Read Online Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) by Erika Masten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erika Masten
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made it even stranger, more disturbing, and thrilling. My hands
shook, and my fingers fumbled with the brushes and lipsticks and the elegant
metal eye shadow compacts. It took a few deep breathes—hidden from him—and a
firmer grip on the slim brush handles, but I steadied myself. I could almost
have pretended Beal wasn’t there, if not for the hissing click of the periodic
shutter snap.
“Darker,” he murmured
from behind me, “for the camera.” After a moment, I realized he meant the
makeup, and I soothed down the tremor in the pit of my stomach. I knew what was
coming, the endgame that was going to have me giving myself to Nolan tonight.
All part of our agreement. No point in fretting over the inevitable, I
concluded. “Good,” he said as though he could hear what I was thinking and
approved, but again he just meant the makeup.
Maybe because my
thoughts refused to still as easily as my stomach, I glanced up into the mirror
at the photographer’s reflection, his roguishly handsome face hidden by his
Nikon. “Why do you do this?” I asked him haltingly, knowing I wasn’t making
myself clear. “The bondage theme? In your work, I mean.”
He responded while
circling me, without lowering the camera, still filtering his vision of me
through the viewfinder. “Because nothing in this world carries the weight and
power of subtext the way sex does. Sex is never just about sex. The domination and submission theme is merely the overt
expression of all the subtext we tacitly agree to pretend we don’t innately
feel while it expresses itself in our lives from the jobs we pursue to the cars
we buy to our favorite positions when we fuck.”
I hesitated as I swept
the downy sable hairs of a makeup brush along one eyelid. Beal was always doing
that, answering questions with responses that either said nothing or that said
so much that I’d still be mulling them over days later. This was one of the
later.
Making myself fight the
natural pause, I selected a new brush to thicken the black liner along my
lashes and asked, “And why do you carry that into your personal life? Why do
you like…?” The knot of anxiety and anticipation abruptly stopped up my throat.
“Why do I like
domination and submission sex? Why do I like controlling a woman, from her
physical actions to her biological reactions? Why do I like composing an
experience of lust and pleasure and overpowering intimacy that she couldn’t resist
if she wanted to?” Nolan, reflected in the mirror, lowered the camera from his
face. Those blue eyes shone with steady intensity as he loomed behind me and
stared down my reflection, pinning me still to the moment by the tension in my
core as I awaited his response. “Why do you, Iva?”
“Why do I what?” I
muttered, more to myself than to Beal. “You mean… you mean why do I like…?” My
muscles went stiff one by one as I realized what he was asking and the question
really sank in, permeating me. While I hesitated, he stepped up close behind
me, so close that I felt the warmth of his body against my shoulder blades
without him actually touching me. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Sounds like you don’t
want to know,” he said, the suggestion of a frown on that chiseled, shadowed
face. “Are you avoiding answering me or asking yourself?”
“I don’t know that I do
like it,” I told him, frowning back, ire riled. Finding Beal too damn handsome
and sensual to resist, enjoying passionate sex…. That wasn’t the same as enjoying
sexual domination. Was it? And yet there was the way he commanded me, held my
arms over my head, set the boundaries of our roles and then used them to push
me. And I had come all the harder for it. “Maybe I’m just fascinated by the…
the unknown. By the novelty of the experience,” I muttered, but even I thought
it sounded like a weak excuse.
Nolan nodded as he
began circling me again, periodically aiming the camera and snapping a shot or
two. The sound played on
shook, and my fingers fumbled with the brushes and lipsticks and the elegant
metal eye shadow compacts. It took a few deep breathes—hidden from him—and a
firmer grip on the slim brush handles, but I steadied myself. I could almost
have pretended Beal wasn’t there, if not for the hissing click of the periodic
shutter snap.
“Darker,” he murmured
from behind me, “for the camera.” After a moment, I realized he meant the
makeup, and I soothed down the tremor in the pit of my stomach. I knew what was
coming, the endgame that was going to have me giving myself to Nolan tonight.
All part of our agreement. No point in fretting over the inevitable, I
concluded. “Good,” he said as though he could hear what I was thinking and
approved, but again he just meant the makeup.
Maybe because my
thoughts refused to still as easily as my stomach, I glanced up into the mirror
at the photographer’s reflection, his roguishly handsome face hidden by his
Nikon. “Why do you do this?” I asked him haltingly, knowing I wasn’t making
myself clear. “The bondage theme? In your work, I mean.”
He responded while
circling me, without lowering the camera, still filtering his vision of me
through the viewfinder. “Because nothing in this world carries the weight and
power of subtext the way sex does. Sex is never just about sex. The domination and submission theme is merely the overt
expression of all the subtext we tacitly agree to pretend we don’t innately
feel while it expresses itself in our lives from the jobs we pursue to the cars
we buy to our favorite positions when we fuck.”
I hesitated as I swept
the downy sable hairs of a makeup brush along one eyelid. Beal was always doing
that, answering questions with responses that either said nothing or that said
so much that I’d still be mulling them over days later. This was one of the
later.
Making myself fight the
natural pause, I selected a new brush to thicken the black liner along my
lashes and asked, “And why do you carry that into your personal life? Why do
you like…?” The knot of anxiety and anticipation abruptly stopped up my throat.
“Why do I like
domination and submission sex? Why do I like controlling a woman, from her
physical actions to her biological reactions? Why do I like composing an
experience of lust and pleasure and overpowering intimacy that she couldn’t resist
if she wanted to?” Nolan, reflected in the mirror, lowered the camera from his
face. Those blue eyes shone with steady intensity as he loomed behind me and
stared down my reflection, pinning me still to the moment by the tension in my
core as I awaited his response. “Why do you, Iva?”
“Why do I what?” I
muttered, more to myself than to Beal. “You mean… you mean why do I like…?” My
muscles went stiff one by one as I realized what he was asking and the question
really sank in, permeating me. While I hesitated, he stepped up close behind
me, so close that I felt the warmth of his body against my shoulder blades
without him actually touching me. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Sounds like you don’t
want to know,” he said, the suggestion of a frown on that chiseled, shadowed
face. “Are you avoiding answering me or asking yourself?”
“I don’t know that I do
like it,” I told him, frowning back, ire riled. Finding Beal too damn handsome
and sensual to resist, enjoying passionate sex…. That wasn’t the same as enjoying
sexual domination. Was it? And yet there was the way he commanded me, held my
arms over my head, set the boundaries of our roles and then used them to push
me. And I had come all the harder for it. “Maybe I’m just fascinated by the…
the unknown. By the novelty of the experience,” I muttered, but even I thought
it sounded like a weak excuse.
Nolan nodded as he
began circling me again, periodically aiming the camera and snapping a shot or
two. The sound played on
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