Fuckrealm

Ideally, the new arrival unexpectedly returning to Doolin would be a handsome, refined type. A man of dark chestnut hair, formal to excess with the best of vests and ties available for his ensemble. Ellen imagined the man, enriched by a connoisseur's sense of wines, exuding manners to treat a lady to the finest of gentlemanly graces while reciting lines of prose with a storyteller's flair. Every now and then, the man of her dreams would need to push his glasses to the base of his nose to counteract their natural shift downward.

Or better yet, he would be a man with information about her mother, and the events of Doolin's past. According to the Pub Landlord, the man staying in the house on the cape where the Lighthouse Keeper once lived might have answers to her questions. She would have stepped up to the door and knocked eagerly, but the last words given by the Pub Landlord haunted her.

"The real question you might want to ask yourself: are the answers you're lookin for worth the price of askin?"

They were. She knew in her heart that no matter the man that greeted her behind that door, he had the one thing she desired most in life, the kind of flutter in her chest that even her dream man couldn't grant without the proper background. Her hand reared back to lightly tap on the wooden entrance of the house, but stalled mid-air when the wooden slab retreated inward. She blinked, cerulean eyes capturing the full image of a man a hair shorter than herself, clad in ratty garb. He stood in contrast to everything she secretly dreamt of the mystery arrival, her initial giddiness squelched by his eyes leering at her chest.

"Uhm..." She resigned herself to failure, the man's gaze drawn to her clothed bosom as the only part of her to bear any merit. Patiently, she waited, until the man acknowledged precious time passing and spoke.

"Come in," was all he said as he stepped back, watching Ellen's movements upon entering with rapt intrigue.

'Nervous' could never describe the pit she felt sinking in her stomach while she kept the company of a guaranteed pervert, all semblance of manners shelved to look at her as a 'thing' in his midst. Endless though it felt, the cycle abated to bring something that closely resembled a normal conversation.

"My name's Darryl, what can I do for you?"

She entreated him, hands clasped in front of her chest as her accent pooled from her lips, "My name's Ellen. I heard that you spent some time here many years ago."

"Hmm, yes. I was stranded here for a few days on my way to a photo shoot. It's terrible what happened to the people here."

At once, she perked up, eyes sparkling at the thin hintings of what she sought. "Please, is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?"

She agonized over the shifting expressions on Darryl's face, his every thought carrying an outer mask. She witnessed his chin-tapping confusion turn to remembrance, pointer finger held up as he recounted past events. His last change filled her with a strange foreboding, knowing deep down what the curled smile entailed.

"I might know something... IF... you're willing to do me a favor."

"What kind of favor?" She could've cringed at the way it sounded coming from the man, a reaction she fought valiantly to prevent.

"My business has been in a slump. Up-and-coming models don't want a has-been photographer with my reputation, and these days anyone with a camera can take pictures of naked women and spread them. My difficulty is finding a good, willing model."

"You want me to.."

"Be my model. You get to know what I saw, and I get some good smut to sell. How about it?"

Her face burned a brilliant red, opposite the oceanic blue of her eyes and off-setting her wavy wisps of blonde hair. "Sir, I don't-"

"Hey, you don't have to do it. You're not under contract yet. You can walk out of here, and we can pretend we never met."

Despite her innocence, she knew what he meant under the layers of false compassion. If she left, he would keep what he knew to himself, her advance through the realms of the Netherworld stalled... and her search for her mother unresolved.

"I'll... I'll do it," she reluctantly agreed. The man's glee made matters no better, as she was soon presented with a contract and signed with the man's basic blue pen. Her name scrawled into permanence on the sheet of paper felt like an offering of her soul to the devil,
bound by the agreement to do the bidding of her legal 'master'. An agreement that, against all her silent wishing, he jumped to enact as fast as he'd rushed to get her signed to him.

"At last, my own model. Miss Reid, would you mind following me to The Henge?"

"Already?" she stammered.

"I'm toward the end of my former fortune, Miss Reid, and I have a sizable tab at the Doolin pub. I need funds immediately."

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Coming to Doolin, she expected a heartful reunion with her mother after her years of loneliness. As she explored both Doolin and the Netherworld, she grew to yearn for the visage of her mother at every turn, each piece of information about her past or the past of Doolin giving renewed hope on her quest. She learned to anticipate odd creatures and a plethora of emotions on her strange journey. Through it all, this was the very last bridge she thought she would have to cross.

"Exquisite pose, Ellen," Darryl slipped from his ploy of professionalism, snapping a picture of his newest model. "It's time to give the camera what it wants. Lean cross the rock."

She found it an odd coincidence that the man chose for her to pose at the very same altar she used for mementos, peculiar for how its sheer height matched hers to chin level. Seated at its apex, she clutched its sides narrowly and inched herself back when the photographer whistled a halt.

"No no, you need to face away."

She sighed at how fast the man had directed her from the soft, elegant poses to something more bawdy, suddenly aware of the shot he wished to take. Pivoting around, she crept back to let her stomach rest atop the stone, her legs dangling to the rounded corners. At Darryl's request, she hiked up her red plaid skirt, the fabric bunching together at the back of her waist. As she heard the clap of his camera's shutter, Ellen cringed at her mental picture of the photo, her simple black panties on display as they hugged her too expansive curves. She nearly kicked the man when he touched her inner thigh, the urge rising as one of his hands wandered to grasp her pert rear rather than use the measuring tape she could feel wrapping at various points. She chose not to prolong her torment by asking a question she could raise later, whatever reasons he had for his actions completed relatively quick.

"Now Ellen, lower your panties."

She bit her lip, "Do I have to?"

"People won't buy smut that isn't smut."

With a sigh, she did as told, her panties soon hanging down at her ankles. A few shots later, she jumped at something poking her against her skin, whatever it was trailing closer to her anus in zags and loops. "Wh-what are you doing?!"

"Oh, um, don't be alarmed. It's common for a model for these kind of photographs to have a shot where a part of her body is used to identify the series of pictures. That's all I did."

"Isn't there some other way?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss Reid," he said, sounding passable until a murmur barely reached Ellen's ears. "This'll be a great shot for the entrance to the site."

A few more shots later, she heard from him, "Okay Ellen, spread them."

"You don't mean..." the silence told her that was exactly what he meant. Resigning herself with every act, she grasped her buttocks in her leather gloved hands and pried them to the sides, swearing to taste blood as she bit her lip a little deeper. Her heart pounded when she thought of Keats approaching the Henge to this sight, what he would think of her so wantonly posing for this perverted photographer for the slimmest chance to get closer to knowing anything at all about her mother.

She recalled the struggle against the ocean's currents in her own nighttime arrival to Doolin, and how she'd jumped ship when the ship's captain refused to bring her closer to the shore. That evening, she'd collapsed the instant she felt land under her, drenched head to toe in salty water. It took until the next morning for her to regain consciousness, and the strangeness of lying naked on the bed of what now served as her personal hut had dispelled when Suzette revealed what happened in the gaps. That day, she sat and talked for hours with Suzette in the nude while her clothes dried on a line just outside, her nipples stiff with cold against the thin white linen of her bedsheets.

"That's good, spread those lips wide."

Darryl's remarks jarred her from her memories and to the sudden odd realization of her automatic actions, her pubic hairs bristling against her gloves. She went pale at how she'd lost track of herself.

"I think we can move on. Could you lose the panties and sit up facing me?"

"Darryl, when will you tell me?" Wishful yearning poured from her as she moved into position, her skirt firming out to its natural state. The agony of posing for the man weared on her without any sign of upholding his end of the agreement, Darryl too caught in his little world of snapshots and frames of his personal model.

"Tonight when you come by for more photos. Could you remove the sweater?"

She caught her hat mid-fall as her sweater plopped next to the altar's base, her bland black bra revealing the simple way she lived. Her jacket suggested an interest in designer wear expected of models, the story of a girl graced with the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time not reflected in how she wore her clothing. Indeed, the clothes on her back were the best she had in her collection, distinctively chosen to give her mother the best impression she could. Back in Dublin, her threadbare apartment contained simpler fashions of a modest girl, a far cry from the model that Darryl wanted to capture.

Her hat adjusted back in place, she progressed slowly through the series of photos requested. A shirtless, bra-bearing look moved to a braless, jacket-clad one where she teased the camera with the tightness of her short leather jacket and a warm smile. Urged on, she leaned toward the camera with her hands clutching her inner thighs, bosom and pendant hanging out of her jacket as her expression changed to an eyes-closed kiss face, lips sensuously puckered. The man seemed to favor putting her in the position of a flirtatious teaser, the next command directing her to sit up and pull one jacket flap aside and fan the exposed breast.

"Good, creep the inner line out to show a little nipple. Cross your legs. This time, spread them wide as you can. Perfect."

She struck different poses and struggled not to blush, the compliments from Darryl when she did making the red glow deepen. The chill of icy cold sea water when Darryl flicked some on her chest brought a shiver. She bowed her head when the photographer knelt down, guiding her into a few up-skirts that ranged from looking like innocent naivete to subtle perversion on her part, legs crossed and uncrossed, jacket folded and wide open at different times as she peered straight into the camera. The last shots went through the lens, sitting there in the nude, when she heard the very words she'd been waiting to hear for several long minutes.

"You can get dressed, Miss Reid."

Her boots cushioned the drop down, but as she gathered up her clothes from around the altar, she froze to listen to what Darryl had to say.

"I need to keep your bra to adjust my costumes for you to model in."

"I can tell you my measurements."

"No no, women lie about everything. I must have that bra."

She quickly donned what remnants she could, her bosom lying flat in her sweater as she stood and handed her bra to the man.

"That was some good work," Darryl said, "Are you sure you haven't modeled before?"

That comment made her shudder, as she thought of people buying copies of magazines showing her in full glory. "I haven't..."

He made it worse. "You must be a natural, then. I've never met a beginner who could handle striking these poses in front of a camera as well as you have. Say, you have a great voice too. What do think of hosting a phone sex line?"

A natural... she had a very clear idea of what kind of 'natural' he meant, and the pit in her stomach crept to her chest. If she felt free to speak her mind, she would have denounced the whole notion of casting off her simple, quaint life for the type he wanted to give her. Bound as she was, she stood silent and hoped he would have some mercy.

"Eh, we'll work out the details some other time," Darryl said. "I need to develop these and send them to my publisher. Come to my place later. I'll tell you everything you want to know before the next photo shoot. I'll also have some business cards for you to pass around. A photographer is only as renowned as his models make him out to be."

She cringed as she saw herself, standing on the streets of Dublin, handing the man's business card to hapless passers-by.

He shrank in the distance, camera strapped around his neck.

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"Darryl? Darryl are you here?" Ellen lightly tapped on the door, uncertain what to make of it at first when the door slightly creaked inward. Venturing further, she pushed it open and took tiny steps inside, calling his name for an answer. In the instant that familiar copper scent hit her nostrils, she knew what to expect and ran to the living room, suspicions confirmed.

"Oh no..." she cried, hand clapped over her mouth. Walking forward, she saw pictures strewn across a small wooden coffee table, then the bloody mess of his body stabbed through the back of the head. He looked eerily serene, wrapped in his own personal world in his last moments. She glanced back at the pictures, and out of dreadful curiosity, sifted through them to see the result of his work with her that afternoon. Wanton poses littered every one, painting a picture of her she loathed seeing but couldn't resist the need to know. When she got to one in particular, she dropped it, jumped back and shrieked.

"Who would write something like that?" While bathing earlier, she hadn't taken the time to spot out what Darryl wrote on her rear. She regretted not arguing it when she could, the words 'Please Enter' scribbled separate to each cheek. Shifting back to look at the photographer, her face screwed when she saw a certain something in his lap... then she gagged at what she saw on it.

"I knew giving him my bra was a mistake..." she held it up as Darryl's cum dripped to the floor. She almost dropped it back on his lap to hide his lingering erection when it suddenly occurred to her.

She scanned the room for his effects, its barren state offering nothing better than what she held. Darryl, too, showed no greater promise on his person. As his seed dried on the fabric of her black bra, she knew she had no choice other than what she currently had in mind.

The white drip left a trail as she left the house and followed the path through Doolin, owls hooting in the night as she progressed toward the Henge. It sickened her a little to think of her own soiled undergarment turned into a much needed memento of the dead. She stepped into the Henge, ready to offer up this unusual object when she saw Keats about to pass her. Her eye fixed on a certain something in his hand, the glossy show in a bit of streetlight soon affording a better view. Her eyes shot open when she saw its subject.

"Keats!" her lip trembled. "How.. Why... ?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "You have nothing to fear. Darryl told me about your contract to him before he died. He refused to speak with me when we talked earlier, so I thought I could persuade him when I spoke with him tonight. He was dead when I arrived, with this in his hand."

This time, she went from paling a ghostly white to turning a deep crimson red, first at Keats discovering the arrangement made with the photographer... then at what Keats' memento said of Darryl's last moments alive.

"That's an odd memento of the dead," Keats observed. "But then, who am I to talk?"

Weighing the difference between the objects they found, she leaned in and pleaded her wish to Keats. "You... you can't keep that! It's too personal. I don't want to carry this disgusting thing around, either. Can we trade?"

"I would if I could," Keats assured. "Sadly, I already used this memento on the Henge, and need to keep it for my own journey through the Netherworld."

Her head sank, "I understand. Please burn it when this is over."

"It's a promise."

She watched him take his leave for a few moments, then looked at her own memento. She felt dirty, to think of what the man had used her bra for while looking at the photographs he shot of her hours ago. She set it on the glowing stone, pivoting to see where the lighthouse's light shone down. A short sprint brought her to the main path in time to see the phone booth's door burst open as a mix of colors burst out, the portal sign taking shape. She ran toward it in the typical fashion and leapt, disappearing in a sparkle of light.

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"Ugh..." she groaned, head pounding as she held it. Standing, the distinctive nature of this atypical realm impressed itself upon her... for better or worse. The lavishly decorated room contained all the true charm that often caught her fancy, undone by the moans of erotic pleasure that sounded as though they came from the walls themselves. She breathed the thick air of sex, an uncertain mix of sperm, sweat and various other lingering smells drilling their way in her nostrils. She stepped closer to Scarecrow, the Half-live spinning and bouncing to the jingle of his bells as he spoke.

"Hiya Ellen! Welcome to Fuckrealm."