Beta readers & editors needed! I like to have lots of eyes on my work so if you are interested in developmental editing/proofreading and like reading explicit depictions of lesbian sex, reach on out! I have small stories and a novella-length story in development.
The clack of her new fuck-me pumps against the scuffed hardwood stairs echoed throughout the old building. The narrow stiletto teetered with each step and she ached along the backs of her legs and deep in her belly. She had rarely even worn heels before she began modeling but her agent had insisted. "And listen— you gotta pick ones that sell a story," she said, jabbing her hand in the air for emphasis.
Lumi didn't know what that meant so she dragged Gerry along. Well, she would have brought him anyway— he still hadn't put a credit card in her name, even though he promised he would after they got married. But that was five years ago. The usual fee she earned from modeling wasn't nearly enough to cover the cost of the shoes. She was surprised he agreed so readily, having felt mixed about modeling from jump. He had fought her when she signed with Fran; "you don't need to work while you're in school, babe, and now you're getting an agent?" But now that she was booking shoots for things besides hair accessories he seemed to be softening a bit. "Babe," he whispered to her in the store, "when you wear those I get to see how sexy your legs look."
Lumi shrugged and nodded to the salesman, who left with her husband's credit card and returned with the stilettos nestled neatly in a pink box. .
Today was the first day she wore them for work. It was a last minute booking and she had stopped by Fran's office before making the lengthy drive. "Why," Lumi asked her agent, "if they are, like, these artistic geniuses, do they want me in club heels?" Fran, a formidable if slight woman who spent decades in the industry, waived her off.
"They're only geniuses when they're paying you," she responded sternly, "and your job is to be so captivating they can't imagine their project existing without you. Those aren't club heels; they're candy red stilettos and raw potential."
Lumi watched Fran fondly as she zipped around the office with precision, a whirl of bright colors and curly hair. "So it doesn't matter whether they are casting directors or club promoters?" Lumi asked. Or a CFO, she added silently and worried the diamond band on her ring finger.
Fran nodded, "Men are men. But that's really more your department, I guess" she added absently. Lumi inhaled sharply, "So your wife's jaw wouldn't hit the floor if you showed up in these." She raised her crossed leg and rotated her ankle; the pump's glossy finish shined in the light. "Ha!" Fran's screechy laugh always brought a smile to Lumi's face. "Maybe when she saw the credit card bill."
Lumi glanced at the framed portrait of Fran and her wife, a casually butch woman. When Lumi first saw the photo, she was surprised at the match. For every beat of Fran's eccentricity, her wife matched in plainness—beige slacks, muted polo, and practical haircut a few weeks outgrown. Light from the window bounced off the frame and reflected Lumi's own face back to her. Fran was a breath of fresh air and Lumi was deeply curious about them. But Fran seemed reticent to questions about her marriage so Lumi did not push.
"Why is this place so far away?" she whined. "And that building is stuffy and old."
"It's deco" Fran corrected, "And any artist worth their salt would kill to be there. Ask your art school friends— you can't just lease a room, you know. You have to be invited. You have to submit a portfolio." Fran finished with harsh emphasis to underscore the severity. Lumi asked, "it started as an artist commune, right?"
Fran nodded, "The owner was an occultist. Like a wizard." Lumi twisted her face skeptically. Fran glared back, watery blue eyes piercing out at Lumi from behind her wild hair.
"I'm serious, Lumi. He was a wizard. A real one though—some big time secret society. Studied under Crowley. Went all over the world investigating fertility rituals." Lumi rolled her eyes at Fran's enthusiasm. She had been working on her MFA for two years now and had modeled for nearly the same amount of time; the art world was filled with white men with too much money who bother people who'd rather be left alone. She was not about to be pulled into any exercise of deification. "Casting directors, club promoters, and now Aleister Crowley? This is getting weird."
Fran frowned at her flippant reply, "Not Crowley. One of his students. That building was his life's work-a place infused with all the fertility magic across the planet. Where artists could harness that raw creative power and use it to birth their creations into the world." Fran swept her arms wide and Lumi couldn't help but smile at the theatre of it all.
"But he's dead now. They all are." Fran continued as she drew her hand back together and rested them on the surface of her desk. "There are rumors he was driven mad by the forces he tried to harness; that he opened the door to the other side so many times it won't go shut. That there are spirits unseen that roam the halls." She smiled at Lumi and pointed, finely manicured nails adorned with a screaming shade of coral, then said, "Be careful. And my mother-in-law says that building is cursed. And she knows about these things. Now go to work."
Lumi sighed as she gathered her things in preparation for the long drive. "Oh, stop it," Fran continued. "The shoot today is fine art photos. Very well paid art photos I might add."
"That sounds like they're going to try to get me to take off my top." Lumi countered.
"Well, then you call me and I negotiate a nudity clause. Besides, you need new shots for your portfolio like yesterday thanks to that second honeymoon that became a 6 month sabbatical." It felt like a jab even though Lumi knew she didn't mean it. Gerry insisted they needed some time off and he could still work remotely. It was supposed to be a month, which became two, which became an entire semester and she'd had to scramble to get a leave.
"They'll love you there." Fran insisted. "Now get out, I have a call from another client." She reached for the phone.
"But—" Lumi tried to interject. The agent's eyes cut sharply over the bright green frames of her glasses. "But what? I've another girl on hold who hasn't worked in months. Should I tell her to wait because the always-booked model with a rich husband needs a longer pep talk? Go!" Lumi squeezed her lips and nodded as she slipped out the door towards the parking structure, saying nothing.
The drive had been easy. Her car sailed atop the slick road. The green trees were a streaky blur. There had been a light rain all morning and the forest was radiant.. Lumi drove with the driver's window down and breathed deeply the scent of soaked earth. The speakers beat with a steady drone—an interview, about a book of poetry. Lumi hadn't been paying attention. Despite being petulant, the drive took her through a forest and she had immediately felt lighter as soon as she left the city. The sun had emerged and glittered off rainwater pooled on leaves. A lush backdrop with ten-thousand points of light lulled Lumi into a peaceful quiet, the steady hum of tire rolling along wet road beneath her.
"Any fool can get into an ocean..." the interviewer intoned through the speakers. She listened close.
She was jolted back when the interview was interrupted with a sharp sound—Gerry's ringtone. His name popped up on her phone screen with white letters. She sighed and hushed the tone but did not decline the call. The silence hung in the air like smoke, overpowering the pleasant earthen scent of the forest, as she waited for the phone to route him to voicemail. She sighed, tried not to entertain the argument to come at the end of the day.
"Why can't we talk during the day." Gerry would demand. Irritation prickled her consciousness, followed by guilt. "I'm busy during the day. We both work." she would plead. Gerry would scoff and cross his arms. Lumi would try to ignore this, but it would fuel the spark of irritation. She would remind him, "You remember what grad school was like." Gerry would try not to roll his eyes and would say, "My phone calls were never a problem before!"
"But we were young. Things are different when you're young!" She would start to yell and Gerry would get angry, maybe wall himself off in his office after telling her he wouldn't talk to her when she was like this. She would sit on their porch of their home, looking up at the stars as she willed her anger to die back. She was 22 when she met Gerry in college, a few months shy of his 30th birthday. He was a confident grad student with promising job opportunities waiting for him on graduation. He got her number from friends and took her to fancy restaurants he knew from internships. He told her she was beautiful and her heart leapt when he called. She imagined their future and felt joyful.
On his 30th birthday asked her to be his girlfriend and told her something about being the only present he wants. He was hurt when she didn't exactly remember, the following year on their anniversary. She swore she remembered the moment and that it was romantic. All her friends said so. She was just so smitten with him, she insisted; he would be her first boyfriend. She knew that when she said yes, he would be the one to deflower her. She was nervous.
And he did, later that night. It was nice. Gerry was gentle— he fondled her breasts lovingly as he gently moved a finger inside her. It felt nice. And she was excited to be a not-virgin but old enough to have low expectations.
"How does that feel?" He asked, reverently, stiff finger moving in and out of her. "Good," she nodded and he smiled. He scooted between her legs and asked if she was ready. He slid into her, stopped a few millimeters in when she gasped. He lifted her legs up and fucked into her gently. He proposed after he graduated from his program. They moved here after the wedding when he got a job offer.
She missed her friends but ultimately was happy. Bored and new to a town where she only knew her husband, she took sculpting classes at the university's extension center. She was shocked when her teacher encouraged her to apply for the MFA program. Gerry protested at first, saying it was too expensive but caved when he saw she was prepared to sign a loan. He skipped most of her exhibitions and insisted it was for work. She was surprised to find it wasn't hard not to care. She chalked it up to being independent. That was healthy in a relationship, she told herself. Besides she thought it was better to not share the same interests as her husband; members of her cohort dated each other and their relationships had always resulted in disaster.
When Gerry began nitpicking costs of materials she found a job, first in the library until she was recruited to model for some fashion design students. Gerry raised his eyebrows, and he made some comment about "not exactly having a model's build." She went to the open call out of spite and was hired on the spot. The young woman, who with each side her head shaved and the remaining hair closely cropped and styled into a pompadour. She eyed Lumi's body lovingly. "We're doing a unit on the Rubanesque ideal," she explained, with a flavor of hope in her voice. Lumi and the woman locked eyes for one curious moment.
Lumi kept getting booked after that, which led her to Fran, who sent her on myriad shoots for catalogs, stock photos, student fashion shows, and the occasional art modeling gig. Which led her to the old ornate building whose stairs were proving impossible to navigate the higher she climbed.
The narrow heel wobbled out from under her and she stumbled. She grabbed the hand rail and her portfolio clattered down the stairs and tumbled open. She sighed in frustration at having to make her way back down in these heels. She adjusted her short lacy skirt that had ridden up when she stumbled. She turned and startled when she noticed a strange figure moving up the stairs not far behind her.
