Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) (9 page)

“Tell me you want to be
fucked.” And no word in any language had ever sounded like Nolan Beal using the
F word.
Fuck, fucked, fucking
. A
dirty, dangerous, suggestive word that came out polished smooth and warm and
smelling like expensive designer perfume.

A galling mew slipped
out of me when I took in the breath to sigh, “I want to be fucked.”

He was still staring at
me, no attempt to raise his camera. “You want to be fucked hard.” It wasn’t a
command or a prompt or a question. It was a plain statement of fact. “You want
to forget all the bullshit pretense of class and civility that’s keeping you
from spreading your legs and giving yourself to a man who doesn’t care what’s
proper and respectful. So do it.”

With my face hot and
tingling, I nodded, my anxieties finally silenced by the low, lulling roar of
desire pounding in my ears. “Like the story.”

“Exactly,” Nolan said.
“Like the beautiful, elegant lady in her expensive dress and her perfect
makeup, in her life of luxury.” He lifted the camera at last, muttering in that
moment before I lost sight of his face and those dark eyes, “Who just wants to
feel out of control in the hands of a man she can trust to take it from her.
She wants to be protected and owned, wanted, spread open and taken. A helpless
girl ravaged and possessed. A dirty little bitch punished and used just the way
she likes it. All at once. Every night. Can you feel her, Iva?”

Breathing so hot and
deep I didn’t even want to try to speak, I gave a slow, slight nod.

“Then pull up the dress
and show me,” he ordered, voice deeper and flatter than normal, like it was
part Nolan talking to me and part the man from the story. A Dom who needed no
name, no specific history to establish his right to touch me this way.

My hands felt like
someone else’s as I reached for the hem of the black slip, then drew it
smoothly up my thighs until Nolan could see—the camera could see—the black
panties I wore under the dress.

Eyes out of focus as
the fantasy Nolan had described overtook me, I only heard his voice as he
asked, “Did you shave for me?”

“Yes,” I rasped.

“Show me your pussy.
Pull your panties down.”

No forcing him to do it
for me this time, I told myself. Not even the slightest pretense of reluctance.
The last time, I had given myself to the moment without warning. Now it was—had
to be—a conscious choice without excuses later. Was I ready for that?

I slid my wet silk
panties down my thighs, over my knees, and let them slip to the floor around
the sharp toes and heels of the black stilettos. When I straightened, a sudden
flare of light from the lamps—all of the lamps at once—caught me off guard,
blinded me, made me recoil and cover myself. “What—?”

“It’s the slave units.
Photo slaves,” I heard Nolan say. “I make one flash go off, and they all go off
together.”

I felt like I’d been
slapped, like
he
had slapped me, just
hard enough to startle me. Blinking, still covering myself and looking away, I
thought to myself,
that figures
. The
slave unit might not have been what I’d thought it was, but the concept and the
name made perfect sense in the context of Nolan Beal. He pulled the trigger,
and a train of unstoppable, inevitable events flared to life, swallowed up the
world in a blinding flash. Only dimly, gradually, did I pick up on the familiar
whir and click that told me Beal was still taking photos as I cringed and tried
to recover.

“Look at me,” he said,
and after some hesitation and reflexive fluttering of heavy lashes, I did.
“Bare yourself again. Your pussy. Your breasts. Show me you want me to touch
you.”

Stars still sparkled
along the periphery of my vision, but my body obediently complied. I struggled
to resist the urge to squirm as I pulled the hem of the dress back up with one
hand and drew down the straps to bare my chest with the other. The slave units
flashed again and made me gasp. I felt the flare of heat against my skin… and
the contraction of my quavering sex inside me. The flashing, the snapping and
whirring of the camera, the cut of Beal’s voice…. All of it together ratcheted
up the unbearable exposure of standing there displaying myself sexually.

“Spread your legs,”
Beal said. With spots in front of my eyes and my senses in total disarray, I
couldn’t tell if he was across the room, next to me, or inside my head. “Show
me what’s mine.”

I did, even as the
lights flared again, striking me with heat and blindness. With the statement,
the weight and feel of it, the forbidden thrill of it echoing in my mind, I
leaned against the edge of the vanity and planted those dramatic stiletto heels
a foot apart. I presented my flushed, shaven pussy to the man and the camera.
When the flashes went off again, I moaned and jerked as though they had
penetrated me. I drew my arms tight across my ribcage below my naked breasts,
with nipples hardened to aching nubs and flesh prickling with goose bumps, and
hugged myself—anything to keep from writhing and begging him for what I wanted
him to
just do
.

He knew that; he must
have. Beal advanced on me in a deliberate prowl, shutter whirring its growl and
snapping like an animal about to pounce. He kept shooting, kept the camera
bearing down on me even as he stood directly over me, as I reared back and
turned my face away. Part was shame at the wantonness of my behavior, yes, but
part was just how overwhelming I found the exhilaration of being photographed
and dominated and transported outside myself by Nolan’s fantasy all at the same
time.

Nolan made himself a
definite presence in the photographs, with his hand roughly gripping my chin to
force my face back toward the camera, then gently palming my cheek. With his
arm then reaching behind my neck so he could pull the hair at the back of my
head. It was all from his perspective. His hunger.

Then the shutter
stopped snapping, and the lights faded back to that relaxing glow, as Nolan
stepped away to set the Nikon on his desk. I hardly moved, maybe just shifted
to keep my balance where I leaned
spread
on the vanity. For all the endorphins already flooding my body and softening my
thoughts, like strong alcohol and stronger music, I couldn’t react as I watched
him turn and stalk back toward me while peeling his t-shirt over his head. His
arms and abs were tensed and defined, rippling muscles leading in a pronounced
V down below the leather belt he wore in his low-rise jeans. A taut bulge in
the front of his pants, straining the thick material, threatened more of the
same hard use—
the long, deep fucking
—that
had shattered my reserve the night of our first session.

No preliminaries this
time. We’d had our oral foreplay in those moments setting the scene. When Nolan
reached the vanity, it was with belt unbuckled, pants unzipped, and boxers
pushed down to free his rampant cock. His first thrust was fast, powerful, and
complete—to the base of his smooth, heavy balls.

“Is that it?” he
demanded, one hand locked around the back of my neck so I couldn’t lean away.
No matter how quiet or smooth or controlled his voice; it was still a demand.
“Is that what you’ve been wanting?”

“Yes.”

I groaned, then grunted
inelegantly with the force of his second stroke, then the third. He was riding
me as deep as he could from the start. My body responded with dull pain and
waves of rippling delight that had me sweating and my thighs shaking.

With his hot satin lips
at my ear, his breath indeed smelling lightly of rum and cinnamon, he growled,
“Is that enough cock for you?” A deep plunge punctuated each word as he taunted
me as, “Little. Miss. Innocent.” His pace and force mounted, until we were
rocking the table and knocking over all the bottles and tubes. “Can you feel
how deep I am inside you? How wide you’re opening for me?”

“Yes,” I cried between
choking breaths.

“Yes what? What are you
supposed to say?”

I couldn’t. I couldn’t
say it, partially because it felt as though I was choking on the breath
straining my lungs and throat, and partially because it was my turn to push
against the pull.

Beal’s reaction was to
use his free hand to hold my hip, put his knee up on the vanity to spread me wider,
and hammer me mercilessly under the full weight and power of his body. I
grabbed at the far edge of the mirror to give myself some resistance, so I
could buck up under him. So I could ride him as much as he was riding me.

But that wasn’t the
reality of it. The Dom answered force with force, with a pace redoubled. He
rode my body, my bucking spirit, and shook me to the bone with his relentless
rhythm and the kiss of his cockhead against my aching cervix at the end of each
thrust. When I squirmed, he pressed his hips down into me and pinned me still
and deep by my core, a butterfly on a board. What a picture that would have
made.

When I lay back on the
table, wrung out, wet, coursing with a pulsing bliss that might have been one
long orgasm, Nolan lowered his sweat-dampened face over mine and took my lips
in a slow, driving, thorough kiss. I felt the twists and teases of his tongue
in my pulsing nerves and racing blood, in the throbbing of my clit.

Lips brushing mine, he
murmured, “You are either going to use your safeword or my name, Brown Eyes.”

It was my moment of
truth, an opportunity to end this now. Say a single word and walk away clean.
But… but just then I
needed
the
climax he was lording over me more than I needed safety or security, more than
I needed my pride. Even more than I needed the approval of my family and my
friends and all the people who held my career and my future in their hands. I
needed to feel my pussy quivering around Nolan’s cock as he filled me in the
moment of his own release. I needed to feel passion and life and to surrender
to the utter lack of control. There would be other moments, opportunities,
choices, I told myself. For now….

He started thrusting
again, the friction hot against the walls of my sex. My orgasm was an explosive
flare from smoldering embers, a wave of wildfire convulsing through me and
ending with me whimpering and rocking up under Beal’s weight. And with a
soul-deep, exhausted plea.

“Nolan.”

His response was a
shuddering orgasm of his own that made him clench his teeth and brace himself
with one hand on the table beneath us. I felt his rushing breath against my
cheek, flowing down my neck in rolling shivers. Liquid warmth flowed into my
deepest space.

“Iva.”

Nolan kept rocking into
me, fucking me through our climaxes. I couldn’t believe he stayed so hard so
long. Then I couldn’t believe he could be so tender, brushing the damp hair
from my face as his pace and our breathing gradually slowed.

I didn’t want that
tenderness, or didn’t want to want it. Like I didn’t want to know he mentored
young models and gave street kids pocket money and pizza. When I balled my
stiff fingers into fists and pushed at his shoulders, I didn’t mean for him to
help me off the table or to help me slip out of the slip dress and the shoes.
But he did. And I let him, because the alternative scenario would have had him
leave me there exposed in so ungraceful and violated a position while he went
and found a bottle of rum or shut himself in a dark room or just ordered me out
of his studio. All of which would have helped me in my cause of getting Nolan
Beal out of my system and none of which I could have handled right now in my
strangely emotional state. I wanted to cry. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to be
held.

And Nolan did hold me,
in the shower as hot water beat our sore bodies and steamed the tile and the
mirror. I roused myself when I found I’d laid my cheek against Beal’s bare
chest, and I tried to push him away and reach for the plastic curtain.

“Not yet,” he told me,
his arms tightening around my shoulders and waist. “Emotions run high after sex
like that, Iva. Aftercare is my responsibility.”

While I relented and
laid my head back down on Beal’s chest, the term played over and over in my
head: his responsibility. An absurd idea, Nolan Beal feeling bound to his
responsibility to care for the woman he had just dominated when the man was the
embodiment of all things rash and irresponsible. An insulting thought as well,
that he
had
to hold me like this, had
to pretend some affection and concern with me, not because he genuinely felt it
but because that was what Doms did with submissives.

“Iva,” he said against
the top of my wet head. “The nails.” I hadn’t realized I was digging my
fingernails into his hips.

“It’s too hot,” I
complained and squirmed until Beal finally let me go.

Sighing, he held back
the curtain. “There’s a fresh towel on the rack right there.”

I dried off enough to
avoid leaving a snail trail before bundling myself up in the towel and
collecting my own clothes off the peg on the back of the door. Back in the main
room of his apartment, I should have just gotten dressed as fast as I could.
Should have left before Beal came out of the bathroom.

Instead,… I lingered,
not really knowing why, speculating that it was because it was so cold outside
and my hair was still wet. Thinking that I wanted to speak with Beal before I
left, to make sure we had an understanding that Cheri would be signing no more
releases, regardless of whether the exhibition proceeded or not. And finally
realizing that I just needed something from him, and I didn’t know what.