Fetish Read Free Page B

shoved down the back of her suit, Mak hurried down to the shoot.
    Minutes later she was posing elegantly, with the wintry ocean lapping at her feet and her blonde hair flying back from her face. For a moment her mindfocused completely on her body—aware of how her size-ten feet were positioned to minimise their length; the turn of her hips; the angle of her shoulders and the graceful placement of her hands—all in relation to the camera lens. Once she was satisfied that her pose was right, she allowed her thoughts to wander.
    Makedde was grateful for her lack of appetite the night before, because her stomach seemed a little flatter than usual. Some girls were known to swear off liquid for several days before a “body shoot” as it was called, but Mak rarely went to those lengths. She heard rumours of laxative abuse, too, but what was the point? Self-induced diarrhoea? She was generally chosen for her healthy look, with the bonus of some curves, so she tended to worry more about all-night chocolate binges than mere sips of water. Besides, she told herself, if they had wanted a waif, they would have chosen one of the many teenage models subsisting on coffee and cigarettes.
    As the photographic team silently examined her appearance, Makedde stretched up and tightened her stomach, assuming a well-practised pose that made the best of her feminine physique and presented the aqua-blue bikini at its most “saleable”. The two representatives of the swimwear brand, who scrutinised every inch of her, seemed happy with the fit of their tiny garment.
    Once the Polaroid was snapped Mak leapt for the blanket, now lying a couple of feet away, and wrapped it around her shivering body, jumping up and down in her battle against the cold. The others took no notice.
    Tony Thomas, the photographer, was unhappy with the quality of the light. He barked orders at his assistant, his instructions flying past Makedde’s ears in muffled gusts of wind. She looked on with restrained amusement as the assistant brought out a large, gold reflector board and gamely struggled to keep control of it. The client and the art director watched the clumsy spectacle with stony frowns.
    “It’s got to look summery ,” one of them insisted. “Can’t you do something with her hair, Joseph?”
    Joseph was a delicate looking man who applied make-up to a face the way many artists tend to their cherished canvases; adding a touch, stepping back, squinting, and then adding another. Today though, his own face was pinched in frozen displeasure. He stepped towards her, careful not to disturb the sand where the shot would be taken, and tried pinning her mane of hair back. The wind promptly rebelled, sending a couple of pins flying into the water and others dangling from the very ends of her hair.
    She had known it would be winter in this corner of the globe, but had temporarily forgotten that this was irrelevant as far as the clients were concerned.Summer designs were always shot the winter before their release; including swimwear. When no one was paying much attention, she held the hot-water bottle against her chest. Perfect for minimising nipple-itis.
    The chilly day dragged on. Lunch consisted of some rather sad, wilted salad greens that the photographer’s assistant was sent away to fetch. Makedde could have sworn she saw the photographer scoff down a cheesy focaccia and a beer when no one else was looking. By five o’clock she was relieved at the prospect of shooting the last outfit. It was a daringly high cut, bright yellow zipper front swimsuit that was an ode to a decade when “Christy” referred to Brinkley, not Turlington. As usual, things became rushed as the client pushed to end the shoot before twenty minutes past the hour. That was the magic minute when models had to be paid for the extra hour’s work. It was amazing how many photo shoots ended at nineteen minutes past.
    As time was at a premium, Makedde was forced to change on the beach with a towel