Her Male Model (Femdom)

Lingerie

Coals POV

I stare at my computer as I drink my morning coffee, biting my lip. Last night, I got an email from Levour Fashion, and I haven't been able to think of anything since. A rich patron has offered me a deal. 50k for a variety of pictures of me...naked. The email disclosed the photos would be of a personal nature, and would not be leaked to the general public. It also said I could refuse the deal, due to the explicit nature of shoot, but that I would not receive any compensation if I failed to provide the photos requested.

I pale just thinking about it. With my mother in the state that she's in, I couldn't possibly turn them down. 50k could pay off most of her medical bills...not that she deserves it. But either way, 50k could lift the financial burden from my shoulders.

On the other side of the spectrum, I could earn that in a mere couple of months with the way that my fame is escalating. And I do not know the nature of the shoot. I mean, I know that it will be sexually explicit, but to me, there is a large difference between shooting nude photos and shooting submissive nude photos.

And then there's the photographer.

Just the prospect of her shooting the photos makes me somehow both filled with dread and unbelievably lust.

I walk back to my waiting laptop and open the email again. The email remains untouched. If I click the green button, I will have accepted the deal laid out. 50k richer and a mere step away from male prostitution. If I click on the red button, everything stays the same, and I do not get to see the photographer for another couple of days if not more.

Before I know what I'm doing, I click on the green button. The moment I do, I feel the gravity of my decision rest on me. Why would I agree? Why sell my body for a mere 50k?

It's her. I want to see her. I need to see her, even if I have to be naked in front of her camera to do so. I spent another night alone last night, shamefully jerking off to femdom instead of fucking another random stranger as I should have. The photographer has somehow claimed my mind, as frustrating as it is. She has popped up in my dreams and my nightmares every day for the last week. Her perfect face flashes before my eyes when my thoughts are allowed to wander. Her gleaming, cold eyes follow me everywhere I go, judging me.

I could not cleanse her from me even if I took a bath in vat of acid.

But still, my stubborn pride persists that she is the problem. That my obsessive thoughts are her fault and not my own. I've somehow convinced myself that my role as a submissive in the last couple of photo shoots is her doing, and not some random cooperate asshole messing with the schedules. I don't have a shred of proof; she's just a mere photographer. And yet my heart is dead set on her being the source of all my problems.

I breathe in deeply, closing my laptop. I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. The photoshoot is set for later today: For better or for worse, this is happening.

...

Mindy approaches me before I am even out of my car. Her eyes are wide with shock, her hair is out of place, and her pantsuit is creased.

She looks absolutely disheveled...I would laugh if she weren't so useless.

"Hello, Mindy." I say, setting out of my car.

"You do know this photoshoot is... explicit ... right?" She asks, biting her lip. I begin to walk towards Levour fashion, and Mindy stays hot on my heels.