Bar Refaeli

“Yeah, it’s stunning” you reply, turning your head and returning Bar’s smile, her cute dimples looking so bloody cute, making her smile infectious. The pilot instructs you to fasten your seatbelts and Bar returns to her seat.

“So, you’re looking forward to it?” Bar ask, or nearly yell to drown out the noise as the plane descends.

“Yeah…” you reply, not quite able to hold back a goofy grin, “Very much… never been to a shoot on location like this!” or with a model like Bar Refaeli. You keep that last part to yourself.

“It’s going to be great!” she smile, and you only nod affirmative.

No doubt it’s going to be great… a supermodel in a tropical paradise, wearing skimpy outfits most of the time no doubt, you couldn’t think of many ways you’d rather spend your time… maybe if the photo crew weren’t around and the supermodel was ready and willing.

As you touch down you are greeted by the manager and the photographer. The producer, Jeff Wilson, greats you and introduces you to the photographer, a Bob Anderson who’s more known for shooting glamour girls for tabloids and the likes, not the high end stuff Miss Refaeli is usually known for, one of the reasons the agency wanted somebody to come along.

After a quick introduction Bar leaves to get to work and you grab both your suitcases and takes them to one of the small huts on the beach. “Just temporary until we get you settled in” as Mr. Wilson tells you. The hut was nothing special, straw roof and walls, but not completely enclosed. Placing the suitcases on the raised floor you take a seat on the top of the steps, watching the plane take off in the cove and the crew getting the lighting ready for the shoot further down the beach.

After a few minutes of staring at the view, in awe of the place, you get up and grab the luggage to put it aside for now. ‘Reduced to a bellhop…’ you think as you carry Bar’s and your suitcases into the hut, ‘… hell, I’ve got and all-access, all-inclusive backstage pass to a Bar Refaeli photo shoot… so a little manual labor can be tolerated’ you smile to yourself as you place your luggage on a small table, stacking Bar’s on top of it.

“Agh… fuck!” you exclaim as, just as you’ve turned away, a suitcase was cough by your elbow and went crashing to the floor. Cursing your clumsiness you grab hold of the suitcase, too late noticing the fall had made the apparent faulty lock snap open, and before you can react and keep it closed some of its contents falls out.

You curse yourself for getting into a potentially embarrassing and very unprofessional situation, if Miss Rafaeli found out that you were now rummaging through her luggage… something like that at least. Putting the suitcase down you open it and begin to pick up those items which fell out, not a lot of blondes and laces as she would have packed if your fantasy could determine the supermodels choice of wardrobe. ‘I hope she won’t notice that something might not be exactly as she packed… she probably did it in a hurry… what the…’ you train of thought is interrupted as you see something in the suitcase.