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I stare at his beauty—and his insatiable appetite for what I’ve only given him the tiniest taste of.
Have I awakened the man in him, or the beast?
“You’re in for a real long night.”
16
I tie him up twelve different ways, from hogties to behind-the-back leather wrist bindings to artfully suspended arrangements.
All of which I take pictures of.
I clothe him in sports gear, leather gear, and in a number of the photos, nothing but his tiny black boxer-briefs.
Between some of our scenes and positions, we kiss, as if to remind ourselves that despite our taste for objectification and power play and giving up control, we are in fact very much human.
I’ve never felt more connected to someone else.
Not like I do tonight with Tye Jenson, the kid I once thought was just here for himself.
I severely underestimated what he would give me in return.
I bind him in positions that are uncomfortable, and in that discomfort, he moans with pleasure as he struggles against his binds. I know the feeling of bliss that surges through his heart when he feels like he can’t escape the traps I put him in.
Just like me at his age, Tye can’t get enough.
It must be well past two in the morning—over four and a half hours later—when an inevitable stroke of humanity interrupts a particularly skillful Shibari tie I achieve: the growling of Tye’s stomach.
I snort, lowering my camera. “You hungry?”
He grimaces, then attempts to shrug despite the beautiful red rope keeping his arms woven in place behind his back. “Yeah, a bit.”
After snapping a few more shots, I set down the camera and undo his binds. A moment later, the pair of us are in my kitchen where I fix us some late-night grub: reheated pasta mixed with scraps of bacon (not quite my nonna’s carbonara, but close enough). By seeing the way Tye devours it, I’m guessing it does the trick … or else he’s just starving.
I guess a four-hour bondage session has a way of working up an appetite. “I gotta tell you, this isn’t how I expected to spend my night,” I admit, scraping up the last little scraps of bacon left on my plate. I ate so fast. “I thought—”
“I’m sorry.”
I peer at him over the island counter. “Sorry?”
“For making you … cross the line with me. I know about your reputation. I know it’s gotta be, uh … conflicting.” He rubs his buzzed head, then squints at me with a wince. “I didn’t mean to force my desires onto you. I’ve just never felt this way before. About anything.”
Anything.
Not anyone.
I take hold of my emptied plate and bring it to the sink without saying a word.
“Uh … Did I say something?”
“Nah,” I answer automatically, filling a glass with water from the tap, then taking a sip.
When I turn around, Tye has come around the counter as quiet as a cat, startling me. “I meant it when I said I’m sorry. But maybe what we have going on is different than ‘client and photographer’, don’t you think?”
He’s so close to me. “Of course it’s different.” I find that funny suddenly. “I don’t play around like we just did with any of my clients.”
“I know. Your reputation, like I said.”
“So what’s your point?”
“My point is, even now maybe your reputation is still intact. Maybe you still haven’t broken your own rules.” He comes up even closer, then takes hold of the bottom of my shirt for some reason, giving it a gentle tug. “Maybe we aren’t just … client and photographer …”
My eyes drop to his lips.
“I know I’m young,” he goes on. “I know. I see it in your eyes, too, how you look at me, thinking I can’t possibly know what I want, thinking I could be confused, or experimenting, or just lonely.”
I smirk. “Crossed my mind.”
“But I’m not any of those things. Well, except maybe the last one.” His fingers slip under my shirt and hook into the waistband of my pants—and my underwear. “I know there are parts of me that will be young no matter what I do, because I haven’t seen as much of the world as you have. But I’m not like guys my age either. So where do I go? Who do I hang with? Where do I … belong?”
When his eyes rise to mine searchingly, I feel a deep, inescapable hunger consume me—a hunger that no late-night snack on a plate can satiate.
Unless Tye can be put on a plate.
In a very non-Hannibal-Lector context.
“You belong where the hell you want, Tye.”
“Can I kiss you again?”
I smirk. There’s no fucking way I’ll ever say no to that question. “You want me to order you to kiss me? Or are we not in the playing mood?”
“Oh, I’m always in the playing mood,” he says on his way to my lips.
