Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2)

THE ART OF DOMINATION 2: PHOTO
SLAVE

(A
DOMINATION AND SUBMISSION ROMANCE SERIAL)

by

Erika
Masten

Copyright
© 2014 Erika Masten

ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika
Masten

Contact:
[email protected]

Website:
http://erikamasten.com

Blog:
http://erikamasten.blogspot.com

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Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains
material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties.
Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual
persons or events are purely coincidental.

Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers
only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years of age or older, and all
sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please
protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.

THE ART OF DOMINATION 2: PHOTO SLAVE

IVA

“Will you be able to
give me what I want?” he had asked while I’d stared at those impossibly lush
lips in a hue of rose so perfect it wasn’t fair a man should have it. A
rhetorical question, this. A tease.

“Pose for me, and I’ll
hand over Cheri’s model release,” he’d said, his head of ruffled black hair
tilted roguishly as he regarded me with those veiled, too blue eyes. A proposal
quite a bit more problematic than it sounded.

Then it had been, “You
don’t have to sign a release; no one will know,” and, “My offer will be as
sincere as your performance.” Prophetic, to say the least.

My encounter with
photographer Nolan Beal played over and over in my head despite the mundane
work day droning around me. I’d struck a deal with a devil in denim and leather
to keep the rakish and charismatic artist from using the erotic photographs he
had of my younger sister for his nouveau noir gallery show, a high couture
bondage pin-up exhibition. Despite having gotten exactly what I’d wanted—or at
least exactly what I’d asked for—I couldn’t easily forget the price I’d paid.

The evening had
proceeded from an awkward but mundane lingerie photo shoot with a lackluster
wardrobe and snippy prima donna models to stunning designer gowns and red-soled
stilettos, strong wine, and being left alone with a photographer gorgeous
enough to be a model himself and seductive enough to make me turn my back on
almost three years of good behavior—no partying, no all-night painting
sessions, no legendary love affairs or flat out wild sex with this brooding
sculptor or that edgy singer / songwriter. That place, Beal’s white brick and
scuffed wood studio in the gothic industrial Cathedral Artists Lofts, and that
man…. It had all too easily rekindled old hungers with sensations that fanned a
need even I hadn’t realize I still carried around under all this
hard-cultivated restraint.

Until finally, seeing
me anxious and faltering, Beal had handed me that exquisite silk and ribbon
mask, that assurance of anonymity. It had been the excuse I needed. I had yielded
to, “Open your eyes, Iva. I want you to look at me,” and, “Spread your legs,”
to show him my panties and, “All that power and allure comes at a price,
doesn’t it?”

Like the swirling storm
of apprehensions and pleasures that night, even my memories of what had
ultimately happened were a series of sensations narrated by that deep,
oh-so-wry voice of his with the melted honey center.

“Pull down your
panties, Iva,” he’d instructed coolly and evenly while my ears had been buzzing
with the
click-click-click
of the
camera shutter, my skin prickling with sensual provocation from the silk dress
I wore and the velvet cushion where I knelt, from the palpable weight of Beal’s
attention upon me.

“There’s a fine line
between art and life, Iva. Between pretty pictures and actually being taken
hard by a man,” he’d cautioned while I shivered in the chill of having pulled
my dress up, begging him to rip my clothes off.

He had issued the gruff
warnings—“It’s not that neat, Iva.”

And the
commands—“Safeword, now,” and, “Say my name. Always say my name,” and, “Show it
to me. Open up for me,” and most importantly, “You may only ever come if you’re
moaning my name.”

The heated flush
spreading over my cheeks now, quickening my breath and fogging my head,
reminded me that the office was hardly the place to be reliving the most
passionate encounter I’d allowed myself in three years. It couldn’t have
happened at a worse time, as I was trying to work my way into a better job,
either with the university or with one of the ad agencies I had approached with
my graphic art portfolio. I was feeling okay about living a calmer life away
from the art scene. And my sister Darcie had started to relax a little more
around me, I thought, and almost seemed to trust me again. Now here I was
daydreaming about one night that risked everything—while I stumbled and mumbled
through secretarial tasks, misfiled paperwork, and misdirected mail.

Point being, if there
was anything we Moreau girls had mastered, it was bad timing. So much so that
you’d almost think we liked it.

Not just the time when
the family was spending the Fourth of July at that cabin rental on the lake and
big sister Darcie had snuck out the backdoor and into the woods to make out
with the senior class swim captain Brad Yates—quite the show for that boy scout
troupe doing their nighttime flashlight nature hike. Or the day Darcie and I
were teasing little sister Cheri about finally getting breasts at thirteen and
snapping her on the ass with her training bra as we chased her through the house
and directly through stepmom Lynn’s book club meeting.

And my illustrious
resume of ill-conceived antics at the worst possible moment…. Well, that was
just too long to ponder in a spare minute here or there. That litany of
embarrassment was best saved for the psychologist’s couch, someday, when I
could afford it and had better insurance benefits than Vandergriff University
doled out to the secretarial staff. Maybe when I made assistant professor in
the Art Department, if I ever got the opportunity.

My chances plummeted as
the anteroom door to the department dean’s office swung open hard, old hinges
emitting a plaintive whine. At the very skirting edge of my peripheral vision,
I caught the jerking motion of the 1960’s metal slab with its faux wood grain
veneer, and the glint of light off a familiar shade of dark gold hair, and the
angry Moreau stride vaguely concealed by a navy peacoat with ripped jeans and
stylishly unfashionable mid-calf military surplus boots.

A lovely surprise visit
from Cheri, I noted mordantly in the back of my mind as my whole body went
rigid. I was mid-sentence on the phone with some pompous postmodern prodigy
demanding five figures for an evening contribution to our lecture series, and
he was giving me a headache, no extra charge. Wavy strands from the disorderly
bundle of brown curls atop my head kept escaping from the bun, getting in my
eyes and tickling my nose, despite the dozen hairpins I’d used that morning.
Quick sort moistening goo in a nasty pink color coated my fingers so I could
page through endless paperwork. Somewhere in the background, the Art Department
admin supervisor, Mitsy, was carping on about how young secretaries these days
were lazy and incompetent and mouthy. Periodically, she lobbed an extra loud
pejorative snip toward the back of my head. So I was already in a state, as I
accidentally let the clunky plastic receiver slip from where I’d pinned it
between ear and shoulder.

Frankly, I was
surprised Cheri had waited three days to track me down after what I’d done.
After I’d seen the ad in the back of the Vandergriff student newspaper for the
provocatively sexual Amor Noir photographic exhibition of Nolan Beal’s work
scheduled to open at The Odyssey Modern Gallery—the ad featuring Cheri—and I’d
walked off the job and straight into the hedonistic poseur’s studio. After I’d
demanded that the absurdly sexy Mr. Beal stop using my nineteen-year-old sister
as his model, abusing her naivety. After I’d struck the only bargain I could
with him: Cheri’s model release, turned over to me, in exchange for me doing a
single session with him. After I’d lost my white-knuckle grip on the old Iva,
impetuous painter and insatiable sensualist, and had sex with him. Had let him
pull my hair and throw me down on a velvet couch. Had let him tell me what to
do and what to say—his name, when I came. Had let him dominate me.

God, I hoped Cheri
didn’t know anything about that part. She knew enough, it seemed, as she
stomped up to my desk as the first point of contact in the office. The silky
straight fall of her blond hair flared back from her shoulders like a wildlife
display of aggression. Her blue eyes glared. And the plain manila folder she
carried crackled dully with hard creases where she gripped the thick paper
stock.

I was summoning up my
pre-rehearsed justification, though my motives were so clear that I shouldn’t
have had to explain or defend anything.
Bulldozing
through her free will
, Cheri was going to say, and I was going to counter
that photographic evidence
was forever
.
Then Cheri tossed that folder onto my desk, and I recognized several partial
images as the corners of three or four photographs slid out through the open
end of the file. I couldn’t have mistaken that silken gleam, that particular
silvery lavender gown. And I hung up the telephone receiver without a word.
Without a breath in my chest or a heartbeat to be had.

Goddamn
you, Beal
. He had promised no one else would ever see those
photos.

Standing up and leaning
over the desk to block the view of anyone behind me—Mitsy, the other two
secretaries—I peeled back the top of the folder to find vivid visual reminders
of that evening, three nights ago. Photographs of me…. No, not me, the other
Iva, the old Iva I had promised myself and Darcie I would never be again. I
stood there at my desk in my prim black turtleneck and slacks and tried not to
relive the feeling of the silky designer gown against my skin, the thrill and
seductive power of strutting and posing in those silver-heeled stilettos, the
tingling exhilaration crackling through my nerves and my rushing blood of the
camera shutter snapping and whirring at split-second speed. And me looking so
haughty and so alluring and so naughty with my panties showing, with one
shoulder of the dress falling away to reveal the corona of one pink nipple. My
nipples peaked again now, for a few seconds, as I recalled… things I shouldn’t
have been dwelling on just then. Still.

Through clenched teeth
but in a surprisingly low, level voice, my little sister asked, “Any suggestion
on which hypocrisy we should address first?”

Behind me, Mitsy
smacked her lips, coated today in a thick layer of purplish burgundy lipstick
that hadn’t been sold in even the kitschiest dime store for at least the last
twenty years. “No personal business during work hours, Iva.”

Without actually
meeting the glare I was no doubt getting from behind those owlish glasses, I
answered over my shoulder, “Right, Mitsy, of course. I’m on my break.” Her
hurried, shrieky protest was just cycling up as I snatched the manila folder to
my chest and led Cheri from the office, down the echoing tile corridor, and out
into the chill air of the park-like quad between several of the arts and social
studies buildings.

As we strode along the
concrete paths at a pace brisk enough to match our pulses and straining
tempers, I told Cheri, “I tried to call you when I saw that ad in the
Vandergriff Voice.”

“Uh-huh,” she said,
nodding. “The one where I’m not even recognizable to someone who didn’t grow up
with me, running around half-naked and sharing a bathroom with me.”

“But I
did
recognize you.”

Cheri flashed a pointed
glare at the folder I still hugged to my chest. “And I recognized you even with
the mask you were wearing.”

“It isn’t what it looks
like,” I blurted, lying, but it hadn’t
started
out
as what it looked like. “That studio and the all-night photo shoots and
that man
…. I promised I’d put that
lifestyle behind me, and I meant it. I would never have been there if I hadn’t
had to go to convince Nolan Beal to leave you alone.”

My sister’s voice
repertoire was considerable. She pulled out her sugar-and-scorn tone to agree,
“Yes, that’s a logical alternative to just leaving me a voicemail.”