“An audition? Does your mother know you’re here?”
The security man’s attempted sarcasm was more ironic than he intended, since Marina
had interrupted her vacation with Katia to attend the audition. The close-cropped man
stood beside the reception desk, and he was little older than herself, Marina judged. A
blonde, middle-aged woman sat at the desk behind him, but she hadn’t even bothered to look
up when Marina entered.
As it turned out, the address of the Hot-Girlz Model Agency was a relatively new,
tall building in Soho, of the kind that seem to spring up overnight amidst the otherwise
seedy, neon-lit streets. Marina Jackson glowered and tossed her head.
“Why do you want to see Mr Gadalski?” the woman asked, still not looking up from
her magazine. The woman’s tone was terse and uncooperative; she spoke with the same thick
foreign accent as the man.
Marina produced a signed business card and placed it on the reception desk.
“Alexandra Agletdinova told me to give you this card…”
The woman looked up and coolly appraised Marina, seemingly from head to toe.
Despite Marina’s outward confidence, it was an unnerving experience. Marina wondered
again about the information from Alexandre. They had never really mixed much at the
Russian Convent boarding school, but the girl had obligingly offered to introduce Marina
to Hot Girls.
The woman receptionist glanced down at the card. She didn’t pick it up. “What is
your name?” she asked.
“I am Marina Jackson.”
The woman smiled thinly and nodded. She reached for the phone and said, “So, you
are Marina Jackson.”
Marina smiled triumphantly. To divert herself from the security man’s candid gaze,
she looked around the anonymous reception area: it could have been the entrance to any
office block in any large city.
“It’s Sonia Klusaks… Marina Jackson has arrived,” the woman said into the phone,
speaking in Russian and glancing at Marina as she spoke. “Slim, good tits, with a mouth
made for sucking cocks.”
Marina knew the Russian language, and she was shocked by such crudity. She knew
that she ought to turn and leave, immediately, without further ado. Instead though, she
smiled sweetly and didn’t let on that she had understood a single word. After a few
seconds, the woman replaced the handset and turned to the security man and nodded. The man
immediately grasped Marina’s arm and led her down the corridor behind the reception, her
high spiked heels clipping along on the new marble floor as she hurried to keep up with
his strides.
“Tell them Sonia Klusaks sent you,” the woman called.
The security man stopped and pressed a button on the wall console. Marina glanced
down in surprise at his fingers, which held her arm in a vice-like grip, but the elevator
doors slid smoothly aside with a hiss and he guided her into the lift. Only then did he
release her arm, as he stepped smartly out into the corridor as the lift-doors closed.
Left alone, Marina studied her appearance in the mirrors that lined the elevator. She
rubbed her arm, still feeling the imprint of the man’s strong grip. The lift shuddered to
a halt. Straightening her shoulders and sucking in her belly, Marina waited, and when the
doors slid aside she stifled a gasp.
The audition was obviously already in full swing. Rather than the expected corridor
or office, the lift doors opened onto a large area that obviously represented the
floor-space of the entire fifth storey of the building. It was lit by many bright
floodlights, and untidily littered with equipment and sets. There were men with movie
cameras on wheeled dollies, people milling about, and a cacophony of low noise punctuated
with shouted commands. Nobody cast a second glance towards Marina as she stepped
uncertainly from the lift. She looked about her in bemusedly, a half-smile of excitement
flickering on her lips.
It was obviously a film shoot. Many of the men wore suave dinner jackets that were
out of place in the heat generated by the lights, and a few of the women wore sumptuous
evening gowns. Other women, perhaps a dozen of them, wore ankle-length white hooded
diaphanous robes that were slit to the armpit on either side and they walked in a group to
the rear of the room, disappearing behind some scenery.
A male voice yelled a command, and the actors hurried to their marks. The men and
women in evening gowns took their places, sitting at elegant dining tables placed on
either side of a raised catwalk. Another man, clad in a white dinner jacket and presumably
one of the leads, stood at a small lectern at the entrance to the small stage. The
director called for action and a sudden hush fell on the entire space as the camera’s
turned and the actors at the tables picked up wine glasses.
“And go!” the director yelled.
The man in the white dinner jacket rapped the lectern loudly, and spoke in deep,
cultured tones: “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, as we are about to
commence proceedings. To remind you of our terms, all bids are taken in US dollars, and
sales are for a 12 month exclusive contract unless otherwise stated, during which
subsequent revenues are at your own discretion. We do, however, insist on a deposit of
fifty per cent of the sales value, refundable on the satisfactory return of the property
at the end of the contract. Is that clear?”
The people at the tables gave a general murmur of consent, as one of the
white-robed woman stepped onto the catwalk.
“Our first lot is the lovely Larna, 21 years old, from Kiev.”
The woman, framed in a harsh spotlight, lifted her hood away from her head, taking
care not to spoil her hair. She paused, smiled prettily into the cameras, and then slowly
sashayed along the entire length of the walkway, her hips swaying extravagantly, causing
the gauze robe to part and to reveal glimpses of her bare breasts and flanks as she moved.
At the end of the catwalk, she turned theatrically, the white gauze wafting about her, and
returned to stand beside the lectern.
Marina stood watching, wide-eyed and fascinated as the man rapped the lectern again
with his gavel to halt the low buzz of conversation that had erupted.
“There is no reserve on this very special lot, ladies and gentleman, and she comes
with an absolute guarantee of satisfaction. As you will see, Larna has an exquisite body…”
As the auctioneer spoke, the woman unfastened the robe at the neck and shrugged it
from her shoulders. The filmy material fell to her waist, revealing sweetly shaped
breasts, and then it slithered over her hips to pool at her ankles, leaving her naked.
She stood well, with her right hip turned and toe pointed, prominent sex lips well
revealed by the shaven vulva.
“Do I hear an opening bid for Larna, ladies and gentlemen?” the auctioneer
enquired, as the nude woman set off down the catwalk once more, turning this way and that,
well-exhibiting her body for the cameras. “Fifteen thousand, thank you, sir. And sixteen
over here… Eighteen thousand dollars on the telephone. Nineteen… thank you, madam. Twenty
on the internet site, and twenty-two… My, my, Larna is in demand. ”
The woman walked slowly down the catwalk, twirling and posing at intervals, her
practised smile remaining fixed, as if painted upon her features.
“Twenty-two on the phones, thank you. Twenty-three from the client on the net…”
Marina was suddenly aware of a hand on her arm. She turned and saw a grey-haired
man whose neck was heavily-swathed in expensive gold chain, and his mouth was so near to
her ear that she could feel his breath. “What the fuck are you doing, slut?” he whispered
urgently in Russian.
Marina was about to answer but thought better of it. “I’m sorry?” she said in her
best English crystal-glass accent.
“British?” The man beside Marina raised his grey, bushy eyebrows in vague
surprise, and he glanced appraisingly at her body as he gripped her arm in much the same
proprietary manner as the security guard had done.
“Going once,” Marina heard the actor calling, “going twice… Do I hear more, ladies
and gentlemen? Surely, for this beautiful lot… The bid stands at twenty-eight thousand to
the client on the internet.”
The man said, “Why are you still dressed?”
“I came for the audition,” she said lamely. “Sonia Klusaks sent me.”
“Yes?” he said.
The gavel rapped sharply on the lectern, and the auctioneer called emphatically,
“Sold for twenty-eight thousand dollars. Thank you, Larna.”
Marina turned to see the naked woman stoop to pick up her discarded robe and walk
from the stage, disappearing behind the film-set.
“Lot number two is Maxine from the Ukraine. Maxine is twenty-five but this is her
first contract with us, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Get your arse behind the set, ready for your turn,” the man hissed, squeezing
Marina’s arm in emphasis, and waving to a younger man in a sleeveless pullover and
carrying a clipboard to which a sheaf of papers was untidily clipped.
Marina looked at the set again, as the woman on the catwalk removed the hood of her
robe and a mass of curly red tresses tumbled about her shoulders before she began her slow
promenade, walking with assured grace.
“I already have an advance bid of twenty-thousand dollars for this wonderful piece
of merchandise, ladies and gentleman. Do I hear twenty-one? Thank you, sir. Twenty-two…
Twenty-three from the advance bid…”
The man had moved quietly over to where Marina stood. He glanced at her
appraisingly, one hand posed on his hip.
“She arrived late,” the older man explained, releasing Marina’s arm.
“Twenty-four… ah, thank you, Madam. Maxine is a delight, isn’t she?”
“Were you exhibited?” The fey newcomer asked Marina in Russian, glancing at his
clipboard and flipping over the sheets of paper.
Maxine, the young woman on the catwalk of the film-set, had removed her robe and
was posed stark naked under the harsh lights, revealing a beautiful creamy-white skin with
pert honey-tipped breasts.
The auctioneer was well into his swing now: “Twenty-five… And I bid twenty-six on
behalf of my advance bidder. Ah, and twenty-seven thousand on the internet, thank you. The
advance bidder is done. Do I hear twenty-eight?”
“I came for an audition,” Marina said again.
“What’s your name?” the young man demanded in Russian.
“She’s English,” the older man said in explanation. Then, he said to Marina, “Your
name?”
“Marina Jackson.”
The younger man, puzzled, consulted his clipboard again. The older man smiled and
stroked Marina’s blonde hair as he gestured towards the set, where Maxine was parading her
nude charms. “Well, Marina, you need to dress for the audition. Go with Nikolai...”
“She’s not on my list,” Nikolai said in an urgent whisper, glancing over his
shoulder at the stage.
“Do I care about your fucking list?” the older man said, reverting to Russian and
giving Marina a little push towards the man.
The young man fluttered his lashes and glowered. With a toss of his head he
ostentatiously clamped his hand about Marina’s arm. It was obviously a mannerism with
these people, but Marina found it vaguely degrading to be handled thus.
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