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Life Story	By : salarta Category: +M through R > Parasite Eve Views: 2485 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Parasite Eve, Aya Brea or any Square-Enix properties, its characters or any ideas or concepts contained herein. This story is a mere fan-made work, and I make no money or profit from its creation and dissemination.

Chapter List
- 1-Photo Shoot
- 1
Author's Note: This is yet another work that I never really finished. I've only done very minimal editing before posting entirely to get it online. I had plans to carry this into Aya signing autographs, making a red carpet debut, watching her film self, etc that I never got to doing.

"Hold that pose."
Aya seethed. If she could punch the photographer, right in his smug face, she would. Instead she laid there, arms down and pushed in to squeeze her breasts together, staring up at the camera while he snapped another shot.
She didn't deserve this. It was the thought that wouldn't die, and pulsed back into vibrant furious life every time she took part in one of these sessions. As a cop, she knew the law. She expected it to work for her. She expected-
"You're doing great, Aya," the photographer said.
"Bite me." The blank come-hither stare she had on moments ago devolved as her forehead creased to drag her eyebrows down, and her soft parted lips shifted into a sneer. DSLs, or 'dick-sucking lips', her handlers had called them the day before doctors plumped them up with collagen to make her fit 'the look'. The 'Aya Brea look'. A 'look' that brought her no end of outrage.
"Now now, Aya, remember the terms of your deal. That's no way to treat the people here to help you tell your life story."
It took every ounce of effort in her powerful mitochondria-enhanced body to swallow her hate and put on a simpering smile. "I'm so sorry, sir. I'm just sooo huuungry for the D."
The required bubbly giggle that followed felt like an exclamation mark pounding hard against the remnants of any self-respect they allowed her to keep.
She wished she'd never signed the fucking deal. One little signature on the line of a document she half-assed reading and her whole world turned upside down. Acquisitions rights. Licensing rights. Publicity rights. Right to fictionalize. Right to personal appearances. Right to make herself available for promotion, marketing, and exploitation. While not legal names, these terms formed the tight package of life story rights she sold off, along with such lovely additions as waiving her right to sue and a gag order on any misgivings she might have with the 'Picture' and her treatment.
She wanted to scream. Yet all she could do was lie there and give them the perfect image of a blonde bimbo their 'Picture' demanded.
"That's better," the photographer 'complimented'. "Turn on your side."
White silk sheets shifted under her as she obeyed, breasts pressing together. Implants. They looked about as absurd, round and altogether fake as money could buy. She got them after one shoot when a producer took one glance and declared her unmolested bust 'Flat as shit'. Despite their new gargantuan size, her handlers could have paid for better. They could have paid for the most perfect lovingly sculpted pair of boobs experts in the field could craft. They wanted cheap and trashy. They wanted something that clashed with the tone of all her glamour shots, as if to declare no amount of artful effort could hide the fact she was a dumb big-titted slut.
The 'fact', she reminded herself. With so many insults flying around her daily, she needed those little touches to keep herself intact.
Under the photographer's direction, she shrank into a fetal pose. Her arms hung limply above her breasts, of course. Every shot demanded their full presence. Once in position, an assistant rushed over. Sharp tweaks and naughty pinches smeared fragrant clear gel across her horny nubs, perking the pair up as hard as they could get while icy hot tingling erupted across her skin. She wished she could cry out in pain, but that instinct passed months ago. Silently she laid there, letting the assistant do her work.
Tits at attention. Short bangs brushed back. A silly toy prop gun settled into her hand - upside-down, fingers far from the trigger. It served no purpose other than to mock her and reduce the legendary cop who saved New York from Mitochondria Eve to a sexual punchline who couldn't even hold her gun properly.
"Aya, up here," the photographer snapped his fingers.
Aya glared. Naked and exposed, she begrudgingly allowed this man to capture her sorry state and impress upon his camera's lens the sort of woman her handlers wanted the world to think she was.
Due process. This nightmare would end one day. It had to. Her lawyer had the case, had the documents, had the laws, and some day these violations to her person for the sake of a few disgusting perverts with fancy suits and titles would fizzle out.
"Good girl, Aya. Time for your cunt pose."
Even with the rules that bound her, Aya couldn't stop herself from letting out a loud, aggravated sigh. She got up on her knees while the photographer stepped back and off her prop bed. Slowly, she raised her ass and revealed the folds of her slit. It glistened, not from arousal, not from thrills, but from sweating nude under harsh studio lights for the past hour. It gave the illusion of desire creeping up between her thighs, its hairy tangled mess dripping and on display for yet another 'perfect' shot.
She normally shaved. The sleek smooth feel of bald loins and armpits was one of only a few feminine delights she indulged back when she had freedom, but it didn't mesh with her handlers' image for her. She had to look dirty. Filthy. Crude. To them, the sight of a hairless Aya Brea gave her too much of a refined, tasteful allure for the character she had to match.
She was not Aya Brea. She was Aya Brea's model. Aya Brea's likeness. Aya Brea's actress. She had to 'do justice' to the fictional character who would soon be quivering her puffy pink lips and trembling her gun in terror for viewers nationwide. She needed to ooze sex appeal from every pore and hole, the kind for which stand-ins of Daniel and Maeda could whip out their naturally huge cocks and have her service them alongside every single officer in the NYPD.
Click. The camera flashed.
"Got it," the photographer said. "Stand up, part your legs, bend down and smile for the camera."
"Yes, sir!" Aya giggled, and hated herself a little more. Following through, she let her mammoth bust droop the ever so slight amount they could. The pair parted at her chin, surrounding her cheeks with twin peaks still perked to fine tips.
Ass. Tits. Pussy. Face. This pose collected all the 'things that matter' about her according to her handlers. In one shot, her audience could see the goods waiting for them in her life story: "Aya Brea Does New York."
The title sucked, but her opinion didn't matter. She wasn't allowed to have or give one. She could only smile. Just. Smile. While the photographer took one more picture.
- 1
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