The Libertine Gospel
The Life of Elaine Sinclair
Descripción
Prelude I’m Elaine Sinclair, a name synonymous with the high-fashion runways of Paris and the glossy covers of international fashion magazines. While the world sees the glamour of my current life as a supermodel, my journey began far from the glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, rooted in much more humble and challenging circumstances. My story starts in a quaint, unassuming coastal town in Massachusetts. It was the sort of close-knit community where the local high school lacrosse matches were the social highlight of the year. I was raised by my mother, a resilient single woman who supported us by working grueling double shifts as a waitress at the Crab Shack by the pier. My dad? Never met him. Just a name on a faded birth certificate. We lived in a tiny apartment directly above a noisy laundromat, and money was always tight. I learned early on how to turn heads just to survive. At sixteen, I was already 5’6”, all long legs and a pretty awesome bikini body. I recall getting catcalled often by the boys on the boardwalk while riding my bike in my bikini to my after-school job, folding towels at the beach club. In a world that offered few advantages, I learned early on how to use my body to draw attention and get ahead. In a town like mine, attention was currency. The boardwalk attracted throngs of people every summer—tourists with lots of sunscreen eating their lobster rolls; local boys in board shorts with their skimboards and wandering eyes, and single men just checking out the latest in bikini fashions. It was in this environment that I started to explore how a sway of my hips or a smile could change the atmosphere around me. It wasn’t desperate; it was survival with a side of thrill. Like the first time I really got into it at the Crab Shack. My mom was pulling another double shift, so I swung by after my shift at the beach club to help bus tables during the dinner rush. The dinner rush was brutal that night, and the place smelled like fried clams and salty air, and every booth was packed. I wore my usual cutoff shorts and a light green neon bikini top. Nothing outrageous. Just enough to show a little cleavage. I felt their stares before I saw them—a group of college boys from Boston, home for the weekend, laughing too loudly over pitchers of beer. One of them, broad-shouldered with a face right out of a comic book, kept glancing my way as I cleared plates off the tables. So I let my movements slow. I bent over a little to wipe down the table next to theirs, letting my long blonde hair fall over one shoulder, the curve of my back arching just so. When I straightened up, I met his eyes and smiled like we shared a secret. His friends went quiet. He fumbled for his wallet, leaving a tip that was way too generous for the two baskets of fries they’d ordered. “Thanks, boys,” I said. “Come back soon.” They did. Three nights in a row. Word got around that quiet little Elaine from the laundromat apartment had grown into a beautiful young woman. I felt like I’d finally found the lever that could move my world just a fraction. By eighteen, I was bolder. Summers meant the beach club, where I folded towels and rented beach umbrellas. I started timing my breaks for when the yacht crowd rolled in. I’d slip into my red bikini—the one that tied at the sides and made my legs look endless—and walk the pier like it was a runway. The sun would catch the swell of my breasts, and I’d feel eyes following the sway of my hips and the way the ocean breeze lifted my hair. One afternoon, Mr. Hargrove, the club owner who was always complaining about slow business, watched me chat up a storm with a group of yacht club boys in boat shoes and Dockers shorts. They rented three extra umbrellas and bought out half the snack bar just to keep me talking. “Elaine,” he said later, handing me an extra hundred from the till, “you’ve got something. Don’t waste it on this town.” I didn’t plan to. But I also wasn’t about to pretend that I didn’t love all the attention I was getting. My mom would roll her eyes when I came home with free smoothies or a new pair of sandals some admirer “insisted” I take. “Use your head too, Elaine,” she’d say. “Body fades. Brains don’t.” She wasn’t wrong. I just figured I could use both. The summer festival was the turning point. It was late August, the annual Summer Splash on the waterfront—live bands, food trucks, and a makeshift stage where locals showed off everything from crab cakes to homemade crafts. I was eighteen now, fresh out of high school and still working at the beach club, but dreaming of bigger things. I’d spent some of my tip money on a white two-piece thong bikini that looked like it had been sewn onto my skin. The top tied behind my neck, and the bottoms sat low on my hips, offering scant coverage. I walked through the crowd like I belonged on a magazine cover. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A group of guys by the beer tent actually stopped mid-joke, one of them spilling his drink down his shirt without noticing. It was such a rush being noticed by all those eyes. I posed for photos when people asked, laughing at their compliments, letting my hand rest lightly on a hip, tilting my head just enough to catch the sunlight. I was near the bandstand, sipping a lemonade, when two women wearing fashionable blouses and sunglasses approached. One had a camera slung around her neck; the other carried a sleek, black portfolio. They looked as if they’d stepped out of a different world—polished, purposeful, not from around here. “Excuse me,” the taller woman said, smiling like she’d spotted a treasure. “I’m Diane from Scout Model Management out of New York. We were driving through and stopped for the festival, and… well. You. In that bikini. You’re magnetic. You have a beautiful face and a beautiful body. Have you ever considered modeling?” I laughed, the ocean breeze catching my blonde hair, making it dance across my bare shoulders. “Modeling? I mean… I’ve been turning heads since I was sixteen, but this is the first time someone’s actually asked me about modeling.” Diane’s partner grinned. “We’d love to talk. Take some pictures right now, if you’re game. You’ve got the look, Elaine—the kind that stops traffic and starts careers.” “Yeah,” I said, setting down my lemonade and squaring my shoulders so they could get a better look at me. “I’m game.” I glanced back toward the pier, where the Crab Shack’s neon sign flickered in the distance and where Mom was probably serving up crab cakes. Then I looked at these women and at the festival crowd still stealing glances my way, and I felt that lever shifting again, but this time toward something bigger than our little coastal town. Three months later, I was on a one-way flight to New York with only $100 in my bank account and a duffel bag full of secondhand clothes. The agency put me up in a shoebox apartment in Bushwick with three other girls who all looked like they’d been carved from the same flawless block of marble. There was Jenna, a twenty-year-old from Hamburg, who could turn that resting bitch face look into high fashion, and Chloe, a pinup blonde from London, whose symmetrically flawless C-cup breasts always captivated photographers. And then there was Bianca, a delicate-featured Italian-American from Vancouver. Bianca’s gift was stillness. She could freeze into a pose so precise it felt like the air around her stopped breathing. On set, while the rest of us fidgeted, she’d drop into a perfect, statuesque pose—neck elongated, gaze locked somewhere in eternity—and the photographer would whisper, “Don’t move,” like he was afraid she’d vanish. The camera loved her the way it loved a marble statue. All three of the girls were nice enough, in the way sharks are nice when there’s enough chum to go around. There was no shortage of modeling assignments. All three girls and I were booked solid doing photoshoots for small brands. Our tiny Bushwick apartment remained virtually empty because we were out all day on modeling assignments. The challenges started small and then snowballed into something that made my old job at the beach club feel like a vacation. First came the castings. Dozens of them. I’d show up at 7 a.m. in a tiny white tank top and shorts, hair pulled back, no makeup, and stand in a line of girls who all had my long legs but somehow managed to look less… coastal. The modeling agents would circle me like appraisers at a used-car lot. “Turn,” one agent would say, clipboard tapping her thigh. “Good, but we’re looking for a little more… Next.” My absolute worst photoshoot was the time I was booked for a swimwear campaign. The photographer was a guy named Viktor—forty-something, European accent. He totally gave off Russian mobster vibes and had a reputation that made you really wish you’d brought a bodyguard. The studio was all white and seamless, with lighting that was far too bright, bouncing off every surface until I was practically squinting. Viktor didn’t talk; he barked. He had me change into a bikini so small that it barely covered my privates. The bikini top barely covered my nipples, and the bottoms hardly covered my crotch. I didn’t feel like a model standing there in that bikini under those harsh, bright lights. I felt exposed, not in a high-fashion sense, but in a way that made me feel like an object on display. “Relax, darling,” Viktor persisted, camera clicking. “You’re stiff. I need you to give me that energy.” So I gave him more energy. The very next day, I made sure my booker heard about the bikini I was forced to wear, and suddenly Viktor’s studio was no longer on my call sheet. The first year in New York was a gauntlet of rejection. Photographers told me my hips were too wide, my face “too commercial,” and my personality “too cold.” I crashed on friends’ couches, subsisted on black coffee and keto diets, and wept in shitty bathroom stalls after being sent home from castings after another casting director told me to lose five pounds and get my nose fixed. But I never let the industry break me. I built this icy little wall around myself and decided that if they wanted perfect, I’d become untouchable. When I turned nineteen, the tide finally turned. My agency flew me to Paris, France, the ultimate proving ground. There, I landed my first major campaign—walking the runway for Lunevigne Couture. Petra Haas, the chief editor for Lunevigne Couture, pulled me aside backstage and said, “You’re dangerous.” That single walk changed everything. Within months, I was the new face of Velours Noir No. 5. Within a year, I was the face of Velours Noir’s global fragrance, then Velours Couture. At twenty-one, I was on the cover of Italian MacLennan’s Margolotte Couture, shot by Matteo Lunari, who revealed a side of me even I didn’t know existed. Twenty-two brought the double MacLennan’s Margolotte covers: American and British MacLennan’s Margolotte Couture. Pip Meadows shot the American cover—a stark, powerful image of me naked on black sand—while Jasper Finch shot the British cover, a surreal dreamscape in which I appeared to be floating in a literal sea of flowers. Since then, I’ve graced the pages of MacLennan’s Margolotte France, LTV5 LUEUR Lab, Belle de Givre, ASTRA Arène Couture, and Perle5 Fashion Book multiple times. I’ve shot with every legend: Fenix & Raine, Gideon & Tate, Steven Meisel, and Jeffrey Mercer (before he passed). The new wave of photographers, like Maxwell Devereux of MacLennan’s Margolotte, has shown keen interest in capturing the “Sinclair stare,” that look of total, unyielding control. Now at twenty-four, I’m at the absolute peak of my modeling career. This month alone, I’m on three major international covers simultaneously: MacLennan’s Margolotte France, Argentéa Couture UK, and Étofféa Tokyo. I’ve launched campaigns for Velours Noir and Lunevigne Couture, and just signed a new contract with The Sapphire Empress that made my bank account look ridiculous. I’ve walked for every major house—Vittorio, House of Ziggy, Garavani, and MacLennan’s Margolotte. I’ve done beauty exclusives for Julia Sterling Cosmetics and Evette Lunevigne Couture. Photographers fight to book me because I deliver something rare: I don’t just pose. I seduce the camera. I make it fall in love with me. All that success came with a price I gladly paid: detachment. I learned fast that emotions make you weak in this industry. Boyfriends got jealous of my schedule, girlfriends got insecure about my body, and friends wanted pieces of the spotlight. So I stopped doing traditional relationships. I built a life where I was the one in control and pleasure was on my terms. No one gets to own me. No one gets to crack the armor. The dark side? Endless flights, jet lag that made me hallucinate, directors who tried to break my “ice queen” persona, billionaire predators who owned private jets, and seasons where I survived on four hours of sleep and green juice. I’ve lost friends, lovers, and almost myself. But I never lost control. I’m Elaine Sinclair. I came from nothing. I became everything. And I get to choose exactly who gets to touch me when the lights go down. In the bedroom, the robe comes off… but the armor stays on. And right now? I’m precisely where I belong—in control and craving more. Chapter 1: Elaine Sinclair—International Supermodel My name is Elaine Sinclair, and I’m on the cover of three international magazines this month—long legs, smooth skin, and curves that made photographers cry happy tears. I walked into a room, and it was full tilt—heads turned, and smartphone cameras came out. Paparazzi stalked my every move like it was their full-time job, their cameras hungry for a glimpse of the untouchable icon I had become. At runway shows, after-parties, and hotel lobbies, I floated through the crush of bodies and camera flashes with an untouchable elegance, the star of a play performed on the world’s most exclusive stages. I was the center of the universe, watching myself through the eyes of the world, and I loved my part. I was only twenty-four years old and at the absolute peak of my modeling career. I was the youngest model ever to launch campaigns for Velours Noir, Argentéa Paris, and Lunevigne Couture, to name just a few. Every major fashion photographer in the world had photographed me in some way. The fashion world’s elite whispered my name with a kind of nervous reverence, as though I were a spell that, once spoken, might disrupt the natural order of things. Social media had made me a global legend, and in private corners of the internet, my fans built elaborate digital shrines to me, parsing every ad campaign and runway appearance as if studying the brushstrokes of a goddess from Mount Olympus. My name, ‘Elaine Sinclair,’ now carries the same weight as the legendary supermodels who came before me. Paris belonged to me, or rather, I belonged to myself here in a way that no other city allowed. I could feel my pulse as I pressed my forehead to the floor-to-ceiling glass window of my penthouse apartment. The morning light filtered through the delicate, sheer gauze curtains, casting me in a golden glow that photographers spent hours trying to recreate in studios. My penthouse had a stunning view of the River Seine. I looked out the window and watched the delivery driver on the street three stories below, delivering a package as people walked their dogs. The café across the street was just opening, and a few people had sauntered in for their morning espresso. The city moved according to its own rhythm, but for now, my apartment felt like a floating island of calm above it all—no meetings, no interviews, no photoshoots, and no one’s agenda but my own. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring the rare luxury of existing without being seen, without being an image for someone to consume. I could hear the faint rustling of sheets and the soft murmur of voices drifting from the bedroom—Marc’s resonant Belgian accent and Élise’s drowsy laughter—their voices were easy and unhurried, a subtle duet of two lovers bathing in the afterglow of last night’s interlude. Marc, the Belgian architect, approached both structural design and sex with a consistent, geometric exactness, while Élise, a gallery proprietor and artist, pursued her interests in contemporary art and beautiful models with a shared intensity. I recalled the moments last night when Marc had arrived with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and that particular hunger in his eyes. The scent of his cologne was strong but not overpowering. We barely made it past the bedroom entryway before his hands were in my hair, his mouth on my neck. I let him undress me slowly, methodically, like he was revealing a sculpture. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he persisted, kissing my breasts, his fingers tracing the line of my hip. “Every time, it’s like seeing you for the first time.” I arched into his touch, letting him lay me down on the bed and worship my body with the same reverence he showed the buildings he designed. His mouth traveled down my stomach to my thighs when I heard the front door open. Élise, never one for timidity, let herself in without knocking, using the key I gave her months earlier. Trailing the scent of perfume and red wine, she stood in the bedroom doorway with a relaxed curiosity and caught our attention. “Room for one more?” she asked, already unbuttoning her blouse. Marc, whose face was buried between my legs, lifted his head but didn’t answer, instead motioning with his hand for Élise to come and join us. What unfolded between the three of us was a slow exploration of shared intimacy and the collapse of boundaries as our three bodies synchronized their movements and delved into the depths of our collective longings—three souls learning each other’s rhythms, uncovering new expressions of pleasure. Élise’s mouth on my breasts while Marc took her from behind. Marc’s hands on Élise’s hips while I leaned in and kissed her, tasting wine and desire on her lips. Marc’s tongue found new ways to coax gasps from both of us. The three of us moved together like a choreographed dance until we finally collapsed on the satin sheets, sated and fulfilled. I remembered feeling oddly at peace, convinced that I had finally discovered the perfect partners—two beautiful companions and no one to judge or interrupt. The morning light eventually drew me from bed, and I rose to watch the dawn break in front of the expansive, floor-to-ceiling window. I leaned into the glass, watching the sunrise. I liked mornings after sex; they sharpened my mood and gave me a sense of mastery over myself and my world. A sultry voice drifted in from the bedroom, breaking my momentary solitude. “Come back to bed,” Élise urged, her voice still echoing the night’s exertions. I moved toward the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, letting the cool morning light spill over me like liquid silver. My black silk robe hung completely open, the thin belt long discarded, framing my body like a living work of art. My breasts were full and perky, sitting high on my chest with that perfect teardrop shape—soft pink nipples already tightening into tight little peaks from the cool morning air. Lower down, my petite, toned stomach and the delicate dip of my bellybutton caught a tiny gleam of light. Lower still, a super-thin, shadowed landing strip teased right above my smooth, bare pussy. I looked like pure temptation wrapped in the morning glow. At 5 feet 8 inches in my bare feet, I stood like a tall, ivory-skinned goddess, every inch of me sculpted to perfection. Marc’s eyes traveled the length of my body, lingering where my robe parted open. “We’re enjoying the view from here, ma belle,” he observed. “As am I, mon amour,” I replied. Marc was propped against the headboard, and Élise was sprawled on her stomach, the bedsheet barely covering her ass. Her hair was a wild, gorgeous, tangled mess. They were both staring at me like I was an exotic delicacy. Marc’s eyes were dark with hunger, locked onto me like he wanted to devour every inch of my body. Élise, still lying on her stomach beside him, bit her lower lip. I watched as she shifted her hips against the mattress, clearly getting wet all over again. “Fuck, Elaine,” Marc babbled, his Belgian accent heavy with lust. “Look at you. Those perfect tits... I want to kiss that little belly button until you squirm. And that pretty little pussy is just teasing us. “Quelle beauté! Are you trying to kill us, ma chérie?” Élise let out a low, throaty laugh, propping herself up on her elbows so her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder. Her eyes traced my breasts down to my exposed center, slow and appreciative. “She knows exactly what she’s doing. Standing there like a goddess in the light. She loves this. Being watched. Being wanted. Don’t you, ma chérie?” “Keep talking like that, and I might just stay here until you both start begging.” “Come closer, chérie,” Élise beckoned. I smiled but didn’t move. “You two look too comfortable. Maybe I like being the view.” I turned and wandered back to the window, grabbing my cup of mocha latte from the espresso machine and sipping it while Paris awoke below. The city of light, they called it. The city of love. For me, it was the city of Do Whatever the Hell I Want—a place where I could be exactly who I was without apology or explanation. “You’re thinking too loudly,” a voice murmured from the bedroom. I turned to see Élise emerging from the bedroom, wrapped loosely in a white satin sheet, her dark hair wild and tangled around her shoulders. She was older than me by nearly two decades and elegant in that particularly French sort of way that had nothing to do with youth and everything to do with confidence. She moved with a feline grace, the sheet trailing behind her on the polished floor as she moved toward the window where I stood. “I’m always thinking,” I said, smiling. “That’s your problem.” Élise took the coffee cup from my hands and drank from it. “You should feel more and think less.” “I feel plenty.” “Do you?” Élise’s eyes filled with knowing amusement. “Sometimes I wonder if you feel anything at all, ma chérie. You’re so controlled, so perfectly composed. Even while having sex, you’re watching yourself, analyzing the experience. You intellectualize everything. It isn’t an accusation, just an observation. “Élise knew me well enough to understand that my detachment was one of my strong suits. “I want to know what I’m feeling,” I countered, taking back my coffee. “I don’t like losing control over myself. “Sometimes losing control is the only way to discover something new,” Élise teased. “You should try it sometime.” “That’s the difference between us. You let your emotions control you. I control mine.” “And you think that makes you free?” “I know it does.” Élise laughed. “We’ll see.” She kissed my cheek, leaving a trace of lipstick. “I have a meeting at ten. Will you be at the Mon Ciel Étoilé opening tonight?” “Probably.” “Then I’ll see you there... or not. That’s the beauty of this, isn’t it? No expectations, no obligations.” “Exactly,” I smiled. After Élise left, Marc emerged, already dressed in the clothes he’d carefully folded over the chair the night before. He was methodical in everything, which I found both attractive and occasionally irritating. “I’m flying to Brussels this afternoon,” he said, adjusting his collar. “High-Speed Rail Transit Mall Project. There’s a little flaw in the design that I need to take a look at.” “Safe travels.” He studied me for a moment, and I could see him wanting to say something more. Marc was newer to this lifestyle than Élise, still adjusting to the lack of traditional relationship markers. He wanted to know when he’d see me again, wanted some kind of assurance or plan. But he’d learned not to ask. “You’re beautiful in this light,” he said instead. “I’m beautiful in every light. That’s my job.” “Yes, you are.” He chuckled at my arrogance, which wasn’t really arrogance at all—just me being honest. After he left, I finally allowed myself to decompress. While I held a genuine fondness for my companions, there was a particular peace in the solitude that followed their exit. With my privacy restored, the apartment seemed to expand, the air lighter and easier to breathe. I showered, washing away the traces of the night, and dressed in the casual clothing of the off-duty model between assignments: black denim jeans that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, a white t-shirt that looked simple but was cut by a master tailor, and ankle boots that added three inches to my already considerable height. My blonde hair, still damp, I pulled into a loose knot. No makeup—my skin was flawless enough without it, and besides, I had a shoot this afternoon where they’d paint my face anyway. The shoot was for MacLennan’s Margolotte Paris, a twelve-page spread for the September issue. The photographer was someone new, at least to me. Maxwell Devereux. I recognized the name, of course—everyone in the fashion world had, though we never worked together before. Maxwell Devereaux’s photography style was an organic, electric blend of high-fashion gloss and unfiltered human truth—the kind that makes you feel like the model being photographed just whispered her secrets straight into the camera lens. He made a splash three years ago with a controversial series called ‘Veiled Intentions.’ Maxwell was adept at taking models out of their comfort zones and stripping them bare emotionally. Think of ripped couture gowns and running mascara, not in a fake “sad girl” way. Real vulnerability. Real sweat. Real desire. He blurred the line between fashion photography and art. Since then, he’s become one of the most sought-after photographers in Paris, known for his talent in uncovering the authentic, vibrant essence hidden beneath the glossy veneer of high fashion. I was curious about him, though I tried not to be. Having collaborated with a litany of photographers throughout my career, I found that most of them fell into predictable archetypes. There were the technical perfectionists who treated models like mannequins; the insecure artists who needed constant validation, and the predators who used their cameras as weapons of seduction. Maxwell, however, belonged to that rare elite of true artists capable of revealing a hidden depth within a model that even she had yet to discover. I was halfway to the photoshoot when my manager called. “The Margolotte shoot’s postponed,” she said. “They rescheduled. But the Mon Ciel Étoilé party is still on for Saturday.” Chapter 2: Mon Ciel Étoilé Play Party The real magic happened twice a year during Paris Fashion Week, when the city turned into a living runway. I glided through Paris Fashion Week like I owned the city, draped in silk and secrets. By day, I was Elaine Sinclair, the untouchable face of MacLennan’s Margolotte Couture Magazine; by night, I was a willowy predator hunting for pleasure, attending afterparties and slipping between lovers with the same careless grace I used to change designer outfits. My evenings were defined by champagne, rooftop kisses at three a.m., and never the same bed twice. When the sun dipped behind the Seine River, Paris underwent a complete metamorphosis. It was during these nocturnal hours that the cover models and the fashion world’s elite emerged, swapping runway heels for club energy, and suddenly the night belonged to the afterparty. I lived for it—for the exclusive afterparty invite. The evening after-party circuit was insane, featuring iconic spots like The Violet Hour, Diamond Vault, The Siren’s Lure Rooftop, VIRTUA VUE, and the MacLennan’s Margolotte Mon Ciel Étoilé party at Au-dessus des Toits skybar—they all became extensions of the catwalks where the world’s most beautiful bodies moved in the latest fashions. I’d heard about Julian’s theme parties before—legendary, exclusive affairs whispered about in fashion houses and upscale bistros. Tonight I was finally attending one. MacLennan’s Margolotte Couture Magazine was hosting its rooftop afterparty at Au-dessus des Toits, one of the highest rooftop skybars in Paris, which seemed to hover over the city like a sparkling diamond, offering panoramic views. Julian organized the whole event for MacLennan’s Margolotte. The theme was ‘Mon Ciel Étoilé,’ or ‘My Starry Sky.’ The VIP invite list was a roll call of the elite—influential designers, photographers, restless heirs, and an endless parade of top models—all adhering to a provocative dress code of attire that left little to the imagination. Julian organized the best theme parties in Paris, and it was clear why he was considered the master of Parisian nightlife. Embracing a celestial theme, the party space was a masterclass in rooftop terrace magic, adorned with glowing fairy lights and hand-painted stars. Silver ice buckets held chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon, the effervescent bubbles catching the flicker of lights as the champagne was poured into long glass flutes. A striking DJ, resembling a modern-day Cleopatra, spun vinyl rarities that provided a sophisticated, deep-house pulse to the room. The amber glow of dim, recessed lighting elevated the ambiance, casting long, dramatic shadows across the marble floors. It was a space designed for indulgence. The ceiling above was all transparent glass, and beyond it, star constellations wheeled through the night sky, making everyone feel as though they were dancing in the very heart of the cosmos. Everywhere I looked, there were beautiful people—designers with sharp eyes and sharper tongues, heirs with too much money and too little restraint, and gorgeous models who moved like living sculptures. I maneuvered through the high-fashion crowd, working my way toward the sleek obsidian bar to order a drink. As I sipped my cocktail, I let myself relax into the electric rhythm of the party, the deep house beat pulsing through me. On my right, a tall woman in a sheer black mesh bodysuit stood prominently; she pressed herself intimately against another woman, her breasts and nipples clearly visible through the provocative, translucent fabric. I tried not to stare or get lost in the pervasive decadence, but the energy of the room was infectious—a steady, rhythmic pulse of dancing bodies and uninhibited playfulness. I could feel the tension leaving my body as I began to loosen up, swaying to the heavy, sophisticated beat that filled the room. An attractive young gentleman in a tailored suit caught my eye near the balcony, a glass of whiskey in hand. He had a jawline as hard as steel. And those eyes—deep, knowing, the kind that made you feel like he could see right through you. Our gazes locked, and the room narrowed to just us. I took a slow sip of my cocktail, the alcohol bursting in my mouth, never breaking eye contact. He beamed as he turned to greet a Russian model who had stepped into his orbit. “Lucas,” she purred, offering up her hand. He took her hand without hesitation and pressed a kiss to it, his eyes never leaving hers. “The nerve of him,” I mumbled under my breath. Nadia Volkov was the Russian model’s name, and she wore a white toga-style dress that clung to every curve and dip of her body, the skirtline creeping up well past her thighs, giving everyone a peek at what was underneath. Every time she shifted, you could catch flashes of her sheer panties. Her laugh rang out, bright and feminine, and Lucas leaned in like she’d just whispered a secret meant only for him. She was twenty-two, from St. Petersburg, impossibly poised, and known throughout the European fashion circuit for three things: her glacial blue eyes, her feminine laugh, and her knack for making photographers lose track of their cameras’ technical settings. She had walked runways in London, posed barefoot on the beaches of Monaco, and once caused a minor social media storm by wearing a sheer black dress to a breakfast interview and refusing to explain herself. I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. I wasn’t envious. Angry, maybe. The sheer audacity of him. Dismissing me for that minx! The DJ’s beat pulsed deeper, sweat and perfume thickening the air. I turned away abruptly, snagging another fresh cocktail from a passing tray. “That Russian girl is nothing but trouble.” A voice—deep, familiar—drifted beside me. It was Julian. Always watching. “I can be trouble too,” I gushed, downing half the glass in one go. Julian chuckled, leaning against the bar, his silver-tipped cane gleaming under the track lighting. “Lucas has a taste for dangerous things.” I shot him a look. “You’re the one who put her on the guest list.” “I invite everyone worth looking at.” He said with a smirk. “But you, darling… you are undeniably the most captivating woman here tonight.” I let out a frustrated sigh, annoyed by all the social maneuvering and at myself for caring. “Looks like he’s already decided on his company for the evening.” Julian shrugged. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “She’s obvious.” “Try not to get distracted, Elaine, the night’s still young.” I continued to sip my cocktail, waved bye to Julian, and then I was gone, melting back into the crowd, leaving Julian at the bar. I cut through the crowd, letting my hips sway, every step deliberate, every glance a dare. When I reached the balcony, I found myself in conversation with a British stylist who claimed to be on ketamine. The stylist prattled on about “the end of gender” and how I would be the perfect model for a new campaign that involved me in body paint. I nodded, half-listening. I kept scanning the party, searching for the next thing—maybe a new face, maybe a new thrill. I was reaching for my third cocktail when the room began to tilt, the music getting heavier in my ears, the lights softening and blurring at the edges. Three sips of my third cocktail. That was the last thing I remembered before I blacked out. I woke up the next morning to the throb of my pulse in my temples in an unfamiliar hotel bed, naked beneath the tangled sheets. Sunlight cut through the sheer curtains of a room I didn’t recognize. Ivory-colored walls, a sleek crystal chandelier, and the faint scent of bergamot and men’s cologne permeated the atmosphere. A ripple between my thighs and a strange, cool sensitivity between my legs made me throw the sheets back. I looked down, and I froze in shock. No! Every trace of my pubic hair was gone. My meticulously manicured landing strip was shaved to a smooth finish. Not a nick, not a razor burn—just a soft, deliberate, velvety smooth shave. I had no memory of how it happened. Oh god… What the hell happened? I panicked, running my hands over the bare surface in horror, fearing that I’d been sexually assaulted. I sat up slowly, scanning for any sign of what went down last night. No bruises. No soreness between my thighs. Nothing to suggest I was sexually assaulted in the way I first feared. Some sick bastard stripped me naked and shaved me completely bare while I was passed out. Was I drugged, or did I just have too much to drink? I had no memory of the encounter last night. I sat up, eyes darting to the nightstand. A bottle of Evian, a silver tray with two white pills—Tylenol, probably—and a note, folded crisply beneath a single white rose. My dress was folded neatly on a chair across the room. My phone sat on the nightstand with 2 missed calls from Julian and a text from my manager telling me to “be ready for the Mon Ciel Étoilé shoot at two o’clock.“ The perpetrator had taken my panties as a trophy, leaving behind nothing but the lingering musky scent of his cologne on my pillow. I got out of bed and dragged myself into the bathroom on shaky legs, confronting the reflection of my own confusion and horror in the large, brightly lit mirror. What I saw in the mirror was precisely what I expected—a girl still beautiful and still untouched by visible violence. No marks or bruises anywhere. I stared at myself—naked, exposed. My eyes were wide, pupils dilated. My mouth was kinda hanging open, lips trembling as tears began to well up. Who the hell did this to me? I whispered to my reflection. What kind of sick bastard would shave a woman completely bare while she’s unconscious? He touched me… down there… and I don’t remember a thing. I feel so violated. So dirty. I cupped my breasts with both hands, lifting them up, turning to my side in the mirror, examining every inch with a growing sense of dread. They felt heavier somehow, not as perky as they were just yesterday on the runway. Oh no… are they starting to sag already? Look at them. They’re not sitting as high. Is that a little droop? Fuck, fuck, fuck. My body is my money. This is my career—my entire life depends on me looking perfect. If my tits start going south now, it’s over. Magazines won’t want me. Campaigns will drop me. Brands will bail. I can’t afford to lose this body. Not now. Not like this. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I squeezed my tits harder, turning this way and that, searching for flaws that suddenly felt enormous. I worked so hard for this. Countless hours in the gym, diets, and some creep just helped himself to my most intimate parts while I was blacked out. I feel so stupid. So used. Why did I let myself drink that much? Why didn’t I see this coming?” I spun around quickly, looking over my shoulder at my ass in the mirror. I arched my back, trying to see it from every angle. And my ass… it doesn’t look as firm as it did last night. Is that cellulite starting? It looks softer, less tight. God, no. I can’t have my ass going flat, too. This body is everything. It’s how I pay my bills, how I stay on top. Without it, I’m nothing. Just another has-been model who got taken advantage of at a party. I stood there, hands still gripping my breasts, staring at my completely bare pussy in the reflection—the smooth, hairless mound staring back at me. He saw this. He touched this! I felt so exposed, so powerless. My perfectly manicured landing strip… gone. Just like that. I’m supposed to be untouchable, the face of Vellure, and now I’m standing here crying over a shaved cunt that some pervert decided to claim as his little project. I hate myself for letting this happen. I hate feeling this weak, this victimized. I’m a supermodel, not a victim. My body was supposed to be my armor, and this pervert stripped it bare while I slept. I sank to the edge of the sink, whispering through sobs, What am I going to do? How do I walk out there today and get through photo shoots like nothing happened when every step reminds me I’m bare down there…? This is so humiliating. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, smearing my mascara. No. This wasn’t happening. Not to me. Not to Elaine Sinclair. I looked again at my reflection. The girl in the mirror looked nothing like the confident supermodel who owned Paris Fashion Week. I looked terrified. Violated. And completely, utterly alone. Get full access to Ronald MacLennan at aesop724.substack.com/subscribe [https://aesop724.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]
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