The conference room at Kaiba Corps was abuzz with the conversation of young, tiny-waisted models, their jaunty ribs and hip-bones cloaked with feminized versions of the company's namesake's trademark dueling outfit. One amongst them, a model who refused to frequent the bathrooms, even when she was as nervous as she was before a huge shoot like this, drummed her manicured nails against the table of nearly untouched refreshments. Rosalyn Bailey took her pocket mirror from her pocket to check her reflection once more; winged liner was perfect, foundation was holding (even in this ridiculously heavy outfit- seriously, who wore their sleeves like this?).
A blonde bimbo of a model bumped into her, and gave her a sour sneer, her lips almost as puffy as her fake tits. Rosalyn wiggled her fingers after her with a sharp smile, and prayed that she'd get enough from this assignment to never have to stand these stickbugs again. This wasn't the art she wanted to create with her body, this was corporate bullshit.
