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He frowns. “I figured there was a trick to it.”
I snap shut the last shackle on his wrist. “It’s that it spins.”
His eyes flash. “It what …?” he blurts.
He really should’ve guessed; it’s obvious. I step back, then take hold of the iron wheel and give it a thrust. Slowly, the wheel rotates, taking Tye on a journey from right-side-up to upside-down. “Holy fuck,” cries Tye with surprise, as he lifts his head off the wheel to look down (or rather: up) his long body, which I’ve only clothed in a pair of athletic silvery boxer-briefs and nothing else. There is a thick strap around his elbows, knees, and waist to keep him as secured to the wheel as possible.
My lighting only needs one or two adjustments before it’s perfect for a shoot. “Get ready for the struggle of a lifetime,” I tell him. “Remember—”
“My eyes, yeah,” he cuts me off, then chuckles at his situation. “This is so cool.”
“Focus, Tye. Remember breathing, too. Push out your breath to tighten up—”
“My abs, yes, I know. Are you gonna get this shot? This is sick!” He laughs, enjoying it way too much.
I can’t help but smile as I focus the camera on its stand, checking it before snapping a few test shots. “We’re going to make some magic today.”
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting it’s only afternoon. Feels like it’s always night in here.”
“Well, made sense for Jaime to lend us a room before he’s open, not while he’s open when he’s got his customers able to peek in.”
“Mmm … Doesn’t that turn you on a bit?” He struggles as he—still upside-down—cranes his neck to get a look at the door behind me. “People, like, watching us …?”
That makes me smirk. “Sounds like someone’s finding his inner exhibitionist. Don’t worry, Tye; you’re about to be made into an exhibit for many eyes.” Flash, flash, flash. “Perfection.”
I direct Tye as I always do, turning the wheel now and then so his blood doesn’t all rush to his head, as well as to get new angles of his face and his sexy predicament that wheel has him in.
The photos I’ve posted of him on my site have made the rounds, to say the least. I’ve had so many calls this past week, I’m now booked through two months from now, which is a level of business I haven’t achieved in years.
I can’t help but to think our work together has made quite a ripple through the fetish community as well. No doubt, Leobardo has seen the images—and my gorgeous, young new model Tye—but he’s been notably radio silent.
Perhaps stewing in a hot stew of jealousy.
Or bitterness.
Not that I give a stewing shit.
“Now I want you to pull,” I instruct him. “Like you’re trying to pull yourself free.”
“Mmm …” Tye groans. His hard-on is visible, but not crude, keeping my photography tasteful—despite how very close we are to crossing the line between work and play right now. “It’s so fucking tight and strong …”
“Well, it’s metal, so yeah.” I snap a few shots. “C’mon. Really try, Tye. I wanna see the sweat of your efforts, boy …”
“Argh … Urgh …” He starts to really pull, giving me just what I asked for. His biceps flex exquisitely and his abs tighten with excruciating beauty. His eyes scrunch to nothing as he clenches his teeth, pulsating with strength, with youth, with power …
My camera flashes.
And at that exact moment, his left wrist breaks free from his bind.
Shards of metal fly out, spinning, ringing. The chain from the shackle hangs from his wrist. His body drops slightly, then is caught at once by the other straps that still hold him in place.
We both freeze, astonished.
“I … oops …” whispers Tye, wide-eyed, then peers up at me in alarm.
And for whatever reason, whether by instinct, or by the hand of some invisible god of fate, I snap one last shot of his surprise—Flash.
Then I rush up to the wheel, turn it right-side-up, and help Tye out of his binds. “Uh, I didn’t mean to break it—” he starts.
“Nah, it’s fine,” I tell him. “My bad. I’ll pay for it. I just can’t trust this thing to hold you anymore, not if a shackle broke that easily.”
“Maybe it wasn’t easy.” Tye puffs up his bare chest, smirking proudly. “Maybe I’m some kind of Super Boy.”
I roll my eyes and choke back a laugh. “Calm down there, Peter Parker. His equipment is likely recycled or homemade 90s torture devices.”
Tye squints at me. “You do know Peter Parker is Spiderman and not Super Boy, right?”
I help Tye off the wheel. When he’s about to pull off the broken shackle still attached to his wrist, I stop him with a sudden inspiration. “Hey, stay right there, standing next to the wheel. Keep it on, but … lift it above your head.”
