Chapter 5: The Catalog Shoot
The private catalog video hit two days later. Skyler’s notification screen became a seismograph, recording a continuous, digital aftershock. The revenue graph was a sheer cliff face. When Miranda summoned her to a downtown address with a text—Wear black. Knee-high boots. No underwear. 8 PM.—Skyler didn’t question it. She applied a slash of red lipstick like war paint and hailed a cab.
The address led to a converted meatpacking district warehouse. The elevator was a rattling iron cage that opened directly into the loft. Dmitri’s studio.
It was an ecosystem of controlled exposure. The floor was polished concrete, cold under her boot heels. One entire wall was glass, overlooking a canyon of darkened offices, but the view was blinded by heavy black curtains currently tied back. The opposite wall was a mosaic of photographic test shots, pinned haphazardly: a close-up of a mouth stretched around nothing; the sinewy curve of a male back, gleaming with sweat; a pair of bound ankles, the skin marked with red lines. In the center of the space, bathed in the sterile glare of two industrial floodlights suspended from the ceiling, stood a steel-framed bed with a thin, plain mattress. A high-end digital camera was mounted on a tripod beside it, a silent cyclops.
Miranda stood beside the tripod, her silhouette angular against the glare. She wore tailored black trousers and a white silk blouse, the uniform repurposed as a director’s garb. “You found the place,” she said, not turning. “Good. Come stand in the light.”
Skyler walked forward, the click of her boots echoing. The heat from the lamps was a physical weight on her skin. “What is this?”
“Our digital butcher shop.” Miranda finally looked at her, a quick, appraising glance. “Every girl gets a profile. Think of it as a private menu for our most discerning clients. Those who liked the Prince’s video will be asking for the full portfolio.”
She gestured to the bed. “It’s not just about being pretty. It’s about specification. They need to see the goods from every conceivable angle. They need to know how you move, how you sound, what you look like just before you break. It helps them choose.”
Skyler’s stomach tightened, but a familiar current, low and warm, buzzed beneath the anxiety. The catalog. A menu. The words should have humiliated her. Instead, they clarified something. She was being appraised not as a person, but as a collection of functional parts. There was a brutal honesty to it. “So tonight I’m the product shoot.”
“Exactly. Start with the clothes on. The tease. They love the reveal.” Miranda pressed a button on the camera, and a soft red recording light glowed like a coal. “Lean against the bed frame. Arms above your head. Look at me, but not at me. Look through me.”
Skyler complied, the cold steel biting into her lower back. She arched, letting her pelvis tilt forward, the short hem of her black dress riding higher. She fixed her gaze on a point just past Miranda’s shoulder, her expression settling into a vacant, wanting languor she’d practiced in mirror.
“Good,” Miranda murmured, the shutter clicking in rapid, whispering bursts. “Now turn. Give me your profile. Hand on your stomach, just under your tits. Pull the fabric tight.”
The camera whirred. It was strangely meditative, following the sharp, calm commands. Miranda moved her into a chair, instructing her to drape one leg over the arm, the boot gleaming. “Spread your knees apart. Slowly. Now look down at where your cunt is, like you’re thinking about how empty it is.”
Miranda circled her, a shark in still waters. “Stand up. Unzip the side of the dress. Just halfway. Let it gape. Show me the side of your breast, that curve of hip. Now bite your lower lip. Not a cute bite. A real one, like you’re trying to stop yourself from begging.”
Skyler did, the sharp pain of her teeth a bright, focusing pinprick. The shutter captured it.
“They want to see the hunger,” Miranda said, her voice closer now. She adjusted a light, the new angle carving shadows under Skyler’s cheekbones. “That’s what sells. The Prince’s wives saw it. Marcus fucking Johnson saw it. It’s your USP. Your unique selling proposition. Now, take the dress off. Slowly. Keep the boots on.”
Skyler reached for the zpper at her back, her movements fluid from practice. She let the black fabric slip from her shoulders, catching it at her elbows. She stood in only the knee-high boots, the cool air raising goosebumps on her exposed skin, her nipples hardening immediately under the lights’ interrogation.
“Perfect,” Miranda breathed, the click of the shutter accelerating. “Hands behind your head. Elbows back. Push your tits out. Now arch that pretty spine for me.”
The camera whirred, capturing the clean mathematical lines of her pose: the acute angle of her elbows, the taut parabola of her spine, the heavy, perfect swell of her breasts offered up to the lens. "Now on the bed. On your knees, facing me," Miranda directed, her voice devoid of warmth, a technician optimizing a tool. Skyler climbed onto the thin mattress, the steel frame creaking under her, and knelt, her boots sinking into the fabric, her back straight and her hands resting on her thighs.