Free Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance by Lindsey Bedder

how his weightlifter’s calluses scraped, how the wrinkles and prints of his fingers felt electric on the softest part of me.
    I let the panties snap back over his wrist, and and ran through the poses again for the camera—only this time, with a guy’s hand buried directly in my snatch.
    After only one or two minutes of this, the sensation started to catch up. My eyes dropped out of focus, I was breathing too loudly, I was forgetting my light source.
    This kind of edgy, hyper-real modeling always left me scattered and discomposed. It was worrisome, and once, I had even shared my concern with RJ. He was confused at first, and then inexplicably smiling when he understood.
    “When you don’t now what to do, just keep going, babe. Get to the next, uh, pose. Try to push yourself further. Try more daring things, I mean, more daring poses. Just do what your body tells you to do, and don’t be worried. You’re a natural.”
    Suddenly, I didn’t have to think of what to do anymore. The stranger, the guy I didn’t know, moved. He shifted between my legs.
    I froze, and Randy stopped fingering me.

Posing with Archibald
    W e all waited . I’d been moving too much, grinding my hips under Randy’s sleep-fingering. I’d forgotten that I was scissored with a stranger, and that his sweaty cock was stuck on my inner thigh. I belatedly noticed how his cock had been steadily lengthening and thickening as I rocked against it.
    In those quiet, tense moments, I also had a chance to connect a few dots. Randy’s hand stopped when the guy moved!
    That meant… that meant Randy had only been pretending to sleep! But why would he do that?
    Maybe, Bad Rebecca said, rolling her eyes, so he could suck on your tits and explore your pussy at his leisure?
    Ugh, men! Bad Rebecca was probably right, for once. I should have suspected something was up. Randy incessantly begged RJ to use him for a modeling shoot. Now, he’d finally found a way, that devious fucker!
    I know I should have been flattered, but I wasn’t. Randy doesn’t understand what we’re really trying to achieve, RJ and me. He’s just a guy, a Rugby player doing an Exercise Science degree. He wouldn’t be thinking about how to advance the artistic goals of RJ’s project. He lived in a house where he was surrounded every day by giant, detailed, sexually themed pictures of me latched on to various guys. His simple, one-track guy-mind only thought of me as a piece of ass.
    To this day, I still haven’t convinced him that that morning in his bed was about capturing a certain ambience and feeling in the photographs. Whenever the story comes up at parties, he brags about finger-fucking me on camera. Which is so not the whole story, but try telling that to a group of fraternity guys while Randy is pulling the pictures up on his phone.
    My thoughts derailed when the strange guy between my legs spoke.
    “Hi, everybody.”
    “Hey,” RJ answered.
    I shot him a look that said, “The jig is up!” He motioned me to stay calm. He wanted to see what would happen next.
    In a barely intelligible and still-drunk voice, the guy asked, “Is my forty minutes still going? With your slutty model?”
    “Sure,” said RJ. “Have at her. Her name is Rebecca.”
    I peered between my breasts at the stranger, but couldn’t see much. I wasn’t surprised when RJ gave permission. When he wanted a picture, nothing would deflect him. He was driven, as he’d warned me on that first day. And heck, I would have said the same thing. The model in me saw an excellent chance to change what was becoming a static, boring situation.
    But the other, non-model part of me was thinking, “Who, exactly, gave this stranger 40 minutes with me?”
    Bad Rebecca snickered in the back of my mind.
    The stranger shifted, stretched, and crawled up my body. Randy rolled off me to give him room.
    For a brief moment, I was free and unencumbered—my arms stretched over my head, my back arched, and my breasts pointed at the