Stallion Pursues a Virgin

[This is a Jack Grierson story. It relates to the 10 Chapters of my series Her Fiancé's Father as well as my other Jack Grierson stories on Literotica.]

1. As a freshman as the university, I had lived in the city for less than a month when I out of blue I got a text from my mom's business associate, Jack Grierson. I had not seen him all summer and had thought I was well rid of him. Jack was cuckolding Dad and had bred Mom, not once but twice! I had even seen him fucking her; her screams as she came still rang in my ears and could still get me moist. Thanks to him I had a baby half brother and would soon have another half sibling. I loathed him and his text brought back memories I would rather not relive.

Jack: Hi Judith, how would you like to be bra model?

My mom, Trixie Ann Peters, made good money, but my dad, Alan "Tom" Peters, was unemployed. My mom paid my tuition, but insisted that I pay for my living expenses. So I was supporting myself by working as a trainer at a fitness studio. It did not pay much, so I was beginning to really feel the pinch of not being able to make ends meet.

Judith: How much does it pay?

Jack: I can get you a try-out with Alexandra's Secret. If you were picked, it would pay a lot.

Judith: How do I apply?

Jack: I'll handle it. You'll get an email.

The email with the details of the try-out came later that day and I was totally excited. I called Mom and she got really excited too.

"Your breasts are perfect honey," she said. "Just perfect. You're bound to get in. The Alexandra's Secret catalog is one of the biggest! I buy lingerie from it all the time!"

I was not so sure. I knew I had a great body, but I also knew that bra models had to be perfect.

The try-out was designed to give the aspirant a taste of life as a supermodel. I was picked up at my rather down-at-heel apartment building by a liveried chauffeur in a stretch limousine and lodged in a top floor corner suite at the Plaza Hotel. There was vintage champagne on ice in a silver bucket in my suite and a personalized hand-written note of welcome from the hotel general manager addressed to me -- Judith Megan Peters. A personal shopper took me out for the afternoon to buy a complete ensemble of expensive designer clothing that was mine to keep. There were box tickets for two at the Met and dinner reservations at Maison Rouge. Bernard Yeung, an MBA student at the university, had taken me out to dinner a few times, so I was able to reciprocate in a grand manner. He was suitably impressed. The first two days were like a dream.

On the second day I was given a personalized tour of Museum of Modern Art by a New York University art history PhD student. This was the third day. After a very late breakfast -- more like a brunch -- I was picked up for my try-out and brought into a factory-like loft studio just after eleven. Brian Dixon-Jones would be shooting the try-out pictures. At thirty-five, he was one of the top fashion photographers in the world, with all the arrogance that goes with that position. When I walked in radiating confidence in my new high fashion ensemble, he lost no time in pricking my balloon.

I stood still as the makeup staff worked on my hair and face. I looked at the studio floor where Erin Heatherton, a striking six-foot blonde supermodel was throwing her head back with abandon and then cupping her breasts, following the commands of the photographer with professional precision. How could I -- Judith Megan Peters -- compete with a supermodel? I was terribly nervous -- I had done some small time modeling in high school for local businesses, but this was the big time. I knew this was my big chance and I did not want to screw it up.

"Take her over there and strip her," he snapped to one of his assistants, a harried looking young woman with a pencil behind her ear. He waved in the general direction of one of the bare walls. "Get her fitted in the try-out bras. And find matching panties for each of the bras."

With that, he had gone back to his shoot with Erin Heatherton. I was intimidated and a bit frightened as the makeup staff -- a mixed crew of women and men -- literally did what Brian ordered. They had me stand still and moved my arms and legs about as though I were a tailor's dummy, stripping me till I had nothing on but my high-heeled Jimmy Choo pumps. Then they put on a red underwire demi-bra with white lace and matching panties. The demi-bra was cut low enough that it displayed part of my nipples, even though my aureoles are quite small.

Even as the undressing and dressing was going on, they worked on my auburn hair and my face, quickly and professionally. Then as quickly as it started, it was over. The makeup staff disappeared and left me by the bare wall, wearing nothing but the pumps, the bra and panties and a red silk choker. No one offered me a robe or any cover-up and soon I grew a bit cold. I hugged herself for warmth as she watched Brian's shoot with Erin Heatherton go on and on. My nipples are unusually sensitive -- when they are stimulated, they harden and stand out a full inch in length. They popped out of the demi-bra and I crossed my arms to try and conceal them.

Erin Heatherton, the supermodel, was treated quite differently. After every series of shots, they brought her sparkling water and a robe. There was pile of delicacies in her rest area that was constantly replenished, though she herself ate nothing. She relaxed and chatted with Brian as he showed her the results of the shoot. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about me.

Finally, the shoot was over for the day. Just after three, Erin Heatherton left surrounded by her entourage. Brian's harried female assistant materialized and ushered me onto the center of the studio as the lights were being re-adjusted for the try-out shoot. He eyed me critically and said, "Put your butt on the arm of the sofa. Arms behind the back of your head, and throw your head back." As the same time, he put his hand out and a shoot assistant handed him a camera, primed and ready.

Once he began, he kept shooting and issuing commands, receiving a series of different cameras. I tried to do as I was told. I had no idea how many shots he had taken, when he suddenly said, "OK, that's it for this set. Get her into the next one."

Magically the makeup crew re-appeared and stripped the bra and panties off me. Another bra, this time a halter-neck black one with pink lace trim, was put on me. My legs were manipulated and the matching set of panties was pulled up on me. Unseen hands massaged my breasts and crotch, making sure the lingerie was snugly fitted. It all happened so fast that the sensation was of machines rather than human hands.

The pattern was repeated several more times. I got into a blind rhythm, blocking out every sound but Brian's voice. I had no idea whether I was doing well or poorly or even whether I was actually following his commands. Finally, it stopped. The brightest lights were dimmed and I looked around uncertainly. I was in a leopard print, underwire bra with black straps and matching panties. There was a black silk choker on me now, with long trailing ends.

Brian approached me, one hand in his pocket, looking down at the results on an iPad. A specialized program had analyzed the hundreds of pictures from the try-out shoot and arranged them in an order for viewing. There seemed to be dozens of crewmembers setting up another set of lights and a backdrop of papier-mâché rocks for the next shoot. Ignoring the hubbub around them Brian said, "Have you modeled bras or swimsuits before?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Just some work for a local stores, mainly facials, some full body."

"That's very different," he said. "Nothing like this at all." He paused. "For a first timer, you did very well. A bit rough around the edges, but nothing I can't fix. You have a very wholesome look. What's your background?"

"My parents are both from Irish families," I replied. "I guess I'm a typical American girl next door."

"You've got the classic, peaches-and-cream Irish complexion," he said. "But you have a Nordic figure and the height to go with it. How tall are you?"

"Five foot nine."

He took a step forward. Without hesitation, he cupped both my breasts and kneaded and squeezed them through the silky bra, examining me as though I were an animal at an auction. I gasped.

"What?!" I expostulated.

"Hush," he said. "This is what you're selling. No middle class prudery here, I need to examine the goods."

He reached around me, unfastened the bra and let it drop to the ground. Then he repeated his action, kneading my naked breasts, and running his fingernails over my nipples. This time I gasped louder and looked around the studio in panic. But no one was paying any attention. Brian's harried woman assistant reappeared with a bucket of ice. He took a cube in each hand and ran them over my nipples.

I squealed with shock at the icy cold touch, but Brian was not fazed. He continued icing my nipples, watching them pucker and stand out proudly. They stood out even longer than normal with ice, based on my small perfectly round aureoles. Eventually, he dropped the much-diminished ice cubes back in the bucket and kneaded my breasts again, feeling the upright nipples.

Finally he stopped and examined my breasts critically for a moment. Then he looked up into my eyes and smiled.

"You're almost perfect," he said. "What's your bust size?"

"Well, ..." I began.

"Come on," his tone was impatient. "You want to be a bra model!"

"32 B."

"I thought you felt a bit small. On a five-nine frame, 32 B's are just not big enough. To work with me, you need at least 33's. But don't worry, we can arrange for an enlargement -- the company will take care of everything."

He turned to his assistant, without waiting for a reply.

"Set up an appointment with the clinic,...."

"No."

Brian stopped and looked back at me in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I don't want any surgery."

"Its not surgery, you silly girl. It's a very small breast augmentation procedure. You just need a little more bulk and roundness; they can do it with collagen. No need to cut you."

"I won't do it."

Brian stopped and stared at me for a long moment.

"Too bad," he said. "Like I said, you are almost perfect. Those nipples of yours are hard and long -- they're the best I've ever seen. I'll inform the company. Best of luck at your next try-out."

He turned away and was about to leave me standing there, nearly naked.

"I don't have another try-out," I said to his retreating back.

He stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder.

"Well, in that case, best of luck waitressing."

Now he really did leave. His harried assistant returned with my clothes along with all the lingerie I had modeled in an untidy jumble and handed them to me without a word. I took them and walked over to the wall where the makeup crew had worked on me and dressed, unsteady on my Jimmy Choo heels. I had very little money, so I took a subway to the Plaza, where the front desk told me that I had been checked out. My things in the suite had been packed and my bag was with the bell captain.

Picking up my bag, the enormity of what I had done hit me and I began to cry. The hotel desk staff disappeared into their back office to avoid any awkward questions and a potential scene. I sat down on one of the lobby couches to have the rest of my cry. Then squaring my shoulders, I wiped her eyes and walked towards the door to the street. The bell captain was a kindly, white-haired gentleman, and as I passed him, he called out to me.

"Can I call you a cab, miss?"

"I can't afford it," I said, shaking my head.

"Just wait a moment, miss," he said, smiling. After a few moments, he beckoned her. "I talked to Tony, the hotel chauffeur. No one's using the hotel limo this afternoon. He'll take you wherever you want to go."

Tears started from my eyes again.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, ..., how can I every repay you?"

He held up his hands.

"Just buy me a drink the next time you come through here," he said.

I lay back in the comfortable cushions of the limo as I was borne out the driveway of the Plaza. Making the most of it, I opened a bottle of sparkling water from the wet bar and poured it into a tall flute. Just then, my cell went off. I checked the screen and said, "Hi, Mom."

"How did the shoot? How did it go?"

"Brian Dixon-Jones. He said it went really well."

"Great! Alexandra's Secret is a great catalog. You're on your way to becoming a supermodel!"

"But I turned him down. He wanted me to do collagen breast enlargement. I said no, so he dropped me."

There was silence on the line.

"Are you crazy?" Mom said, finally. "This contract could lead to millions. Collagen is nothing! Call them back and say you'll do it."

"Where are you, Mom?" I asked, attempting to change the subject.

"Stupid girl," she said, clicking her tongue in irritation. "I'm in the city for work, your Dad and I came in last night. We are at the Pierre. But I'm not sure I want to see you after this."

So I hesitated before asking, "Mom, I'm a bit short for my rent. Can you loan me some money?"

"No!" Mom was vehement. "Tell Brian Dixon-Jones that you will do the collagen and they will give you give you a fat advance." She hung up.

I stared at her cell for a moment before dropping it back into my purse. Then I picked up the limo intercom.

"Tony, can I change my destination, please? Could you take me to Fifth Avenue Fitness?"

"No problem, miss."

Half an hour later, I stepped out of the limo and entered the upscale spa

"Look what just walked in here," said Karl, the head trainer, who had clearly seen me emerge from the stretch limo. He bowed theatrically. "How may I be of service, ma'am?"

"I need to pick up an extra class, Karl," I said. "I'm a bit short of money. Can you fit me in? Like today?"

He opened the schedule on the counter computer and checked.

"I was doing to do spinning at seven," he said. "Tyra's doing the late step aerobics class at eight. You can take over my spinning class and double up with Tyra. It's the last class of the day, so it's always a big one -- they appreciate two instructors."

"Thanks, Karl, you're a dear."

In the locker room, I'd just taken off my blouse and skirt when Tyra Clarke came in. She worked with me and was also my roommate -- so I knew her very well even though we had only met two months previously at the gym during instructor orientation. She was a black girl with smooth, chocolate brown skin, but she did not have a black girl's hair. She had soft, natural curls that she wore collar length.

We were both fit, but in many ways we were a study in contrasts. She was strong whereas I was supple. I'd been a cheerleader in high school; she'd been a sprinter on the track team. And of course, our skin tones were a study in contrasts -- my Irish heritage showed in my white skin that looked even paler beside hers. She'd grown up in a tough inner city neighborhood, so she was much more experienced than me and treated me like I was much younger than her, even though we were almost nineteen.

"Well, well, look at you, Miss Sexy," she said, eyeing my red underwire demi-bra with white lace and matching panties. "Where'd you get the money for those? Looks like a couple of C's worth of spicy lingerie. You out to seduce someone?"

"No, no," I protested. "I did a try-out at Alexandra's Secret and they didn't take back any of the stuff I wore in the shoot."

She whistled.

"Whoa, sister! So you're going to be a bra model?" She came up and cupped my breasts, running her thumbs over my protruding nipples. They promptly stood up and hardened. I gasped and she grinned. She was always touching and cuddling me, and I was flattered by her attention. "You've got the tits of a goddess, girlfriend. You were born to be a bra model."

"No, they turned me down. They wanted me to bulk up my tits."

"They're crazy! Your tits are perfect as they are."

She stripped and I watched her. She had a powerful body and her musculature was lean and well defined. Tyra was totally unfazed by nudity and was always wandering around our apartment naked. Still naked, she sat down and pulled on her athletic socks and aerobics shoes. Her tits were small and very firm. Her aureoles and nipples were small and intensely black, a marked contrast even on her dark skin.

I unfastened my demi-bra and pulled down my panties. I quickly changed into my pink and black mesh sports bra and matching knee-length mesh tights. Tyra sat on a stool and watched me, naked but for her shoes and socks. When I was pulling on my socks and athletic shoes, she came over and ran her hands over the racer back of my sports bra.

"You're looking hot girlfriend," she said.

Only after I was ready did she finally pull on her own blue and orange-splotched sports bra and matching tights.

"Want to do some stretching with me?" she asked.

"No, I'm teaching a spin class," I said. "But Karl's got me team-teaching advanced step aerobics with you at four."

"Cool. Let's show them some paired moves."

I nodded and left the locker room smiling. Hanging out with Tyra always made me feel good.

* * * * * *

2. I did the spin class -- it was a very young crowd, mostly young professionals at that time of the evening -- and they wanted to go hard. So I pushed hard and by the time I was done, I was soaked through with sweat. There was no time for a shower or a change and I ran over to the aerobics studio as soon as I got off the spin bike.

Tyra was already there, leading the early birds in some pre-workout stretching. She was incredibly flexible -- as flexible as me. But I had worked on my flexibility through all my years of cheerleading experience -- splits and high kicks -- whereas with her it was just natural.

She beckoned to me and I brought up my step and parked it next to hers. As soon as I set it down, she laced her fingers in mine and twisted me around in a double-stretch move that brought me tit to tit with her. She arched backwards and we were on one another tight, belly swell against belly swell. As she leaned further, arcing her back into a bow, our point of contact drifted lower till our lateral weight was driving our mounts into each other. When she released, she was strong enough to straighten up, but I wobbled on the verge of losing my balance. She got one powerful arm under my back and scooped me up into a tight clinch. The feel of her firm, young breasts against mine got my nipples hard and protuberant again. She spun out of the clinch and we faced the class with arms spread wide, just fingertips touching.

"Ready, girlfriend?" she asked.

"Sure!" I said, with more certainty than I felt.

It was her class, so I let her do the talking.

"OK, ladies, here we go," she said. "I've got my girlfriend here and we're going to do a paired routine. Everyone get a partner and try to follow us. This is an advanced class, so we're going to have fun, aren't we?"

"YES!" the class chorused.

It was pretty full class and they were a toned, fit group, as one would expect in an advanced class. Of course, they were all women.

Tyra hit play on the system and a driving beat came on. I knew Tyra's routine and I went right into it. I kicked high, up and back, twirling at the end of every step. It was fast paced and after the forward and back moves, I switched over to do the cross onto Tyra's step. She took my hand as we crossed and swung me around so that we stepped up facing each other.

"Who's that hot, older guy outside the studio glass?" Tyra asked as we passed.

I followed her line of sight and caught my breath. My expression grew set.

"That's Jack Grierson," I said tightly. "He's the asshole who's fucking my mom."