Posted by Barbanne on March 20, 1999 at 23:26:13:
In the seventies, French Vogue magazine was dominated by two fashion photographers, Helmut Newton and Guy Bourdin. Of the two I find Guy Bourdin far the more fascinating. His photos always hinted at stories. They were done in colour, often very bright (in fact they were considered candy for the eyes) and they were nearly always horizontal in composition. His models looked tarty and trashy and he insisted that make up give them very white, almost corpse like skin, and slashes of brilliant red lipstick and black eyes. The poses he asked of them were bizarre and death was often shown or hinted at. Some of my favourites are one in which we see the naked legs, clad only in high heels, of two girls lying on sandhills, the rest of their bodies covered in newspaper. In the background another woman in a phone box frantically calls. (The police we presume) Another shows a girl, totally naked, lying back on a bed, head hanging off and toward the camera. She has a telephone cord wrapped around her neck and her arms are flung out with one open hand holding jewellery. Her mouth and eyes are wide open. A third shows a stark naked girl lying face down on green astro turf (I think) with her face turned to the camera. Her eyes are shut and she looks dead. A goldfish is flapping to death in front of her face. Her lips and eyelids have translucent makeup and her fingernails positively gleam. Her ass is gorgeous.
As I've always considered myself a trashy tart (who wants to get dead) this story suggested itself. Mind you, for this story you'll have to imagine Barbanne as about seven centimetres taller than reality, most of it legs, and with a fuller, pointier bust than the chicken tits I unfortunately enjoy in real life.
And, one other thing about Guy Bourdin, I believe his wife hung herself. Maybe that was for him?
The agency had arranged today' shoot with Roland, the wonder boy of fashion photography. I was excited as I arrived at the converted warehouse that was his studio. I'd worked with him before and I knew we gelled on such a lot. He was a misogynist who portrayed women as trash victims, I was a submissive death fantasist who wanted to be trashed by men. I'd modelled fashion for him, posed against the detritus of life in such a way as to suggest I was a bit of disposable debris. It turned me on enormously and it must have struck a chord with the magazine's readers because any issue with his work featured went to a second printing and sold out completely.
Let me tell you about some of the things I'd done before.
There was this range of underwear. It was sexy stuff, and the cost, wow! Most ladies wouldn't spend as much on a season's wardrobe as a set of this stuff cost. For the shoot I wore a pair of French knickers and a bra. The bra was lacy and my breasts were encased in it as though barely covered by the fine lacy mesh. Look hard enough and nipples, mams, the lot was visible. The French knickers were satin with lace trims and loose and pretty. The final photo showed a section of one of the canals in town. A wetsuit clad police diver was standing in shallow water just leaving the canal. I, in bra, knickers and high heels was draped in his two arms. My legs and arms and head all dangled and I looked dead. Drowned. My hair was wet and trailing, the clothing was saturated and one shoe was dangling, all but off. The drenched knickers were rucked back and you could see right up my legs and thighs and if you looked really hard you could glimpse my pussy. I had weed and dirt from the canal bottom strung from my limbs and smeared over me. My eyes were shut and my mouth was open and full of water.
I looked dead!
I looked awfully sexy.
The undies sold like hot cakes.
Then there was this time we did jeans.
They were all I was wearing.
I lay on my back in an alley, surrounded by upturned garbage bins and overflowing garbage. My arms and legs were outstretched and my head was thrown back and my mouth was wide open and my eyes looked surprised and stared sightlessly upwards. The pupils were totally surrounded by white. I had several goes to get that right, being hounded by Roland all along. Makeup had painted a big bloody bullet hole on my left breast and so there I was. The zip of the jeans was open and pulled down to the point where it just showed the first glimpse of my shaven pubic hair. The finished shot showed a girl, dead as meat, dumped in an alley, naked except for a pair of dishevelled designer jeans.
The jeans walked out of the shops.
Women couldn't buy them fast enough.
Shoes. The time we did running shoes. Big, pneumatic designer runners.
That's all I was wearing. My pussy was freshly and closely shaved for the shot and my legs were carefully arranged to conceal and not reveal. After all it was a ladies' fashion mag not a gynaecological text!
I lay on my back on a running track at an athletics field, wearing those runners and a surprised look on my dead face. Blood dribbled out of my mouth and I was skewered to the track by a javelin, driven right through my breast and through my body and pinning me to the ground.
Talk about weird.
Talk about another super successful sales campaign.
And let's not forget one wet, orgasmed out, model.
I walked into the studio.
Roland was standing there checking the studio lights. Three other girls were also sitting around, puffing fags and looking supremely bored. Roland's assistants were lounging around drinking coffee. As usual I was late.
"Well halleluja!" said Mandy, a mean spirited bitch at the best of times.
"Glad you could join us." Roland said without looking up from what he was doing.
"Jeez it's Queen Barbanne." One of the assistants grinned over his coffee.
I gazed at them, supremely indifferent. "Get stuffed the lot of yerz."
Well done Barbanne I thought. Keep it sharp and snappy.
"OK girls, costumes, makeup. Barbanne, Miranda knows what I want, she'll dress you."
Miranda was a sweetie who did costumes and makeup. She was just twenty and she'd only been with Roland for about six months, but she suited me terrifically and I always worked with her.
She got me into my costume.
Smart as paint undies, stockings, the sort that stay up on their own (long as you don't move), zillion dollar shoes and a gold lame dress to die for. My hair was swept up and curled in rolls around my head and my face was done up like a million dollar tart. I walked out with Miranda still touching up this and that. The other girls were stunning and you'd have thought they were like the world's classiest broads if you didn't have to listen to their gutter mouths.
Roland explained what he wanted. A sort of society babes' cat fight. I was to be the centre of attention as it was my clothes they were selling, but I was down and dead and the other chicks would be standing over me, triumphantly, as I lay there in wrecked elegance.
I knew I was going to love it.
I had to lie down across a ritzy carpet against a backdrop that looked like a mansion. I was on my back lying across the frame but head and shoulders just angled toward the camera to best show off the clothes. Miranda came over once I had lowered myself to the floor and started to undo all of her hard work. Roland knelt next to her and issued instructions. First she undid the zip at the back of the dress, not that there was much back, then she rolled the top down so that one shoulder strap was half way down my arm and one side of the front of the dress was pulled away showing most of my bra. Then she had to arrange the bottom of the dress, it was full length, but with thigh high slits either side, so that it was rucked to one side showing all of my stockinged legs and glimpses of my panties. Then the high heels were arranged so that they hung off my toes but otherwise were adrift. Roland spent yonks organising the way the folds of the dress material fell and lay to best show it off. Everyone said how pleased they were that the designer wasn't there to see what was happening to her creation. Next Miranda mussed my, so carefully done, hair and smudged my lippy and eyeshadow so that I looked truly wrecked.
The other girls were arranged, standing over my body, staring down at me in sneering indifference and one or two of them slipped a shoulder strap to look minimally dishevelled. Roland got me to look dead, limp out my arms and legs etc and go closed eyed and open mouthed and then he arranged the others to best suit, making minor adjustments to their positions and stuff. Then he shot a couple of polaroids and checked them, adjusted his lights and said "Go for it girls" and started shooting.
I lay there, limping right out, wearing my dead expression, and aware of the other girls standing over me, upright, alive, superior, victorious and there was I, feeling incredibly horny and wastrel and submissive and used and trashy and so, so, dead and helpless, and, totally in love with the other three models, and, and.........just orgasmic.
Oh I needed sexual relief.
Didn't get it though.
Eventually Roland was finished and ever so reluctantly I got up and tottered into the dressing room and let Miranda strip me and fix my face while all those other girls changed around me in flashes of skin and tits and asses and body smells.
I was awfully horny, randy, you name it!
I slipped on a gown and joined the others.
Roland was talking about the next shot and saying he would do the finals with just me and him. I hoped for sexual release. Roland and I had fucked plenty of times and I reckoned he was just what I needed right then although anyone would have done.
It was to be a swimsuit shot, that is if you could call the little scrap of lurex nothingness that cost more than an average girl would earn in a month, a swimsuit.
Miranda helped me dress in the swimsuit. It had a highsided bottom that swooped up and over my hip bones on either side and tucked and wrinkled seductively under my pussy and wrapped tightly across my ass, then a sliver of material went up the front and joined to the top by a plastic ring located over my navel. The top went out and back in a diamond shape and tied around the back of my neck with a tiny strap. The widest part covered my breasts and was kept decent by a shoe string tie done in a big floppy bow at the back. If I just stuck to breathing when I was in it, the suit stayed more or less in place. Any activity and Lord forbid, swimming, would have seen my breasts spilling out completely. It was an aqua greeny blue colour and sparkled in any light. The material was tissue thin and my cleft and my nipples were as obvious as if I had been nude.
Miranda did my face for me, and for this shot, Roland wanted a nearly black lipstick and very dark eyeshadow. I looked like a trashy witch. My toe and finger nails were painted shiny black too.
I came out and I knew from the looks on the faces of the other girls and the assistants that the effect was of a stunningly fuckable, sexy girl. Eyes widened and tongues licked wet lips and I felt wanted in the worst possible way.
It excited me unbelievably.
There was a big, brightly coloured beach towel spread over a soft futon, the huge kind of towel they call a beach sheet, and it was on this that my strangled body was to be posed. Roland looked up from what he was doing and when I saw him, I knew he would be inside me before the shoot finished.
"Thanks girls." He clapped his hands lightly and the other three models left, bags swinging and tongues chattering.
"I'll look after the rest guys." The lighting techs and dogsbodies left and from a backward glance here and there, I knew that they knew what I knew and that they envied Roland his piece of ass.
Miranda fussed around and fiddled with my face.
"Leave her, Miranda. I'll do any touchups needed, and thanks, great job today."
Miranda smiled and kissed Roland. "I'd kiss you too, Barbanne, but I'd ruin my work and frankly I mightn't be able to stop." She grinned a huge gamine grin and Roland smiled.
We were alone.
He spoke to me about the shoot.
He wanted me sprawled across the towel, my lissome body stretched right out and he wanted me to look dead, strangled! Eyes popping and tongue hanging out.
"Barbanne, I want you to look really dead for this one. No, I want you to BE dead for me."
"I think I can do that Rolly. I'll sure try."
I stretched out over the towel, on my back, arms and legs spread wide and my head turned to one side and thrown back, exposing my neck and making it look long and vulnerable.
He shot film.
Camera motors whirred and lights popped and hummed as they recharged.
He rearranged me once and then again and shot more film.
I stayed where I was and I was loving being just as dead as I could imagine, fantasies pounding through my head. He knelt astride me and shot some extreme closeups of my face.
"I don't know Barbanne. You're fabulous, but it's just not right, not fully convincing."
He put aside the camera and put his hands on my shoulders.
"I'll place my hands around your throat and squeeze and you imagine its curtains for you, really the end. That's the look I want."
I swivelled my eyes to look at his face and nodded OK. He had a funny look. Really excited and............what? Wanting. Needing.
I lay back and his strong, sensitive hands wrapped around my throat and he pressed hard. I imagined he was actually strangling me and then, as his hands didn't let up, I started to feel short of breath and my breasts heaved under that impossible swimsuit.
He kept up the pressure and I started to see dots and pinpricks of light. I went to say Roland, but it came out "rrrrgggghhhh.." He was pressing hard and his thumbs were crushing into my throat. His fingers squashed my windpipe and the dots started to wheel and circle like a galactic vision. His pressure grew more, harder, hurting. My windpipe was totally blocked off and I started to gurgle. Blackness spun with the stars and an awful thought intruded. I heard his voice far off, in my imagination..."not fully convincing"...."really dead".....It was a bizarre experiment. He meant to take me to the edge. My lungs felt as though they were fully inflated balloons and my breath had stopped altogether. I was drooling saliva and my mouth was open, like a dying fish. My tongue felt like it was huge and hugely long and had unravelled over my chin. My eyes were wide open and protruding but they saw nothing. Blackness, pinpricks, circling lights, wheeling dots. I was shuddering throughout the length of my body. I was dying. He was truly strangling me. I didn't struggle, didn't defend myself, just let it happen. It was right and proper and had to happen. It was his right, it was also fantastically sexy and as my mind wandered inside my blacked out brain, I came and came again. Love juices, sticky and whitishly clear ran out of me, gushed out of me as orgasm after orgasm shook me. Roland was choking me to death and I was having the sexual arousal of my life.....wrong word.......I wanted to thank him, kiss him. I said Roland but heard "aaarrgghhh....." My lungs collapsed and over my draped out tongue I heard myself say "errcchh.....eerrcchhhh......eeeerrrcccc..............................."
Blackness, black, void, blac......bla.........................
She was dead.
Barbanne was dead.
Roland straddled her body, gone suddenly limp and lifeless.
Her eyes gazed at nothing as they filmed over. Her tongue, barely enough spittle to wet it, drooled out of the side of her mouth. Her fingers clenched once and then shuddered open. Her toes curled up.
He climbed off her and looked down.
Now she looked dead.
He shot film. Rolls of film. This campaign would sell so much. This time he'd truly be known as the master of the bizarre.
The damned expensive swimsuit was saturated at the crotch. He'd have to explain that to the clients. Barbanne was happy though. She'd always wanted this. He'd sensed it whenever they worked. She deserved to have sex. Be used. He was happy to oblige. He stripped away the suit, fascinated as the cummy stuff strung out when it peeled off her pussy. He tossed it into the laundry. She was naked and she was dead.
His erection was huge as he slowly undressed.
He entered her dead pussy and started to pump.
What an orgasm!
Sex with her corpse was more satisfying than even he had imagined.
He dressed and tidied up and tossed the swimsuit in the washing machine with other costumes used during shooting.
His car was parked inside the spacious building and he carried Barbanne's body down the stairs and, popping the boot lid, dumped her in. He went back into the dressing room and collected her street clothes and bag and put them into the boot with her.
"She left when I did. Said she was going home." He could hear himself telling the others. Another model gone missing would hardly raise an eyebrow. It happened all the time.
He drove home and parked the car. He carried her corpse inside and placed it on the bed. Her clothes and bag he had dumped in various dumpsters on the way to his place. She was so beautiful dead. The way a woman should be, although she was going a bit blue and she was awfully cold. He massaged her skin with the essential oils and aspirated her guts away. Now she would be his for a long time, like the others. Lying her on the bed, he had sex again. Slowly, wonderfully, extremely excitingly. She enjoyed it too, he was sure of that. After all, for a woman being dead was no handicap to a full sex life.
Sated, he carried her into the chilled cool room and placed her lovingly on the shelf he had prepared for her, under Elle and beside Claudia. And in with all the others.
He blew a kiss at the limp and lifeless occupants of his harem and turned out the lights.............................