first time she and Mac were together, on her parents’ living room couch while they were away for a wedding. They’d both been teenagers. Sex had been the same ever since—intense, hot, and fantastic—but not adventurous at all.
Adventurous didn’t matter -- until Amy took a last-minute modeling job for an erotic art photographer three years earlier. She didn’t blame the photographer for changing her. He didn’t come on to her or do anything besides give instructions and praise. Somehow, during the session, however, she’d transposed Mac over the stranger and it became him she posed for, him who complimented her ease with taking orders and knowing exactly what he wanted.
Mac continued to feature in her fantasies. Even though she cast herself in the submissive role, she didn’t supplant Mac with another man. He was the only one she wanted. It killed her to know he didn’t want her in return.
* * * *
Mac worked the nightshift and hadn’t come home by the time Amy left their apartment the next morning. She’d hoped to see him on his way in, but work called her out too early. It also presented her with an idea that wouldn’t leave her be. Probably a bad idea but lately she had difficulty distinguishing between bright and stupid. The rift with Mac affected everything about her, including her ability to confidently make decisions.
As she sat in her car, waiting for it to warm up, she dialed her husband’s dispatcher. Mac worked for a corporate systems support firm that ensured round-the-clock tech support, and she had to reach him through the office if she wanted to maintain the anonymity necessary to carry off her plan.
A woman’s cheerful voice came on the line and asked her to hold. Amy pushed her glasses up into her hair, lifting the newly dyed magenta strands from her face. She angled the rearview mirror to examine herself critically. She’d been working as a catalogue ad model for a decade. Eleven hours a week at the gym meant she wasn’t limited to hand cream ads like some of the other women represented by her agency but didn’t mean she had first pick of the choice assignments. Earlier life decisions, like the ”tramp stamp” at the base of her spine and the ink of Mac’s name on her ankle, surrounded by hearts and flower doodles, limited her desirability. She wasn’t a suitable model for the sort of respectable lingerie catalogue her grandmother might buy from but she matched up well with the fetish wear spreads.
She bit her lip, rolling the plan over in her mind. Mac wouldn’t be happy to stand by and watch her work but if she didn’t tell him, she risked a repeat of the party that had brought things to a head. Maybe she shouldn’t take the job. How could she expect to maintain any sort of professionalism now? All it’d taken to drop her into sub space at Elizabeth’s party was a watchful crowd and a stranger with a length of rope. She hadn’t even been barefoot, let alone nude. Sick at the idea she was on the verge of making another bad decision, Amy sighed and redirected her train of thought. The temporary dye hadn’t stained her scalp pink, fortunately. The morning’s photo shoot requirements included magenta hair, not magenta skin, but she hadn’t had time to visit a salon. She’d barely had enough time to race to the pharmacy, still in pajamas, to buy the hair color kit after her agent’s four a.m. phone call. Not that she’d been asleep when the call came through. She didn’t sleep well at all anymore since Mac had moved to the sofa.
Satisfied her skin was the right hue, she dumped the contents of her cosmetics bag on the passenger seat and started the car. Mellow music played in her ear, thankfully unobtrusive, and she applied her makeup while her car warmed up.
The receptionist returned to the phone, chiming a cheerful, “Hello, thanks for holding! What’s your account number?”
Amy almost stabbed herself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil; a navy blue
Adventurous didn’t matter -- until Amy took a last-minute modeling job for an erotic art photographer three years earlier. She didn’t blame the photographer for changing her. He didn’t come on to her or do anything besides give instructions and praise. Somehow, during the session, however, she’d transposed Mac over the stranger and it became him she posed for, him who complimented her ease with taking orders and knowing exactly what he wanted.
Mac continued to feature in her fantasies. Even though she cast herself in the submissive role, she didn’t supplant Mac with another man. He was the only one she wanted. It killed her to know he didn’t want her in return.
* * * *
Mac worked the nightshift and hadn’t come home by the time Amy left their apartment the next morning. She’d hoped to see him on his way in, but work called her out too early. It also presented her with an idea that wouldn’t leave her be. Probably a bad idea but lately she had difficulty distinguishing between bright and stupid. The rift with Mac affected everything about her, including her ability to confidently make decisions.
As she sat in her car, waiting for it to warm up, she dialed her husband’s dispatcher. Mac worked for a corporate systems support firm that ensured round-the-clock tech support, and she had to reach him through the office if she wanted to maintain the anonymity necessary to carry off her plan.
A woman’s cheerful voice came on the line and asked her to hold. Amy pushed her glasses up into her hair, lifting the newly dyed magenta strands from her face. She angled the rearview mirror to examine herself critically. She’d been working as a catalogue ad model for a decade. Eleven hours a week at the gym meant she wasn’t limited to hand cream ads like some of the other women represented by her agency but didn’t mean she had first pick of the choice assignments. Earlier life decisions, like the ”tramp stamp” at the base of her spine and the ink of Mac’s name on her ankle, surrounded by hearts and flower doodles, limited her desirability. She wasn’t a suitable model for the sort of respectable lingerie catalogue her grandmother might buy from but she matched up well with the fetish wear spreads.
She bit her lip, rolling the plan over in her mind. Mac wouldn’t be happy to stand by and watch her work but if she didn’t tell him, she risked a repeat of the party that had brought things to a head. Maybe she shouldn’t take the job. How could she expect to maintain any sort of professionalism now? All it’d taken to drop her into sub space at Elizabeth’s party was a watchful crowd and a stranger with a length of rope. She hadn’t even been barefoot, let alone nude. Sick at the idea she was on the verge of making another bad decision, Amy sighed and redirected her train of thought. The temporary dye hadn’t stained her scalp pink, fortunately. The morning’s photo shoot requirements included magenta hair, not magenta skin, but she hadn’t had time to visit a salon. She’d barely had enough time to race to the pharmacy, still in pajamas, to buy the hair color kit after her agent’s four a.m. phone call. Not that she’d been asleep when the call came through. She didn’t sleep well at all anymore since Mac had moved to the sofa.
Satisfied her skin was the right hue, she dumped the contents of her cosmetics bag on the passenger seat and started the car. Mellow music played in her ear, thankfully unobtrusive, and she applied her makeup while her car warmed up.
The receptionist returned to the phone, chiming a cheerful, “Hello, thanks for holding! What’s your account number?”
Amy almost stabbed herself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil; a navy blue
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