do."

"No need to apologise, Chloe. Now let's get this consent statement on film. In your own words, just say that you consent to me taking different types of pictures and that you understand that I can share them with colleagues and clients for business purposes, but that you do not consent to them being more widely circulated, printed or published online."

We both start filming and I am fighting back the laughter as you make your statement:

"I, Chloe Cumming, being of sound mind and judgement, do hereby consent to Mr Armstrong taking pictures of me, wearing clothes, in lingerie, topless and fully nude, and he shall thereafter have my consent to share said pictures with colleagues and clients whomsoever he does seem fit to, but he does not have my consent for said pictures to be online or elsewhere."

The way you play the factory girl doing her best to talk in legal language is genius, and hilarious.

"OK, Chloe. If you are happy with that, so am I. Oh and one more thing. Give me your bank details and I'll transfer over your £500 fee for the test shoot now."

You are taken aback: "Oh my. I didn't expect that, what with this not being a proper studio and everything. Thank you, Mr Armstrong, that is wonderful."

With the business done, we get down to the shoot. I can barely contain my excitement. It's been weeks since I kissed, licked, fondled and fucked Chloe the accountant. And I'm about to live out a fantasy of being a photographer with a beautiful, nude, slutty subject.

"Do you want to pop in the bathroom and make sure you're happy with your hair and makeup while I set up in here."

"Of course. Won't be long."

While you are in the bathroom, I set up the lights and camera I bought just for this moment. They didn't cost much but look the part and will help to make our fantasy feel real.

You step out of the bathroom looking amazing. Your makeup is a little heavier, especially the lipstick, but still tasteful. Your hair has more body to it and that slightly messy look you know I like. But although you look every inch the wannabe model excited to get going, you also have an air of nervousness.

"Let's start with you just as you are now. And remember, despite your consent statement, I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can stop at any time."

"That's so nice of you, Mr Armstrong. But I really want to do this. And I actually don't mind getting naked for you. I just hope you like what you see."

"That's good. But remember, you aren't getting naked for me. This is just to see how you handle modelling and get some test shots. It's not for my pleasure."

"That's a pity," you mumble under your breath.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing, just hope I'm pretty enough."

We start with you fully clothed, sitting at the room's large dressing table. You're a natural, moving easily through the poses I request, and some of your own. It's all quite innocent, despite the way your boobs look twice their size thanks to that black bustier. Simple full-length shots of you reading, playing on your phone and touching up your makeup.

After a while you surprise me: "Mr Armstrong. I'm sure you know what you're doing, but can I make a suggestion?"

"Err, OK. That's not really the done thing for a new girl at a test shoot, but go on."

"Well, I just think pictures from the waist up would look good, especially in this top. And I think I can be sexier, if you'd like that."

"OK, show me what you mean."

You turn your chair to facing the camera, tousle your hair, bring you elbows in to push your boobs together, and strike the most perfect innocent-but-naughty expression, biting your bottom lip slightly. It's an amazing look and I start to feel a stirring in my pants. You are so fuckable in this moment.

"That's good, Chloe. Very good."

You smile briefly and get back to the sexy posing. Playing with your hair, putting a finger in your mouth, that sort of thing. At one point you lift an arm above your head, showing off your smooth armpit and lifting your boobs slightly out of the bustier. It's a great look.

We're really getting into it now, working as a team, trying new poses and lighting setups. It's fun. But most of all, a huge turn on for us both.

After a while it's time to move on. "OK, Chloe, that was great. How about we try some shots in your bra and panties, but only if you are comfortable with that?"

"That would be difficult."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not wearing a bra."

I hadn't given it much thought before, but now as I stare at your chest it's obvious that the bustier is the only thing keeping your tits in place.

"That's fine. Let's try panties with the bustier then."

You slip off your shoes, then turn away from me, standing, to peel off your jeans. I'm just taking a sip from my glass of water as you do, and almost spray it over the carpet like you see in comedy films.

As you bend forward to slip the last few inches of denim from your feet, I see your panties for the first time. They are incredible: black like your bustier, almost sheer, and very small. Two tiny triangles and two bits of string. A masterpiece of modern fashion. And with you bending at the waist, the total effect of your panties and your bum is amazing.

I fiddle around with camera, tripod and lights, pretending not to watch you but you take a sneaky peak over your shoulder and smile when you catch me staring. You slip your fuck-me shoes back on.

"Is this OK, Mr Armstrong?" you say as you turn to face me, hooking a thumb under the string on one side to show me what you're referring to.

"Err, yes. Very nice."

"Thank you. Where do you want me?"

"Let's start back on the chair."

We get some superb shots as you go through just about every possible pose. You sit with your feet up on the chair and your arms wrapped around your legs. You sit with your feet on the floor and your legs open. You lean back with your arms above your head, your body stretched in a long, sultry pose. You lift one foot up onto the dressing table, showing more of your panties-clad pussy than is decent. Every move you make is excellent, each one sexier than the last.

I'm struggling to hide the erection growing in my trousers. And I think I spy a damp patch on your knickers.

"Really nice, Chloe. If it's all right with you, I think we should try some shots with you facing away from the camera."

"Bum shots?"

"Exactly. Bum shots."

You smile as you stand, move the chair around 180 degrees, hold the back of it, spread your legs slightly, bend at the waist and push your bum out. I can literally feel my pulse quicken. It's all I can do to hold the camera steady. But I do, and get some great shots as you hold the pose, and then turn your head to look over your shoulder down the lens. The tiny panties are doing an amazing job of covering your pussy, but only just.

You are a natural at modelling, I'm discovering. You place one hand on your bum. You lift a leg up onto the chair. And then you blow my mind when you open your legs, lean fully forward and look at me through your legs. In this pose, your ass cheeks open up more and I can see the outside edges of your shaved asshole, now barely covered by the string of your panties. Fuck, I want you.