Warning: This story features bondage and non-consensual sexual content.

Context: This is a short story written for Day 19 of Kinktober 2024 using the prompt words Blackmail and Trunk.

I set down my phone and leaned back against the comfortable leather seating of my cafe booth. That phone call had put me in a very good mood. My agent had just informed me I’d been offered a modelling spot in Fashionista Magazine’s winter line-up.

Ever since the saucy Halloween-themed photoshoot I did for the online publication Hot Stuff went viral, offers had been pouring in. But this new gig was the big one, every aspiring model’s dream.

While I was sipping my drink and basking in my triumph, a woman in a long overcoat sat down in my booth opposite me. She wore a hat and sunglasses despite being indoors.

“Lady, I’ll think you’ll see that there are plenty of other empty booths available.”

She took out a manilla envelope and slid it across the table towards me.

“Hello Miss Stevens. I’m a huge fan of your work. I was wondering if you could sign a photo or two?”

“Aha! The burdens of fame are upon me already. I’m sure I can oblige.”

I smugly pulled the envelope towards me and slipped the photos out, not surprised to see the Hot Stuff pictures. In them I wore a black and purple dress evoking a sexy witch. The corset’s bust teased a little cleavage, and more than just a little when I posed bent over. A dark-purple skirt flared out, complementing the fishnet stockings and black knee-high boots. The arms had purple elbow-length gloves. My neck was adorned with a collar with a pentagram pendant hanging from it. A wide-brimmed hat covered most of my face, with my seductive expressions aimed at camera from beneath it.

I scribbled my name across them, dotting the ‘i’ in 'Nina' with a heart.

“Any particular message or name I should make it out... to.... What are these?”

I was confused. The second half of the pictures weren’t any of my photoshoots. They were candid photographs of a man and woman meeting in public, holding hands, kissing, and entering a motel. And finally a series of poorly lit but unmistakable pictures of the two naked in bed together. The man was Emile, the editor-in-chief of Hot Stuff, and the woman was me.

I immediately shoved the pictures back inside the envelope out of view. I felt ill, from both the invasion of privacy and the implication of these being shown to me.

“Who are you?”

The woman smirked.

“Let's stay focused on you. These tell an interesting story, don’t they? The aspiring model that slept her way to success. I do wonder what this news would do to your career. Especially with a married man. I can’t imagine you’d get many offers after that.”

“W... what? I didn’t know he was married. He never told me!”

“Oh yes. You’re not the first naive little starlet he’s lied to. His wife sure is the vindictive type too. You should have seen what she did to the last side-piece she found out about. The poor girl was found naked handcuffed to a pole in the city centre.”

“W... what do you want from me?”

"The good news is: not much. I wasn’t lying when I said I was a fan. I want you to come with me, right now, and do a private shoot. Just for me. Do that, and I’ll leave these pictures with you and leave you alone.”

As much as I didn’t trust her, those pictures being released would be life-shattering. Besides, modelling was what I did best. One more session of it wasn’t a high price.

She stood up and beckoned with a finger. I reluctantly stood up and followed.

45 minutes later I was standing behind a folding-screen in the corner of a loft in a building downtown. She drove here in her car and I followed behind in mine.

Clothing had already been prepared for me to change into. The first thing I noticed is how little material it had. The second thing I noticed once I’d put it on, was how incredibly similar it was to my famed Hot Stuff outfit. A much skimpier version.

Some elements were still intact: the hat, the gloves, the collar though with a lookalike pendant. Similar black boots but higher-heeled and ankle-high, and fishnet stockings but ending at the top of my thighs.

It was the central body of the clothing that had undergone the major change. The purple corset was much lower-cut at my chest, leaving far less to the imagination, and left most of my belly uncovered. The black skirt was barely there, ending high above my hips and doing almost nothing to cover the purple thong. The fishnet stockings stopping shorter framed my barely covered hips and buttocks, drawing the eye to them.

The woman had undressed to a more casual femme-fatale all-black ensemble, keeping her sunglasses on. She directed me over to the set, an accurate reconstruction of the misty-grey original including a red ottoman for posing on.

“Now I expect you to treat this every bit as seriously as a typical shoot. If you can’t follow all my directions then we don’t have a deal.”

I felt so exposed as I stepped in front of the camera. I had tried to manage my public image carefully, choosing sexy but classy, tasteful shoots. This was far beyond anything I would ever agree to do. I reassured myself that it was private, and tried to settle into my usual mindset.

Flash!

It began. I was slow and nervous at first, but soon instincts took over. I shifted on the ottoman, striking the usual array of sultry poses. I tried not thinking about how much skin was on show, particularly when she moved behind me and was clearly zooming in on my plump butt.

“I think it’s time for some new poses.”

She directed me through some much more suggestive erotic positions. I couldn’t do anything but comply.

I laid down with my breasts spilling over the edge of the ottoman. I sat on all-fours on it, arching my back down to exaggerate my curves. I squeezed my breasts between my arms. I stood legs together, facing away and bending over so that my ass was front and centre.

SMACK!

“AHH!”

It was during that last pose that she gave me a harsh spank on my right buttcheek. I yelped and jumped forward.

“Get back here! Right where you were standing. I want to make sure this shows up properly on camera.”

SMACK! SMACK!

She spanked me several times, in the exact same spot every time.

“Now that’s a nice red handprint! Just what that ass needed~”

FlashFlashFlash!

“Ugh. So are we done now? That’s easily a full session.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done. It’s time for a change of scenery.”

It was unnerving how little say I had in all this. The woman pushed the ottoman out of shot and replaced it with a tall brown pole that she screwed into the floor.

“Stand here. Press your back against it. Hold it with both hands.”

“What’s the point of this? You want me to pole dance?”

“No. Isn’t it obvious? You’re a witch being burned at the stake~”

A rough material was suddenly pulled around my wrists, keeping the pole in between them. She was tying me up with rope. It ran up my arms past my elbows, fastening them tightly against the pole. She continued with a web of ropes running around my upper body. It formed a pentagram above my chest, same as the one on my necklace.

“I want to stop! I don’t care about the pictures anymore.”

“Hmm the witch is trying to cast a hex on me. I must stop her.”

“What are you talking abou-hmmmpph!!”

From behind, she lifted a gag to my mouth and pulled it inside. It was an oversized purple ballgag, tugged back until it was fully wedged in and securely strapped closed.

“MMMGHH!”

As the woman strutted past me, her hand reached out towards my top and... yoink. My top was tugged down and my D-cup breasts popped free, bouncing in the open air.

“Oops”

“Mmmmph!!”

This was unacceptable. Nudity was a line I never intended on crossing. Both my breasts being on display and the uncontrollable drooling from the huge gag were deeply humiliating. I squirmed and strained to be free.

Flash! Flash! Flash!

“That’s it. Keep up that adorable pouting. Look a little more distressed. I can spank you again if that’s what it takes? No? Good girl~”

The session continued an excruciatingly long time. I was retied a few times, ending up on my knees looking up into the camera.

“Don’t worry Nina, we’re nearly finished. I'll even ungag you for this last bit. Well for some of it anyway.”

She arranged the camera on a tripod, fiddling with some settings. She stepped away and it began taking an automatic picture with a ‘Flash!’ every other second. It was what I saw when she turned towards me that created a pit in my stomach.

A large black strap-on extended from her hips.

“I think it’s time to show off the skills that really made your career.”

“Mmmmmph!!!”

I struggled against the pole tie in vain. She slowly advanced, the camera snapping away the whole time.

An hour later I was lying cramped in the open trunk of the woman’s car, looking up at her and whimpering. I was still half-dressed in the slutty witch outfit, bound hand-and-foot, regagged with the monstrous purple ballgag, and now sore in a few new places.

“I said I was going to leave you alone. I just didn’t say where. Oh and here's the photos as promised.”

She dropped a pile of photos all over me. There was a mix of pictures: the candid shots of myself and Emile, the original photoshoot I had signed earlier, and many printouts of the new mortifying shoot we had just completed.

She waved down at me and slammed the lid closed.

I could hear my own loud strained breathing in the stuffy darkness. After a moment, the car engine started up. I wailed and thrashed and kicked but I was helplessly stuck as the car drove off.

The car stopped after driving for 30 minutes. Then nothing happened. For a long time. I tried kicking against the lid and fumbling around for a latch, but had no success. I was so exhausted that I soon fell asleep.

I was woken hours later by the trunk opening and dawn’s light blazing inside.

“Mmmph?”

My eyes squinted up to see a smartly dressed woman. She was slowly taking in and processing the sight before her. She lifted one of the photos scattered all around me, then turned it towards me, her face stone cold.

As I saw the photo in her hand of myself and Emile in bed, I heard his voice in the distance.

“Honey, do you want me to come with you to the store?”

She called out in response.

“No dear. I have... something I need to care of on my own first.”

The trunk lid slammed back down.

A week later I was ready to throw the phone to the ground as I listened to my agent explain.

“I’m sorry Nina, but Fashionista aren’t taking my calls about you anymore. No-one is. Not since the second explicit set of Hot Stuff shots came out. Plus the news stories after you were found that morning in the city centre all-”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Right right. Look I’m sorry but no-one's interested now. Well, except...”

“Except?”

“So there have actually been a good few offers. All in the same area. To be frank, It’s the only future your modelling career has. Have you ever considered doing... bondage pornography?”