Publicly Display Yourself for Me (2 page)

“What’s in store for your little pet today?”
Alice’s voice grates on my eardrums like gravel.

Max’s smile grows wide. “Why don’t you come
along and find out?”

No, no, no, I want to cry. Definitely
not
a good idea. I turn my face pleadingly up to Max’s, but
he engages his sister’s gimlet eyes over the divide.

“Oh yes!” Heather gushes. “I want to
go.”

Greg’s expression is guarded.

Alice’s plump and very scarlet lips curl up.
I wouldn’t say it’s a smile because it’s too malicious to be
one.

She says, “Why not? It will be good for some
laughs.”

3

Because there are so many people coming
along, absent Russell (thank goodness), we pile into three cars.
Three because Max’s Porsche can only seat two. The twins are in
their red Ferrari – the one belonging to Alex, or is it Brad? I
can’t even tell their cars apart since they purchase duplicates of
everything. Alice and her gang are in her yellow Mercedes.

My terrycloth robe is still wrapped around
me, but I’m beginning to feel the stirrings of dread and
anticipation. Outside, the vista of the sun shining upon the sea
with its undulating and glistening waves belies the underlying
danger of the day . . . and what it portends for me.

“You OK?” Max’s hand reaches for my
hair.

I love it when he twirls my thick mahogany
hair between his fingers. That gesture speaks of so much affection
. . . even a kernel of the love I feel for him (but of which I am
not sure he reciprocates). Oh, I have no doubt that Max is fond of
me. But love? Can a man such as he actually
love
someone
else in the romantic sense? A man who must be in control all the
time, who must dominate and see his loved ones tethered and chained
and subject to the whims of his forebears or those in
authority.

Max’s mind is sickeningly twisted, but I
still love him despite that fact.

“I’m OK,” I assure him.

“Was my father too rough on you?” There’s
concern in his tone.

“No.”

“Did you like what he did to you?”

I hesitate. The truth?

“I liked some of it. The rest . . . ”

I still haven’t come to completely embrace
the joys of spanking yet. Oh yes, I love the all-encompassing
domination and humiliation of the act, but I still haven’t brought
myself to love actual
pain
.

“You can always tell me if either he or they
have been too rough on you.”

I wonder if he’s referring to his brothers
or Alice. “I thought I had no ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

“Yes, there’s that. But you can still tell
me.” He glances at me out of his brilliant blue eyes. “I can
persuade them to take it down a notch.”

A skein of warmth unravels within my chest.
He cares! He really cares!
Dare I even think that
thought?

I don’t know what demons Max is fighting
inside his head, but his beautiful face is troubled as he turns
away to focus on the road.

The cliff road is winding and long, but we
are gradually descending. Several car lengths away, the twins’
Ferrari picks up speed and disappears around a bend. We have lost
Alice behind us, though I know she will eventually catch up, much
is the pity.

Once we are on the flat stretch of coastal
land, strip malls start to come up. The storefronts are upmarket –
stuff like French patisseries, bars with creative names and kitschy
designer clothing. The people who throng the sidewalks wear
expensive-looking beach apparel – pareos and bandeaus and caftans
and wide-brimmed hats and other wraparounds. Their sunglasses are
fashionable without appearing outrageous. Yes, this is certainly
Max’s crowd we are playing to here.

“You know Greg,” Max says casually.

“Yes.” I’m a little cautious when it comes
to Greg. Yes, he has had me, but so have dozens of other men. I
honestly don’t know how Max feels about him.

“What do you think of him?” There’s that
undercurrent there again. Max is complex, but I still recognize
jealousy when I hear it.

Max . . . jealous!

I say, “I don’t really know him all that
well. He’s all right, I reckon.”

“You reckon.” He barks a short laugh.

“Why?”

Max shakes his head. “Nah, you’re probably
right. It’s just that I can’t get over Alice getting a boyfriend
from Gifford.”

“Why? Is he younger than she is?”

“Slightly. But he’s a – ” Max pauses, seems
to think to better of what he’s going to say, and then clams his
mouth shut.

“What?” I persist.

“It’s nothing. It’s none of my business
anyway what my sister does. Just as it’s none of her business what
the rest of us do and don’t do.”

I decide to let it lie.

We roll down to a signboard that says
‘Cahill Beach’. Because it’s a beautiful day, it’s pretty crowded.
We fortuitously find a parking space on the side of the road. The
smell of sea salt is strong in the air, as well as the aroma of
cooking hot dogs on griddles at the stalls on the sidewalks.

The twins are already here, waiting for us.
They are dressed in Hawaiian shirts, open at the chest to show off
their midriffs. They carry backpacks.

One of them holds the passenger door open
for me. He grins.

“Time to take off your robe, Gina.”

“Not here, Brad,” Max cautions.

“Why not? She’s going to be shedding it
anyway.”

“Wait till we get on the beach.”

The other twin comes loping up. “Are we
going to wait for Alice?”

“Nah,” Brad replies. “Let her find us.”

How will she find us in this throng? I
wonder. Not that the twins are going to care at the speed they are
walking. I have to practically run in my heels just to keep up with
them.

The beach is super-crowded. The fine white
sand is pockmarked with beach umbrellas of all patterns and sizes.
People in swimwear sun themselves on deck chairs, doing whatever it
is people do on beaches. They read their Kindles, or scan their
iPads, or smear SPF-15 upon each other’s backs. A few heads bob in
the glistening waters. No children around, thank goodness. Max did
say the kids are at school, mostly in Switzerland or Boston.

More than a few females do a double take as
the twins and Max come into view. I don’t blame them. I would too.
In fact, I’m positively glowing with the fact that I have three
absolutely drop dead gorgeous men flanking me, as if I’m a
supermodel or someone far worthier than what I deem myself. Envious
eyes are riveted on me – wondering if a) I’m someone famous, or b)
if I’m not, how the hell did I manage to snare this entourage?

Well, everyone will find out soon
enough.

The twins and Max choose a spot somewhere in
the middle of the beach. There are three empty deck chairs which
have just been vacated, evidenced by the empty glasses on the
adjoining side table. Sand scours the seats. The twins lay down
their backpacks as Max begins to strip off his T-shirt and
shorts.

I observe Max. I will never get tired of
watching him take his clothes off. Every female around us is
watching Max too, as well as the twins as they begin to peel off
those Hawaiian shirts from their toned bodies.

As the siblings drop their baggy shorts,
gasps burst from red lips all around us. Max is wearing a scarlet
G-string. The twins are clad in corresponding blue ones. The
G-strings feature a common pearl-shaped front to unsuccessfully
cover their bulging genitals, allowing pubic hair to peek above and
around the material in suggestive patches. Save for a thin band
around their hips, their firm and luscious buttocks are completely
exposed because the strings that form the connecting points are
nicely and snugly buried within their cracks.

The outlines of their penises and balls
contained within their fronts are very, very obvious. A trickle of
fluid runs out of my pussy just to look at them.

Max grins at me. “Take it off, doll. Show
them what you’ve got.”

I’m only glad for the fact that Alice isn’t
around to see me. Aware that all eyes are now riveted upon me, I
self-consciously shrug away the terrycloth robe.

More gasps of shock puncture the brittle
atmosphere, already choked with the rising heat from the hot
sands.

I am in a bikini. That much I can say. But
it is what the naughty retailers call a one-string micro-bikini. In
essence, its broadest part is the diameter of a single yellow
string. Spaghetti straps run down my shoulders to connect to
strings that crisscross in front of my chest. My nipples are fully
exposed and be-ringed by a rectangular network around my
areolas.

The lower part of my swimsuit is made out of
two strings. The string that runs from its moorings to ‘cover’ my
crotch has a zipper worked into it. It successfully covers my clit,
but not much else. My pussy lips are almost completely revealed. As
are my butt cheeks.

I’m flushing a nice shade of crimson as
beachgoers clamber from their deck chairs and other perches to get
a better look at me. These include the hungry gazes of men and
teenage boys.

“You’re beautiful,” Max says admiringly.
“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The twins murmur their agreement.

The crowd forms a circle around us – men and
women alike. Catcalls and whistles are tossed in my direction.

“Hey, babe, why don’t you come over here and
let me feel those titties?”

“You need a real man to show you a good
fucking, baby, not those pretty pansy boys of yours.”

More and more people join the ranks of
onlookers, forming three and four deep. Some pull chairs and side
tables so that they can stand and peer above the heads of the first
few rows. Others whip out their cellphones and start taking
photos.

My cheeks are still burning and I’m unsure
of how to stand. Do I pose, like a model, to display my assets, or
do I stand around awkwardly – trying to pretend I am not making a
public spectacle of myself.

A waiter comes rushing up, gently elbowing
and ‘excusing’ his way through the gathered lines. I reckon he must
come from the cluster of beach restaurants fringing the sands.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he says anxiously, eyeing
me up and down, “but I don’t think you can wear that here.”

“Sez who?” one of the twins demands.

“It’s, uh, according to the guidelines.”

“Which guidelines?”

“Our beach guidelines, sir. Written on the
signboard at the entrance.”

Max places his hand firmly on the waiter’s
shoulder. “And which eatery do you work for?”

The waiter looks apprehensive. Max is a huge
man.

“Finnegan’s, sir.”

Max eyes the waiter’s nametag. “Well, you
see, Cliff, Finnegan’s is owned by the Melium group, which happens
to be owned by my mother’s family. So I daresay you can collect
these glasses over there and take our orders.”

One of the twins delves into the side pocket
of his backpack and takes out two hundred dollar bills. “A little
tip for your troubles.”

Goggle-eyed, the waiter takes the bills.
That was quick.

“I, uh, will be right back with the menus,
sir.”

“No need. Two pina coladas. Max, what will
you have?”

“A Bloody Mary. Virgin Mary for the lady.”
Max gestures to the empty glasses on our side table. “Don’t forget
these, Cliff.”

“She’s no lady!” calls someone from the
crowd.

Laughter ripples across the ranks. Still
unhinged, Cliff hastily gathers the glasses and dashes away as
quickly as he can.

“OK, stand back, everyone,” announces one of
the twins. He retrieves a Nikon camera from his backpack. “This
here is a serious professional photography session.”

It is?

Whoops and whistles greet this. Well, I can
safely say it’s as much news to me as it is to them.

“So it is.” Max is grinning.

My would-be photographer says, “We’re going
to be taking a few photos here against the sea. Gina, follow
me.”

The crowd parts to let him through, the eyes
of the women locked upon his rolling ass cheeks as he walks. I’m
surprised none of them have tried to pinch him yet.

“Go on, Gina.” Max gently prods my
shoulder.

I brave myself as I delve into the tittering
crowd. As I suspected, some of the men in the audience reach out to
grab me. Hands grope for my breasts and ass. A scurrilous finger
even darts out to touch my left pussy lip before I can hurry
away.

“Hey, no touching the lady,” Max says behind
me.

He is greeted with guffaws and bawdy jests.
I catch sight of Alex (I think it’s Alex, though I can’t be sure,
and I wish they would lose the color coordination next time). I
increase my pace. I’ve slipped off my footwear, and the sunbaked
sand is hot beneath my soles.

The crowd of beachgoers avidly follows us as
though we are Pied Pipers.

We come out to an open space where a scenic
rock formation sprawls across a wide expanse of sand.

“Get on that, Gina,” my photographer says
with a grin. “It’s Showtime.”

4

I have never had my photograph taken in the
nude before. I have never made a suggestive pose on film.

Now here I am in front of a captive
audience, virtually naked. My natural shyness wages a struggling
battle against my willingness to obey the terms of my contract.

Max understands this. He nods appreciatively
from the side.

“You’re beautiful, doll,” he assures me.

Alex crouches before the rock formation. He
raises his Nikon to his face.

“Thrust your tits out, Gina,” he says in a
loud voice.

I puff out my chest. Part of me is cringing,
and yet the other part is reveling in the fact that so many men are
finding me physically attractive. I’ve always been considered
pretty, but in the shadow of my stunning sister, Karyn, I’m a pale
cloud. I can feel the lustful gazes of the guys on my breasts,
which are jutting out to display my pointed nipples in all their
erect glory.