Chapter 3
3
Ainsley
W ho was that man? Where did he come from, and out of nowhere too? I don’t think he was a photographer because he didn’t have a camera strapped to him, although I suppose even professional photographers use their phone cameras these days. Could he have been a fashion reporter? A journalist, perhaps, or maybe a model scout looking for new talent?
My instincts say no because men who work in entertainment don’t look like my hero. My rescuer was tall, massive, and brooding. He was huge, yet with the lightning-fast reflexes of a professional athlete, and the instincts of a first responder accustomed to emergencies. When I collapsed, he was right there . He knew that I was about to slip off the runway, smash into one of the photographers, and then likely smash the photographer’s camera too, to the tune of four figures or more.
So yes, I was saved by a handsome alpha male, but who was he? And where did he come from? Unfortunately, the hullaballoo from my accidental fall has passed, and now we’re getting ready for the show’s after party. My stomach falls to the ground when I realize I may never see him again. My savior. My man .
I try to look on the good side though.
“So Bianca said I’m still welcome at the after party?” I ask carefully as Justin preens before a mirror. “She’s not turned off by what happened? I kind of ruined her show.”
My boyfriend shrugs, leaning forward to scrutinize his eyebrows. His brows are perfectly plucked, and a bit metrosexual if you ask me. But Justin goes to Anastasia and swears that brow maintenance is a necessary part of his image. God forbid he have an extra hair out of place.
“It’s fine,” he hums. “Accidents happen, honey, and besides, it’s not about you . I don’t mean to burst your bubble but this fashion show is about Bianca and her brand. It’s not about a model falling, or breaking a heel, or chipping a nail. It’s about Bianca’s talent, and her vision.”
I stare at him.
“No, I get that. I just thought she might not want me there because I caused such a ruckus earlier. I don’t want to distract from her limelight with my mere presence.”
Justin doesn’t even turn because he’s now scrutinizing his hair. My boyfriend is gorgeous, I have to acknowledge, with the dreamy blue eyes of a heartthrob, and a black, Elvis-like pompadour. Justin even looks a bit like Elvis with his cleft chin and tanned skin, and I remind myself for the millionth time that I’m lucky to be dating him. But I wish he wouldn’t be so fucking condescending because it really gets under my skin!
“I just want to make sure,” I say in a terse tone. “Especially because I think this ... uh, outfit is going to distract from Bianca and her creative vision, don’t you agree?”
I look down at myself with a frown because I’d love to show up at the La Bianca after-party in a fun, playful dress. A pretty thing, maybe in hot pink or bright orange, calling to mind the swimwear line’s Brazilian origins. There could be sexy cut-outs, or maybe some frilly ruffles on the hem, and I’d pair it with sky high heels, also in a tropical color.
But instead, Justin is insisting that I wear a naked dress. It’s inaccurate to even call it a dress because this thing is basically a tube of sheer, nude-colored hose. It pulls over my tits and then goes all the way to my knees, but the fact is that it’s sheer . The pink circles of my areola are visible, as are the lush curves of my tits. I begged Justin to let me wear full-coverage panties beneath the outfit, but he said that it’d ruin the “vibe” and “overall look.” As a result, I have a tiny g-string covering my cunt, but it’s almost nothing. My pussy lips press against the fabric, and in the back, the string disappears between my giant buttocks. It basically looks like I’m completely nude when viewed from behind.
But Justin’s convinced this is the outfit for me. Or rather for “us,” seeing how he wants to make an impact on the arrivals carpet.
“You look good,” he says, finally turning to study me. “Here, these shoes will complete the outfit.” He hands me a pair of four inch acrylic stripper heels, and my heart sinks. Damn, I’m going to resemble a prostitute tonight, which is not what I want, but I step into them slowly, finding my balance atop the skyscraper-like heels.
“Perfect,” Justin hums, subtly adjusting the décolletage of my “dress” so that it’s even. His blue eyes sweep over my narrow waist, barely covered cunt, and thick thighs. “You look beautiful, Ainsley. You’re just the woman a celebrity like me needs on his arm. We need to be impactful ,” he emphasizes, his blue eyes boring into mine. “No one wants to see another woman in an Oscar’s ballgown. That shit is dull.”
“No, I didn’t say I wanted to wear a ballgown!” I protest feebly. “I just don’t need dress like this ,” I gesture at my barely clad figure. “I mean, I realize this is a swimsuit line, but I’m barely wearing anything right now.”
“Naked dresses are in vogue days,” Justin says carelessly while helping me into a black fur coat that blessedly covers my curves, providing a degree of security. “I assure you Julia Fox is going to show up in something even crazier. Do you want her to outdo us?”
I stare at him.
“The whole thing is exactly what we don’t want. We don’t want to distract from Bianca and her clothing line. Julia shouldn’t either because this is Bianca’s night.”
Justin shrugs.
“But I’m a globally famous rap superstar,” he says. “Besides, I’ll be with you the entire time, baby. I’m not going to make you walk the arrivals carpet on your own. And I plan on making my own entrance too.”
I stare at him.
“I doubt anything could outdo this dress,” is my dry remark.
Justin smirks, the dimple in his cheek showing itself.
“No, it can be outdone,” he says in a sly tone. Then, he reaches for a black coat from a nearby rolling rack before pulling it on over his broad shoulders. He turns, and to my horror, “White Lives Matter” is spelled out in rhinestones on his coat.
“See?” he smirks. “You can be outdone.”
I gasp, the blood draining from my face.
“ No ,” I whisper. “Please, Justin. Don’t wear that.”
My boyfriend merely smirks again.
“Why, are you offended Ainsley? You shouldn’t be. White lives do matter.”
I sputter because how can I explain this to my boyfriend? It seems almost impossible, and yet I have to try.
“Justin, that slogan is a reaction to the BLM movement. It’s been adopted and promoted by white supremacist groups and sympathizers. It’s got MAGA hate written all over it.”
Justin smirks again.
“That’s how you choose to see it, but it’s not how I choose to see it. And with the re-election of our latest, greatest President, I think this coat is apt. I think it’s absolutely speaking for how many Americans feel at the current moment, and I’m proud to be their standard-bearer. WLM forever.”
Oh my god, this is even worse than I thought.
“No,” I breathe. “Please don’t. I’m begging you. I will wear this naked dress however many times you want, Justin, but I’m begging you to take off that coat. It’s a political statement and we don’t need that at a fashion show!”
“Yes, we do,” Justin smirks again. “Make America Great Again. Hold the blue line. Didn’t AOC wear a gown spray-painted with “Tax The Rich” to the Met Gala? If that bitch can wear something so crude to a black tie event, then I can certainly wear this. Besides, fucking AOC is a politician who’s supposed to be legislating and shit like that, but instead she’s going to the Met gala and hobnobbing with said rich people that she purportedly wants to tax! Isn’t that fucking ironic?”
“Justin,” I say in a careful tone. “I’m not going to respond to that because this isn’t the time to debate Ms. Ocasio-Cortez’s political motives nor her publicity stunts—”
My boyfriend stares at me.
“So you acknowledge her dress was a political stunt.”
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my blood pressure in check.
“Of course I do,” I respond in an even tone. “ All politicians pull stunts—”
“As do rap superstars like myself,” Justin finishes before picking up his phone. “Our ride is here, Ainsley. Are you ready?” he asks, one black brow quirked. “Ready to get off your high horse, sweetheart? The Dems suffered a crushing defeat in the recent election, so I think it’s time to stop with the sanctimonious lecturing, don’t you agree?”
Then, my boyfriend is out the door with the horrific jacket still on his back. My stomach drops to my feet because I don’t want to attend the after party anymore ... and yet I know I have to show my face.
* * *
The party was every bit as horrific as I anticipated. Justin and I arrived on the red carpet, me clutching my black jacket with white knuckles under my chin. Then, at the appointed moment, I dropped my jacket, revealing my lush curves, while Justin turned around, showing off the “White Lives Matter” message emblazoned on his back.
The response was immediate. Flashes went off in pops, blinding me with their light.
“Turn this way, sweetheart!” one photographer yelled. “We want to catch a shot.”
I could hardly force myself to move. My cheeks were scarlet with humiliation, and my knees wobbled. I didn’t want to give them a full-frontal, but it was already happening. My big breasts were out, the Double D’s swinging, and my pussy was oddly swollen for such an exposed moment. I half-expected my clit to shrink in on itself, but instead, I could feel it growing large and hard, pushing itself out of its hood. What in the world? I managed a wan half-smile, but Justin elbowed me.
“No smiling,” he hissed. “We want to give off an editorial air. You know, high fashion and haute couture. Nothing plebeian.”
What the fuck ? Our outfits are the furthest from editorial that I can imagine. This is a publicity stunt, like Justin pointed out earlier. Nonetheless, I dropped my half-hearted smile, pasting a blank and expressionless look on my features.
“Better,” Justin murmured to me under his breath. “Just like a model in a magazine. Now, let’s go.”
He takes my hand and yanks me after him as I stumble a bit on the red carpet.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “We don’t want you falling on your face like earlier today.”
What the fuck? I hate his rude comments, and as soon as we step off the red carpet, I yank my hand from his, grateful to be out of the spotlight.
“Cat got under your skin, Ainsley?” he asks in a smarmy voice, turning on me. “What’s your problem?”
I’m just about to hit the roof when I feel him . There’s a shift in the air, the unmistakable presence of an alpha male nearby. Then he reappears, massive and huge. He towers over Justin at six and a half feet, and looks like a thunderous god with his massive biceps and broad chest.
“Come on, Ainsley,” he growls, shrugging out of his suit jacket before slipping it over my shoulders. “You’ve had enough for today. We’re leaving.”
“What?” I gasp, eyeing him up and down.
“What the fuck?” Justin sputters. “Who the fuck are you? Ainsley, who is this asshole? Security!” he calls. “Security, my girlfriend’s being assaulted.”
But the truth is that I don’t want to be here, wearing a sheer dress that shows off my tits and pussy. I don’t want to cause a fuss at Bianca’s party, especially when I already ruined her fashion show. I want to leave, and so I turn to Justin with a tight smile.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I say without explanation. “I’ll catch you later, okay? Have a good time.”
Then, I take the huge man’s hand in my own. My palm is swallowed in his massive grip, and his fingers automatically curl around mine, providing comfort and reassurance.
“Let’s go,” he growls. “My car’s waiting.”
With that, I’m whisked out of the after party. Actually, I never even stepped foot into the venue because the stranger showed up right in the nick of time. I’m grateful to him for saving me, and look up at his harsh features as he opens his car door for me. His mouth is like a slash, that jaw made of granite.
He doesn’t look back at me.
“Inside,” he growls, blue eyes flashing. “We’ll talk later.”
Usually, I’m a wildcat. Usually, I fight and scream, claw and scratch, when I feel like I’m being run over roughshod. But with this man, every impulse towards disobedience melts from my bones. This man is my hero ... and I know I’ll be safe in his arms.