Chapter 21: The Photoshoot
The clatter of poker chips was the only sound for a beat too long after Mark pushed back from the table. Dave watched his brother fumble for his wallet, the neon from the TV playing over his confused, slightly annoyed face.
“Seriously, you drank the last one?” Mark said, peering into the empty cooler by his feet.
“My bad,” Dave shrugged, not sounding sorry at all. “Got thirsty. So did everyone else.” He flashed a grin around at Jake and Rob, who shifted in their seats. Ben was still in the kitchen. The air felt thick, charged.
“Fine. I’ll run to the gas station. Five minutes.” Mark pointed a finger at Dave. “Don’t let them cheat. And don’t touch my blinds.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, bro.”
The moment the apartment door clicked shut, the energy changed. It snapped tight. Dave didn’t move for a second, just listened to Mark’s footsteps fade down the hallway. Then he stood, the legs of his chair scraping loud on the hardwood.
“Ben. Stacy. Living room. Now.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, clean and sharp as a knife. Ben emerged first, looking flushed, avoiding eye contact. Stacy followed, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her smile soft and guileless. The same smile she’d had when she’d brought out more chips an hour ago. Oblivious.
“Gather round,” Dave said, already pulling his phone from his pocket. He thumbed it to camera mode. The other two guys stood, circling loosely, a silent, uneasy audience.
Stacy looked at them, her head tilted. “Everything okay? Where’s Mark?”
“Errand,” Dave said, his eyes fixed on the screen, then lifting to meet hers. He took a slow breath, the power sour and sweet on his tongue. “Hey, Stacy.”
“Yeah?”
“Smile for me.”
It happened between one heartbeat and the next. Her bubbly awareness didn’t fade so much as it was deleted. Her expression went smooth, placid, her eyes losing their focused light. She just stood there, waiting, a blank page.
“Let’s see how many poses we can get before hubby comes home,” Dave said, the casual cruelty of it hanging in the air.
He didn’t have to give detailed instructions. The trigger was deep. Her hands went to the hem of her soft cotton top and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor. She stood in her jeans and a simple bra, her posture unnaturally still.
“Ben. Get over there. Stand behind her. Yeah, like that. Now put your hands on her hips.”
Ben swallowed, hard. “Dave, man, I don’t—”
“Just do it. It’s just a dumb picture. A joke.” Dave’s voice left no room for argument. Ben moved stiffly, his hands hovering before settling lightly on Stacy’s waist. She didn’t react. Dave snapped the picture. The flash made her blink once, slowly.
“Good. Jake, your turn. Get in close, whisper something in her ear. Look at the camera.”
Jake, emboldened by the beer and the surreal thrill of it, moved faster. He crowded behind her, his mouth near her temple, a smirk on his face. Dave captured it. Then Rob, who opted for a cheesy thumbs-up next to her blank face.
“My turn,” Dave said, handing the phone to Ben. “Get a few.”
He walked up to Stacy. He didn’t touch her at first, just looked into her empty eyes. A hollow victory. Then he put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Her body was warm, pliant. He turned her chin toward the camera with a finger. “There we go.”
The click of the shutter was merciless.
The click of the shutter was merciless.
Rob cleared his throat, the sound dry and awkward in the quiet room. He’d been watching, his earlier amusement hardening into something more focused, more impatient. He glanced at the door, then back at Stacy’s still form.
“This is wild, but… it’s just pictures, man.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know a way to actually fuck? Or is this just your brother’s creepy art project?”
Dave lowered the phone, his brother’s girlfriend still motionless under his arm. He looked at Rob, then at the blank canvas of Stacy’s face. A new idea, colder and more complete, settled over him. It was a logical next step. An experiment.
“I’ve got an idea,” Dave said, his voice unnervingly light. He stepped away from Stacy, who remained standing adrift in the center of the room. He addressed her directly. “Stacy?”
Her head turned smoothly toward the sound of her name, her eyes vacant pools.
“Would you pose nude for a few photos?”
Dave’s question hung in the air, a trapdoor waiting to spring. The fridge hummed in the otherwise silent kitchen.
“Sure,” Stacy said, her voice a flat, pleasant monotone. “I’ll pose however you want.”
Her hands moved to the button of her jeans. The metallic rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. She pushed the denim down her hips, letting them pool around her ankles before stepping clumsily out of them. Her fingers then reached behind her back, the clasp of her bra giving way with a soft snick. She let the garment fall forward off her shoulders, catching it on one wrist before dropping it atop the jeans.
She stood there, unselfconscious and utterly still, as the neon light from the living room sign painted a faint pink glow across her skin.
“Jesus,” Ben whispered, his voice cracking. He looked at the floor, then back at her, unable to turn away completely.
“Just keep the camera steady, Ben” Dave instructed, his own breath coming a little quicker.
Ben fumbled with the phone, his thumb smearing the lens before he righted it. The screen framed her perfectly, a stark portrait of surrender against the cluttered backdrop of mismatched thrift-store furniture. Dave circled her, the worn floorboard creaking under his step.
“Turn a little. Arch your back just a bit.” His directions were clinical, a photographer adjusting a mannequin. Stacy complied, her body moving into the suggested positions with a fluid, thoughtless grace. The neon sign over the bed cast a sickly blue sheen on her skin.
“This is insane,” Ben muttered, but he didn’t leave. He just watched from the edge of the leather couch, his poker chips forgotten.
“It’s just a bit of fun. Harmless.” Dave stopped circling. His gaze swept over Rob and Jake, a new, darker idea crystallizing. The previous photos felt like a warm-up. “Alright. New pose. More… interactive.”
He walked over to Rob and Jake, who were standing together near the table. He clapped a hand on each of their shoulders, pulling them forward a few steps.
“You two, stand here. Side by side. About a foot apart.” They shuffled into position, confusion and a hungry anticipation warring on their faces. Dave then turned to the waiting, empty-eyed woman.
“Stacy. Kneel right here.” He pointed to the floor in the space between the two men.
Without hesitation, she sank to her knees on the hard laminate. The position was submissive, yet her face held no shame, only serene blankness. She looked up, not at the men, but through them, waiting for her next command.
“Now,” Dave said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone that was anything but light-hearted. “Pose like you’re eagerly jerking them off. You know, for the picture. Sell it.”
Her hands lifted. They hovered in the air for a second, then moved with a surprising, practiced confidence. Her left hand closed around Rob through his jeans, her right around Jake. She began a slow, rhythmic stroking motion.
Rob sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Jake’s eyes widened, a laugh of pure disbelief catching in his throat. Ben kept the phone pointed, recording the impossible scene.
“For the sake of authenticity,” Dave added, the words cool and smooth, “stroke their cocks a bit. Come on, make it look real.”
Her fingers worked at their belt buckles, then their zippers. The metallic sounds were grossly intimate in the quiet room. Within moments, her bare hands were on them, moving with a mechanical efficiency. The men groaned, their heads lolling back, all pretense of this being a joke gone. Ben stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over with a loud crack.
“Dave, what the hell? Mark could be back any second!”
Dave didn’t even look at him. He was watching Stacy’s hands work, watching the complete mastery he held. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “Good girl,” he whispered, and a faint, dreamy smile touched her lips for a second before fading back into nothing. The shutter clicked again and again, each sound sealing the moment, binding them all tighter in the silence that was about to shatter.
The shutter clicked again and again, each sound sealing the moment, binding them all tighter in the silence that was about to shatter.
Ben finally lowered the phone, his hand trembling. “Okay. Okay, we’re done. That’s enough.”
“Enough?” Dave plucked the phone from Ben’s slack fingers. He scrolled through the gallery, a curator assessing his work. The images glowed under his thumb: Stacy kneeling, blank-faced, her hands working on Jake and Rob. He shook his head, a mock critic. “They’re static. They lack a certain… narrative energy.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ben’s voice was a strained whisper.
Dave ignored him. He crouched down in front of Stacy. Her hands were still moving, a mindless piston motion. “Stacy. Stop.” Her hands fell away instantly, returning to rest on her bare thighs. Jake and Rob both cursed, shifting uncomfortably at the sudden absence.
“Look at me,” Dave said. She did. Her pupils were wide, black pools reflecting the flickering TV light. “We’re going to take one more series. A better one. For the album.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Rob, who was still exposed, breathing heavily. “You. Stay right there.” Then his eyes went back to hers, his voice dropping into a calm, instructional tone, as if explaining how to load a dishwasher. “Now, Stacy. Open your mouth and pretend to suck his cock. Sell it for the camera. And use your other hand. Run it over your wet pussy. Show us how much you love this.”
A final, dim flicker of something—some deep synaptic protest—might have flashed in the very back of her eyes. It was gone before it could form. Her body was just a machine following code.
She leaned forward, her lips parting. Rob grabbed a handful of her hair, not gently, a sharp gasp escaping him. Her other hand drifted down between her own legs, fingers sliding through herself with a soft, slick sound that was horrifyingly audible in the quiet room. Her expression remained placid, a doll’s face, even as her body performed the violation.
Dave raised the phone. He framed the shot perfectly: the neon concert posters on the wall, the worn couch, the mundane debris of poker night. And at the center, the brutal, intimate tableau. The shutter clicked. Once. Twice.
“Yeah,” Jake breathed, watching intently, one hand shoved in his pocket. “That’s a way better picture.”
He could see his own pale reflection, and behind it, the ghost of the room’s crime. The click of the phone’s camera button was a tiny, metronomic heartbeat.
“Let me see,” Dave said, his voice pulling Ben back into the room. He took the phone and scrolled, his brow furrowed. He tutted softly. “No. These are just… nice. They’re sweet, almost. We need something with more teeth.”
He turned the screen toward Stacy, who was still kneeling, her breathing the only sign of life. “Look. You see? This doesn’t look slutty. It looks polite.”
Stacy’s eyes drifted to the image of herself. She said nothing.
Dave pocketed the phone and crouched again, entering her line of sight. “New idea. Ben, get over here.”
Ben didn’t move from the window. “No way. I’m out.”
“It’s a photo. For the album. That’s all.” Dave’s smile was thin. “Come on. Don’t be a spectator your whole life.”
After a long moment, Ben turned. His feet carried him slowly, as if through mud. He stopped in front of Stacy, looking down at the top of her head with something like nausea.
“Stacy,” Dave said, his tone shifting to one of gentle coaching. “I want you to pose with Ben now. I want you to act like you’re deepthroating his cock. Really sell it. Make your eyes water. Make it look enthusiastic, like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
Ben flinched. “Dave, come on, man—”
But Stacy was already moving. She shuffled forward on her knees, the rough laminate whispering against her skin. Her hands went to Ben’s belt. He stood frozen, a statue of shame, as she unbuckled him. The rasp of his zipper was deafening. Her hands were cool, efficient.
She took him into her mouth, her head bobbing with a steady, practiced rhythm that was wholly disconnected from the blank calm on her upturned face. A strand of saliva escaped her lips. Ben made a choked sound, his fists clenched at his sides, staring at a water stain on the ceiling.
Dave snapped several pictures from different angles, the flash bouncing off the glossy concert posters. “Yeah. There it is. That’s the energy.”
He reviewed the shots, nodding. Then he looked over at Rob, who was watching, riveted, from the edge of the couch. “Rob. You wanna help her really sell it?”
Rob didn’t need to be asked twice. He was already standing, pulling his shirt off. “What’s the move?”
Dave glanced back at Stacy, who continued her mechanical motions, Ben trembling above her. “Stacy, honey, would you mind if Rob helped out? For the composition.”
She paused, releasing Ben with a soft, wet sound. “I don’t mind,” she said, her voice pleasantly devoid of everything.
“Perfect. Rob, get behind her. Make it look like you’re fucking her. Let’s really capture the moment, you know? What’s more slutty than a girl getting spit-roasted by her boyfriend’s friends while he’s out buying Coors Light?”
Rob moved into position behind her kneeling form, his hands gripping her hips. He glanced at Dave, a question in his eyes.
“For the photo, Rob. Just pose,” Dave said, though his voice was laced with a permissive grin.
Rob adjusted himself, pressing against her. Stacy didn’t react, her body accepting the pressure like a pillow accepting a weight. She returned her mouth to Ben, whose eyes were now tightly shut. Dave circled them, a director blocking a scene.
“Stacy, arch your back a little more. Good. Rob, tilt your head back, look like you’re really feeling it. Ben, for God’s sake, look at the camera. Try to seem involved.”
Ben’s eyes opened, glassy with panic and a shameful, unwelcome arousal. He looked directly into the lens. Dave took the picture.
The electronic chirp of the phone’s simulated shutter seemed to hang in the air, a period on the sentence.
The electronic chirp of the phone’s simulated shutter seemed to hang in the air, a period on the sentence.
But the scene didn’t stop.
The posing became a pantomime, and the pantomime became real. Rob’s thrusts, which started as shallow adjustments for the camera, lost all pretense of stillness. He gripped her hips, his knuckles whitening, and drove into her with a sharp, ragged rhythm. The wet, slapping sound of skin on skin filled the space between the hum of the fridge and the distant traffic noise.
Ben, lost in a haze of shame and sensation, finally let go.
A choked, guttural sound ripped from his throat. He shoved himself deeper into her mouth, his body locking. Stacy’s throat worked automatically as he emptied into her, a series of hot, pulsing jets. He pulled back with a shudder, a second, weaker blast painting a sticky white line across her chin and down her neck.
She knelt there, breath whistling softly through her nose, semen glossing her lips. Her eyes were open, seeing nothing.
Dave watched, a scientist noting results. He lowered the phone. “Better,” he murmured. Then, louder, his voice a casual, directorial note. “Okay, Stacy. Listen up.”
Her head tilted a fraction, a robot receiving a signal.
“That was good, but the pose is losing energy. We need a more desperate, eager look for the next frame.” He leaned against the arm of the worn leather couch, tapping his phone against his palm. “It would really help you get into character for this photo if you begged Rob to fuck you harder. Really mean it. Sell the need.”
For the first time, a sound that wasn’t a moan or a gasp came from her. Her voice, still that flat, pleasant monotone, shaped the filthy words without a flicker of emotion. “Please,” she said, staring at the laminate floor between Rob’s feet. “Please, Rob, fuck me harder. I need it.”
Rob’s breath hitched. He looked from her blank face to Dave’s cool, expecting one. A savage grin spread over his own. “You hear that, guys? She’s asking for it.”
He pistoned into her, the force of it snapping her whole body forward with each impact. Her borrowed pleas continued, a broken, synthetic record. “Harder. Yes. Please.” Each word was perfectly enunciated and utterly hollow.
Jake, forgotten by the window, finally moved. He unzipped his own jeans, stepping closer. He didn’t ask. He just placed a hand on the back of her head, guiding himself toward her mouth, still wet from Ben. She opened for him without pause, without recognition, taking him in as Rob pounded away from behind.
Dave raised the phone again. The shutter chirped. He moved around them, a ghost in his own apartment, capturing it all: the sweat on Rob’s back, the vacant acceptance in Stacy’s eyes, the way Jake bit his own lip to keep quiet. The neon sign’s buzz seemed to grow louder, a toxic vibration in the air.
The neon sign’s buzz seemed to grow louder, a toxic vibration in the air.
Rob’s rhythm stuttered, his hips slamming forward one last time as he buried himself deep. A ragged groan tore from his chest. He held there, trembling, then pulled back. The warm, wet stripes of his release painted a stark, glistening trail across the small of Stacy’s back.
He stumbled away, breathing hard, zipping himself up with clumsy fingers. Stacy remained on her knees, the mess on her skin just another part of pose for the camera. Jake pulled himself from her mouth with a soft pop, wiping his own chin with the back of his hand.
Jake looked down at Stacy, who was swaying slightly on her knees, a glazed statue in the center of the room. The quiet was thick, broken only by ragged breathing. Dave studied the phone’s screen, zooming in on an image.
“The angles are getting repetitive,” he said, his voice thoughtful, as if critiquing a student film. He glanced at Jake, then at Stacy’s waiting form. “We need a different perspective. A more… participatory vibe.”
Jake wiped his mouth again. “What’s left?”
“A real change of scenery.” Dave nudged Stacy’s shoulder with his foot. “Up. On the couch.” She rose smoothly, moving to the worn leather as directed, her skin gleaming under the neon. Dave turned to Jake, a casual, conspiratorial gesture between them. “Look, for the album to have variety, we need different… interactions. Different focuses.”
He let the idea hang, watching Jake process it. Jake’s eyes flicked to Stacy, then back to Dave. He gave a slow, understanding nod.
“So, you’re saying we should… switch it up. For the shots.”
“Exactly. For the shots.” Dave’s smile was all cold collaboration. “I think you and I should take turns fucking her. Properly. We’ll get a whole new set of expressions, better lighting from this side of the room. A whole different chapter for the collection.”
He didn’t wait for Jake’s full agreement before addressing Stacy. Her eyes were on him, empty and ready. “Stacy. Jake and I are going to take turns having sex with you now. We need to capture some genuine reaction shots. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” she said, the word light and agreeable, like accepting a cup of tea. “That sounds fine.”
“See? She’s a professional.” Dave unbuttoned his jeans. “Jake, you want to set the scene, or shall I?”
“I’ll go,” Jake said, already moving. He didn’t bother with pose or pretense. He pushed her back onto the cushions, the leather sighing under her weight. He was on her in a second, thrusting into her with a single, grunting shove. Her legs came up to bracket his hips, a reflex of the programming, a perfect mechanical accommodation.
Dave circled them, phone held aloft. The shutter chirped. He captured the strain in Jake’s neck, the way Stacy’s head tipped back over the armrest, her hair brushing a discarded poker chip on the floor. Her face was serene, a stark contrast to the violent rocking of the couch.
“Give me a look, Stacy. Look at the camera. Look needy.”
Her eyes slid to the lens, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. It was a convincing pantomime of ecstasy, utterly divorced from the blankness in her gaze. Dave took a dozen shots in rapid succession.
“My turn for the series,” Dave said, tapping Jake’s shoulder. Jake pulled out, slick and shining, making room. Dave took his place, his movements less frenetic, more deliberate. He entered her slowly, watching her face for any crack, any sign of the real Stacy buried beneath the code. There was nothing.
He fucked her with a detached, rhythmic intensity, his eyes locked on the phone screen he held out to his side, capturing his own profile against her submission. The bass from the sound system downstairs thumped through the floor, a vague, distant heartbeat.
“Tell me you love it,” Dave breathed, not to her, but for the microphone.
“I love it,” she recited, monotone.
“Again.”
“I love it.”
Jake, watching from the edge of the table, took a swig from a warm beer. “Get a close-up of where you’re connected, man. The detail shot.”
Dave adjusted the angle, the phone hovering near their joined bodies. The clinical, zoomed-in image on the screen was grotesquely intimate. His own breathing began to shorten, the act and the documentation of it fusing into a single, perverse feedback loop. The leather squeaked in a frantic rhythm.
He felt his own control slipping, the icy director melting into the base participant. He dropped the phone onto the cushion beside her head. It bounced, landing screen-up, still recording. His hands gripped her hips, his thrusts turning final, punishing. A raw, graceless sound escaped him as he finished, collapsing his weight onto her before quickly pushing himself away.
He stood, zipping himself. Stacy lay still, staring at the ceiling. A strand of saliva connected her lips to the leather.
Dave picked up the phone, stopping the recording. He was sweating. “That’s… that’s a good start for that series.” He tossed the device to Jake. “Your turn again. Get some from behind. Use the neon sign as a halo. It’s ironic.”
Jake caught the phone. He was already pulling Stacy up by the arm, turning her onto her stomach on the couch. She went, her body a languid puppet. He mounted her, one hand bracing against the wall with its framed photo of Mark and Stacy laughing on a beach. The glass in the frame reflected their moving shadows.