Eva and The Island, Part 1

A gentle start to a series which will form a prequel to ‘The Island’.

Picture: Eva the glamour model Click here to reveal.

“That’s it— you’ve got it!”


Kristian had grinned at her across the table. It was lunchtime, her third ever nude photoshoot, halfway through. He was the photographer, and he’d finally got it through to her what he had been meaning about how he wanted her to look all morning.

“Tell me again, clearly, so I know you understand.”


She had smiled, a little embarrassed. She wasn’t used to all this, not at all, not used to talking about how to make herself into a sex object for the camera, and definitely not in such a crudely— functional— way; and with other people there, too. Never mind that they’d all seen her naked, had poked light meters in between her spread legs, brushed powder onto the curve of her breasts— it was still weird.

She had taken a breath, smiled a little.

“OK, well; the ideal is to hold your body…”

“Not my body!” interjected Kristian, making her blush.

He made her feel like a foolish little schoolgirl.

“OK, OK! I must hold my body … open, but still with, with a tiny bit of shyness; be as provocative as possible, without becoming even a tiny bit— tarty. But … but the most important thing is … is my face. Either I look down, as if I’m shy, or I look up, as if … transfixed, eyes a little wide, mouth open, vulnerable, but somehow, open…”


She had collapsed into giggles, overcome by embarrassment, pulling the thin robe around her nakedness. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, slutty. Eventually, she had pulled herself together;

“But— but it’s so weird! No-one ever looks like that!”

Kristian had laughed; 

“No! Never— except in soft porn and certain lingerie and cosmetics commercial shots where they are going for a high art look but wanting to reference soft porn. You’re getting it— this is like nothing else! We’re doing something here that is special— that is itself. Of course it must have its own rules.”

“Listen, these are pictures for men (mostly men), who want to look at attractive women. Women more attractive than the real women in their lives— or at least more ideal. Women like you— with perfect breasts, pretty faces, slim bellies, long legs, pretty pussy, pretty hair.”


She had blushed again, but Kristian was not being complimentary— just practical.

“Most of these men don’t know any women that lovely. Even if they do know a real woman as beautiful and physically perfect as you, those women would never pose like this for them. And even if they would, most men would never know it, because they would never dare ask; they’re not sure they could do it.”

“So you have to make it easy for them to imagine having you. Yes, to imagine being able to have sex with you— just as they wish! Without having to have any conversation or negotiation. You’re ready for it, and without any preconditions or expectations. Don’t look like that! Of course, that’s what we’re doing here— or did you think it was a wildlife project? Eh?”

He was very direct, Kristian; always making her blush, always going a little too far. His assistant burst into laughter, and, after a moment, so did Kristian, and she had to laugh, too; even though she felt a little like crying.

But, truthfully, the pictures from the morning made her look amazing— twice as good as any others. So, she had swallowed her embarrassment, her pride and her giggles.

“So now you understand; your job is to be the sort of woman that looks gorgeous, but is at the same time a sort of shy, confused nymphomaniac, who is transfixed by her own arousal, and fascinated by the prospect of sex, but in a totally non-threatening way.”


“Of course, this isn’t the only type of picture that sells. We can do the goddess, the dirty girl, the frightened girl, the sex fiend, the urchin, the happy girl— all of these can sell. But when we have a girl like you, we sell the most pictures of all, if we get this atmosphere, this look, just right. There are a million versions of it, a million poses, but if you can get good at it, you’ll get as much work as you can handle— and the fees will go up.”

“Also— this helps some girls— it won’t be you in the picture; the face will be really quite different to your normal face. I’m not saying you won’t be recognisable of course— just that you won’t look at the pictures and see yourself— you’ll see an act.”

“Even more so, the guys looking at these pictures will not be really taking you in, either. They know what these pictures are, they know you’re being paid, that you’re almost certainly not a whore, or a pornstar , or a nymphomaniac— they know that you’re not really available to them. What does intrigue them, though, what gives them enough, is to know that you were prepared to pose like this, for them; that at some level, you are for sale. This helps them imagine they could have access to a woman as gorgeous as you, who will eagerly assent to sex with them.” 


She’d listened, she’d worked hard that afternoon, until he said she’d got it, and the pictures were amazing.

Picture: Eva posing, naked Click here to reveal.

He’d been right.

She did another couple of shoots with Kristian over the next few months, encouraging him, now, to be brutally honest, to help her refine, get better at presenting herself in this weird way.

It worked. It had really worked— she’d had an amazing eighteen months, making good money, flying to beautiful places, working with good photographers, being flattered, feeling good about herself.

Picture: Eva, naked in a garden Click here to reveal.

But also, getting frightened sometimes— she had been all but raped once, badly worried another time. Some of the photographers were drunks, some of the bookers were sleaze-bags. 

And then her mother had found out, and gone crazy, as if she’d become a drug dealer or something. I mean, she thought to herself, …they were just glamour shots…— she’d never done anything stronger than cuddle another naked girl, kiss her breast, wear handcuffs and play with a riding crop. Just lightweight stuff— although of course, the collection that her little brother had on his hard drive (it was on his screen that her mother had found out, of course) was full of all sorts of other stuff, pictures of other girls who went, much, much further than she had ever done. Some of it was very disturbing indeed.

But anyway, that had been the end of it. Her mother had decided that both her children were degenerates, at risk of going insane. She’d been made to come and live back at home. It was all ludicrous, but it was that or fall out with everyone.

It wasn’t too bad after the first month. Her mother had calmed down, and life was easy. She kept up her gym routine— Kristian had made it clear she had to get used to staying in shape, and it was a habit now, but apart from that it was very quiet in her small Danish hometown.

And of course she had been used to good money. She had savings, of course, but her mother had made sure those got put into some long term fund— degenerates aren’t to be trusted with money, of course not!

And then Kristian had called;

“What’s this I hear? That you’re not working!”


And she’d been forced to explain the whole silly mess. Strangely, after having been embarrassed so many times with Kristian, talking about how to flex her hips so that her sex lips peeled open, or set her breasts swaying for the little videos he shot, now it was embarrassing making it clear how prudish and controlling her mum was, She felt like a little schoolgirl again. He always made her feel like this!

But still, somehow she liked it, liked him being interested in her, with his matter-of-fact attitude to how people really worked, and she talked for a while.

At last, though, he said;

“Gotta go, kid, I’m sorry you’re not working, but I’ll find someone else. Someone new. I always do! "


“OK, Kristian, I understand. But … thanks. Thanks for listening to me. And …",


she paused, not quite knowing how to say what she wanted;

“Yeah?”


“Um … um if … if you can think of anything else that could … that could earn me some money … I’d … I’d be very grateful.”


“You serious?” his tone was surprised.

A year or more ago, he’d suggested that she could earn much better money if she would relax her standards— do some harder stuff. Better still, get into video hardcore. but she’d been firm. Angry with him for even suggesting it— he knew she wasn’t that type!


She gulped; 

“Not— well … No I don’t mean … hard stuff … I mean it … it can’t be pictures or anything. I don’t know! Forget I said it. It’s just … it’s really dull here.”

And he’d rung off. But two weeks later, on a day when she’d thought she’d go mad with boredom, he rang back;

“Come for a drink; I don’t want to talk on the ‘phone.”


“You’re here!”


“Yes. At the crummy hotel. Is this really where you come from? It’s like something from the 1950’s, only less cool!”


She was seriously impressed. Kristian never went to boring places, and only traveled for work. What was he doing here, so far from Italy? Had he really come just for her?

She was there in under half an hour, despite having realised that she couldn’t meet Kristian without looking as sexy as possible; which was strange, because her normal dress around photographers, when not on set, was baggy sweatpants and hoodies.

So it was in high heels and a pretty little dress that she faltered at the threshold of the small hotel’s bar, not seeing him, with a rather sick feeling of awful despair at the thought that it had all been a joke. 

Of course Kristian wasn’t there— he never traveled! It was just a wind-up, to get her to see that he thought she should be working. She couldn’t be mad with him, even, because he was probably right. She felt the tears coming.

Picture: Eva in the hotel Click here to reveal.

And then he tapped her on the shoulder— looking just as he always did— beat-up old motorcycle jacket, white tee-shirt, black jeans, biker boots, bandanna.

Picture: Kristian Click here to reveal.

They hugged, then he held her back at arm’s length;

“You dressed up for me! Now there’s a first!” grinning; “Seriously, though, we need to take it even further than that. We’re meeting someone— and not in this crummy town, either; we’ve a couple of hours— come!”

And in the hotel car-park was his huge motor-bike, with a big leather coat jacket and a spare helmet.

Half-an-hour later, laughing and exhilarated, feeling as if she’d been brought back to life, they were in the city, on the street of expensive boutiques, and Kristian was looking out dresses and shoes for her.

Luckily for her, Kristian is decisive— she would dither. Also, she is used to doing what Kristian says, and this helps her get over the strange feelings she has parading herself in different options in the little boudoir next to the changing rooms. Despite having been naked with him so many times, discussing intimate details of her body, she is overwhelmed by shyness.

She allows him (she’s not sure, thinking afterwards, whether she had any say in the matter at all) to buy her a really rather scandalous outfit— a corset/basque style top, with a frilly little peplum over a lethally short little skirt, also rather frilly, with a waistband that just clung on to her hips— her belly was visible between the skirt and the top. Paired with extravagantly high-heeled suede pumps, she looks as if she’s dressed for a glamour shoot, she realises.

When she asks him about the money (a surprisingly large sum for such small scraps of fabric), he just grins at her;

“Oh, don’t worry about the money. Money is not the issue with these people, Not at all. Getting it right is the thing that matters. If I’m right, it will all come out in the wash, and if I’m wrong … Well, then I’m wrong!”

There is no time to argue, ask what he means by this; her own dress and shoes are consigned to Kristian’s bike panniers, and they’re off again.

Another adrenalin-rush bike ride, and they were beating up the long drive of what seemed like a large house, but which turned out to be some sort of hotel; quiet and grand, all pale wood and solid antique furniture and long, heavy cream drapes, subtle lighting. Serious money; not Kristian’s typical venue— she looked at him, round eyed;

“What? Oh! All this. Yeah. Guy we’re meeting is loaded. They all are.”

And then they were being ushered with great deference into a large but apparently private room in a more modern annexe, occupied by someone who looked as if he might be a retired racing driver, or a suave villain from a James Bond film. Tanned, obviously dressed with richly expensive taste in immaculately casual clothes, huge watch, handmade shoes.

“Mr Korst, Eva.”

They shook hands. He seemed very polite, smiling, looking into her eyes, and she brushed off the one-side nature of the introduction— just Kristian’s way, she supposed.

“I am glad to meet you. More beautiful in person than even Kristian’s photographs could do justice to! And even when dressed you generously display your charms. I applaud you!”

Mention of Kristian’s photographs brings something home to her with a jolt. He has been looking at her photographs— photographs in which she has worked in accordance with Kristian’s instructions— in which she appears naked, apparently helplessly open for sexual use, apparently in a state of half-dazed nymphomania.

Outside her family, she has hardly ever met socially with anyone who would have looked at her photographs without some professional interest— people in the business of glamour and soft-porn— people who assess naked photographs of pretty girls in a rationalist way; how good are these? will they sell? does she spread her legs? will she do hard-core?

This man, however, is obviously not in the business; is obviously interested in her as a result of her photographs, and gives off the air of unthinking entitlement and confidence which only extremely wealthy people do.

She feels strange; horribly exposed, horribly vulnerable, flushes deeply and looks down at the floor, up at the ceiling— anywhere away from his hard eyes, terribly shy all of a sudden, flushed with humiliation, all too aware of the sexual signals given off by the outfit Kristian has chosen.

Picture: Eva in a basque Click here to reveal.

In the industry, other girls often talk about offers received from rich men. Men who have seen them acting sexually in pictures, and reasoned that such a girl ought obviously to be prepared to act in such a way in private.

Is Kristian pimping her to this Korst guy?

She’s too nervous and unsure of herself, overawed by the surroundings and by Korst’s assured confidence, and finds herself speechless, nodding, smiling weakly, blushing … and tagging along as expected.

Drinks were ordered, meaningless small talk, and then they were seated around a low side table— she was aware that she was taking great care about her movements— she knew that she was on show— that Kristian had stuck his neck out for her, that her looks were her currency in this world. She had never felt she had to perform  thus, live, for a stranger from whom she was hoping for something— some money, a job, where it felt quite so personal.

It was uncomfortable; but it was a change, it was life, and she told herself that she trusted Kristian, that she didn’t want to blow her chances before she knew what it was— so she acted— forced herself to adopt a half-way house between Kristian’s nymphomaniac, vacant look, and a more attentive attitude— ready for an interview.

On the other hand, she was desperately, urgently certain that she must not give the smallest impression that she is a slut, that she wants to swap money for sex in amy way.

It was impossible— maximise her attractiveness, without giving any impression that she was willing to trade for sex.

She hoped it came off.

“Well now, Eva, I understand that you are looking for something to, ah, occupy yourself with? Something that would pay well, but would not involve the possibility of naked pictures of yourself showing up on your brother’s computer screen.”


She blushed again, and only managed a nod. She flashed a look at Kristian— telling tales out of school! He only grinned back at her.

“We have a proposition which may suit you. A short holiday, as far as your mother would know. Two weeks. On a tropical island. Basic pay €5,000, all expenses met. A generous clothing and beauty treatment allowance against a list of requirements as well.”


Eva’s heart was suddenly thumping in her ribcage. Something, something unsaid, but completely clear, here— clear in the body language and the quick glance passing between the two men. She felt their eyes on her, felt how very short her skirt was, how revealing her whole outfit.

“Um … Sounds—  sounds good. What … what is the work?”


“Oh, no work. A holiday, as I said. Sand, sea, sun, drinks, good food, lovely chalet…”

His smile is relaxed. He knows that she is uneasy.
 He is fine with it; possibly enjoying it.

“Of course, you’re wondering what the catch is. Pretty girl, strange man, remote island, paid to go on holiday— it’s only natural. There is no catch, though, I assure you. But there is a reality, which may explain and address your concerns.”


“The reality is this. The island belongs to a private members club. There are only 20 members at any one time. Members are mostly— but not exclusively— men. Also on the island there are always at least 40 young women— women such as yourself; young, beautiful, know how to manage themselves. You are being invited for a 2 week stay. Nothing is required of you, save your presence, and conformity with some fairly harmless dress codes. Bikini during daylight, pretty dresses in the evening. We like to be surrounded by pretty girls.”

“And that’s all that is required of you. You don’t even have to come out of your room if you don’t want to.”

She had wanted to ask questions, but the man had turned to Kristian, and was talking about other things by the time she had got herself to the point where she could trust her voice not to shake. Without there being anything in particular, she really was quite disturbed.

And then, goodbyes were being said— the man apologising, he had a gala ball to attend for his daughter, had to be in Berlin. His farewell handshake was firm and polite, his eyes stayed on her face, everything was normal; and yet she knew, was sure, that it was not normal.

Kristian discouraged questions, too, and all but hustled her back to the motorbike, and they were off, directly back to her house, where again it was impossible to ask questions, because Kristian insisted on meeting her mother, which had Eva terrified.

Terrified, and then astonished. Because, despite his total frankness when her mother, in a cold voice, had asked;

“Is this one of the men who took pictures of you naked?”, to which he had answered at once;

“Guilty as charged, Madame”, — her mother had relented. Somehow he had achieved just the right amount of seriousness mixed with boyish charm that she had softened, and let him off with the mildest of put-downs;

“You must know, that I severely disapprove of that industry, and was horrified to discover that my own daughter was earning money that way!”

“Madame, what can I do but accept your judgement? Although I must tell you that your daughter, no doubt as a result of your care and management of her development, was like a lotus flower; always immaculate, always untouched, always elegant; a remarkable presence, always bringing light and purity into sometimes questionable circumstances.”

This gracious acceptance of the put-down had charmed her! It made no sense, but he had; was invited for dinner, even, but made his excuses, was entreated, and was made to promise that he would visit the next day before leaving for the airport.

Later, though, when Eva tried to confirm with her mother than Kristian was not so bad, after all, in the hope that some of his charm might have softened her mother’s opinion, she received a sharp response, and retired, almost in tears; it had been a day of significantly more emotion than she had become used to since coming home, and there was much which had unsettled her.

Her head was full of questions as she fell asleep; none of which she felt able to answer.