"John Norman - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

Kajira of Gor
John Norman
Chronicles of Counter-Earth Volume 19
1 The Studio
“Do you not see it?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said the fellow with him.
“It is incredible,” said another.
“The resemblance is truly striking,” said the second man.
“Please turn your profile towards us, and lift your chin, Miss Collins,” said
the first man.
I complied.
I was in a photographer’s studio.
“A little higher, Miss Collins,” said the first man.
I lifted my chin higher.
“You may change in here,” had said the man earlier, indicating a small
dressing room off the studio. I had been handed a pair of clogs, a white silk
blouse and a pair of black shorts.
“No brassiere or panties,” he had said.
I had looked at him.
“We want no lines from them,” he said.
“Of course,” I had said.
The shorts were quite short, and, even without the panties, at least a size
too small. The blouse, too, even without the brassiere, was tight.
“Please tie up the blouse, in front,” he said. “We want some midriff.”
I had complied.
“Higher,” he had suggested.
I had complied.
I had then been, to my puzzlement, photographed several times, from the
neck up, front view and profile, against a type of chart, on which appeared
various graduated lines, presumably some type of calibrating or measuring
device. The lines, as nearly as I could determine, however, correlated neither
with inches nor centimeters.
“Now, please, step into the sand box,” he had said.
I had then stepped onto the sand, in the wide, flat box, with the beach
scene projected onto the large screen behind me. Then, for several minutes, the
photographer moving about me, swiftly and professionally, sometimes almost
intimately close, and giving me commands, the camera clicking, I had been
posed in an incredible variety of positions. Men, I had thought, must enjoy
putting a woman thus through her paces. Some of the shots were almost
naughty. I think, too, given the absence of a brassiere and panties, and the
skimpiness and tightness of the shorts, and the tightness of the blouse,
doubtlessly calculated features of my apparel, there would be little doubt in the
minds of the observers as to the lineaments of my figure. I did not object,
however. In fact I rather enjoyed this. I think I am rather pretty.
I was now standing in the sand, my left side facing the men, my chin
lifted. The lights were hot. To my left were the lights, the tangles of cord, the
men. To my right, in contrast, there seemed the lovely, deserted beach.
“She is pretty,” said one of the men.
“She is pretty enough to be a Kajira,” said one of the men.
“She will be,” laughed another.