Carlton\'s Studio

Carlton's Studio

by Smackmagnet

4

Carlton takes his big stills camera over towards my tenant and I follow him in with the video. He's still fiddling with the thing. "How many properties you got then?" he asks me.

"Only a couple mate," I go.

"What, are they all bedsits or what?"

"The one she's in is," I tell him. "Other one's flats."

"Same sort of area are they?"

"Not too far," I say.

As we're wittering on about not a lot, he puts his camera down on Missy's back like it's a table. He's pissing about with a lens only I can tell it's a ruse, he's just doing it to make her know he thinks she's a piece of furniture.

"Got any other tarts like this one giving you problems?"

"Not at the moment," I go.

"Why d'you have to be so mean?" Missy squeaks.

"Oh my God it talks," he says.

"I'm not an it!"

"Pay him off and make my pissed-off punters happy, maybe you can stop being an it," he says. Finally he picks up his camera body and sticks his new lens on it. "Now I want you over by that sofa. So what is it you've got to do?"

"Um… go over?"

"No… I got you in a pose I want, and I don't want to waste my fucking time by having to get you into it again. So what do you do?"

"I can't walk like this," she squeaks.

"Why can't you?"

"Please, no," she says.

"Are you fucking saying no to me, girl?" Right there, fast, he's right out with the loud threatening voice. She flinches. "You will fucking walk over like that, you silly fucking slag!"

At a visual prompt from Carlton I've shoved my camera right in her face again, widest angle it has. I can see the look on her, the shame, the knowledge that this will make her look so ridiculous. She starts to lumber forwards. She has to swing her whole body in an arc around the contacting foot, then do it the other way with the other foot. She looks so upset, so humiliated. The studio's pretty big and she has to waddle most of its length. I lift the camera up and to the side and look down on top of her. I start to get what Carlton was on about. Mock her with it. He's got her looking like a total tit already so I try to find angles that will make her look even worse.

"You know what you were just then?" Carlton asks her.

"What?" This said not like, "What did I look like," more like, "What are you talking about?"

"Jesus Christ, what a twat, Gavin," he says to me. Then to her, "You were fucking slow. If I tell you to do something I don't want you taking all afternoon."

Without warning, he tugs her hands off her arse, grabs her with one massive hand under her stomach and starts walloping the back of her thigh with his other hand. He's so big compared to her that he can easily lift her off the floor, and her feet end up leaving it while her hands drop down to touch it with their fingertips. She shrieks, then just as suddenly he's dropped her. She ends up thumping onto hands and knees.

"Get back in the pose," he tells her.

She doesn't move, she's too shocked. Carlton doesn't wait. He grabs her by the hips and lifts her up off the ground, turning her round and placing her back down on her big clumpy heels. Then he's dragging her wrists back, pulling her arse cheeks apart, clamping her hands on it. He kicks her feet much wider with his own, he presses her hips down. Another small kick and her feet are just as wide as they were before.

"Now, that's the pose I'm after, only I want you over there. And I don't want to wait all afternoon. So this time, make a fucking effort!"

Her knees are suddenly trembling. She's terrified, she's actually terrified.

"Get on with it!"

Carlton brings his hand up onto her crotch with a mighty slap. She squeals as she staggers forward, the stagger impelling her further on just to stay upright in her ridiculous position. She looks like a prehistoric lizard trying to walk on back legs which are way too wide, in no way suited for a stroll about town. Her feet thump the floor and a foot slips wider. She stumbles, barely jerking herself away from falling arse-over-tit. As a result her feet come closer together than Carlton wants, so he stoops and drags one ankle wider.

"Now get back over there again, you slack little tart."

Her head twitches behind her in confusion and she squeaks, "Why?"

He shouts. "Cause that's what I just fucking told you! Understand? When you're in here you do what you're fucking told! Asking fucking questions ain't doing what you're told, is it? Now get over the other side of the fucking room!"

Tears spring to her eyes again. This has to be, almost without peer, one of the worst episodes in her life. She has a face like a slapped arse. She sobs. She doesn't know whether to turn or to waddle backwards. She starts a lumbering turn, hesitates, turns the other way, starts again. I'm expecting Carlton to clip her round the backside again but instead he's checking me to see whether I'm getting this filthy evil on camera.

She's just about turned. I'm in front of her now, getting her through the viewfinder, her pathetic waggling, her massive ungainliness, her tears of shock and fright. She stumbles forwards like a wounded duck.

"Now then," Carlton says, sauntering slowly alongside her, all arrogance and pimp suave to her broken ugliness, "since there's a camera pointing at you, what should you be doing?" She's too frightened to answer. So Carlton rubs salt in her wounds with, "Wnen I tell you what to do, you ask me a fucking question and now I'm asking a question you shut your snivelling gob! There's a fucking camera pointing at you! What do people do when a camera points at them?"

She's staggered as far as she can go without bumping into me. She squeaks, "Don't know…"

"You fucking smile, you stupid cunt! Say fucking cheese!"

She can't, she just can't. It comes out like a mealy-mouthed, "Chiz."

He reaches over her and sticks one finger from each hand in the corners of her mouth, pulls it wide, slips his fingers out to tug the corners of her mouth upwards, then he's holding one cheek between the fingers of each hand and pulling her once pretty features every which way like a child pulling on a lump of putty.

"Smile, you cunt hole!" He shouts it straight in her ear.

There's snot running from her nose, her mascara is a sticky mess dribbled down her cheeks, also smudged by Carlton's beefy fingers. My camera is right in her face, fully wide angle to make her shock-wounded features distort even more. She tries. She has to try, he's a bull standing by ready to gore her with his words, kick her with his orders. The smile she can't fake is a cruel parody of the thing she's been told to produce.

He reaches under her torso and flicks a nipple with his fingers. My camera picks it up in the edges of its ultra-wide. When he speaks to me it's with a completely different tone, matey and joking. "What d'you think of its udders then, Gavin? Hanging down alright?"

He's taken me by surprise. All I can mutter is, "Yeah, alright I s'pose."

"Be a good milker this one if it ever gets up the duff. Fancy I should give it a go?"

"Yeah if you want."

"Tell us if the cunt stops smiling though, eh?"

"Yeah alright, Carlton." I don't fancy saying no to him neither.

He straddles her small frame with his big one from behind, reaches his docker's hoary hands underneath and pretends to milk her tits like a farmer milking a dairy cow. His hands squeeze harder than normal foreplay. "Is it still smiling?" he asks.

"Drooped a bit," I tell him.

"Say cheese, Ermentrude."

She's trying to look anywhere but at the camera, but its three inch lens is inches from her mug. "Cheese," she squeaks.

He's into his fake milking now, bringing his big hands one at a time up to the roots of her breasts, clamping them tight around, slowly dragging them down till finally he grips the teats and pulls them long and hard, left, right, left, right.

"Cheeese," she squeaks. Each time she looks past the lens I shift it slowly into her field of vision till she looks away again.

His voice is much quieter now. "There's a photographer who's booked you. He's all nervous and shy. He manages to mumble how he wants some mucky pose from you. What do you do?"

"I do his pose."

"He wants you to pull wider. What d'you do?"

"Pull as wide as I can."

"He's all fumbly and he's dropped his lens cap. What do you do?"

She has to think. "I don't move?"

"Very good. He wants a pose you don't think you can get into. What do you do?"

She's thinking again. "Try really really hard?"

"How long?"

"Till he tells me to stop?"

"He sticks his finger where he shouldn't. What do you do?"

Again she thinks. "I don't do anything?"

"He asks if you mind. What do you say?"

"I don't mind?"

"If there's a question about something, and you think one thing and your photographer thinks the other, who's right?"

"He is?"

"How often?"

"Um… always?"

"You are, I hesitate to say, learning. Now. You are a photographic model. You work for me and you're working to pay Gavin here his money back. When you're modelling for us, in here, the last thing you ever want to think about is your dignity. A dirty model like you ain't supposed to have no dignity. Comprendé?"

He slows his words down to emphasise them.

"In fact, the whole, the complete, the entire fucking point of you is, you ain't supposed to have no dignity. Not one fucking scrap. What you are here for is to let him, the photographer, get whatever manner of dirty pictures he's got in his head into his camera, for permanent, so he can wank over them when he gets home and have a fucking good laugh at the stupid cunt in the pictures at the same time. Only he's a nervous, creepy little fucker, pardon my French Gavin cause I don't mean you, and he don't ask for what he wants straight out. But if it's you who's his model, and I find out that he never got the pictures he wanted, I'm gonna kick you from one end of Peckham to the other."

She's gone rigid. She's just letting him do whatever he wants.

"So when he's in here, it's your job to make it absolutely stone cold fucking clear to him that he can ask for whatever he fucking well wants, and you ain't never gonna never say no to him. And the way you do that is, you never, ever refuse a pose. Not ever. Never. No matter what the fucking pose is. Plus you will never, ever break out of a pose till you are absolutely, one hundred percent fucking certain that he's telling you to move. If he asks can you do that wider, the only legitimate question you can ask him back is, am I pulling wide enough yet? If he asks, "do you mind if," your answer, only and always, is, "no, of course not, it's my job.""

She nods, very small, very miserable.

"People like you exist so people like him can make you do exactly what he wishes every other woman would do for him, but they won't cause they value their dignity far too much. You are basically in here so he can take your dignity, drop it down the toilet and take a long, messy, smelly shit in its mouth. You are here so he can make you look like the stupid, sad little slag that you unquestionably are. You are here so he can get a hard-on and laugh himself stupid at you at one and the same time. You are here so he can degrade you. Do you understand? Your sole fucking function in life, from now on until you've paid my man here back, is to let sad wankers wiv a camera take the fucking piss out of you, mock you with their cameras and degrade the absolute crap out of you. If you are in a pose and you think you might look even the slightest little bit elegant, then you're doing your job completely fucking wrong. You're here so he can picture you looking like the cheapest slag he's ever imagined. You are a cunt, you are an arsehole, in the very literal sense that these are the parts of your body, your personality, your fucking soul that he wants to interact with, and the fact that you've got a head with a brain in it is entirely incidental. You are a cunt and an arsehole on legs. You are here to be turned into a stupid twat."

Epilogue

"Alright gentlemen, and welcome. This is Missy, your spanking model for today. And you are paying a fair old sum today gents, so just to make things clear here, this young lady is yours for the day and you are free to use her exactly as we have discussed. And I want to make it perfectly clear from the off that you're not to take no shit off her. As long as you're paying for her, she does what you tell her. She's on camera, you tell her to do summink, it's her job to fucking do it. She's off camera, you tell her to do something… likewise, it's her job to fucking do it. It's her job to be a model, but it's also her job to be submissive.

"Now, as you can see to look at her, she is not the kind of submissive who looks like she's relishing her role. She is, I will warn you, quite likely to cry. Now I understand that you gentlemen might not be averse to that. But what I want to reconfirm here is, if she starts crying, it is not a cue for you to stop filming. So far as I'm concerned, if you want to make her cry then crying is one of her jobs. In other words, you don't need to treat her with kid gloves, there's no need to pander to her or feel sorry for her. She starts crying, you have my full permission to start slapping her harder. You want to call her names, you call her any fucking names you want.

"That's it, that's the preamble. Have a fun-filled afternoon one and all!"