“Any food allergies or preferences?”
“Um, keep it under five hundred calories?” I asked with a nervous laugh. I didn’t like talking about dieting with Aston, but this was a model’s way of life.
He frowned. “Mistress, you know I’ll obey, but how about you just try what I make tonight and if you think it’s too heavy, just take a smaller portion. I really want to wow you.”
I walked toward him and put my hand on his chest. “You already wowed me,” I reminded him.
He spread his hands wide. “You have a submissive with many talents,” he said in a low voice. “Why not explore them all on this trip?” He ended the question with a wink and my knees turned to pudding.
“Oh, why not,” I said, crossing my arms. “But this better be good.”
“It will be mind-blowing,” he promised.
“Consider this Iron Chef ,” I said with a waggle of my finger. “If it’s not good enough, you’ll get punished.”
“You obviously have never watched the show, but I understand your point. I consider myself warned.” He checked his phone one more time, then headed out the door.
I pulled out my iPad and started Googling the contest, something that had been on my mind all day, but I’d pushed it to the back burner. It was nerve-racking, imagining myself competing. Typically I just posed, took pictures, or modeled at events. I was never up against anyone. I’ve never had to compete. Now I had to think about other people being better than me, something I hadn’t really done. I’ve always liked the other pinups I’ve met—we were mostly a friendly group, whether it was because of the more alternative nature of our jobs or what. Some were tattooed, some weren’t. Some were curvy, others more on the waifish side, but we all embraced the vintage look and clothing we all loved. It was a sisterhood.
But now that I was scanning through pics of former winners and contestants, I began to sweat. These girls were real knockouts and seemed to ooze a confidence I’ve never possessed. I knew how to pose properly, but these girls made it look like second nature. I undid my kerchief, which had held my hair in place all day, and fixed my rolls. There was a mirror on one of the doors to the bedrooms and I quickly struck a cheesecake pose. I was a mess. My hair was out of place and my legs were wonky from sitting in the car all day. Would I lose muscle tone from this trip?
Wait, Sarah’s tip of the day. Now I just had to find a weight.
I could pre-burn off Aston’s dinner this way. I found a small but heavy pan in the kitchen, and it felt between three and five pounds so I started to do some jacks. She didn’t specify a set number, or anything else to do but I knew I’d have to do a little more. So I busted out some squats, crunches, and did some air-bike moves on the floor. Maybe if I did this every day I’d still be in show-ready mode.
And as for her other advice, I suppose what we did in the garage yesterday was like that. Feeling the situation out and letting it go somewhere. But I sort of sabotaged it by forcing the BDSM element when it clearly wasn’t what was taking us in the direction of lust. It was forced. Tonight we’d do . . . whatever.
I showered off the road dust and workout sweat, and conditioned my wind-blown hair by the time Aston returned to the hotel. I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe and his entrance startled me, but his expression as he admired my body gave me a boost of approval.
“So, what’s on the menu?” I asked as I wrung the wetness out of my hair.
He covered the bag’s contents with his hand. “It’s a surprise, Mistress. If you don’t mind,” he said, backpedaling.
I stepped away, hands in the air. “Fine, but I’m standing by my threat. It better blow my mind.”
Aston laughed and began to unpack the bags, and I turned toward the living room and put on the TV. There was a car restoration show I liked on the History Channel and I lost myself in the cool hot rods,
“Um, keep it under five hundred calories?” I asked with a nervous laugh. I didn’t like talking about dieting with Aston, but this was a model’s way of life.
He frowned. “Mistress, you know I’ll obey, but how about you just try what I make tonight and if you think it’s too heavy, just take a smaller portion. I really want to wow you.”
I walked toward him and put my hand on his chest. “You already wowed me,” I reminded him.
He spread his hands wide. “You have a submissive with many talents,” he said in a low voice. “Why not explore them all on this trip?” He ended the question with a wink and my knees turned to pudding.
“Oh, why not,” I said, crossing my arms. “But this better be good.”
“It will be mind-blowing,” he promised.
“Consider this Iron Chef ,” I said with a waggle of my finger. “If it’s not good enough, you’ll get punished.”
“You obviously have never watched the show, but I understand your point. I consider myself warned.” He checked his phone one more time, then headed out the door.
I pulled out my iPad and started Googling the contest, something that had been on my mind all day, but I’d pushed it to the back burner. It was nerve-racking, imagining myself competing. Typically I just posed, took pictures, or modeled at events. I was never up against anyone. I’ve never had to compete. Now I had to think about other people being better than me, something I hadn’t really done. I’ve always liked the other pinups I’ve met—we were mostly a friendly group, whether it was because of the more alternative nature of our jobs or what. Some were tattooed, some weren’t. Some were curvy, others more on the waifish side, but we all embraced the vintage look and clothing we all loved. It was a sisterhood.
But now that I was scanning through pics of former winners and contestants, I began to sweat. These girls were real knockouts and seemed to ooze a confidence I’ve never possessed. I knew how to pose properly, but these girls made it look like second nature. I undid my kerchief, which had held my hair in place all day, and fixed my rolls. There was a mirror on one of the doors to the bedrooms and I quickly struck a cheesecake pose. I was a mess. My hair was out of place and my legs were wonky from sitting in the car all day. Would I lose muscle tone from this trip?
Wait, Sarah’s tip of the day. Now I just had to find a weight.
I could pre-burn off Aston’s dinner this way. I found a small but heavy pan in the kitchen, and it felt between three and five pounds so I started to do some jacks. She didn’t specify a set number, or anything else to do but I knew I’d have to do a little more. So I busted out some squats, crunches, and did some air-bike moves on the floor. Maybe if I did this every day I’d still be in show-ready mode.
And as for her other advice, I suppose what we did in the garage yesterday was like that. Feeling the situation out and letting it go somewhere. But I sort of sabotaged it by forcing the BDSM element when it clearly wasn’t what was taking us in the direction of lust. It was forced. Tonight we’d do . . . whatever.
I showered off the road dust and workout sweat, and conditioned my wind-blown hair by the time Aston returned to the hotel. I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe and his entrance startled me, but his expression as he admired my body gave me a boost of approval.
“So, what’s on the menu?” I asked as I wrung the wetness out of my hair.
He covered the bag’s contents with his hand. “It’s a surprise, Mistress. If you don’t mind,” he said, backpedaling.
I stepped away, hands in the air. “Fine, but I’m standing by my threat. It better blow my mind.”
Aston laughed and began to unpack the bags, and I turned toward the living room and put on the TV. There was a car restoration show I liked on the History Channel and I lost myself in the cool hot rods,
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