Undone Rebel
Undone Rebel
“The dialogue enhances the book, but it is the ecstatically hot sex that moves Undone Rebel from a good sexy book to an outstanding erotic. Ms DuBois’ ability to show emotion during extreme sex is outstanding and really set the bar high for the next book…did I mention I hope it comes out soon?”
-Coffee Time Romance Reviews
When amateur fetish model and rockabilly princess Adelita “Addie” Sanchez is asked to model for an instructional BDSM book she turns them down, adamant that she’s not a porn star. That changes when she meets the three male dominants behind the project, particularly Lane Therres, who convinces her that the project is more art than porn, and she’d be safe in his hands.
The rules of the photo sessions are clear—there’s no sex, and Addie can call a halt to anything she’s uncomfortable with. What self reliant, strong-willed Addie hadn’t counted on was enjoying giving herself over to the powerful Doms and their ropes, chains and toys. When she falls for Lane, while enjoying Emory's touch, Addie turns away from both men, scared of what they're doing to her. Can a relationship built on a BDSM contract ever be anything but whips and chains? Lane changes his Dom leather for shining armor to prove to his rockabilly princess that even the most gallant knights sometimes prefer dungeons.
Chapter One
There was nothing Addie Sanchez couldn’t fix with needle and thread or WD-40. For more complex problems, rebel-red lipstick was her second line of defense.
Addie slid needle through fabric with the care and precision the vintage satin-and-lace evening gown deserved, squinting at her stitches as she sat on the floor, too engrossed to adjust the lamp. The black and taupe dress hugged the mannequin’s form, tight but tailored, unlike modern clothes that relied on elastic.
“Hola, chica.”
She tied off the thread, smoothed the fabric and stuck her needle with its dangling taupe strand in the pincushion strapped to her wrist. Addie looked up from the hemline. Her friend and boss, though neither woman ever used the second term, stood in the door separating the back room from the retail floor of the shop.
“Pretty in pink.” Addie stood and examined her friend’s dress with its sweetheart neck and full skirt. The dress was bubble-gum pink with white piping along the breasts and half-cup pockets. Lulu had paired it with leopard-print peep-toes and a matching leopard barrette in her flaming red hair. “Those shoes are killer. They make the outfit.”
Lulu kicked up her heel to examine her foot. “They are cute, aren’t they? But the best part of this outfit is the dress—it’s an Addie original.”
Addie smiled and slipped on the canvas-and-cork wedges she’d kicked off to sit on the floor. “That pattern looks good on everyone, especially someone with perky titties like yours.”
Lulu simpered and petted her cleavage. “They are pretty girls, aren’t they? And what are you wearing? Is this new?”
“Finished the top last night, what do you think?”
Lulu twirled her finger and Addie cocked her hip and swung around so her friend could see the modified halter top she’d designed. The studded faux leather straps crossed in the back to show off her shoulders. Glossy black buttons ran down the front and complemented the black-and-white Dia de los Muertos print. Today she was rocking it with tight, high-waisted jeans cuffed wide at midcalf.
“It’s seriously cute, but then everything you make is. Got a name for it?”
“Maybe the Muertos Mary Top? I haven’t figured out if I can mass-produce it yet. The hidden side zipper takes forever.”
“If you can I know it will sell in the shop.”
The front doorbell chimed. It was 10 a.m. on Saturday, early for any of L.A.’s laid-back rockabilly crew, most of whom were probably still recovering from a night spent dancing, cruising or partying. It was not, however, too early for the tourists who made up half of the store’s business.
Lulu nodded toward her office, a tiny hole off the sewing and stock room where Addie also repaired vintage clothes in need of TLC, and Addie headed into the store.
As expected, a trio of tourists—middle-American parents plus teenager—had come in and were staring around in awe. Addie slipped behind the counter and let them look, propping one elbow on the glass, ass in the air.
Lulu L’amore was situated on a posh strip of white-fronted stores on Melrose in Hollywood. They had a designer men’s shoe store on one side, a dog café and “barkery” on the other. Walking into Lulu’s was like walking from an ultramodern loft into the Mexican barrio in 1940’s L.A. The walls were concrete gray and spray-painted with street art–style depictions of pinup girls, flowers, palm trees and cars in bold colors. The floor was wood, tossed with leopard- and zebra-print rugs, the display tables built from shiny chrome car parts mounted with glass. Racks of dresses, skirts and shirts lined three of the walls, though in the back there was a small selection of guys’ items, most of which were shirts, hats and wallet chains.
Addie knew she was as much a part of the decoration as anything on the walls. The teenage boy tourist’s eyes got wide when he caught sight of her. She shifted her weight to her other foot, making sure her ass rocked in her tight pants as she did.
He broke away from his parents, making a beeline for the counter. Picking up a cigarette holder studded with crystals in a cherry-bunch pattern, he pretended to look at it while ogling her breasts.
“Welcome to Lulu’s,” Addie said. “You like it old school?”
“Old school? Oh yea, I’m totally old school. Like Tupac.”
Addie laughed. “Sugar baby, that’s not old school. I’m talking about rock when that’s what rebels knew.” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “I’m talking about Glen Glenn, Big Sandy and the Fly Right Boys. The kind of music that you can dance to.” Addie put her finger on the cigarette case, which the boy had been nervously twirling. “When there’s a little jive in the air, a man holds out his hand and,” Addie took the cigarette case from him and, with the barest touch to his forefinger, turned his hand palm up, “a girl puts hers in it and lets him take her away.”
Two hats, a wallet chain, three CDs and a feathered headband for mom later, the tourists walked out happy and Addie slipped the four-hundred-dollar credit card receipt into the drawer.
Lulu came out from the back carrying a stack of mail and the cordless phone for the private number in her office.
“I sold a few hats to a little boy who thought Tupac was old school,” Addie told Lulu as she straightened the countertop displays. When her friend didn’t react she looked up, concerned.
Lulu was standing there with a wild grin on her face. Her cream skin made her blue eyes sparkle, her upswept and curled hair picking up the sunlight that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the shop.
“What is it?”
“I got a call on the business line for you—about you.”
“About me? What for?” The business line, separate from the shop’s line, was supposed to be for vendors only. Addie was a shop clerk and seamstress—there would be no reason for anyone to call her on that number.
“It’s for a modeling job.” Lulu clutched the phone as if it were an Oscar statue and squealed in delight.
Addie blinked, blinked again, then snatched the phone from Lulu, who had broken into an impromptu one-person Charleston. She hit the voicemail button.
“Hello, my name is Helen Renwald from C&C Productions. I’m looking for Adelita Sanchez. We ran across her photos and are interested in her for a project we are putting together. Please have her give us a call at—”
Addie threw herself across the counter, scrambling for a piece of paper and pen. With the phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder, she scribbled the number. Lying over the counter, she hit the voicemail button again to check it.
“If I were a straight man I’d find this appealing.”
Addie looked over her shoulder to see Pissarro, the owner of the designer shoe store next door. Pissarro, who went by one name like Cher and whose real name was probably John or Bob, was thin, stylish and just edgy enough to be interesting—all the things a gay man in L.A. had to be if he wanted to play in the lively, glittery waters of West Hollywood.
“Guess, guess! Someone called about a modeling job for Addie.”
“You didn’t give me time to guess.” Pissarro leaned against the counter next to Addie’s hip and pinched her thigh. “Oh, to be a woman and be accepted with fat thighs.”
“Fuck you.” Addie wiggled off the counter. “I’ve got the number. Should I call?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t you?” Lulu demanded.
Addie looked at Pissarro, who reached up to smooth her Betty Page bangs down, then touched her cheek with the back of his tanned finger.
“Did they say what photos they saw? What type of shoot they want you for?” he asked.
“No.” Addie looked at the scrap of paper she held, creasing it with her deep indigo nail.
“Oh. Well, shit.” Lulu slipped around behind the counter and pulled out an eight by ten portfolio—Addie’s portfolio.
When Lulu had opened an online store and needed models for the clothes, Addie had been a natural fit, not only because she looked the part, but because many of the exclusive pieces Lulu was selling had been designed by Addie. Between the two of them they’d modeled all the clothes in the store. A photographer friend had taken the photos in exchange for a few custom pieces and a bit of cash. That same friend had later asked Addie if she’d be interested in modeling lingerie for a store in San Diego.
When modeling the lingerie had turned into recreating some of Betty Page’s most famous photos—the hairbrush spankings, mock bondage and even one with a bit in her mouth—Addie hadn’t blinked. The sexy, powerful photos had shown that even in the ultra-feminine lingerie she was still tough, and Addie liked that.
What she hadn’t counted on was the flood of invitations to do pornography that had come her way once the lingerie store’s ad campaign, which included a few national magazines, came out.
Lulu flipped through the portfolio, past pictures of Addie modeling clothes they sold in the store to the lingerie photos.
“You think they’re calling about porn?” Lulu asked.
“They didn’t say, but that’s all anyone ever calls me about.”
“I thought you set up a website for you Rocka-whatever modeling.”
“Rockabilly,” Lulu said, glaring at Pissaro. “Don’t get pissy. You know we attract most of the foot traffic on this block.”
“I did set up a website, and it has the clothes pics instead of the lingerie ones, but still, it seems suspicious,” Addie said, but Lulu and Pissarro talked over her.
“My eyeballs scream when they come into this flea market. There are motor vehicle parts inside.”
“Going in to your store is like visiting my gyno. Oh wait, my gyno is more interesting.”
Ignoring their bitching, Addie looked at the first photo.
The first was black and white except for the pale-pink and silver corset and matching panties Addie wore and the baby-blue nightie of the girl she was spanking. The other girl, a blonde whose face was away from the camera, had her forearms braced on the wall, legs spread. In the photo, Addie was holding up the hem of the nightie with her left hand, the right holding the wood back of a hairbrush against the blonde’s bare ass.
Addie herself was in heels, stockings and a garter belt, along with the corset and panties, which were the products they were trying to sell. In the photo, Addie wasn’t looking at the girl’s ass. Instead, she appeared to be talking, her lips, which looked as dark as her wavy hair, inches from the blonde’s ear.
There was only one way to find out what they wanted. Addie walked away from the bickering pair and dialed.
* * * * *
Helen flipped to the next picture. “Here’s another photo from this same series. I want you to remember that this is all just for a lingerie store.”
Now the dark-haired retro beauty was posed against a black-and-white patterned wall. She wore a see-through black lace teddy with a black bra and panties underneath. Her legs were spread, arms down but held away from her sides. Wide black ribbon bound each wrist and disappeared into the edge of the photo.
Lane sucked in a breath, captivated by the look of defiance on her face. The woman’s chin was lowered, her hair mussed and tangled, destroying some of her retro pinup girl style. One corner of her mouth was drawn up in a fuck-you half-smile. But her eyes, looking at the camera through her lashes, were vulnerable.
“Look at the tension she has on the restraints,” Emory, seated beside Lane at the conference table, said.
“Those aren’t restraints. They’re ribbons, props.” Across from the other men, as far away as he could get himself, was Master Alton.
Lane kept his eye roll to himself and looked at Helen. “Any more photos?”
“Of course.”
All three men sat forward when the next image popped on screen.
In this color photo, she knelt on a bed, her caramel skin dark against the ivory sheets. She wore a blood-red teddy with lacings up the sides and a matching red leather collar. Her hands were bound and positioned in front of her crotch, squeezing her breasts together. A shiny silver bit between her teeth forced back red lips and showed off pert white teeth.
“She’s gorgeous. She’s perfect,” Lane said.
“That’s what we think,” Helen replied. A plump woman in her mid-fifties, she didn’t look as though she was the president of an erotic media empire, but she was. Her latest project was an introduction to BDSM coffee-table book, complete with high-quality erotic photos. Lane, Emory and Alton, all Doms from L.A.’s various BDSM scenes and cultures, had been recruited to write the text of the book, each man offering his unique perspective.
The writing was done, and now came the good part—generating the pictures to go with all that text. Helen didn’t want a professional sub or an adult entertainment professional. The book would be marketed toward couples looking to spice up their sex lives and people in the scene who wanted to watch a new sub’s introduction to the culture through photos. There had been talk of creating a video, but that really was porn and Lane, for one, would have opted out.
“Well, gentlemen, what do you think?”
“I say yes,” Lane answered immediately.
“Yes,” Emory added.
“Any woman can be trained to some degree. She’ll probably do fine,” Alton, who insisted on being called Master Alton, said grudgingly.
“Delightful.” Helen looked relieved at having finally found someone all three of them could agree on. She straightened the scarf draped over one shoulder. “Now all I need to do is convince her. She’s stopping by in,” Helen checked her watch, “fifteen minutes.”
“Does she know what the project is about?” Lane asked. He stood but didn’t leave the conference room with the other Doms. The woman in the image fired his imagination. The mix of defiance and grudging submission in a beautiful woman was like waving a red flag in front of a bull for him.
“No, all we told her was that we were interested in having her model. I think it will be easier if I can show her other books. We lost several promising candidates after I failed to successfully explain what the project was.”
Lane could understand the women’s hesitation. He’d hesitated himself when he was approached with the project. For him, BDSM was something he craved in the bedroom, but he was far from rabid the way men like Alton were. He had a normal life, a normal job, and wasn’t sure he wanted to risk that all for a porn book. It wasn’t until he met with Helen and saw a prior book—one focused on foot fetishes—that he understood that C&C’s projects really were informational and artistic more than porn.
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t looking forward to introducing a beautiful woman to the world of BDSM—he was, especially if it was the dark-haired Latina in the pictures.
Carrying her portfolio, dressed in her best retro suit complete with real stockings, Addie entered the nondescript office building in North Hollywood. While it seemed nice enough, with discreet name plaques beside doors, a security desk and potted palms in the lobby, it was in the north part of North Hollywood. It wasn’t far from here to Van Nuys, the porn capital of the world. The proximity was reawakening Addie’s fears as to what exactly this modeling job was for.
Addie spotted a bathroom and stopped to check her appearance one last time. She’d done her hair up in big rolls with Lulu’s help that morning so she was both professional and retro. While keeping her trademark red lipstick, she’d toned down the cat-eye eyeliner, which made her brown eyes appear rounder and softer.
She checked the placement of the wide belt and then the cute little flares at the back of her jacket to make sure they hadn’t creased in the car. With five minutes to her meeting time, she struck a few test poses.
“You can do this, Addie.” She put her hand on her hip, tipped her chin and smiled. “If it’s porn just walk out and all it cost you was gas.” Flipping to the other side, she put her fingertips on her shoulders and thrust her chest out in a pose she’d seen in an old pinup calendar.
Confident in her appearance if nothing else, Addie left the bathroom and headed for suite 1430, which said “C&C Productions” on the plaque beside the door.
She knocked softly, then opened the door. A small waiting room with six chairs was just inside. Behind a reception desk, a hallway stretched to the left and right. A bell chimed when she walked in, and Addie wasn’t surprised to see someone appear from the left hallway seconds later.
The woman was heavyset and well dressed with a sharp haircut. If wouldn’t take much for her to look frumpy, but she looked anything but, with her hand-painted silk scarf and raw-silk suit jacket. Butterflies fluttered to life in Addie’s belly—it didn’t seem likely that this woman was recruiting girls for porn, so maybe this was her chance at another big modeling job. As much as Addie loved Lulu’s, the money she made there was usually only enough to help her get by, not get ahead, and modeling income would really help.
“Adelita?”
“Please, call me Addie.”
“I’m Helen, thank you for coming in.” Helen held out her hand and they shook. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to my office.”
Behind the reception desk, right turn, down the hall and then another right into a well-appointed office. Addie perched on the edge of her chair with her portfolio on her lap, her small, hard-sided cherry clutch on top of that.
“Addie, let me first start by once again thanking you for coming in.”
“I was excited to receive your phone call.”
“That’s good to hear. The second thing I want you to know is that the other models involved in this project, who are also the writers, have agreed that you’re our missing piece.”
“I’m flattered, but I have to ask…writers?” Addie hoped she wouldn’t be expected to write anything. She hated writing.
Helen smiled. “Caught that, did you? If you do this, you’ll give those three a run for their money.” Helen stood and pulled a large book off the shelves to the left of her desk. She brought it back and placed it facedown on her blotter.
“What my company wants to produce is a book that is not only informative—hence the writing—but beautiful. It’s not an instructional book, or a guide for morons, it’s an art piece, maybe some would even call it a coffee-table book. It’s going to tell a story in both pictures and words about a world most people would never dare to be a part of.”
The fluttering in Addie’s stomach had morphed from excitement back to vague dread.
“And what is the subject of your book?” Addie asked slowly.
Their gazes met, held. “It’s BDSM.”
Addie’s breath released in a little rush and she looked own at her fingers, which were gripping her clutch bag so tightly the individual rhinestones were making impressions in the pads of her fingers.
“Do you know what that is?”
“Yes, it’s sex—porn—bondage, domination, uh, something else.”
“BDSM stands for bondage, domination, sadism and masochism.”
“Sadism?” Addie stood. She was trembling slightly, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the shock of hearing the seemingly innocuous Helen talk about sadism or raw anger that this was, as she expected, about porn. “Thank you very much for your time. I’m sorry, but I’m not the right person for your shoot. The photos you saw that made you call me were about lingerie. I’m not really into those things in the pictures. I’m certainly not into sadism.”
Addie turned on her heel and left Helen’s office. If she’d looked back, she might have seen Lane lurking just down the hall. If she’d waited in the lobby, she might have overheard the conversation between Lane and Helen.
“How much of that did you hear?” Helen asked.
“Most of it,” Lane said. “She didn’t reject BDSM altogether. She just was frightened by the sadism.”
“Who isn’t until they see it done right?” Helen shook her head. “I didn’t get to show her the book. She called the project porn, and if that’s how she thinks of it there’s no getting her on board now.”
“I don’t know.” Lane took the fetish book from Helen. “I’m going to talk to her. Don’t start looking for a different girl until I call you.”
“She has to be willing, Lane.”
Lane snorted. “I’m not Alton. I won’t scare her off. I just want to explain it to her, give her a chance to ask me some questions maybe.”
“Nothing related to BDSM itself—save that until there’s a camera around to capture her reactions.”
“Fine, no specifics, but I am going to ask her what she thinks it is. Did you catch that she said she wasn’t ‘really into those things’? That’s not a flat-out denial.”
“When you talk to her, make sure you explain that she’d be signing up for physical contact and some pain, but that there’s no sex, no intimacy. And show her how much we’d pay her.” Helen disappeared into her office and grabbed the modeling contract.
“Thanks.” Lane tapped the papers thoughtfully against his leg as a slow smile stretched across his mouth. “I’m going to get the girl.”
Addie hung her jacket on its padded hanger before slipping off the matching skirt. She carefully folded squares of tissue over the edges before clipping it to a hanger and putting skirt and jacket in her overflowing closet.
Wearing her bra, panties, garter and stockings, she slipped on a white silk robe painted with a stylized pinup doll on the back, a gift from an old boyfriend, and headed into the living room.
Addie’s apartment was a chaotic mix of fabric and knickknacks. She’d given up on a couch in order to make room for a craft table and sewing machines against the one wall with a window, so she dropped into the extra-large chair positioned in front of her TV. Lulu had given her the whole day off to meet with the modeling job people.
“Modeling, my ass.” Addie picked up a vintage top from the basket beside her chair and thumbed open the little bottle of beads she’d found to match the beading on the shoulders. She’d cleaned and repaired the top, now all that was left was repairing the beadwork. When it was done she’d sell it. She could use the money…plus it was too small for her.
She was only ten beads in when there was a knock on the door. Figuring it was her neighbor, Mrs. Gardener, who liked to keep track of Addie since Mrs. Gardener’s own twenty-something grandkids were too far away for the old sweetheart to pester, Addie didn’t bother to get dressed.
She opened the door, but it wasn’t Mrs. Gardener on the other side.
A six-foot blond in a black leather jacket was leaning against the wall just outside her door.
Addie put her hand on the door, pulled it closed a little, prepared to shut it in his face if the situation went south.
“Can I help you?”
“Adelita?”
“Depends who’s asking. What do you want?”
He pushed away from the wall and stood in the doorway, invading her space. “I want to have a conversation with a pretty woman.”
“And I,” Addie put her finger in the center of his chest and pushed, “don’t trust pretty boys.”
Addie closed the door, but the man slid his foot between the door and the jamb. Addie jumped back, prepared to run for a phone and call 9-1-1 if he made a move she didn’t like.
He pushed the door open again and held up one hand. “I’m not coming in, I just thought you might like it if I didn’t say what I have to say through the door.”
Addie cocked her hip, felt the robe slide open a bit. “And what is it you have to say?”
The blond’s gaze had dropped to her breasts and the lacy bra that was peeking out from the widening slit in her robe.
“I’m working with C&C Productions.” He leaned against the doorjamb. A few locks of hair fell across his forehead as he tipped his head down and smiled at her. He was handsome, if a little too clean-cut for her taste. She liked her men to be tattooed retro gentlemen who could refurbish a car as well as they danced. This guy was frat-boy handsome all grown up and sexy, though if he was a porn star it was a clean-cut veneer over skanky man-whore interior.
“Oh.” Addie pulled her robe closed. “I already told the lady I wasn’t interested.”
“I’m one of the other models. I thought we could talk about it.”
“Listen, porn star, I’m not interested."
“I’m not a porn star. I’m a systems engineer.”
“You’re what?”
“A computer geek. It’s true. Here.” He fished his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card.
Addie took a tentative step closer and accepted the card.
Lane Therres
Systems Development
AIFO Consulting
“This is really you?” She held the card up. “Lane.”
“Yep. Lane Therres. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re a geek consultant.” Addie was still examining the card. Everything felt out of synch, as if she were dancing a half beat off the music. The blond—Lane—was a piece that didn’t fit with the day’s admittedly strange happenings.
He laughed lightly. “That sums it up. Maybe I should have that on the cards.”
“If this is really you, what are you doing modeling for porn? I think your geek boss will be upset.”
“I rarely interface with clients, I build systems on the back end. Plus, it’s not porn. It’s art.”
“And there’s a stack of ‘art’ pictures guys conned women into taking that end up as internet porn.”
“Can I show you something?”
“If you whip out your dick, I’m calling the cops.”
“No dick.” He looked over his shoulder. “I think.”
Addie lunged for her phone. “That’s it, alpha delta porno, I’m calling the cops.”
“Alpha what? There’s no need to call the cops.”
“The catchphrase of psycho porn stars everywhere, I’m sure. Deja.”
“Deja.” He rolled the word nicely. “That means ‘leave,’ doesn’t it?”
“Very good. Buh-bye then.”
Lane ducked out of the doorway for a second and reappeared holding a book. “This is all I want to show you.” It looked like the same book Helen had tried to show her.
“Strangely, you haven’t left.”
“Weird, isn’t it? Can I come in?” He didn’t wait for her answer but stepped in, closing the door behind him. He made her happily cluttered apartment seem small.
Addie picked up a stone calavera—skull—decorated for Dia de los Muertos from the shelf at her shoulder. It easily weighed five pounds. “Do you regularly force your way into women’s apartments?”
“This is a first, actually.”
“I feel so special. It’s going to be even more special when I bash your head in.”
“With a sparkly skull? There’s some irony in there.”
Addie narrowed her eyes. “You’re making it hard to hate you.”
“I was socially inept until college, so thank you, it’s good to know the years of hard work learning to talk to women have paid off.”
“I’m still going to hit you. I’ll try to avoid your pretty-boy face.”
“The fact that I’m holding a conversation with a woman whose robe has come undone is even more amazing.”
Shit. Addie looked down and Lane jumped across the room, snatching the skull from her. Her robe was still in place, though it had slipped to one side, exposing her left breast in its leopard-and-cream lace bra. She pulled it in place and sighed. Lane was tossing the skull in the air and grinning.
“You’re in. I’m unarmed. What do you want?”
“Just to talk, and to show you this.” He held up the book.
“Fine, we’ll talk. Put down my skull.”
He set the jeweled piece on a table behind him. He looked around her living room, having the raised brow reaction most people did when they saw she had more sewing supplies than furniture.
“Have a seat,” Addie said. She curled into her armchair, tucking her robe securely under her legs so it wouldn’t slip, and motioned to the matching ottoman.
Lane sat then jumped up. “Fuck!” He picked up the beaded top she’s been working on. The needle was sticking up out of the fabric and had, predictably, found its way into his ass.
Addie’s lips twitched. “Pain in your ass?”
“Funny.” He set the sewing aside and swept his hand across the ottoman before sitting. “Maybe we should start over.” He held out his hand. “I’m Lane Therres.”
“Addie Sanchez.” His handshake was firm and very warm.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Addie. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“You mean fucking me, and it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to be part of your little porn.”
“I wouldn’t do porn either. I’m a normal guy. Well, sort of. The project Helen wants you for isn’t porn.”
“Then what is it?” Addie asked, exasperated.
“It’s probably easier to show you.” He held out the book. “This is the last project C&C did. It’s an informational book of sorts. It’s got stories, explanations and most importantly, photos.”
Addie flipped open the book.
Foot Fetish—The sole of devotion.
“This is a book about foot fetishes?”
“Yes. Don’t freak out, just turn the page.”
She raised a brow. “Do I look like the kind of woman who freaks out?”
“Fair point.”
Addie flipped the glossy page and skimmed the first few lines of text. It talked about the history of foot fetishism, the beauty of the fetish, the variations that were possible. “This makes it sound like the only way to show someone you love them is to,” she skimmed the page, “lick their shoes.”
“That’s how some people feel.”
She skipped the next pages of text, stopping when she got to the first photo. It was a full-page black-and-white image of a woman’s calf and foot. A glossy, black high heel dangled from her toes.
The next image was the same woman’s foot, but now a man was kissing it. In the next photo he licked the side of the shoe. Another flip and the man was licking the sole of her bare foot.
The images were beautiful, well lit and composed, yet clearly sexual.
It wasn’t porn.
Lila Dubois
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(c)2012
