“But I’ve never done anything like this. I don’t know if I can.”

Jo-Anne Wiley sat at the front of Mrs Hadden’s big walnut desk and wound her fingers into the hem of her skirt.

“Jo-Anne,” Mrs Hadden looked over half-rimmed glasses, “we want you to be a success. It’s good for me, for you. And everyone who works here. Understand? But you must realize that we all do things in this business that sometimes goes against the grain. We learn to give of ourselves for the good of everyone involved in the project.”

Mitz, the publicist, leaned forward in her guest chair. “And we’re not asking for a Playboy pictorial, Jo. Just a couple of glam-shots to send out with your new release.”

“But I’m not ... Glamorous, I mean...”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Hadden said. “You are a fine-looking girl, Jo-Anne. A very natural look that works for you. We’ll do something with your hair, maybe. And a touch of makeup. Tell her, Mitz.”

“That’s right.” Mitz took the hand-off. “You’ll be fine. And Forgay, he’s the photographer, he’s marvelous with young girls; ones with no experience in front of the camera. He’ll make you feel at ease. And the way he works with light is truly magical.”

“But,” Jo-Anne whined, “you said I’d have to take my clothes off.”

“Not all of them,” Mitz was quick to say. “Just enough to make an intriguing image. You know, add a little mystique. We want to give the reviewers and distributors a little something to think about.”

“And the books aren’t enough?”

“The books are fine. Just think of the glam-shot as another yellow brick in the road to your success as an author. You trust us, don’t you?”

So there it was. The last play. Mitz had placed the guilt card down on the table. “Of course I trust you,” Jo-Anne felt her insides collapse under the weight of responsibility. “You guys have been so nice to me.”

“And remember, we’ve been in the publishing business a lot longer than you have,” Mrs Hadden added.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Mitz sat back, “we can count on your full co-operation?”

“My full co-operation? I guess...”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll book a flight to Miami and set things up with the studio. I’ll pick you up for the drive to the airport.”

“What should I bring to wear?” Jo-Anne wanted to know.

“Don’t worry about it. There’ll be a wardrobe mistress and they have your size. Forgay will look you over and make those decisions for you. You’ll be in good hands.”

“Oh boy...” Jo-Anne slumped.

Even though they were at the photo-studio before eight, the waiting room was packed with men in sharp suits holding leather brief cases and sitting beside leggy girls in short skirts. Jo-Anne was a little embarrassed when the receptionist, recognizing Mitz in the doorway, stepped out from behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mitz,” the receptionist said. “Come along, they’re waiting for you.” And Jo-Anne was ushered through double-doors and into the world of make-believe. The woman checked the light above Studio C. It was green and she pushed open the doors to let them pass.

The studio was the size of a tennis court and brightly lit from a grid twenty-feet above Jo-Anne’s head. Groups of people, technicians Jo-Anne figured, were milling about, sipping from styrofoam cups, their conversations guarded. A man broke ranks and with arms outstretched, he cried, “Mitzy. They told me you were coming.”

Mitz grinned and stepped into his arms. Jo-Anne watched as the man kissed Mitz, full on the mouth. In the rush of emotions, Jo-Anne suspected they had tongued each other, but she hadn’t focused quickly enough to be sure. He was dressed in a loose silk shirt and wore tight white pants that left no doubt as to his physical gender. But his sexual preferences were a little ambiguous.

“Lovely to see you, Mitzy” the man continued. “When am I going to get to photograph you? You can’t hold out forever.”

Mitz playfully pushed him away. “I only take my clothes off for when I’m going to get fucked,” she chided.

He pulled on an earlobe. “Well, you’re not my type, of course, but anything for the cause...” He popped open a gold case the same color as his shirt, and extracted a slim cigarette. He held it delicately between two fingers but didn’t light it. “So what have you brought me?” He turned to run his eyes along the length of Jo-Anne’s torso.

Mitz made the introductions. “This is Jo-Anne. She’s a bit shy and will need some coaching. Jo, this is Forgay. The best photographer this side of New York City.”

“Oh my. A precious little bunny. This should be fun.” Forgay studied Jo-Anne a moment longer. “Cute tits,” he said. “Are you wearing a bra? Are they standing-up on their own?”

Jo-Anne immediately turned brick red. “No ... I ... I mean, yes.” she stumbled out.

Forgay smiled. “Okay, good. Please ... turn.”

The sweat gathered in her underarms as Jo-Anne turned her back to him. She felt she was on the dissection table as his eyes traveled up the curve of a leg, then paused on her behind.

“My, she’s got a sweet ass,” Jo-Anne heard him say to Mitz. “If she were eight-inches taller we could offer her a modeling contract.”

“Never mind the damned modeling,” Mitz shot back. “We just need something to juice up the libido of some dusty old book critics.”

“Betty,” Forgay called out. “Front and center, dear.” A woman in a dark smock stepped forward. “Look at her tushie,” Forgay said. “What do you think?”

“Mmm,” And Jo-Anne’s ass clenched as the woman leaned in to run a hand up the back of a thigh. She smoothed the fabric of Jo-Anne’s cargo pants over the right buttock then took a solid grip of the underside. Jo-Anne gasped as fingers invaded the cleft between her legs. There was a sharp squeeze and Jo-Anne held her breath as the woman moved across to the opposite cheek.

“Firm and round,” Betty determined. “And nicely positioned, high up. There’s a slight crease here, at the under-curve, just enough for definition. She should photograph well if there are no blemishes.”

“Any birthmarks, moles or scars?” Forgay addressed Jo-Anne again.

Jo-Anne, still reeling from being manhandled by a woman, shook her head, no.

Betty affectionately patted Jo-Anne’s bottom and straightened. “A thong?” she asked.

Forgay thought a moment. “Doesn’t do much for me, I’m afraid. Thongs are a bit passe. How about just a pair of cute panties, but pulled up into the crack a little?”

“Could work.” The wardrobe mistress, pondered for a moment. “Pink lace would give her an innocent look– in keeping with her age.”

“Just how old is she, anyway?” Forgay turned to Mitz.

“Nineteen.”

“And she’s written a book?”

“Three.”

Forgay looked with greater interest. “Son-of-gun. Little bitch has more hutzpah than I would have given her credit for.”

Betty broke into his thoughts. “You going topless?”

“Mmm.” Forgay was pulling on his earlobe again, “but after. That will give Mitz a couple of choices. Take her back to a dressing room and have Makeup highlight her eyes and add some lip gloss. Brush out her hair, powder her ass and do her nibs. Then get her back out here ... Mitz? You got time to buy an old fag a coffee?”

Betty took Jo-Anne’s arm and moved her toward a side door. “This way, sweetie. The dressing rooms are in back. This your first time?”

Jo-Anne moved forward on feet that felt weighted in plaster. “He’s going to want me to take my clothes off, isn’t he? In front of everyone.”

“Well, yes,” Betty gave Jo-Anne a weak smile, “but don’t worry your head about it. Forgay isn’t interested in women. He shares a condo down on South Beach with one of the lighting guys. And as far as the rest of them, well women are walking around this place naked all the time. Nobody hardly takes any notice.” She opened a door with a big ’3’ stenciled high up. “Here you go. Dressing Room ‘3’ is all yours.”

Jo-Anne stepped into a brightly lit room that contained a salon chair and a mirrored wall. There was also a bathroom complete with shower. “My. This is something...”

“Yeah. First class.” Betty pointed to a robe hanging on a peg above a bleached bench. “I’ll just run for a makeup lady while you take off your clothes.”

Jo-Anne met the woman’s eyes. “All of ‘em?”

“Every last stitch,” Betty replied. “There’s disposable slippers, on the floor, there. Now hurry along. I’ll be right back.”

Jo-Anne hunched her shoulders and, already feeling exposed and naked, she undid the buttons of her shirt, slipped out of it, and hung it by the collar. She toed off her Keds and pulled the drawstring of her khaki pants and let them drop. She looked down at her white briefs and hesitated. Was she really going to go through with this? In front of those men? All of them, watching?

She sat on the bench a moment. It felt like her heart was about to beat out a hole to escape her chest and looking down, she was surprised to see her breasts rhythmically pulsating in time to the pounding beneath her breast bone. She was spurred back to her feet again by the sound of approaching footsteps. In what felt like an act of total desperation, she whipped down her panties and reached for the robe.

“Forgay wants a natural look...” it was Betty speaking over her shoulder as she opened the door, “and she’s got good bone structure so let’s keep things simple.” A tiny oriental woman followed Betty into the dressing room. “Oh Jo-Anne. Good.” Betty set down a wardrobe bag. “This is May-Lee. She’ll do your hair and makeup.”

“Hello, Jo-Anne,” the small lady cocked her head slightly, “please, if you would kindly take the chair.”

As May-Lee worked with an eyebrow pencil, Jo-Anne watched Betty tear open a plastic sleeve. “Aren’t these adorable,” Betty pulled out a pair of pink lace panties. “The color is perfect.” She held them up and Jo-Anne noticed that the light shone straight through the loose weave. “And I’m thinking of a royal blue top to go with them.”

Air escaped Jo-Anne’s throat in a quiet hiss as she watched Betty unzip the wardrobe bag.

“Here. Look at this.” Betty was holding the satiny blouse next to Jo-Anne’s cheek. “The dark blue goes great with your hair and the soft drape will make you look all cuddly. And it sparkles too, see?”

It could be on fire, for all Jo-Anne cared.

“As soon as May-Lee is finished, we’ll try them on. If Forgay approves, you’ll be out of here in half-an-hour.”

Jo-Anne winced as May-Lee’s brush caught a tangle. “It can’t happen soon enough.”

“As bad as all that? Stand.” Betty reached for the knot at the front of the robe. It was stripped from Jo-Anne’s shoulders and, barefoot and naked, she suffered through having her bum wiped with a baby napkin, the application of foundation, then powder. May-Lee applied blush to her nipples with a makeup brush.