Page 1 of Dirty Shots

Chapter One

Eric

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‘Female Model Wanted for PhotoShoot.’

Eric Rutherford stared at the folded newspaper on his desk, and the advertisement contained within the small printed box. He didn’t need to read any further to know what the ad said—after all, he’d been the one who’d written it—but he continued nevertheless.

“Some alternative modeling expected,” he read. “Pay dependent on applicant’s experience.”

It sounded vague enough to generate interest for what he wanted, and he already had a surprisingly large volume of applicants lined up for interviews that day. He guessed the financial climate had something to go with it—people needed to bring in a little extra money. He’d scheduled their interviews thirty minutes apart, and the first interviewee would be arriving soon. He was anxious as to the type of women he’d meet today. In his heart, he felt he’d know the right one as soon as he saw her, but there was always a chance she wouldn’t make an appearance and he’d have to start from scratch. That was the last thing he wanted. He was working under the idea that once the right woman saw him, she’d feel less inclined to run away. He knew he didn’t look like a pervert—or a photographer either, for that matter—more like a young, successful investment banker on his day off. His clean-cut style, six-feet frame, shock of dark hair, and deep brown eyes normally captured a woman’s attention.

Eric chewed at a snag on his fingernail and stared over the top of his computer to look through the windows which stretched across the length of his apartment. It was one of the things he’d initially loved about this place—the amount of light. After moving in, he’d found the view of Lower East Side of Lower Manhattan’s busy cafés and even busier night life to be a great distraction when he needed it.

Having been published in numerous art journals across the world and his work displayed in multiple galleries right here in New York, Eric could use his name to find a model, but he didn’t want someone coming in expecting him to be the Eric Rutherford he portrayed to the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it would only take a few keywords plugged into Google to learn of his success, but that success was based on his portrait work, mainly consisting of older people and children. They wouldn’t find anything linking his name to the sort of work he desired so greatly to produce.

How could he explain what he wanted without looking like a pervert or a weirdo? He was simply a man who had an eye for the female form, for the perfect way light curved off a hip or breast. He wanted to photograph the dip of a woman’s stomach and the shadows cast as she spread her legs before him.

Yes, it was about sex. But it wasn’t about having sex. He wanted his photographs to inspire people to grab their partners and appreciate the beauty of each other’s bodies.

Creating this art meant everything to him. He hoped to find a woman willing to trust him enough to model with a few accessories. He wanted to bind rope across her breasts, tight enough that the coarse fibers left an imprint on her skin. He wanted to have her on her knees, with her hands handcuffed to her ankles. He wanted to whip a rounded pale bottom with a leather flogger, and then photograph the red stripes left on her skin. There was something about the purity of these marks and how exposed and vulnerable they left a person that he found beautiful.

Eric sighed. The chances of ever finding a woman keen to do that stuff seemed near impossible. In the past, he’d tried to persuade a couple of girlfriends to pose for him, but they either didn’t want to go much beyond a little light spanking in the bedroom, or didn’t like the idea of being photographed. The last thing he ever wanted was to create art a woman wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with. He wanted the model to enjoy the experience as much as he would.

The intercom buzzed and he bit down on his nerves and allowed the first woman up to his loft-style apartment.

It turned out he’d overcompensated with the thirty minute slot. The first woman had been keen, but too old for his liking. The next had blushed up to her bleached-blonde roots the moment he’d mentioned the possibility of photographing her tied up and had beat a quick exit. The next was a professional glamour model with fake tits and a portfolio, not the type of woman he was looking for at all.

Lunchtime arrived and Eric had a break for an hour. He fixed himself coffee and a sandwich, then sat back, his feet rested on the desk in front of him. He had a feeling his fears were coming true. The right woman wouldn’t be gracing his doorstep today.

A knock at the door made him sit up straight, his feet jerking from his desk and almost spilling his coffee. People didn’t normally knock—they used the buzzer on the intercom.

The knock came again, tentative this time.

“One minute,” he called.

Standing, he smoothed down the black slacks and dress shirt he always wore, then went to the door and swung it open. A slim blonde stood before him. Her blue eyes were huge in her petite face and they traveled up and down his body before lighting with a shy smile.

“Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you. Someone else in the building let me in ...” She trailed off, uncertain. “I’m early, I know. Sorry. I should come back later.”

The young woman began to turn away, but Eric reached out and caught her by the elbow. “No, no. Stay, please.”

He stepped back from the door, allowing her into the apartment. She walked past him and a hint of vanilla perfume wafted over him. Quickly, he closed the door behind her and she turned back to him, an expectant smile touching her lips.

Her angelic face transfixed him and he thought his heart might burst from his chest. This is her. The one. If she said it wasn’t her thing, he thought he would never get over the disappointment.

Flustered, Eric rushed back to his desk to pick up the list of applicants. Quickly scanning the list, he found her name, Anya.

“Are you Swedish?” he asked, assessing her blonde hair and fair skin.

She shook her head. “American born, but my parents are from Finland.”

“I see.” Despite the American upbringing, he could still detect a faint European accent he assumed she’d picked up from her parents.

“Did you want an all-American girl?” she asked, a teasing note to her voice.

He shook his head. “No, I just want the right girl.”

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