Chapter 4: The Photoshoot
The steam from the bathroom curled around her like a ghost. Koyotka stepped into the hallway’s cooler air, a thin towel tucked tightly over her breasts and across her hips. Her dark hair dripped cold trails down her back and shoulders.
Malcolm was waiting. He leaned against the faded floral wallpaper in nothing but strained black boxers, the fabric tented prominently. A greasy, approving grin split his face.
“You rocked it last night, girl,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “A natural.”
Before she could murmur thanks or move, he pushed off the wall. His body was against hers in one step, pinning her to the wall. The air left her lungs in a soft whoosh. His hands slid under the damp terrycloth, gripping her bare ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. His round, hairy belly pressed warm and solid against her stomach.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing and licking with wet, sloppy urgency. His stubble scraped her collarbone, a sharp contrast to the hot slide of his tongue. She felt the hard, insistent length of him against her lower belly through the thin cotton.
He smelled of slept-in sheets, old sweat, and spearmint gum. It was a dense, intimate animal smell. But his mouth on her skin, the rough possession of his hands—it sparked a line of fire straight to her core. The lingering buzz from her earnings, the phantom memory of a hundred touches, coalesced into a sharp, present need.
A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden. She stopped thinking. Her hands came up and tangled in his thinning hair, not pushing away but pressing him closer. She arched against him, her body making its own decisions.
“That’s it,” he grunted into her skin, one hand moving to cup her breast, his thumb rasping over her nipple.
She hooked her legs around his waist, the towel slipping dangerously. He ground against her, the friction exquisite and terrifying. He found her mouth then, kissing her hard, his tongue pushing past her lips. It was not like the bar kisses. This was hungry, tasting of coffee and ownership.
He broke the kiss, leaning back just enough to look at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged. The damp towel had slid down, clinging only to the tips of her nipples, the rest of her exposed to the cool hall air and his hungry stare.
“Don’t you want to make your Malcolm happy, girl?” he breathed, the words a thick vibration against her mouth.
” he breathed, the words a thick vibration against her mouth.The thought sliced through the fever in her blood, cold and clear. It wasn’t a race winner, not some charming driver from the glossy magazines tucked under her bed. It would be him. This overweight, greasy man with his coffee breath and grasping hands, in this dim hallway that smelled of mildew and his sweat.The clarity should have been a bucket of ice. Instead, it evaporated the moment his hips pressed forward again. Her body screamed yes, a raw, animal sound in her veins.The fantasy didn’t matter. The only thing that existed was the desperate need to please him, to feel wanted so completely it swallowed her whole.
She wanted his weight on her, his satisfaction in her, his ownership of her. The need was primal, a twisting coil in her gut that tightened with every grind of his pelvis.It was simpler than dignity.It was hunger.
She looked up into his small, eager eyes and felt a smile bloom on her face, genuine and bright.She nodded, quickly, several times. “Yes,” she whispered, the word tasting like a sacrament. “I want to make you happy.”
“Good,” he said, the smug triumph in his voice another kind of touch.He pulled back slightly, though his hands stayed clamped on her hips. “Then change into your uniform.We’ll do promotional photos for the pub. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks for every photo I use on a poster.”
He squeezed her breasts through the damp towel, a possessive, final punctuation. Then he let her go, the sudden absence of his heat making her shiver.She walked back to her room on legs that felt both weak and powerful. The uniform, which had felt like a costume before, now felt like a promise. She dressed methodically, the deep V of the top no longer an exposure but an invitation. The skirt’s high slit was a boast.She was going to be photographed.She was going to be paid. And the man behind the camera, the one who would own those images, was the same man whose taste was still on her tongue. It felt, terrifyingly, like everything was fitting together exactly as it was meant to.
They went downstairs. He didn’t dress, padding down the creaking steps in just his black boxers, the prominent bulge swinging slightly with each step. The camera in his hands was a heavy, professional-looking thing with a long lens that gleamed in the dim light.The main floor was deserted, hollow in the silence. Morning sun sliced through the gaps in the beer-stained curtains, illuminating drifting dust motes and the ghost of last night’s smoke.He gestured with the camera toward the bar.“On that stool. Legs crossed, look right,” he said, his voice shifting into a director’s flat command. He peered through the viewfinder.She perched on the barstool, the vinyl cool through her skirt. She crossed her legs at the knees, one foot hooking behind the stool’s rung. She rested one hand flat on the sticky counter and picked up a clean mug with the other, holding it like a prop.The shutter clicked, a sharp, mechanical snap that echoed. He lowered the camera, his eyes assessing.“Good.Now tilt your chin up.More. Yeah.”
He raised the camera again.The shutter fired several times in quick succession. “Oh yeah, you’re beautiful!” he called from behind the lens, his voice tightening with a strange reverence. “Give me more passion, Koy.Think about last night. Think about all those hands.”
She let her gaze grow distant, remembering the heat and the press of bodies. A slow smile touched her lips, not quite reaching her eyes.The camera whirred. He moved closer, the expensive machine now hanging from his neck.He leaned in, his free hand landing high on her bare thigh, his fingers splayed. His thumb traced a slow circle on her inner leg. “Give me more sex,” he breathed, his coffee-and-tobacco breath hot on her cheek.
He leaned further and licked a wet, slow stripe up the side of her neck, from her collarbone to her jawline. His hand slid upward under the skirt’s slit, his rough palm rasping against her smooth skin. She shuddered, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.
“Imagine my hand on your ass right now,” he murmured into her ear, his fingers inching higher. The camera between them pressed cold against her ribs.“Oh, how good you are. They all gonna want to fuck you so hard.”
He stepped back abruptly, the sudden space a shock.“Now against the pool table. Arch your back. Hands on the felt.” He gestured with his chin, his other hand adjusting himself through his boxers.
She walked to the green felt, the familiar scents of chalk and stale beer rising to meet her. She leaned over it, pressing her palms flat, letting her spine curve into a deep arch. The position made the cropped top gape wildly, the deep V becoming a chasm.The shutter clicked relentlessly. “C’mon, show me more of those breasts,” he said, his voice grating.“Push them together.Yeah. Just like that.”
She adjusted her arms, squeezing her breasts together through the thin fabric. The flash popped, bleaching the scene white for an instant.He was beside her then, his body crowding her against the table’s edge.
He pressed himself against her from behind, the hard line of his cock evident through the cotton as he ground against her ass.One hand came around to grope her breast, squeezing and kneading. The camera bumped against her shoulder. “Perfect,” he grunted, snapping a blurred close-up of his own hand on her.“Now on the floor.Kneel. Hands behind your back.” He pulled away, his face flushed.The dirty floorboards were gritty under her knees. She settled back on her heels, clasped her hands behind her back, and lifted her chin. This pose thrust her chest forward, the neckline falling open like a promise.He stood over her, looking down. The shutter clicked from above, a god’s-eye view.“Yes,” he hissed. “You look so fucking innocent and so fucking dirty at the same time. It’s perfect.”
He dropped to his knees in front of her, the camera forgotten at his side.His hands grabbed her face. “You’re mine,” he said, and kissed her, a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of ownership. His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her against him.
He broke the kiss, panting.“Stand up. Against the jukebox.” His eyes were glassy, unfocused.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused. He blinked, shaking his head slightly as if clearing a fog, and the raw hunger in his face smoothed into something more deliberate. He picked up the camera, his grip familiar and sure. "Alright. Up on the bar now. Kneeling."
She hoisted herself onto the sticky wooden counter, the neon "DIRTY BITCHES" sign buzzing to life behind her as he flipped a switch. Its red glow bled into the dim room. He handed her a serving tray with two mock-up drinks, the condensation cold against her palms.
"Look right at me," he directed, peering through the viewfinder. "Like you're offering me a drink after a long ride."
She settled onto her knees, back straight, and held the tray out slightly. She fixed her gaze on the camera's dark lens, imagining it was a customer's eyes. Her expression shifted into the warm, inviting smile she practiced in her bedroom mirror, the one meant for grid girl casting calls. The shutter began to fire, a rapid, rhythmic clicking that felt like a heartbeat.
He was a very decent director and photographer. Her modeling background also helped. "Tilt the tray down a fraction," he called, his voice now devoid of the earlier grunting possessiveness, all technical precision. "Give me more neck. Good. Now give me mischievous. You've got a secret."
She let her smile turn knowing, a slight crinkling at the eyes, thinking of the wad of cash tucked in her room. The camera ate it up. She was enjoying fulfilling his commands. It was a game where she knew the rules and could win.
He lowered the camera and stepped close, the bar between them. He looked at the image on the digital screen, then up at her. "You're a fucking natural," he said, his tone carrying a greasy pride. "This is gonna bring every thirsty bastard from here to Rock Hill."
He leaned over the bar, his chest pressing against the tray. His hand came up and curled around the back of her neck, pulling her forward. "Now thank your director properly."
He guided her face down to the straining front of his black boxers. The warm, musky scent of him filled her nostrils. Through the thin cotton, she felt the hard, thick outline of him. He pressed her lips against it, holding her there. "Just a kiss," he grunted. "For good luck."
She kept her mouth soft, letting it be molded against him for a long three-count before he released her.
"Photo three. Standing by the counter, casual," he said, as if commenting on the weather. He walked around to her side. "Grab that mug."
She slid off the bar, her knees imprinting with the wood's grain. She picked up a branded ceramic mug from a stack. He positioned her beside the counter's edge. "Lean back.Hip out. Relax the knee, yeah like that."
She settled into the pose, one hand holding the mug loose at her side, the other resting flat on the bar. It was a clean, friendly promotional shot. He took a few frames. Then he approached, the camera dangling.
He reached out and flicked the knot on her top. "This damn thing." His fingers hooked into the deep V and pulled, stretching the neckline wider until the outer curve of one breast, pale and smooth, spilled into view. "Better."
The shutter clicked on her exposed skin. His hand replaced his fingers, groping her fully, squeezing in a rhythm that was both clinical and possessive. "Look at the mug, sweetheart. Smile like you love the coffee here."
She obeyed, the smile on her face a stark contrast to the rough kneading of his hand. He pinched her nipple, hard, through the fabric. She gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The camera captured that too—the flared nostrils, the startled widening of her eyes before the smile snapped back into place.
"Good texture," he mumbled, more to himself than to her, and finally withdrew.
"Patio. Last one."
The morning air outside was a cool slap, a shocking cleanse after the bar's closed-in warmth. He positioned her at a round metal table, handing her the tray again. "Look welcoming. Like you're happy to see me."
She stood with one hand resting lightly on the tabletop, the tray balanced on her other palm, and gave the camera a bright, open smile. The sun caught the auburn hints in her brown hair. It could have been an ad for a family diner.
He took the shot. He reviewed it on the screen, a slow smirk spreading. "You're an excellent servant," he said, the word hanging in the fresh air.
He walked over, his boxers stark black against his pale legs. He took the tray from her hands and set it on the table with a clatter. Then his hands were on her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and he sat her on the cold metal table edge.
He stepped between her parted legs, pulling her tightly against him. One of his hands slid under her skirt, his palm rough and hot on the bare skin of her ass, gripping possessively. He was fully hard against the seam of her skirt.
He was fully hard against the seam of her skirt.
“Beautiful,” he grunted, grinding himself slowly into her for a few throbbing seconds. He kissed her, his tongue forcing past her lips, his hand still a vise on her ass. He tasted of yesterday’s cigarettes and today’s ambition.Then he pulled back, smacking her thigh. “Inside. We’re not done.”
The cold metal of the table lingered on her skin as she followed him back into the dim, silent café. Her body hummed with a confused energy, a live wire strung between revulsion and a desperate, creeping curiosity.
“Up there.” He pointed to a tall barstool by the jukebox.“Sit sideways. One leg out, one foot up on the rung.”
She climbed onto the stool, the vinyl sighing under her weight. She twisted her torso toward his waiting lens, extending one leg in the heavy boot while the other bent sharply, the knee high. The pose showcased the uniform’s lines—the skirt’s dramatic ride up her thigh, the boot’s laces, the way the crop top strained.
He was on her before the first click. His left hand landed on her bare waist, his thumb pressing into the soft dip above her hip bone.“Arch your back. Show me that pretty little curve.” His other hand palmed her thigh, high up, his fingers digging in as he squeezed the firm muscle.The camera shutter fired.“Fuck, that’s it. They’re gonna want to eat you alive.” His hand slid from her thigh around to her ass, cupping it fully through the leather-look fabric, kneading. He leaned in, his mouth hot and wet on her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. The camera, forgotten in his other hand, bumped against her ribs.“You’re a dream, Koy. My dream.”
He stepped back, his breathing ragged, and raised the camera properly. The rapid clicks were the only sound besides the buzz of the neon.“Now recline back. Like you own the place.”
She shifted, leaning her weight onto one arm braced behind her on the stool seat. She stretched her legs out long, crossing them at the ankles. She let her head tilt back, her hair falling behind her shoulders, aiming for that effortless, spent rock-star vibe.“Perfect.” The shutter sang. “Look at those legs. Mile-fuckin’-long.” He moved in close again, his free hand running from her knee slowly up her inner calf, over the boot, to the exposed skin of her thigh. His touch was proprietary, assessing. “And this ass… goddamn.” He squeezed it, a hard, appreciative grip. He bent then, planting a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on her knee, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.
She froze, watching the top of his balding head.Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest. This felt different from the groping at the bar—it was quieter, more intimate, more permanently recorded in the silence.
“Okay.Last one.” His voice was thick.“Get on the floor. Kneel by the stool, look back at me over your shoulder.”
She slid off the stool, the floorboards gritty and cold through her tights. She settled onto her knees, arranging her elbows lightly on the stool’s backrest.She turned her head, looking back at the camera, at him. The vast, empty café sprawled behind her in the frame.
He stared through the viewfinder for a long moment, not taking the picture.A low groan escaped him. “Oh, I’m so hard now.” He lowered the camera, his eyes glazed. He looked past her, through the ceiling, as if imagining the apartment upstairs. “Fuck, can’t wait for Daria.”
His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and imperative.“Vest off.”
She blinked, surprised. This wasn’t part of the pose. But she obeyed, shrugging out of the denim vest, letting it fall to the floor beside her. The cold air bit into her arms and shoulders, making the deep V of her top feel even more exposed.
He stepped closer, towering over her kneeling form.She thought he was moving for a final angle, maybe a shot from above. But he didn’t raise the camera. He stood there, his erection obvious and pressing against the thin cotton of his boxers, his shadow swallowing her.He grunted, the sound animal and final. “Open your mouth.”