Regmore Rigmin
patreon
Strawberry Shoot TG
🕑 Added 2025-08-06 10:00:03 +0000 UTCJason Cross had never modeled a day in his life.
And he’d never wanted to.
He was an editorial manager at Pulse, a glossy fashion magazine known for pushing boundaries—particularly at the expense of its models. Tiny swimsuits in winter. Glitter-covered everything. Suggestive poses with props that barely counted as clothing. Jason approved every spread, demanded more "skin, shine, and shock," and rolled his eyes when the models complained about dignity or discomfort.
“It’s about selling fantasy,” he’d say. “If you’re not ready to show it off, there’s someone in line who will.”
He had no idea those words would come back to bite him—hard.
It started on a Friday.
The set was booked for a “fruit & temptation” theme shoot. Jason strutted onto the soundstage, coffee in hand, barking at the lighting crew to make the sheen look “more edible.” When the models arrived—six women, all experienced, poised, and stunning—Jason didn’t even greet them. Just handed over the latest concept mockup, which featured sketches of tiny red lingerie, syrup drips, and fishnet stockings.
“You want me to pose like this?” Brielle, one of the more outspoken models, asked flatly. “With tape over my nipples and a bowl of strawberries like a serving dish?”
Jason didn’t look up. “That’s the idea. It’s sexy. Sensual. On brand.”
“Then you do it,” she said.
Jason laughed.
Big mistake.
That’s when the door locked behind him.
At first, Jason thought it was a joke. But then two models flanked him while another calmly pulled a large makeup case from under the styling table. Not a travel kit—this was serious FX-level stuff: skin-toned prosthetics, medical glue, high-gloss lip colors, wigs, even fake lashes in labeled trays.
“W-what is this?” he said, finally nervous.
“You said the shoot wasn’t that hard,” said Harper, another model. “Time for you to prove it.”
Jason backed away. “Alright, joke’s over. Let’s—”
But Brielle already had gloves on. “You love your ‘transformation shoots,’ right? Let’s make you the fantasy.”
The first thing they did was strip him.
He protested, but they were coordinated, practiced, and just annoyed enough to work together like a beauty brigade. In moments, his shirt was off, pants gone, shoes kicked away. He stood in his boxers, red-faced, confused.
Then came the prosthetics.
The glue was cold. Brielle applied a padded chest—two silicone breasts that clung to his skin and reshaped his upper body immediately. Harper wrapped his waist in a compression belt, tucking and tightening until his silhouette looked more hourglass than editorial exec.
“You’re lucky we have spare hips and thighs from the last fantasy shoot,” one model quipped, attaching shapely hip padding beneath a pair of tight control briefs. “You’ll fill the fishnets better this way.”
Jason trembled. “You can’t do this. You’ll be fired.”
“Oh no,” Brielle said sweetly. “We already quit. This is the goodbye gift.”
The makeup chair was next.
He was spun around, cape flung over his shoulders, and a black wig—long, sleek, severe—was fitted over his hairline and glued into place. It tickled the base of his neck. Then came the makeup: primer, contour, blush, bold brows, winged eyeliner. Thick, fluttering lashes that blinked like fans.
Lipstick came last—red, glossy, blinding.
But before his lips dried, they inserted the prop: a real, ripe strawberry, glued gently between his teeth and glossed with a second layer of red shine.
“Mmph—” he tried to speak.
“Quiet now,” said Harper. “Models don’t talk on set unless asked.”
He stared at his reflection. Alien. Feminine. Flashy. He looked like a parody of a pin-up, but… real. His mouth was frozen in a sultry pout, unable to speak without dislodging the strawberry.
He hated it.
Then came the outfit.
They dressed him in a red thong that barely clung to his hips, followed by thigh-high red fishnets that hugged his padded legs like a second skin. The red lace shirt they gave him was more “suggestion” than fabric—open, sheer, and fluttering around his chest.
Next came the final indignity: black tape, stretched over his false nipples in an “X,” stuck firmly and smoothed down with purpose.
“You said this look was tasteful,” one of the girls said, adjusting the tape. “We’re just giving you your own fantasy.”
A large tattoo transfer—roses and scrolls—was applied to one arm and “tapped dry” with a sponge. Jason flinched as the cold water hit, but soon the decal looked permanent.
“You look hot, boss,” said Brielle, laughing.
To complete the look, they gave him a large, white ceramic bowl.
Filled with strawberries.
He held it instinctively as they turned him toward the camera setup.
“Mmph!” he grunted again, shaking his head.
“Oh right,” said Harper. “One last touch…”
She spritzed a fine layer of shimmer spray over his body. His shoulders glistened. His legs sparkled.
Jason had never felt so exposed in his life.
The shoot began.
But not with other models. With him. They made him pose—one leg bent, butt out, one hand behind his head, strawberry bowl held provocatively at his waist.
The camera clicked.
“You’re not selling it,” Brielle called. “More bedroom eyes. You told me to ‘smolder’ last month. Let’s see it.”
Click. Click.
Jason was frozen in shame. Every pose felt wrong, exaggerated, humiliating. The strawberry between his lips was now a cruel joke. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t hide. And the worst part?
They were documenting all of it.
He had signed the model release forms months ago. Standard policy. Every photo was technically his company's property. And if these got out…
He swallowed hard, strawberry still in place.
After thirty grueling minutes, the girls finally gave him a break. They let him sit—on a pink bean bag, of course—and dabbed his glossy lips with more shine.
“You get it now?” Brielle asked, crouching beside him.
Jason gave the tiniest nod.
“How it feels to be stripped down to a gimmick? To be told your body is just a prop?”
He blinked, ashamed.
“Good,” she said. “Now hold still, we’ve got three more looks to go.”
His head dropped.
The strawberry bowl never left his hands.
