Do It Like You Mean It

Chapter One Annabelle’s steps slowed as soon as she saw the building. Its faded, smog-tinted stucco exterior sure didn’t look like home to a production studio. Not a successful one, anyway. But so what if the surroundings were more than a little dismal; a modeling job was a modeling job, and if there was one thing Los Angeles had more than enough of, it was out-of-work models. She looked at her watch and broke into a run. She was late, really late. The man on the phone had told her to arrive at ten o’clock sharp, and the photo shoot was to start at ten-thirty. Annabelle knew that wasn’t sufficient time for wardrobe, hair and make-up, and that was their problem. But here she was, arriving twenty minutes late. She pulled the entrance door open with too much force, causing it to shake and rattle when it swung back and slammed against the masonry wall. She entered the building and followed the arrow on the handwritten sign posted on the wall in front of her: FLY-BY-NIGHT PRODUCTIONS SECOND FLOOR She slung her bag over her shoulder and raced up two flights, taking the steps two at a time. When she reached the second-floor landing, she stopped, bent over at the waist and tried to catch her breath. She berated herself again for not only arriving late, but arriving as a sweaty, disheveled mess. “Gonna’ help you with that,” a male voice said. “Been waitin’ for you.” Annabelle saw a hand reach to grab her bag, which had fallen off her shoulder and onto the floor. She straightened, and looked into the face of a man so muscular she felt an immediate pang of unease. His super-dark tan and goatee made him look slightly sinister. She turned, looked at the stairway behind her and calculated how quickly she could reach the front door. “Yeah, gonna’ help you,” he said. “Show you where to go. Photo shoot’s back here.” Annabelle didn’t like the feel of his hand on her lower back, even though his touch was gentle enough as he guided her down the hall. They turned the corner and came upon a set of double doors. Only one side of the doorway was open, through which she could see several men moving back and forth with cords and lighting, plus some other equipment she couldn’t identify. A loud voice shouted to the men to step up the pace, while other voices called out instructions across the room. The pressure of the muscular man’s hand on her back gave her no choice but to enter. A man looking into the eye of a camera on a tripod straightened when he saw them, and strode over with a perplexed expression. “Who are you?” he asked Annabelle. “Are you the man who called?” she said, thinking she recognized the voice. His eyes squinted as he studied her. “I’m the director,” he said. “We talked earlier?” she said. “It was you, right? You told me to be here at ten, I know. So sorry I’m late.” “You’re not who I talked to,” he said. “I mean, at the party the other night. What are you doing here?” “Oh, that. Well, my roommate couldn’t make the shoot on such late notice after all, so I came in her place. I mean, if that’s okay?” The man continued staring at her. “I assure you, I have a good deal of modeling experience and I don’t think you’ll be dissatisfied.” “Is that so?” he said. “Just what kind of shoot are you doing? Didn’t you mention a catalogue of some sort? I usually do sportswear, swimsuits, and things like that.” “Yeah, I can see you doing swimsuits,” he said, studying her breasts a second too long. She glanced over his shoulder when what looked to be a backdrop crashed to the ground. Shouts echoed through the room, followed by swearing. “Careful with that, or it’s coming out of your fuckin’ paychecks!” the director yelled over his shoulder. But he didn’t seem all that mad to Annabelle, and she thought he might be fairly cool to work for. “So, the shoot, sir. What kind — ’’ “You don’t have to call me sir. Call me Frank. The crew calls me Francis Ford Coppola behind my back. They think I don’t know.” Annabelle smiled. He didn’t. He continued to stare at her with his gray, squinty eyes, almost as if he were calculating something. Annabelle shifted on her feet and looked over his shoulder again, trying to get an idea of the type of set they were constructing for the shoot. When she met his gaze, she was sure she’d caught him studying her breasts again, if only for a millisecond. “Okay, so, the shoot . . . you mentioned something about a catalogue?” “Collection,” he said. “A foreign collection. A lifestyle collection, you could say.” “What exactly does that mean?” she asked. Out of the corner of her eye, Annabelle saw two men rolling a heavily padded bench onto the set. There were iron bars at one end with attached, dangling straps, and two sets of pads at the far end that were angled outward. “Like exercise equipment?” she asked. “There’s some exercise involved. Definitely.” The director looked quickly at Bert and back to Annabelle. Bert let out a small laugh. Annabelle looked again at the bench just as a technician hung something shiny on one of the front bars and then turned away to handle another task. Handcuffs. She was sure of it. She said, “You know what, I can tell this was a misunderstanding. I’ll just —” She turned to Bert and reached for her bag. He pulled it away from her grasp. “No, no, no. It might work,” the director said. “It might work. You’re just not what I was expecting.” “Well, maybe it’s better if you just find someone else,” Annabelle said. She tried to take her bag again, but Bert transferred it to his other hand. “Give me my bag!” “Aw, leaving so soon?” the director said. “Seems to me only a few minutes ago you really wanted this job.” He looked at Bert and said, “Didn’t you think so too? She wanted this job, right?” “I’m thinking she wants it, all right. She wants it bad.” “No, I just said . . . look, this is all a big mistake. You didn’t even want me. You wanted my roommate. I really need to go — ’’ The director fixed his eyes on her breasts again. She looked down at her chest. “What are you ... why do you keep —?” “Well, let’s see ‘em,” he said, pointing at her breasts. Annabelle’s eyes scanned the room, searching for a way out. The moment she remembered the door immediately behind her, it was already slamming shut. Bert smiled as he folded his arms and leaned against it, blocking her escape. Bert said, “Now, pretty lady, he done asked you to do somethin’, and you gonna do it for him. Get it?” Annabelle turned back toward the director and tried to run toward an EXIT sign on the far wall. The director took one step to the side, blocking her way as she was gripped from behind, her arms pinned painfully to her sides by massive hands. Bert then wrapped a forearm around her neck, and was able to restrain both of her wrists behind her back with only one hand. She screamed and tried to kick at the director’s crotch, but he’d already taken a small step away from her. “I don’t know about you, Bert, but I’m ready to check out our new model.” “Oh, you n’ me both, sir. Really ready,” Bert said. “I kinda think she’s ready too.” Bert lifted her off the floor without the slightest effort, and was able to carry her backward, then pin her against the wall using only his body. Annabelle screamed, “Somebody help me! Please! Help me!” But the men in the room barely paused their work. A few looked her way, but only smiled. “This is wrong! I shouldn’t even be here, I swear it. I was just — ’’ Bert slid cuffs out of his back pocket and had her wrists restrained before she had time to realize what he’d done. He pressed her hard against the wall with his body and whispered, “Under my control now. Get used to it.” Annabelle shrieked, and began fighting him with every ounce of strength she could muster. “Someone help me! Somebody do something!” She continued to flail, and to scream at the men in the room to help her. But Bert now had her cuffed hands attached to a chain, and was pulling on a device that stretched her arms above her head. “What are you — that hurts! Let me go, I swear!” She kicked hard at Bert, but her arms were now pulled so tightly toward the ceiling that her feet barely touched the floor. She tried to land a kick to his knee, and screamed in pain as the attempt shot a bolt of pain through her shoulders and arms. “Quite the little hellcat, ain’t she, director?” “Sure is. You never know what you’re going to get in models these days,” he said. Both men laughed. They studied Annabelle as she hung helpless, her toes barely making enough contact with the floor to support any weight. “Why are you doing this?” she wailed. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anybody. I changed my mind. I don’t want the job, I swear. I just want to go home. Please! I beg you!” “Bert, you get the honors, as always. Show me her t**s first. If they aren’t good, we’ll have to find another b***h to stand in for some of the shots.” “You got it,” Bert said. Annabelle’s eyes widened as Bert positioned himself in front of her. He studied her face for a moment and smiled slightly as she begged him again to please let her go. His huge hands cupped her breasts and massaged them roughly. He easily found her n*****s through the thin material of her blouse and bra and squeezed them. “I beg you people! Someone make him stop!” Her head rolled back and she cried out in pain as her n*****s were pinched so hard it took her breath away. “I said show me her t**s. Don’t stand there all day!” the director said. Bert watched for her reaction as he slowly pulled at the top of her blouse. “Don’t. Don’t. Please — ’’ He tore open her blouse halfway and resumed massaging her breasts in his huge hands. He pulled the cups of her bra down and roughly pressed her breasts up for display over the material. He stepped aside as the director approached. Annabelle raged as the director stroked her breasts, then held each in a hand, jiggling them as if to weigh them. “Pretty good for size. Get her clothes off. I want to see what we’re working with.” Annabelle cried out, and strained against the bindings on her wrists. The pain was enough to warn her against trying to kick. Bert was again in front of her. She averted her eyes as he tore her blouse open all the way. He yanked her bra up over her breasts and stepped back to view them. She tried to turn away from the gaze of the two men, but could get no traction against the floor with her toes. “So far, so good. Keep going,” the director said. Bert unsnapped her jeans. He jerked them downward and left them wrapped around her ankles. “Hey, guys! Stop what yer doin’ and come see the show! “ Bert yelled. Annabelle burst into tears as the men in the studio paused at their work and slowly walked toward her. She counted about seven men who now stood in a group in front of her, eyeing her naked body like a hungry pack of animals. “Already shaved too,” someone said. “There’s a timesaver,” another commented. “Please, please, somebody…you have to help me,” she yelled. “Show me the rest,” the director said. “Let’s start the audition. Ernie, help Bert.” Bert pulled Annabelle’s jeans all the way off and each man took an ankle. When she saw they were trying to lift her legs, she began kicking with renewed force despite the searing pain in her shoulders. But she was no match for their strength. Helpless against them, she could only scream and try to force her knees together. The two men pulled her legs up in front of her, then bent her knees and pulled them far apart, exposing her shaved p***y. A few men nodded approvingly. The director smiled and said, “Okay, guys. Show’s over.” The men let go of Annabelle’s legs. The jerk of the chain caused a bolt of pain as her shoulders and arms again bore her full weight. “Won’t someone do something?” she cried out. “For god’s sake!” But the men turned and went back to work, leaving her dangling from the rope. The director called out over his shoulder as he walked away, “Congratulations! Looks like you got the job.” There was laughter and clapping throughout the studio. “Let me go! Untie me! Somebody, please. Please! You have to help me!” She looked at the men in disbelief as they ignored her screams and resumed setting up equipment. They weren’t even looking at her. She strained her neck backward to see what held her in place. There was a large hook in the ceiling—some sort of pulley, she guessed— its rope attached to the cuffs on her wrists, stretching her arms high above her head. Annabelle saw that her movements caused the rope to move back and forth ever so slightly within the clamp that held it taut. Each movement grew more and more painful as time passed. She rested her head on her chest and cried silently, trying to remain perfectly still.