Tagged: model

Bellissima Pouted and Simpered

  1. by jenCharacter – supermodel
  2. Setting – elevator
  3. Object – library card
  4. Situation – hazing

Bellissima pouted and simpered and flirted with the overweight businessman she shared the elevator with. In practically no time he consented to hand over his library card. This part of the scavenger hunt was almost too easy. Bellissima knew that the rest of her hazing would be more difficult, but it would be worth it to join the elite Sisterhood of Supermodels. They got the best parking places.

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Olga Pouted

  1. k-avatarCharacter – supermodel
  2. Setting – gazebo
  3. Object – fountain pen
  4. Situation – the last bunch of bananas…

Olga pouted. She smiled, a bashful sidelong smirk accompanied by come-hither eyes. She licked her lips. Nothing was working.

“I just don’t see your need for the pen. Something’s missing.” The photographer looked around helplessly.

Olga ran her tongue over the fountain pen.

Gary was a temperamental perfectionist, but he never missed a shot.

“That’s fantastic. But they’ll never run it.” He reached behind him, groping around on the table. “I’ve got it. We need more bananas.”

Gary located one last bunch amid the decimated fruit baskets and cold-cut trays. He raced into the gazebo and meticulously positioned the bright yellow fruit atop the mound already there.

Olga pouted.

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I’m Going To Kill My Agent

  1. by jenCharacter – supermodel
  2. Setting – the world’s most inappropriate McDonald’s
  3. Object – phone number
  4. Situation – dropped contact

I’m going to kill my agent, thought Wifty, as she struggled valiantly to look thrilled. Wifty knew she had to make good on her contract so she wouldn’t get a bad rep with the industry. But, c’mon! If there was a less appropriate place for a McDonald’s, she’d like to know about it. Right in the middle of Victoria’s Secret? She was sure some geek had a fetish about girls in thongs and push-up bras scarfing french fries. Ugh! The smell of the fryers was drowning out the perfumed lacy underthings.

The stage manager tweaked Wifty’s nipples to perk them up, slid a bra strap off one shoulder, and handed her a Shamrock Shake. Then she was on the runway again, photogs leering and flashbulbs flaring. At the end of the runway she winked seductively and lost her contact.

Backstage she grabbed her cellphone and started dialing. Contract be damned.

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