Chapter 2

About 20 minutes later, Marvin announces that they have enough shots. The crew applauds her boldness, as do I, but nerves build in the pit of my stomach because I’m next. Christina basks in the applause as the neon lights stop and the normal bright lights come on. Her nude body looks magnificent under normal lights. I admire her skin, her shape, and the darkened shade of her post-pregnancy nipples.

When an assistant hands Christina a long silk robe, she wears it, but she doesn’t bother to close it. The robe covers her tits and most of her body, but leaves the center of her shiny chest and vagina on display. People act like this is normal and the nervous sensation in the pit of my stomach grows. Christina looks right at me.

“Your turn,” she says.

An assistant holds out her hand, gesturing for my robe. I pull the knot and release it. The robe slides off my shoulders, and with the help of the assistant, the robe is removed and I’m bare from the waist down — feet, legs, ass, everything… All I have is my small white tshirt.

When I step under the lights and the camera points at my crotch, everything changes. I thought Christina would leave to get the oil off, but I was wrong. Her robe is still open and she has no intention of leaving, same with her team. They want to watch my set.

If you’ve never posed with your most intimate area showing, let me tell you something, it’s a different kind of humiliation. Everyone’s attention focuses on you with strong intent, scrutinizing your perfections and imperfections. They’ll remember it forever, possibly even fantasize about it here and there.

With that in mind, it’s also empowering in ways I hadn’t expected. The camera snaps. No one is judging me. I’m captivating them. They’re loving this, Christina is loving what she sees. Now she’s focused on me, rather than the other way around. My heart is pumping, but I’d never want to do this again.

Marvin kneels and takes pictures from inches away. Zooms in and out. My skin sizzles under the scrutiny and bright lamp lights. I’m mortified by the super close-ups but also very fucking aroused. That’s how contradictory these feelings of exhibitionism are to the average person like me.

“Can you lay down?” Christina asks. “Adding wetness would set this off.”

The photographer rests the camera and waits for me to lay on the floor. Not wanting to make a fuss, I do what I’m told. I open my legs a little, but not wide enough to make this a medical tutorial. It’s about subtle eroticism for a product, not a showing of human anatomy.

My hair is splayed across the floor and I’m staring at the ceiling. The clicking sound of the camera echoes, the sound comes nearer, in between my legs. The snapping sound is a blunt reminder that these images are forever. Christina’s fans will be buying these products and seeing these images of me. I hear Christina’s footsteps approaching me. Her bare feet make smacking noises on the floor as they come nearer.

When she stands close to me, I see her pussy because her robe is still open. She’s looking at me, not in a gratuitous way, but as a business woman. The gears in her head are turning.

“Here’s the wetness,” she says. “We’re a lubricant brand, above all else.”

Christina kneels beside my body and opens her robe to reveal her oiled boobs. They shimmer under these bright lights. I can really see them now, the smooth curves of her chest, the color of her nipples, even the tiny bumps on her areola. Her breasts look full, heavy, and maternal. Her brown nipples are erect and she squeezes them and milk shoots onto the lower half of my body. I flinch but try to keep still. It’s my first time interacting with a woman’s milk and the fact that it’s hers makes it feel like a blessing.

I don’t know if this is sexual to Christina or not, but for me it’s titillating. Her lactate has a rich smell. I enjoy the tingle of her milk hitting the skin around my crotch. The droplets are warm. But more than anything it’s seeing her nipples swollen. I guess you could say it’s a fetish I never knew I had.

Without looking down at myself, I know Christina’s actions have achieved the desired effect. I’m aroused. And I can feel her fluids leaking down my crotch and thighs. The photographer is snapping pictures like crazy while bringing the camera even closer.

“That should be a wrap,” Marvin says. “The last few are magic.”

Everyone gathers around the laptop to see the uploaded shots, Christina’s robe is still open, and by the look on their faces, we’ve got everything covered. The shoot is wrapped and once again, all the attention is given to Christina, while I’m treated like an afterthought.

She’s whisked away to her dressing room to remove the body oil and I head back to mine. I can hardly look anyone in the eyes, even though no one has judged me. In many ways I’m glad to have done this. I’ve never felt hotter, literally and figuratively.

I was given a plane ticket to meet with Christina at her Miami hotel suite. My boss is ecstatic that I’m in touch with the pop singer because that means a stronger business relationship. Everyone is starting to feel the pressure. We’re launching the lubricant product soon and she’s gearing up for a world tour.

A hotel suite for a celebrity is different than what the average person would expect. It’s like a fancy apartment, but it also doubles as a working space. Her team is busy in the suite when I arrive mid-morning. The living space is filled with boxes, mostly unopened, laptops being used on the dining table, and Christina is in the bedroom testing wardrobe for the show.

While waiting in the living space, I look at the unwrapped promotional materials laying around. Christina’s nude body slicked with oil, breasts and vagina strategically covered with her hands. An absolute icon. Someone with enviable confidence and charisma.

I’m called into the bedroom and Christina looks like something reminiscent of her younger days. She’s gotten a little thinner, which I think is a shame. I’ve become aroused by her curves. She’s sitting in front of a dresser and two older women are fixing her appearance. A small leather dress that’s black and silver, something futuristic, something daring. It’s form-fitting and reveals legs and her cleavage is popping out, like the top is about to explode. She’s barefoot and her boots are laying on the floor.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Reminds me of your second album. I love it.”

She’s too tight around the top and the stylists tug and pull. They discuss loosening it another inch or two. Everyone ignores me while they remove Christina’s dress. She stands, they undo the straps from behind and pull the outfit down to her feet.

Christina stands in front of the mirror wearing a sheer strapless bra and a thong. The stylists take the dress away and begin making modifications on a nearby table. Christina is still gazing at her reflection, her hands ruffling her hair. Even though I’ve already seen her nude, there’s something about a sheer bra and panties which attack the senses. It’s a different level of primal than full nudity.

“Take a look on my bed,” she says. “That’s the reason I invited you here. Better to show you in person than sending emails, right?”

I walk to her bed. There are stacks of promotional materials with different logos, shots of a vagina with thick brown folds and a clitoris that’s erect from exposure. The posters are the most jarring because they’re blown up, every detail of the pussy is noticeable. Each fold. Every line. The black and white images show a glimpse of the inside with droplets around the mound.

The droplets are her milk.

Her entire team must have seen these images. Everyone who looked at me since arriving saw these images. I’m beyond mortified. It’s reality punching me in the gut, and soon, these are going worldwide, on the internet and alongside the lubricant product. The people at work will see this. My friends and family will eventually see this, not knowing it’s me, perhaps admiring the view.

“What do you think?” she asks. “Bad ass, right?”

I resist the monumental urge to revoke the deal and have the images destroyed.

“Looks… amazing. My saving grace is that my face isn’t attached.”

“Relax. It’s only pussy.”

I turn to Christina when she stands in front of me. Her bra is removed. Her breasts are free. The last time I saw them, they were drenched in oil, now they’re normal, draped in sunlight through the window. Between her heavy makeup, gold and silver accessories, and bare breasts, it’s how I’d imagine a Roman noblewoman used to look in ancient times.

“But that one is mine,” I say.

She laughs. “Funny. But yeah, these types of photoshoots aren’t for everyone. I got used to doing those at a younger age. You’re brave. Seriously.”

“Do you know what the most exhilarating part was? I’m talking about the photoshoot.”

“I noticed your erect nipples when you sprayed me.”

“Astute observation,” she says. “Will you help me with something?”

“Sure, my job is to help you.”

“They’re working on my wardrobe. I need these tied beneath my boobs. It’s the key to a consistent shape when I’m wearing different outfits on stage.”

On the dresser there’s a long fabric, like a sash or ribbon, and she hands it to me. She tells me to wrap it around her body, which I do, trying to avoid staring too closely at her nipples in the process. She does the rest, wrapping the length of the fabric around each breast. All the way around. Not too tight. But the breast bondage has an interesting effect, it causes her boobs to jut forward, making a bulbous shape.

Christina steps in front of the mirror and admires her appearance. She flicks the nipples on her protruding breasts. Her lower lip quivers, she’s aroused. I wonder what’s doing this to her, the fact that I’m watching, or the bondage itself? And make no mistake about it, I’m aroused as well.

“Want to see a trick?” she asks.

“I’m assuming it involves your breasts.”

She turns to me and pinches and pulls at her nipple. Then she asks me to tug on the breast bondage, and when I do, a light stream of milk sprays from her tits. I’m mortified this is happening, wetting the carpet, wetting my clothes, but my overreaction amuses her. The weak stream of milk isn’t enough to make me squeal, but it’s enough to make me flinch.