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“Oh.” He gives it a moment’s thought, then lets on a humored smile. “Is it an upgrade from the cat-o’-eight-tails?” After a sadly brief chuckle, he clears his throat and faces me. “If you wanted to take your shower first, I can wait. I don’t mind. I’m the one who imposed on your time.”
“And leave you all alone in my apartment? A total stranger?”
“I … N-No. I could wait in the lobby. Outside. Or something.”
His nervousness is so fucking adorable. After letting my eyes burn him a good hot while, I shake my head. “Nah. I prefer taking my shower afterwards.”
“Why?”
“A good photo shoot can make me …” I lay my eyes on him. “… work up a sweat.”
He swallows hard, then averts his eyes.
I’m really hoping he wants to be tied down.
“What do you want this one photo to be?” I flick on the lights, the glow from the modeling lamps bringing the space to life. “With no notice, I only have the props here in my studio right now.”
“Oh.” He still moves slowly around the room, inspecting the props and instruments. “I’m … I’m not really sure. I don’t know.”
“What is this photo for?”
He stops in front of the sling that hangs from the ceiling, as if just now discovering it. “It’s … It’s for me, I guess.”
“For your own personal use? Or for a business use? It makes a difference.”
“Business?” He finds that funny suddenly, his whole face lighting up as he runs a hand along the sling. “What kind of business would someone need a photo of them on a … a harness for?”
“It’s called a sling.” I adjust the light’s canopy. “Not a harness. And there are several businesses that can and do utilize my photography. Bars. Clubs. Toy vendors. Bondage gear purveyors. Fetish sites and magazines. S&M parties.”
“Oh.” He retracts his hand from the sling, as if afraid of it.
I can’t help but laugh. “It ain’t gonna bite you.”
He tries to muster up a moment of courage. “I know.” It deflates when he turns to find himself faced with a long shelf of butt plugs and dildos of increasingly daunting sizes.
Then his eyes fall on a long wall of various styles of nipple clamps, from the soft to the hard to the chained and the rubber-tipped pegs.
I come around the sling. “Now those bite.”
He eyes me anxiously, saying nothing.
I lift an eyebrow. “So what’s going on here? Are you going to make me dig? Or are you going to tell me what brought you to my door?”
He turns away to look at something else, and whether by instinct or total subliminal coincidence, he grabs hold of his hands behind his back. I think it’s just him nervously fretting, but suddenly I’m picturing rope binding his hands behind his back.
And the muffled sound of him moaning with a ball gag in his mouth.
And his pretty eyes rocking back as I drop my mouth to his body, exploring every inch of him, as he writhes helplessly, bound, and in my control.
“Is this where you play with your, uh … your boyfriends?”
I squint at him. “Boyfriends?”
He lets go his hands from behind his back and spins around to face me. “Sorry. Was that … Was that inappropriate to ask? I’m just curious.”
I can’t remember the last time I let anyone get close enough to me to call them a boyfriend. It must have been several years ago. “No,” I answer him, sounding more clipped than I intend to. “I don’t mix business and pleasure. This room, these toys—they’re props, and scene settings. I don’t use these for my own pleasure.”
Well, not exactly …
“Oh. Sorry. I presumed. I mean, why call them toys unless they’re meant for fun, right?” He gives one feeble laugh at his own joke, then goes silent at once. “I’m sorry. I’m not really familiar with any of this stuff. I mean, I’ve seen porn, and—” He winces as he searches for the words. “I know about it. Uh, well, kinda. I’ve just never … experienced it.”
At once, everything clicks into place.
Now I get it. Why he’s here. What he wants. And why he’s so nervous. “Sorry, baby boy,” I tell him, “but I’m not what you’re looking for.”
I flick off two of the lights with a sigh.
A panicked look crosses his face. “Did I offend you? Wait. Why are you shutting everything off?”
I turn off the camera and eye him. “Boy, I am not a fucking sex dungeon.”
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“I’m a photographer. An artist. This is like my office. Those dildos that made your stomach drop straight out your ass? Those nipple clamps—y’know, the ones that bite …? They are my equipment. Props, I call them, because that is precisely what they are. Not toys. They’re a business expense I deduct from my yearly taxes, you get me?” I’m on fire. I’m hot. I can’t believe I fell for this innocent boy crap. “I am not a dungeon-owning horn dog who exists to satisfy some twink’s bondage fantasies.”
