This is a reluctance story of the type: forced by circumstances. It contains elements of force, and elements of age difference.
*
For most people, a time comes, sometime along the way, where they find themselves in an economic jam. Something happens, something comes up, something goes amiss, and extra money is needed to fix it. Things like this can happen to even the most careful and responsible planners. Like Tara Smith.
Miss Smith was in her late twenties when she for the first time in her life found herself in a bad economic jam. She needed money badly. It does not matter what she needed it for, except to say that she was desperate. This is the story of how she earned that money, not the story of where they went.
The bank wouldn't lend her what she needed, and neither would anyone else. Tara Smith, an honest, law-abiding, young woman, increasingly found herself contemplating crime, and possible ways to earn money that way. Convincing herself that she had neither nerve nor heart to become a robber, and neither cunning nor contacts to become a burglar, Miss Smith turned her thoughts to prostitution.
Her looks were suitable for that profession. She pleased the eye naked as well as clothed.
When thinking of engaging in sex with strangers for money. Tara was convinced it would be unpleasant, but was also convinced she could learn to handle it, that she could keep a smile on her face and service the clients. Prostitution as a means to earn money did, however, present practical problems. It wasn't a legal means of income where she lived, how would she avoid the legal system? Also, where would she find clients? And, where should she service those clients?
Tara seriously considered prostitution. But, before taking that last step she decided to try what she called: the last step before it. Miss Tara Smith decided to look into stripping and nude modelling.
--Tacky nude modelling, amateurs welcome. Well paid.--
Not an advert a professional model would ever give a second glance. For Tara, however, it was the right time for the wrong words. She answered the ad. Over the phone she was questioned about addictions and prior experience, as well as weight, height, bra-size and other such standard measures. She wasn't surprised by those questions, but she was surprised to get the job simply from a phone call.
"I like your voice," said the man on the other end. "I'll hire you for at least one session."
The house was too large and magnificent to be a studio belonging to a tacky artist. It could better be called a mansion than a house. After thrice checking that the address she had written down matched the address she was at, Tara was convinced she was the victim of a cruel practical joke. She almost turned round to leave without pressing the bell button at the gate, but decided against it at the last moment.
"Who is there?" asked a metallic distorted voice.
"Tara Smith," she spoke to the intercom.
"Come to the front door," said the voice.
The metal gates opened fully. She could have driven in if she had come by car. At the front door waited a well dressed elderly man.
'That could be the man I spoke to,'
thought Tara. The man on the phone had sounded old.
"Welcome, Miss Smith," said the elderly man, with a clear British accent.
"Hi," said Tara.
'No, it isn't him.'
The man on the phone had had an undefinable accent, absolutely not British.
"Mr. Jeffries has been expecting you," continued the elderly man. "Please follow me, Miss Smith." He led her through the house to a well lit high ceilinged room and left her there.
'This isn't a tacky studio,'
thought Tara, tracing the exquisite play between shadow and light on the white curves of walls and ceiling.
"Miss Smith?"
The voice pulled her out of thoughts of a tasteful wealthy artist with a strange taste in model adverts. Tara was surprised that the voice she knew from the phone belonged to an old man in a wheelchair. An old man with wrinkles and those broad brown spots age endows on so many. His legs were covered by a thick tweed blanket, in spite of the room being hot enough for comfortable nudity. His white hair was thin and sparse.
Part of her was relieved that the man who had hired her was so physically harmless, yet a small part of her was concerned that it would feel unnatural to show her naked young body to a man so far past his prime.
"Yes, I'm Tara Smith," said Tara, and took a step forward, intending to go to the man and offer him her hand in greeting.
"Move over to that corner," said Mr. Jeffries, and pointed.
Obediently, Tara changed direction.
"The timer begins as soon as you are naked."
"All-right," said Tara and nodded. She undressed swiftly, the sooner the timer began, the sooner it would be over.
The first half hour, Mr. Jeffries directed her through classic nude poses, making a few sketches at each. Tara came to the conclusion that maybe for someone at his age the tasteful classics seemed tacky.
"Take a one minute break," said Mr Jeffries and took out a wallet.
Tara watched him as he took out bills and placed them on a small table next to his wheelchair. On the other side of his wheelchair stood his easel.
"Half an hour has passed," he said, when done pulling out bills. "In another hour and a half this money is yours."
"Thank you, Mr. Jeffries." She felt it was a stupid thing to say, but hadn't been able to come up with a better remark. Tara knew how much she was getting paid, but seeing the money in a tangible pile like that, still had an effect on her.
'So much, for so little.'
"How far can you spread your legs?"
"I..." Tara had absolutely no clue how to reply to that.
"Show me."
So she did. The time had come for tacky poses. Tara had never felt as naked as she did while Mr. Jeffries had her twist her body in one degrading pose after another. Without complaining even once Tara waved her butt in the air, and performed yoga-like poses absolutely not suited for nudity, and spread her labia with her fingers at command.
She kept her mind on the money.
When finally Mr. Jeffries announced, "The time is up," Tara got on her feet and walked straight to the table where her money lay. She had come to the conclusion that if she hadn't needed the money so badly, this wasn't a profession for her.
Mr. Jeffries watched her silently while she dressed. Tara didn't make a show of it, she just pulled every garment on as swiftly as possible.
'Why does he bother with this final sneak-peak,'
she wondered.
'He already saw every part of me from every possible angle.'
Once dressed, Tara turned to him. Keeping her voice polite, she said, "You have my number if you want to hire me again. Don't you, Mr. Jeffries?"
"Would you like me to hire you again?"
"Yes," said Tara, again wishing she could have thought up a better reply.
'I need your money,'
she didn't want to add.
"Same wage for a two hour session?"
"Yes,"
"How about half the wage for a two hour session?"
Tara hesitated a second. The wage had been far more than twice the rate for amateur nude modelling, even she knew that. But, the thought of doing the same thing for less was displeasing. She looked at the man, trying to muster the confidence needed to negotiate.
"I'd prefer the same wage I got today."
"How about a quarter of the wage you earned just now?" asked Mr. Jeffries, with a smile that revealed teeth so perfect they had to be fake. Tara would never believe a man at his age could have such good teeth.
"I'll take the half wage," said Tara.
"That offer is off the table, it's a quarter of the wage or nothing."
"I'll take it," said Tara, swallowing all pride and anger. "When should I come back for the next session?"
"The timer begins when you are naked." Mr. Jeffries's smile widened when Tara hesitantly swallowed before undressing again.
"You are cute when you are angry," said Mr. Jeffries, once Tara was undressed and in a proper degrading butt waving pose. "I'll let you have the full wage."
"Thank you," said Tara, though it was difficult to feel grateful in her current stance.
"Take a two minute break."
Again Tara watched, as he counted out bills and put them on the table.
'Keep your mind on the money.'
For the next pose, he made her lie on her back, bend her legs and spread them to the side, as at the gynaecologist. Compared to other poses he had put her through this was relaxing.
"Would you like to earn some extra money?"
"Yes."
Mr. Jeffries held up a large bill. "I'll add this to the pile if you do an insertion with a condomed banana."
"Which hole?" asked Tara.
"The orifice in question would be your pussy."
"I'll do it."
A few minutes later Tara struggled to insert the banana, the condom was dry and so was she.
"Drier than Sahara," commented Mr. Jeffries. "The constant humiliation of being ordered around hasn't turned you on."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Jeffries." The dry insertion was unpleasant bordering painful, but, in spite of her word choice, Tara preferred that over being aroused in front of him.
"You seemed the type, though," he said.
"Did I?" On the inside Tara laughed a little.
'Goes to show what you know, you old pervert.'
She remained polite though, keeping her mind on the money.
