Car Show Slut

"OK girls, I think it's show time," Rick said. He was right. Within half an hour of the place opening, the crowd was starting to swell. Now or never, I thought to myself as I stood up and unbuttoned the coat. I couldn't help but notice that Paul, who hadn't said much to this point, took a keen interest in me as I slid the coat down over my shoulders to reveal my 'work uniform'. Kelly grabbed the team stickers and we positioned ourselves on either end of the race car.

Before long I was handing out my first stickers. It was easy. Just stand there and wait for passers by. I even recalled some of the things I had learned in modeling classes all those years ago – how to stand, with one knee bent across in front of the other leg, toe pointed, to accentuate the curves of your body, your legs, and to make you look taller.

"You're good at this!" Kelly said from across the other side of the bonnet as she watched my pose.

"Thanks, I did a bit of modeling in another life – when I was much younger."

"Show me how you do that," she said. For the next 10 minutes we practiced poses, and pretty soon she had the hang of it.

Actually, it felt good. It felt, in a way, like I was up on stage, although the way some of the guys were looking at me was a little disconcerting. Still, it was an interesting exercise in the study of human social behavior, especially when a couple wandered by. There'd be a young man and his girl, the guy trying hard to conceal from his woman the fact that he was ogling the two sexy car show models; she with a blank look on her face, as though she was none the wiser. Did she know? Probably. The interesting thing was that she, like so many of the girls that had been brought along to this show by their men, actually looked in some ways sluttier than Kelly and I, with her tight hipster pants hanging almost obscenely low on her hips and tight top showing an enormous amount of cleavage.

But guys that were by themselves, or there with other friends, they were free to look as long as they liked – and many did.

It's funny what effect uniforms can have on people – for that's what, it occurred to me, I was wearing: a uniform, like any other work uniform. You see a policeman in uniform in the street and almost without thinking you start acting in a more restrained way than you would, say, a man wearing casual clothes. The uniform and all that it stands for is designed to elicit a particular reaction.

And my uniform, such as it was, was designed to get a reaction, too. And that was to show off my sexual desirability, and that alone. I was not here for any other purpose than to give the boys a thrill. What my opinions about anything were, my business skills, education qualifications, whatever, were of no consequence here. My role was simply to be looked at by men. And that unstated fact gave them license to view me as an object of sexual desire. They could look me up and down, admiring me, lusting after me, in ways they never could get away with in a normal everyday environment. In this environment, it was perfectly socially acceptable for them to do so.

Pondering this, I soon got over the fact that I was exposed in front of an endless parade of men checking me out. In fact, I was actually warming to the whole deal. And with my 'uniform', with the hat and rose glasses, I felt a sense of anonymity – no one was going to recognize me. And the license analogy, I thought to myself, wasn't a one-way street. They were licensed to look at me, just as I was licensed to look and act sexy, if I chose, without fear of unintended consequences. They could look as much as they liked, but not touch. The thought sent a little tingle down my spine. This might actually be a lot of fun...

Well, there's only so much fun you can have when you're on your feet for three hours. I was enjoying myself, true, and I had a lot of fun interacting with the passers by, especially the shy ones. I'd pick the odd guy out and fix on him with a sexy, smoldering gaze just to get a reaction. And the reactions varied: some stared straight back, with a look in their eyes as though they were about to rape me; others would actually turn away in embarrassment at the overt sexuality of it all. But none of them ignored me.

Just as I was starting to get a little bored Kelly decided it was break time.

"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "Let's go and grab a sandwich."

We strolled off together, still hand in hand, checking out some of the other stands as we went. The guys were checking us out too, no doubt with fantasies of lesbian car show models invading their thoughts. My instinctive reaction was to remove my hand from Kelly's – I was a just a kid the last time I walked hand-in-hand with another girl – but the sight of the two of us together like this made us the centre of attention, and that gave me a feeling of power when I saw the reactions we were getting from the men. I felt a sense of freedom that all these guys could look at me, an anonymous car show model, and think that we were a couple of car show lesbian sluts. I liked that.

It was funny too, to see the looks from some of the other models. One girl, a blonde dressed in a tiny leather skirt with a series of gaping cutouts up the sides, eyed us up and down with that same lustful stare I'd seen in the guys. Others almost turned their noses up at us, as if to say: how dare you be so slutty, how dare you upstage us! One girl we passed was wearing a ridiculous black lycra jump suit with flames up the legs. She had enormous boobs, obviously fakes. She looked absurd. As we strolled on by, I glanced down at my own cleavage and had a little chuckle to myself: nothing plastic here – girl, you're 100 percent woman!

It was just so very nice to hold Kelly's hand as we continued through the stands. I really liked her, and I was happy to be here helping her. Walking through the parades of men together with her, hand in hand, dressed so sexily as we were, standing out from the crowd like a pair of exotic princesses, it gave me a very warm feeling. I gave her hand a little squeeze and we glanced across at one another, grinning.

This place was a zoo. Every stand we passed, it seemed, was pumping out trashy, booming dance music. It was loud and coming from all directions, so that it just blended together into a strange, awful cacophony. My ears were going to be ringing when I get home tonight, at this rate.

As we headed for the food area we passed a stall featuring graffiti-style airbrush art demonstrations and offering fake spray-on tattoos at five bucks a piece.

"Oh look!" said Kelly. "Let's get one." She pulled me by the hand and we wandered over to check out the designs. Kelly couldn't decide between a '50s-style sex siren caricature and a Playboy bunny tattoo.

"Let's get both," she said. "Let's get matching tattoos!"

I didn't really care for either of them, but at five dollars I could hardly object on the basis of price. I would just have to scrub them off when I got home.

The grotty, bearded tattooed man led us behind a black curtain into the rear of the stall where we were to be 'tattooed'. He was wearing jeans and a faded blue singlet. He had tats all over his arms and his hairy shoulders. He looked like a biker.

"OK girls, where do you want them."

"Um, I don't know," Kelly said.

"This one," he said, pointing to the bunny, "would look fine on your ass."

"Um, OK," Kelly said. "And we'll put the other one here," she added, placing the stencil plate on the top of her cleavage.

"Alright then," the gravel-voiced man said, "who's first?"

Kelly went first. She handed him the '50s Siren stencil. "I want it right here," she said, pointing to her left boob.

"Alright, lift up your top, darlin'."

She paused for a moment, then in one swift movement pulled the singlet clean over her head, her generous boobs bouncing free under the surprised but intent gaze of the old guy. He placed the plate on the upper section of her breast, carefully lined it up and sprayed the ink across it.

I was shocked. I couldn't believe that Kelly had so readily exposed herself, just like that. I started to panic. No way was I taking my top off for this lecherous old guy. I wouldn't do it.

"Ok, now for other one," he said. I thought he meant me, but he was referring to the Playboy bunny destined to adorn Kelly's ass. He knelt down behind her and placed the plate across her left cheek. He fiddled around a bit until it was in position, and with a quick application of ink the job was done.

"Darlin', leave your top off for a minute or two – gotta let the ink dry."

Yeah right, I thought, as I felt the anxiety surge through my body as I realized I was up next.

"OK, sweetheart," he said, turning to me. "Your turn. Top off."

"I'm not, I'm not taking it off," I said firmly as I stretched the material down across my cleavage, hopefully enough for him to apply the ink without me having to remove the singlet.

"Honey," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice, "it won't work like that. I'll get ink all over your pretty little shirt. If you want it, top's gotta come off."

Kelly was watching from the corner, still topless. She looked at me as if not knowing what to say.

"Anne it's OK," she then said, "you don't have to..."

It didn't bother me whether or not we had matching fake tattoos. I didn't really want to disappoint her, but I mostly thought: if Kelly could do it, why can't I? Most of all I didn't want to be seen weak in front of Kelly, or worse, a prude. I'm no prude, but I don't show my boobs to just anybody. I've never been to a topless beach, and I'm not even comfortable being naked in the women's changing room at the gym.

"Girlie," said Mr Tattoo firmly, "make a decision. I've got a line of customers out there waiting."

The look in his eye said it all. He was tired, it had already been a long day, and here he was wasting time with a car model – some silly 'girlie' - who came in to get a fake tattoo on her tit, but then wanted to debate whether to take her top off or not. What the hell, I thought: am I a car show slut for the day, or what?

With that, I took a deep breath and reached down to grab the material of the bottom of my singlet. I pulled the top over my head and placed it on the table. Standing there, half naked in front of a putrid old man whose name I didn't even know, I felt the rush of cool air around my newly exposed boobs. Looking down at my topless figure, I hoped the old man wouldn't suspect anything else as the cause of my nipples standing proudly, almost obscenely, erect as they now were. I had to admit, being the centre of attention all day, it had been slowly but surely pressing my buttons, and pressing them hard.

Oddly enough, he didn't look so tired now as he moved in closer, studying my boobs as he placed the stencil on my body close to where he'd done the one for Kelly. As he did, he glanced across at her topless form to check for positioning – and she proudly thrust her chest out so he could get a better idea of where it should go on me.

"You girls have got the prettiest sets of titties I've seen all day," he said as he lined up the stencil on my boob."

"Well thank you," I almost giggled, hardly believing such a silly utterance - just the thing you'd expect a car show model to say with her tits out getting a fake tat - had come from my own mouth. Meanwhile he had moved in closer to position the stencil. His rough, bearded face was now right up close to my chest, so close that I could feel his hot breath on my breast. My nipple bristled. Quite obviously it had nothing to do with the cold air this time.

He placed the cold steel against my breast, holding it there with his hand. He hand was on my breast. He gently nudged it back and forth until it was in position, glancing back one more time to check out Kelly's boob. His outstretched thumb was right alongside my nipple, now utterly erect, and even aching.

I felt a sense of shame boiling through my bones. Shame that I was almost naked in front of a disgusting tattoo artist who was virtually feeling me up; shame that my junior work colleague was there witnessing the spectacle. Shame that deep inside I was actually enjoying it. The more he fiddled with the stencil, my breast, the more it was turning me on, the more my pussy throbbed.

Then his thumb gently flicked up so that now it was resting ever so lightly against my extended nipple as he held my breast firmly in place. He was holding my boob, touching my nipple, and I was letting him! It was obvious he was taking more time than he really needed to get the stencil in the right position. More time to fondle and admire my body. And I was doing nothing to stop him. Still lining up the plate, suddenly I felt his thumb begin to rub up and down the side of my nipple. His touch was like an electric shock. I almost gasped as his finger grazed lightly across the tip of my nipple. I almost bit my tongue, desperately trying to not to let him see the effect his touch was having on me.

It felt like minutes, though it can't have been more than 10 or 15 seconds, but eventually he had the stencil in position. He sprayed the ink across my skin. I tingled to the sensation of the ink against my breast, and his finger still lightly rubbing my nipple.

The ink applied, he removed his hand and placed the steel plate on the table. He turned back around to examine his handiwork. Then he put his hand back on my breast, as if to get a better look at the finished tattoo. His thumb was against my nipple again. This was way outside the bounds of what should have been normal practice in his job, but again I just stood there. I let him touch me.

"Hmm, very nice," he said, looking at the black ink caricature. He studied my boob for a few more seconds. Then he began to move his hand away, only he slid it down slowly, until his thumb and forefinger clasped tight around my hard little nipple. Hard. Ohhhh. I let out an involuntary, muffled gasp as his grip tightened firmly. He would have heard it. He held me like that, firm, not too hard, for a few seconds and then released me. I rested back, mortified, dazed.

"OK darlin', now for your ass."

I quickly recovering my senses. I'd forgotten about the other tattoo.

Kelly was still there in the corner, but in my shame I could not look at her. I stood up so he apply the other tattoo. He knelt down behind me. I felt his hand touch my inner thigh, high up, too high, barely an inch below my pussy, as he held my leg steady. I could feel his hot breath on my ass. I felt the cold steel of the stencil touch the skin of my ass cheek. With his other hand he continued to hold my inner thigh, firmly. I heard the hiss of the spray can as the image was branded onto my skin. He removed the plate, the hand on my inner thigh slowly running up and across my ass as he let me go. He let his fingers linger on my ass, squeezing me gently, for a second or two. My breathing had become short; I could feel the wetness between my legs. He was still on his knees behind me. I desperately worried that he might be able to smell my arousal. Then finally he got to his feet.

"OK ladies, all done. That'll be 20, thank you."

I paid the old pervert. I even thanked him. I pulled my top back over my head.

"Look Anne," Kelly said, pointing to the mirror in the room. "Don't they look great?"

We could see our reflections in the mirror, and the fake tats did look good. You could see the head of the cartoon girl poking out from the tops of our singlets, but her body was concealed underneath. The effect was quite striking, I had to admit. Looking in the mirror it was also plain to see that my nipples were poking out behind the singlet. Kelly's were not. Seeing myself like that only redoubled my humiliation. I grabbed Kelly's hand and hauled her outside.

"Kelly," I said very firmly, my face only a few inches from hers. "Not a word of this at the office. Right?"

She looked up at me with such sad eyes, almost as though she was going to cry.

"Oh Anne," she whimpered, "of course not! You're helping me here and that means so much! I wouldn't ever say anything to anyone. I wouldn't dream of it!"

She meant every word. I felt my heart melting.

"Oh Kelly," I said, embracing her in a warm hug. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get heavy like that."

I felt so close to her at that moment. Still embracing, we look into each other's eyes, smiling. I gave her a quick kiss. She kissed me back. Out of the corner of my eyes I noticed a bunch of guys checking us out. No place to hide when you're the centre of attention at a car show, I thought. But more and more I was getting off on being looked at. I'll show them something. I turned to her and gave her a final quick kiss, just lips on lips, but for a few seconds more than one might expect from a simple, harmless kiss between two female friends. The guys virtually stopped in their tracks, mesmerized by this apparent and open display of lesbianism. If only they knew the truth. But they'd be jerking off later tonight to images in their minds of Kelly and I kissing, I thought to myself. And that thought gave me a warm feeling inside. Very warm.

Hand in hand, we pair of newly tattooed car show girls left the airbrush stand and trundled off to get some food.

It was good to rest up at the back of Rick's stand for a break while we got stuck into our burgers and cokes. By then the sponsor, Hank, had arrived. Rick introduced us. Hank would have been in his mid '50s, nicely presented though slightly balding, a man who had obviously done a lot of physical labor in his life. He was a tall, thick-set man and with a generous waistline.

"How's it been so far girls?" Hank asked, his eyes brazenly feasting on my body as I stretched back in the fold up chair, sipping my coke.

"It's been fun," I said, and it was no lie. Almost in spite of myself I was having a great time. Even this lecherous old guy ogling me wasn't bothering me. How could it after the tattoo experience? And anyway, this was the sponsor – the whole objective of this exercise, the purpose of my 'job', was to impress the sponsor.

Soon we were back on our feet. Time had flown. It was mid afternoon now, and the crowds were beginning to dwindle a little. Pretty soon I began to get a little bored. Standing there, alongside the hood of the vehicle, I began to go over in my mind the experience with the tattoo guy. How could I have done that, I thought? In my normal life I never even meet ugly biker guys like that, would hardly give then the time of day in the street, let alone allow them to see me topless. And then fondle my boob and tweak my nipples! And with my junior work colleague watching! But whatever the shame and humiliation, I found myself wondering whether or not the old guy had a hard on when he was feeling up my boobs. I wondered...

At work, my brain is in overtime almost the whole day. So it was an odd feeling for me to be doing a job (for this was a job) that required so little mental input. With little else to occupy my mind, my thoughts drifted inexorably towards sex. Looking down at the bright red bonnet of the car, I recalled the night I had steamy sex with my boyfriend at the time in the car park of the local mall. We'd been to a movie, and all through the film he'd been fondling my inner thighs. His adventurous fingers had me nicely warmed up by the time we left the cinema, and as we got to his car in the mostly-deserted car park at the top of the complex, he grabbed me and we kissed.

"Fuck me now," I remember telling him, although I actually didn't really mean it. It was a kind of rhetorical joke, but he obviously took a yes to mean yes. With that he spun me around and pushed me across the hood of the car. He grabbed my skirt and roughly pulled it up. I felt his fingers slide under my panties. Quickly he yanked them down. His hand was rubbing my soaking pussy as he kissed and suckled my neck, my ears and face. Then I felt the thick head of his cock pressing against my lips, forcing them apart. I felt it drive through the pathetically small resistance my body offered, deep inside me in one hard powerful thrust. I felt so tiny under his solid, muscular build as he took me, his huge cock driving into me. It felt so, so good, and so bad! He was fucking me from behind, fucking me hard. I felt like a complete slut, my tits slamming hard against the hood as he banged in and out, my skirt around my waist and my panties down around my ankles. It was so wrong, so naughty, and I remember thinking as his cock pounded me: oh God, what if someone saw us? I prayed no one would come out of the elevator. No one did.