Cover Girl

Warning: This story contains a type of threesome at one point, public sex, and swapping partners near the end.

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I'm not a cover girl; far from it. Nevertheless, I've on occasion been told that I have the looks of a cover girl. That's a good thing, I suppose. I know one consequence was that I was popular with men. Well, I couldn't complain about that.

It was my senior year in college, second semester. I had a good grade point average, and a decent job all lined up to begin a month after graduation. My life was on track. I could party. Lord knows, everyone else in a similar situation was in party mode. Not me, though. I just don't like parties, with people getting drunk, spilling beer, groping random women. That's not my scene.

Instead, I preferred to hang out with some like-minded friends. One thing about being popular with the other sex is that, since they seem to be always available, one rarely feels a need for them. I was happy and content just hanging out with 'the girls,' smoking some dope, talking about our plans for the future, where we could get some more of those delicious brownies, and all sorts of things. And yes, of course, we also talked about sex.

One of these times when we were hanging out smoking dope, and we were all thoroughly stoned, quite thoroughly in the case of my best friend Mary, that same Mary suddenly noticed the cover picture of Glamour. A pile of magazines was laid out on the table.

You know how women's magazines' covers are, don't you? They picture a gorgeous woman wearing beautiful clothes but with her breasts hanging out, although never her nipples, oh God, no. Cover girls rarely wear bras, unless of course they're push-up bras. Or so it seems. Cosmo is the undisputed leader in this category.

But this latest issue of Glamour had a picture of my doppelgänger on its cover. She was maybe up to five years older than my 22 years of age, and I had to admit she looked gorgeous. That was not the point, however.

No, the point was that she looked just like me! We did not even look like sisters; we looked like twins. In the picture, the Glamour cover girl was wearing metallic silver pants and a lovely matching jacket that was open, and nothing else.

You could see one of her bare breasts hanging out from beneath the jacket, but of course not the nipple. Heaven forbid that her nipples were visible! Anything else goes, but not the nipples. The jacket was arranged so that it covered both nipples. Maybe that is why all men are so fascinated by women's nipples? Everyone loves the forbidden, right?

Had I been a red-blooded heterosexual man, I would have wanted to reach under that woman's open jacket to grab a handful of boob. Bear in mind these magazines are written for women to read, not for men to read. The editors know it's our fantasy to look like that cover girl; to fantasize that we could actually run around town, teasing men, showing off our boobs (but not our nipples, oh no, never our nipples, of course!).

One of the things drunk and stoned girls do for fun is to dare each other to do things. To refuse a dare is unthinkable, hence one does not dare someone thoughtlessly. For example, we would never dare each other to jump a motorcycle over a barrier, Evel Knievel style! Also forbidden is to parade around naked, for example in the men's showers in the gym. These are not explicitly forbidden, we just automatically know that they are. Streaking might sometimes be permitted, but only in the right circumstances, and only if the audience gets only a fleeting view.

Perhaps you've guessed by now? Daphne dared me to buy the cover girl's clothes and to wear them like that around campus, with my naked boobs hanging out, at least partially. In our group, a dare has to be seconded. In this case, Stephanie seconded the dare, and the third of the four of us, Mary, third-ed the dare. Mary sometimes talks like that when she's stoned.

We went on line and even though we were hopelessly stoned, we found the outfit. It was at Barneys, and it was not cheap. The price did not seem to matter, since everyone agreed I simply had to have it! "It's your destiny," Stephanie said.

It was late at night, and Barneys was closed, but Mary and I made a date to go to Barneys the next morning and to get it!

We went to school at NYU, in Manhattan, so going to Barneys simply meant taking the subway. My mother had a charge account at Barneys, and she rarely checked the details of her bills, so I agreed. We left the next morning at 9:45am, taking the W train, which goes right to Barneys, in about 15 or 20 minutes. Mary brought the cover of Glamour in her purse. Mary was committed to my doing this. I myself, however, was circumspect. I was kind of hoping Barneys was sold out of my size.

Barneys had the outfit, and they had it in my size. I tried it on, both the skirt (there was a choice of pants or skirt) and the jacket, but with a bra and blouse underneath. I had to admit I looked great in it! The outfit was to die for. The skirt was tight, and it hugged my ass. It showed off my womanly curves below the belt to maximal effect. The jacket was downright gorgeous, carefully made (in Belgium, not in China). I had to have it, no question. I even planned to get both the skirt and the pants. It's good to have options, my mother always says.

Mary was upset when I modeled the outfit for her in the store, however, because I wore it with a bra and a blouse. With a healthy dose of cajoling, she prevailed upon me to try it on without a blouse and more importantly without a bra. That way I would be perfectly mimicking the Glamour cover girl.

I waffled a bit, but decided I was safe inside Barneys, and why not? It turned out fine that I caved to Mary's pressure, and I did it. I don't think there was a man on the entire floor, except for two salesmen, and they were almost certainly gay.

I came out of the changing room and strutted about, modeling all sorts of poses for Mary's eyes and also the saleswoman's, while I nervously giggled constantly. Mary had the Glamour cover and she held it up right next to me. At Mary's request, the saleswoman took a picture of me next to the Glamour cover. I assumed the same pose as the cover girl had taken.

You would have thought it was I in the cover picture. Literally only minutes later I was modeling the jacket for all of the sales force on that floor, including the two men, with my boobs (but not my nipples!) hanging out under the wide-open jacket.

Mary sandbagged me by looking for the label to see of what materials the jacket was made, and she opened the jacket wide to take a look. This showed off all of my boobs, including my nipples, to everyone on the floor. I felt like screaming at Mary, but this was typical of her obliviousness, so I let it go. The jacket was made of a blend of silk and merino wool, with metallic threads intertwined.

I got a little thrill being inadvertently exposed like that, and just the idea that I got such a thrill by exposure, surprised me quite a bit. Actually, I think Mary may still have been stoned from all the dope she had smoked the previous night, which was a lot. I myself, however, felt normal. I was trying to puzzle out why I got such a thrill, instead of an extreme embarrassment, when my boobs, nipples and all, were shown to everyone on the floor.

I bought the suit outfit, jacket and skirt, and Mary insisted that I wear it, nude underneath (above the waist, that is; Mary graciously allowed me to keep my panties on...), all the way back to our dorm room. "You're not serious, Mary?" I asked.

"Yes. Yes, I am. It's part of the dare, Joanie," she said. I'm Joanie, by the way.

"Well, then we can't take the subway. We'll take a taxi, or a Lyft, or something," I said.

"No, no, we'll take the subway. I'll protect you. You've spent enough money this morning!" came Mary's reply.

Before we left, the Barneys saleswoman asked a favor. She asked if she could call the Barneys photographer to have a quick photoshoot? Maybe the store would like to use some photos of me wearing the jacket in their web promotions. If they used the photos, I would be compensated, of course.

Barneys is the kind of store where actual amounts of money are never explicitly discussed. I imagined I would have to sign a release, and then I would be compensated according to the terms of a contract or something. She said they had a new theme, "Look like a cover girl in a Barneys outfit," or maybe it was, "Barneys girls could be cover girls." I don't remember, exactly.

I was perfect for their campaign, or so I was told. They wanted 'ordinary people' to look spectacular in their outfits, with the hope that customers in general could think they too would look special. I guess I was about as 'ordinary' as a person could be.

Mary was hyper excited on my behalf. I was mostly circumspect. I met the store manager, the Barneys fashion photographer, and his assistant. I was shown some contracts to sign. My Dad is a lawyer, and I knew my stuff thanks to long, tedious, family discussions growing up. I read the entire thing, crossed out things I did not like, initialing where I crossed them out, and I added a couple of caveats of my own, which I had the manager initial. I'd like to say I impressed them with my legal knowledge, but in New York, people do not impress easily.

We went to an outdoor patio situated high above Fifth Avenue, on the east side of the street. The patio extended from a set of glass doors at the 20th floor of a building next to Bergdorf's men's store. Central Park to the north spread out in the background, below us. The photographer was excited because since we were up so high (20 stories) it was quite windy, and my hair would naturally blow in the wind. A hedge fund controlled the patio, and we had to walk through their offices to get to it. Hedge funds are very male. Very.

I took some suggestive poses leaning against the railing on the north side of the patio, with Central Park forming part of the background. The photographer's assistant, Steve, kept adjusting my arms and legs by holding them and moving them into the arrangements Mr. Dixon wanted.

The wind was strong, and my open jacket would on occasion blow wide open, exposing all of my breasts, nipples included, to the two men and of course to Mary. The first time this happened and I rushed to close it, but that set us back, since Steve had to come over and carefully manipulate my arms and legs into the correct position, all over again. Mr. Dixon had to re-start his instructions regarding my facial expressions, too. It set us back a good 20 minutes.

The second time it happened I tried to act more like a professional. I simply held the pose, exposing my boobs to the camera, the two men, and Mary, but with what I hoped to be a model's professional mien. The wind changed, the jacket returned to normal, and no time was wasted. I did notice, however, that Mr. Dixon took plenty of pictures with the jacket wide open and my boobs on display, nipples and all.

Fashion poses sometimes border on the obscene. It does not matter, really, since it's just a picture in a magazine. But if it's you, standing on a patio that is really a kind of balcony, leaning revealingly against a railing, in a pose explicitly suggesting sex, with a hedge fund full of men looking at you through the glass doors to the patio, well then, it's provocative, shall we say.

To give you some idea, an example of only one of these poses should suffice. If you read women's fashion magazines, you're familiar with lots of them, I'm sure. Steve spread my legs far apart, causing the (already not that long) tight skirt to ride up my thighs quite a bit. Then he had me lean back on my elbows, and he had me thrust out my pelvis. It was if I were inviting people to look straight up my skirt at my pussy. One could see the bottoms of both of my boobs pushing the jacket slightly from my chest. I only know that last fact because Mary told me, later.

I had panties on, of course, little, tiny baby blue lace panties to be precise, and I'm sure everyone could see right up that viewing highway to check out my naked upper thighs and the tiny morsel of fabric covering my most intimate spot.

Some of the hedge fund men began to watch, from behind the glass doors opening to the patio. I tried to maintain the cool I imagined a professional model would have, but it was hard. I was attracting a bit of an audience among the men working at the hedge fund.

I guess they don't see a pretty girl's jacket blow open and by doing so reveal her boobs out on their patio that often, now do they? Nor do I suppose they often get to see that same girl deliberately giving them a wide-open view all the way up her skirt, either. Right?

The photographer took a long series of shots, and he said he had some really good ones, and he thanked me. Then he asked me a strange question. He asked if I had a boyfriend? I said no, not currently. He said that's a pity, because if I liked he would give me some of the shots where my boobs were totally exposed. "Boyfriends like shots like that," he said.

"My last boyfriend would have wanted me nude," I said, contempt in my voice. "But give me the shots anyway, please. I can show him what he can no longer have, and drive him crazy!"

"Yeah! You go, girl!" Mary chimed in.

"How about a few even more overtly sexy photos of you, then, for him? You have a great body, and you look stunning in this setting. I'll do it for free as long as it's quick. I have to get back, soon," the photographer said.

"Oh, Joanie!" Mary exclaimed. "This would be perfect revenge on that asshole Kyle! Remember how he always wanted to take sexy photos of you, and you never let him even come close?"

"Do I ever," I said. "He was a real pest. He wanted me nude, and had I ever agreed to him doing that, he would have wanted even more, I'm sure!" I was imagining him wanting to take a photo of me right after we had, you know, with his bright white stuff oozing from my pussy, but of course I did not say that! That was how his mind worked, though, I can tell you that.

I turned to face the photographer. I said, "Okay, Mr. Dixon, what do you have in mind?"

"That depends. What kind of panties are you wearing?" Mr. Dixon asked.

"That's quite a personal question!" I said, confused as to what he was driving at.

"Well, if they are standard panties, then they are similar to a bikini bottom. We've already seen your boobs, so what I suggest is that you take off your suit, and pose only in your panties," Mr. Dixon said.

"I could not possibly do that, Mr. Dixon. I'm exposed here to the hedge fund men, and to windows on the skyscrapers surrounding us."

"I'm sure the hedge fund men have already seen your boobs during the earlier shoot. It will be like being topless on the beach, but sexier, because panties are more suggestive than a bikini bottom," Mr. Dixon replied.

"He's right, you know," Mary chimed in. "Pictures of you posed like that would drive Kyle crazy with lust for you. His right hand is no substitute for a sexpot like you." I blushed at what Mary was saying.

Mary had a point, though. Kyle is the name of my old boyfriend, the one I currently hate. I waffled.

"I don't know," I said. "It's too embarrassing to do this in front of all those hedge fund men behind the glass. Some of them are drooling, I think," I said. "Besides, my panties are blue lace, and they don't hide much. Bikini bottoms are not made of lace!"

Mary said, "I'll ask them to lower the blinds." She opened the sliding glass door and had a slightly too long discussion with what looked to be the alpha male of the hedge fund. She came back out and sure enough, the blinds came down. Now I was not so much on display. Mary looked at me triumphantly. "I can't wait to slip these pictures to Kyle," she said. "He'll go nuts!"

"There's still all the windows overlooking this patio," I said, pointing to the skyscrapers across the street. Nevertheless, Mary, Mr. Dixon, and Steve all could see that my resistance to the idea was weakening.

"They've seen your breasts already, if they were looking. And you'll have your panties on. The pictures will be great," Mr. Dixon's assistant Steve said. "A beautiful woman, you know, is a work of art. You are one." Flattery is so damned effective with me. Now it was three against a wavering one.

I removed my jacket, and this made me officially topless on that patio. Next, I removed the skirt. I carefully stored them giving them protection from the gusty, strong wind. I did not want them blowing off the patio to be lost forever! I was standing there, wearing only panties and high heels. I felt vulnerable, exposed. It was scary, even terrifying. It was also, bizarrely, thrilling. "Let's make this quick, please," I said.

Mr. Dixon had me stand in several poses. I knew I was going to look sexy in those poses, if not very sexy. Mr. Dixon sent Steve over a couple of times to adjust my legs and my arms. I got goose bumps when he touched my legs. I was getting turned on. I felt my panties getting wet and I wondered if that would show? I was too embarrassed to ask anyone, though.

As the photo shoot progressed, I concentrated on following directions, with my arms, legs, torso, and most of all my facial expressions, which Mr. Dixon considered to be of the utmost importance. I began to forget about how outrageously exposed I was out there. It was relaxing to forget my fears, by being caught up in the work of posing.

Mary then said, "You know, Joanie, why don't you stick your hand in your panties as if you were fingering yourself? That would be over the top sexy, don't you think?"

I was getting into this, and forgetting how potentially exposed I was to a countless number of office windows across the street. Mary's remark brought me brutally back to reality. I was so thoroughly into it at this point, however, that even her crude suggestion did not phase me. "What do you think, Mr. Dixon?" I asked, my voice sounding surprisingly innocent, almost naïve.

"That would make some wonderful pictures. Let's try it. Steve, help Joanie pose a bit, will you?"

Steve came over and showed me, a little too explicitly I thought at the time, how to stick my hand into my panties in such a way as to maximize suggestion to the camera. My hand was to come into them not from the top, but from the side. Having his hand on top of mine, inside my already skimpy panties, produced some serious arousal. "Push your panties down somewhat while you finger yourself," Mr. Dixon said.

Mr. Dixon stepped back, looking thoughtful. "It looks faked," Mr. Dixon said. He paused, presumably for effect. "You need actually really to finger yourself, Joanie. Faking just doesn't cut it, I'm afraid."

"You go, girl!" Mary called out. I began to think with more certainty that Mary was still stoned. I then began to wonder if I were still stoned, too? Was I really going to do this? Was I going to finger myself in front of two men I had just met? And let's not forget all the lecherous men right behind the slatted blinds! In fact, I had forgotten about them right then. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Push your panties down with your hand right to the top of your vagina, Joanie," Mr. Dixon said. "It's sexier. Good. Now pleasure yourself with your fingers. Don't worry if you go too far, since later we can edit whatever we want out of the pictures."

I did not protest any more. I just did as he said. "Farther," Mary said. I shot her a look.

"Farther, 'my dear,' and I might as well take them off!" I said, skewering her with my eyes. I had a tone in my voice when I had said 'my dear.'

"We could do that, if you want," Mr. Dixon said. "Nude fashion photos are the ultimate 'fuck you' statement for an ex."