For the Love of Jake

By Kirstin South

Ashley Moore, like all the other models, cannot stand the weedy, red-headed photographer Jake, with his straggly beard and foul mouth. However, Jake turns out to be a rather quiet, dark-haired, almost handsome man who is intimidated by beautiful women.

When he's accused of a rape he could not have committed, Ashley finds herself taking his side. In the process, she not only puts herself in danger of losing her heart, but her life as well. There are people who think sex and pain form a perfect combination, and Ashley may find herself in way deeper than she could possibly imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojocastle Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781601800411

Book preview

http://www.mojocastle.com/

Also By Kirstin South:

Nightwalkers

Tell-Tales

Dedication:

To my granddaughters, who read my books under the sheets with a flashlight.

WARNING: This novel has some very funny, and some very ugly, and some very tender, and some very dirty parts. If any of these offend you, please read on. (The Author)

Chapter One

Ashley took the rickety open elevator to the fourth story of the abandoned factory, opened the grate that served as an elevator door and stepped out into what she supposed was Jake’s studio.

It didn’t look much like a studio, she told herself. It looked like—well, what it was. The bare third floor of an empty factory. Oh, there was a seedy-looking sofa in one corner with its stuffing showing at a corner, a bare wooden table with a toaster oven and a hot plate on it against one wall, and one unpainted wooden chair beside that. But those were the only sign of human habitation—that, and the garbage littering the floor, the smell of which was almost overpowering.

She must have come to the wrong place. Again.

And then a voice from nowhere said, You’re late.

I…I got lost, she stammered, startled by the sound. All the factories look alike.

Excuses are for catfish, the voice said. Never mind. You’re here. Get undressed.

Wh…what? For the second time within a minute, she found herself stammering.

You’re Ashley Moore, aren’t you?

Y…yes… She had to stop this. Whoever it was would think she had some kind of impediment.

Stapley sent you?

Yes. There, that sounded like a human being.

So, get undressed.

Look, I didn’t apply for a nude modelling job.

Look yourself, kid, the disembodied voice continued, you’re obviously new, so let me explain a couple of things to you. There are only two kinds of men in the fashion business…the designers and the buyers. The designers want to put clothes on a nude woman, and the buyers want to tear them off. Either way, they want to see the nude body they’re buying. That’s my job.

So you’re a tearer-offer.

I’m not either. I’m not selling clothes. I’m selling you…in my pictures. So, all I want to see is you. Forget the clothes.

Seems I’m nude to everyone, she noted.

Now you’ve got it, kid, the voice laughed. So strip. Time’s a wastin’.

Do I ever get to see you? Or are you going to remain a ghost in the walls.

I’ll be in as soon as I get dressed. I was in the shower.

That hardly seems fair. Surely both of us should be starkers.

Fair is for balls hit to center field, the voice said. This is my place. I call the shots.

Then you must come over to my place and I’ll take some of you in your nothings.

Let’s keep this businesslike, the voice grunted. "So you’ve got ten seconds to be in the buff. After that, I rip your clothes off and throw them down the elevator shaft, comprenez?"

Gotcha. She swallowed hard and pulled her tank top over her head, allowing her fullish breasts to bounce free.

Gotta do somethin’ about those breasts, the unseen voice said.

You want bigger? she gasped.

Uh-uh. Far too large. They’ll probably want ‘em downsized.

Everything’s getting downsized these days. I don’t see why my boobs should have to follow the trend.

You wanna be an expensive model, or just be a cheap whore? the voice asked. Get ‘em a tuck job. Time’s money, and you’re wasting it. You got panties under them shorts?

Of course.

Take them both off at once. And your shoes.

You got a place where I can hang my things?

Does it look like it? the voice sneered. Kick ‘em all into that corner. There’s nothing big enough in there to walk off with them. I know. I swept last month.

Look. She stopped in the act of pulling her shorts and panties over her hips. Are you sure I’ve come to the right place? I was expecting…

Klieg lights, tripods?

I’d settle for a camera, even, Ashley said. And maybe a photographer behind it.

"Voilà. A man stepped out from behind a stack of cartons she had hardly noticed amid the general clutter. Your heart’s desire."

Ashley took a good look at her ‘heart’s desire’. He was maybe twenty-eight or nine and shorter than she was, so he stood maybe five-foot nine and she doubted if he weighed as much as her one-twenty. He had long, unkempt red hair, and the pasty white complexion that often goes with it. A little scraggly goatee, still dripping wet from his shower—At least he showered!—and milky blue eyes completed his distinguishing features. But they were hardly the last details of his unpleasant first impression. Despite his recent shower, his dirty fingernails and the filthy Band-Aid on his index finger rather offset whatever cleanliness he had achieved, as did the fact that he wore a pair of his rumpled dungarees and apparently not much else, for he had no shirt and she could see no waistline of underwear at the top of his dungarees’ leg holes. Likewise, his feet were bare and already—or still—covered with grime.

You look vaguely disappointed.

If I was looking for a man, I guess I have a right to be, she said, still irritated by his rudeness.

And you got me. I’d say sorry, but I’m not. I am, however, a photographer. Surely you don’t find the idea of posing nude before me threatening now that you’ve seen me, do you?

I don’t know, Ashley said. They say small dogs—mongrels in particular—are the most dangerous.

Only to other dogs. So stop pretending you’re a bitch and strip, for Chrissakes. Or I’m likely to show you my bite is worse than my bark.

Right, Fido.

Name’s Jake. No last name. Not Jacob. Just Jake.

I’m Ashley. Not Ash.

Right, Ash. I’ll get my camera.

I’ll be naked when you get back…Jacob.

How old are you? he asked as he went.

None of your business.

‘Tis too. Need it for your chart.

Twenty-three.

Hmm. Year younger than me.

Well, whoop-de-do...

As she finished undressing, Ashley took another look around the bare and dirty room. You sure this is a studio? she called after him.

Oh, there is a room next door with lights and all for mood work, Jake answered, now invisible again. But on sunny days, I like the natural light from that skylight. It gives nice highlights and shadows to the planes of the naked woman’s body. Soon as you’re ready, go sit on that chair and put your feet up in front of you, tucking your knees under your chin.

Ashley followed his instructions and looked down at herself. This is a stupid pose.

Pardon me, Jake said coming back with a tiny digital camera, but just what do you know about poses?

All you can see is my head and my shins. You got me naked for this? Ashley’s voice was almost a growl. I could have shown you my shins without undressing.

Yes, but you wouldn’t have had that little pout on you. Jake grinned. Petulant women are sexy. Helen of Troy was petulant as hell, they say. Besides I’ve two other reasons for that pose. Your shins hide your humongous breasts…"

My breasts are not humongous! Ashley snapped

There! Hold that for a sec. Good. I think I caught that flare of anger.

Damn you, Ashley muttered.

And my other reason is that some guys—designers and buyers both—have this thing on toes. You have neat little toes.

Thanks, I think.

Don’t knock them. They could be your claim to fame. Particularly in sandal season. And frankly, with a face like yours, you’ve got to sell your good points.

What the hell’s wrong with my face? Ashley snarled at him.

Hold that! Hold that! Your eyes are beautiful when you flare up. Green fire. And your pouty little mouth does gorgeous things. Mind a word of advice?

I’m probably in for it, anyway, she sighed.

You bet your life you are, Jake said, nodding. In my view, you should get yourself in a real snit before every shoot. Anger really brings out the best in that otherwise pretty-pretty face. It’s a face like a million faces, actually. But yours becomes one in a million when your green eyes flash.

A snarl sure will look great on a lipstick ad, she grumbled, thinking she’d look like hell.

"Au contraire, my petite. Jake chuckled knowingly. That snarl, combined with those eyes, will say, ‘Come here you bastard, I need to suck you off.’ Men and women alike will rush to buy that kind of promise."

It’s all sex, then?

You got it, kid. The store may say Saks over the door, but the labels all spell it different.

I’m getting cramped in this position.

Good. Pain sells, too. Put your ankles around the chair legs then, and stretch your arms up as if your wrists were bound to a skyhook.

What the devil’s this pose do? She did as he’d instructed.

Makes you look as if you are tied up, just ready for a whip. Tremendous turn-on for the designers who secretly hate all women. Also it flattens your paunch…

I don’t…

Not like normal girls, you don’t. For a fashion model, it’s a paunch. Lose a few there. And the pose makes your humongous boobs look smaller.

Dammit, they’re not… Ashley fumed.

Hold it! Don’t move a muscle. He moved in and aimed the lens between her thighs. There! That’s a beaut!

Wh…what did you just take a picture of? Ashley found herself stammering again.

Your snatch, of course. In fact, I need more. Go sit on the sofa and spread your legs.

She unwound her ankles from the chair and clamped her knees together.

I will not!

Oh, but you will. Stapley insists on it.

What kind of dirty old man is he? Ashley spluttered.

A very smart one. He paused camera in hand.He knows what many in the industry have overlooked—that snatches sell. Now, get yours over to that sofa.

Without quite knowing why she did so, she rose, slowly walked over to the threadbare sofa and sat. She clamped her knees together again.

Okay, spread.

I want to hear your reasoning before I make another move, she retorted firmly.

You wear a bikini?

I have a two-piece bathing suit.

I didn’t say a two-piece. I mean a suit that shows all but the whole nipple and leaves very little but the clit and anus catching rays.

Where I come from, a two-piece is considered the sign of the fallen woman, she told him.

God, where do you come from, Upper Rubber Boot?

Actually, Pownall. It’s near Carleigh Falls.

Well, whoop-de-do. Where’s Carleigh Falls, for Chrissakes?

About a hundred and fifty miles north of here.

Nothing is a hundred and fifty miles north of here, Jake said.

I agree. That’s why I’m here.

You got a place to stay?

I had some money set aside from a waitressing job for first and last on an apartment.

God, I wouldn’t stay here, if that’s what you’re driving at, she thought.

Where’d you park your dogs, then?

What dogs?

I just figure the only way to get here from those boonies is by dogsled…

Dammit! I’ve had enough! She leapt to her feet. I’m forced to come here for some shots for a portfolio and all I get is stripped, insulted, and made to pose for lewd pictures. You even have the gall to insult my hometown. Well, I’ve had bloody well enough! You can take that camera and stuff it where the sun don’t shine, for all I care!

Hold it! Hold it! Freeze right there! His shutter clicked like crazy while he circled her and she fumed. Jeeezus! Those might just be the most beautiful pictures of you that you’ve ever seen. You know, you’re a strikingly beautiful woman.

And she felt the fury draining from her. The tension in her shoulders and belly eased and she took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

All right, Jake said quietly. Just sit on the sofa and spread your legs, and I’ll explain why I need pussy pictures while I shoot them.

He knelt between her spread thighs and the camera invaded their shadowy secrets, its shutter clicking. "As you may know, it’s coming up to Swimsuit Edition time in all the big publications. Sports Illustrated, Maxim. Even Newsweek and Ms are dickering with the idea based on SI’s success. It’s getting so I’m afraid Readers’ Digest might hop on the bandwagon, which would be a pity. I mean, who needs shots of middle-aged knees? And they’d probably turn it into a contest—’Whose Knees are These?’ sort of thing.

"Anyway, the point is, have you looked at SI’s spreads recently? No? Then I suggest you get last year’s edition at the library. It’s all bikinis. And, sure, the girls have lovely figures. But look closely. At the heart of things, it’s all about snatches. You see, pussies are