Page 3 of Beautiful Liar

She rises without question, restoring a little goodwill in her favor. Moving the chair out of her way, she backs up slowly. The hem of her loose T-shirt rests on top of faded jeans. Even before she’s fully exposed to the camera, I catch my first glimpse of the hourglass figure wrapped around the petite frame. She’s a fifties pinup girl dressed in cheap clothes. Her breasts are full but not quite double Ds, her thighs and calves shapely enough to stop traffic, with a naturally golden skin tone denoting a possible mid-west upbringing.

She’s knock-out potential—subject to several nourishing meals. But I’ve seen enough and done enough in this twisted life of mine to know her body isn’t what would draw attention. It’s the look in her eyes. The secrets and shadows she is trying hard to batten down. They’re almost eating her alive.

I don’t really give a shit what those secrets are. But the chance to fuck them…to fuck with them, expose them to my cameras, sparks a sinister flame inside me.

“Turn around, let your hair down.”

Her fingers twitch at her sides for a second before she faces the wall. One hand reaches up and pulls the band securing the loose knot on top of her head.

Caramel and gold tresses cascade down her back. Thick enough to swallow my hands, her wavy hair reaches past her waist, the tapered ends brushing the top of her perfectly rounded ass.

I watch her for a few minutes, then speak into the mic distorting my voice. “Do you have any distinguishing birth marks I should know about, Lucky?”

The question sinks in. Her back goes rigid for a second before she forces herself to relax. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the top of my thigh,” she responds.

“Show me,” I reply, although I don’t really need to see it. My carefully selected stylists can disguise any unseemly marks.

Slowly, she turns around. I expect her gaze to drop or a touch of embarrassment to show, but she stares straight into the camera as her fingers tackle the buttons of her jeans. The zipper comes down and she shimmies the denim over her hips. Her white cotton panties are plain and the last word in unsexy. All the same, my eyes are drawn to the snug material framing her pussy lips.

I also see the hint of bush pressed behind the cotton.

I shift in my seat, but don’t reach for the hardness springing to life behind my fly. Hand jobs are a waste of my time. I either fuck or I don’t. It’s that simple.

She lowers the jeans to knee-level and twists her right leg outward. The round red disk just on the inside of her thigh is distinctive enough to need covering up. I make a mental note.

“Thank you, Lucky. You may put your clothes back on.”

A hint of surprise crosses her face, but she quickly adjusts her clothing. When she’s done, her hands return to her sides.

“It’s time for your screen test. Sweep your hair to one side and come closer. Place your hands flat on the desk, bend forward, but don’t sit down.”

She follows my instructions to the letter. I adjust the camera so it’s angled up to capture her face.

“Are you ready?”

She gives a small nod.

“You’ve just walked into a bar. You don’t know me. But you see me, the guy in the corner, nursing a bourbon. And I see you. All of you. Every fantasy you’ve ever had. I want to give it to you. You’ve found me, Lucky, the guy who wants to fuck you more than he wants his next breath. Do you see me?”

Her nostrils quiver slightly. “Yes.”

“Good. Look into the camera. Don’t blink. Show me what I want to see. Convince me that you’re worth fucking. Convince me you’re worth dying for.”

Her lids lower, her face contemplative, but she doesn’t blink or lose focus. Slowly, her expression drifts from disinterested to captivated. Her lids lift and she’s a green-eyed siren. Her attention is rapt, unwavering. Her bruised-rose lips part, but she doesn’t swirl her tongue over her lips as I expect. She just…breathes. In. Out.

She swallows, a slow movement that draws attention to her neck, then lower to her breasts. Mesmerized against my will, I watch her nipples harden against the thin material of her top. Her fingers gradually curl into the hard wood and every inhalation and exhalation becomes a silent demand.

In…fuck…out…me…

In. Fuck.

Out. Me.

I remain still, even though my fingers itch to twitch and my muscles burn with a restlessness I haven’t felt in a long time.

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