“No.” I hesitated before I opened up, afraid that my personal desires would cost me future work with James. If I don’t tell James, who can I tell? Certainly not Gauge. “I was just expecting to get tied up by you, that’s all. It just wasn’t what I was expecting. I was looking forward to having you tie me up.” I knew that it would be at least three months before I had the chance to work with James again. I was mourning the waiting period, trying to think of other producers that made me feel the same way as James. There were plenty of rope artists at KINK that hired me on a regular basis and were satisfactory, but none of them tied as tight as James. James handled his rope with care. There was a romantic intimacy that James brought to the scene, a beautiful marriage of tenderness and sadism that turned me on.
“You know, I can still tie you up even if we aren’t working.”
His response was shocking; my psychological circuitry was blown. You mean this happens when a camera isn’t rolling? You mean this could happen to me when a camera isn’t rolling? The camera had become a safe container for me, a place for my fantasies to exist without interfering with the domestic home life I had built with Gauge. The very mention of James tying me up without camera seemed dangerous. Tight rope pressed against my flesh, his body so close to mine. What might happen if a camera wasn’t there to dictate our roles as “model” and “photographer”? Although James and Bren had arrangements for sexual situations outside of their relationship, Gauge and I did not. I couldn’t take him up on his offer, but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
Los Angeles. Room 402. Back to work. I opened the door into a small, charming hotel room already set up with a video camera on a tripod and a photo camera lying on the bed. James and Bren hugged me, exchanging pleasantries before reviewing their ideas for the evening’s shoot. After digging through my small selection of wardrobe choices, which weren’t appealing to James or Bren, we decided I should shoot naked: pure and simple, natural, the kinky girl next door. I sat cross-legged as James tied my legs and Bren operated the video camera. James directed my hands behind my back and pulled my arms into the shape of a box. Soon James’ tightly cinched ropes transported me.
The fibrous natural jute rope cut into my skin sending my mind off into space. James’ hands cupped my small breasts and dug into my ivory skin, feeling incredible against my flesh. I had been waiting a very long time for this. Bren clicked away, taking photos while James brought the Hitachi up to my cunt and I thrust my hips forward, begging for more. My voice filled the hotel room and drifted down the hallway, “More, Daddy! Please, Daddy! I want more, fill me up, fuck me, please…” James snapped on a latex glove and squirted some lube onto my already wet pussy. The Hitachi was back on my engorged clit when his hand entered me for the first time.
He looked up at me, “Is this ok?”
“Mmmm…yes, please” is all I could mutter.
James teased me with the wand, holding it close then taking it away while his three fingers pumped in and out. I could smell the rope and feel it bite at my arms and legs. The ropes that made my chest harness pulled at my breasts with every breath and my orgasms kept peaking and crashing in intense oceanic waves. I could feel his latex covered hand in my cunt, pumping with pleasure, grasping for my g-spot, fucking my eager, wet pussy. I collapsed, bound, and in his arms while Bren was still taking photos.
“Wow, I think that’s a wrap!” he said, barely keeping composure.
James undid his ropes with great care and tenderness. I was sad to see the ropes being packed away, I felt lonely in their absence.
When I regained my sea legs I stood up and made my way to the bathroom to shower and dress. As I stood, splashing my face with water, I listened to James and Bren softly bickering, the sounds falling like rain against the glass in a delicate percussion.
“I’d like to ask her, Bren. What if she sleeps on the floor? She can be our submissive for the evening.”
This wasn’t what Bren wanted to hear, and was actually quite a surprise to me. I closed my eyes and pictured myself lying on the floor; maybe with a pillow and blanket. Maybe I’ll fetch tea in the morning? Or make breakfast. It wasn’t the first time I had fantasized about James, but it was the first time that I had heard about James’ desire for me. He wanted me to fill a role in his life, a life that continued when the cameras stopped rolling.
My cell phone went off. It was Gauge, she wanted to make sure I was okay. It was getting late and I hadn’t called. I explained to her that we were just wrapping up and that I’d be going out with some friends afterward.
That night, instead of staying in the hotel room with James and Bren, he invited me to attend a fetish party in Hollywood. I had never gone out in L.A., and I’d never been to an event with a photographer or producer before. In my life I kept work very separate from non-work, but I felt those lines blurring as the night went on.
Fireworks exploded in the sky in bursts of red, green, and blue lights as the plane landed at Sea-Tac International Airport on the Fourth of July. A small six-year-old girl with white-blonde hair pulled into two braids sat with her father, staring out the airplane window and pointed in wonder.
“Whoa! Did you see that one, Dad?” The girl’s face was inches from the thick glass, watching the shower of brilliant colors shoot into the air and past the descending airplanes.
I watched as the landing gear lowered and the plane gently landed on the tarmac. The seat belt light turned off. “Welcome to Seattle, where the time is currently eight-thirty p.m. It is eighty-five degrees and partly cloudy. If you checked luggage with us today you can pick your bags up at carousel five. Thank you for flying with Jet Blue and we hope you consider flying with us for all of your future travel.”
Passengers unbuckled their belts and bounced out of their seats, anxious to grab their bags and personal items and deplane as quickly as possible. I sat still and allowed the rest of the passengers to create their own chaos. I would not participate in the mad race to the luggage carousel that day. Instead, I rooted around for my phone.
One voicemail. Gauge. Telling me that she would be moving out and that her belongings would be gone from our apartment when I returned to San Francisco. Gauge and I had a series of volatile arguments the week before, which came to a climactic finale with my departure to Seattle for work. My constant travel schedule and my work continued to create a huge fissure between us. When I introduced to her the idea of trying out polyamory earlier in the week, she fumed. We each had a different idea of our ideal relationship, and were aware of it. No matter how much I loved her, it wasn’t working out.
It had been six months since I last saw James Mogul, but I never stopped thinking about him: I can tie you up when we aren’t shooting. I was in search of a Daddy, and from our last encounter in Los Angeles I determined that James was in search of a Little Girl. I stood at carousel number five watching the baggage rotating around in circles, heartbroken over Gauge, but the deep pain that I felt over the loss only made me want a Daddy even more, someone to hold me and make it all better. I spotted my large navy blue rolling suitcase and heaved it off of the conveyer belt.
James was going to pick me up from the airport. Outside, I watched the hands on my watch tick by while families piled into minivans, lovers reunited after long business trips, and college buddies embraced and heaved suitcases into open trunks. James pulled up in an old beaten-up pickup.
“Welcome to Seattle, Madison! How was your flight?” He tossed my luggage into the bed of the truck and I climbed into the cab.
“It was okay. Are we headed back to the model apartment?” Last time I visited, James kept an apartment next to the one he resided in. It was an apartment in which he shot domestic scenes, as well as a place for models to stay and a place for James and Bren to conduct love affairs outside of their relationship.
“No, we’re headed to the studio in Pioneer Square. It’s been a hard couple of weeks. Bren and I are sep
arating. It’s not looking so good. Anyway, Bren is taking both of the apartments and has left me with the studio. We...I mean, I, have an air mattress set up for you there and I’ll be taking the couch, if that’s cool with you.”
It hurt to think of Gauge packing her belongings, sweaters that I sometimes wore, artwork off the walls, picture albums, but in the pit of aching nausea that churned in my gut I felt a small seed of warmth and hope. I was empathic for James’ pain and his loss, but I welcomed our shared experience mourning lost loves.
When we arrived at the industrial warehouse studio I followed him up the two flights of steep stairs and into the colorful loft. The studio was full of creative, vibrant energy. A graffiti mural of lush, juicy orange and candy-colored blue filled one wall and his sanded and finished hardwood floors retained painted break dance circles from the previous tenants. James poured me a glass of sparkling water and proceeded to pull out sheets, blankets, and pillows for the air mattress that lay by the large night-filled windows. Without words, I awkwardly changed into my pajamas and burrowed in under the covers.
“Good night, Madison,” James called from the other side of the room divider.
“Good night, Mr. Mogul.” I never called him that before, but it seemed to fit. I respected him and admired the way he seemed to retain control, even while experiencing a move and a breakup. I didn’t handle transitions as gracefully.
I woke up to James making breakfast and the scent of chocolate. He toasted bagels and set out small dishes of hummus and soy butter. He heated soy milk on the burner and added rich cocoa to the warm milk, which filled the room with a sweet scent that made me salivate. He remembered that I was vegan and bought some of my favorite foods to have around the studio. I rose from the slowly deflating air mattress and tiptoed to the other side of the divider, which separated the living space from the workspace in his studio. A pot of coffee was brewing and James was mid-bite in an onion bagel topped with lox, cream cheese, and capers when he spotted me. I was wearing pajama pants that my mom sent me the previous Christmas (navy blue with little snowmen dancing in a wintery blizzard), mismatched argyle socks, and a purple cotton camisole, which clung to my breasts and torso. I rubbed my eyes with my fists, reaching around for my glasses.
“Good morning. How did you sleep? Was the air mattress okay?” He asked, while pouring steaming hot chocolate into a tall glass and pulling out a bar stool for me in the small kitchenette.
“Yes, it was perfect. I love all the sunlight that floods this studio. Your windows are amazing! You’re lucky, it must be wonderful to work with so much natural light...as a photographer.”
“The sun did decide to come out this morning. Not always the case here in Seattle. You want to talk about the shoot?”
“Sure. What do you have in mind?” I took a sip of my cocoa, beaming with excitement.
Working with James is always different than working with other producers. He’s an artist. It’s always collaboration between us. Working with him, I feel like we are making beautiful images that challenge the way that people perceive bondage. There isn’t anything pornographic about the complex sculptural work and intimate photography that James produces. Rather, there is an element of pure, natural beauty and subtle eroticism in his gaze, which he brilliantly captures on film.
“I was up all night making sketches. I couldn’t sleep. Here, take a look at these.” James picked up a file folder full of papers and laid them out on the folding table in the middle of the room alongside other necessities for the afternoon: neatly coiled bundles of rope, several ball gags, and safety shears.
A series of sketches lay in front of me, pencil on paper, of a female figure bound in rope with one foot on a tower of precariously placed apple boxes that were ready to tumble. One of the figure’s arms was bound tightly behind her back, the other, tied around the wrist, reached longingly upward and outward toward an object of desire just out of reach.
“So, what do you think? It’s all about yearning. Obtaining the unobtainable.” He pointed to the drawing and the woman’s upward gaze. I smiled and nodded, excited to slip into this role.
“I figured I would do something a bit more conceptual with you since you are an artist. What do you think?” James was giddy with his concept and the opportunity with a willing model.
“I love it!” I beamed and headed to the model’s dressing room to slip out of my pajama bottoms and into the black négligée that I had packed in my suitcase for the shoot. It was a Valentine’s Day present from Gauge and it was the only piece of actual lingerie that I owned. After a dab of foundation and a light coating of lip-gloss, I was ready. Lights and props were set, so I stepped out directly into the warm spotlight. Mr. Mogul picked up a coil of rope and approached.
“Wow, you look beautiful. You look different. I think your hair is longer than the first time we met? Mmmm, okay, well are you ready Ms. Young?” he asked, holding the first coil of rope to my skin and whispering teasingly into my ear. I felt nervous and shaky, like I was being asked to dance for the first time at homecoming.
“Yes, Mr. Mogul. I’m ready.” As I looked up at my Daddy, I knew I was ready for our dance to begin. He circled my body and pulled me close as he cinched the braided jute fibers tightly around my ribs, taking my breath away. His hands wandered up and down my body, as if sculpting my clay form into the vision he imagined. I purred with each coil, each cinch, and each touch, pacing my breathing, in and out, the ropes cutting hard. He began to adjust the ropes, adding greater tension, heaving at the ropes that connected the chest harness to the overhead points bolted to the ceiling above, like a sailor attempting to control billowing sails. My body weight was suspended from the ground with my toes pointing and reaching for the tower of toppling apple boxes and my hand, the hand of a marionette, extended futilely toward the object of my desire.
“You look amazing, Madison. Just keep doing what you’re doing. This is beautiful. This is just what we wanted.” The camera fired off shot after shot as I gazed into the distance, visualizing my Daddy, visualizing Mr. Mogul’s face and body, near tears from the growing pain and intensity of the bondage position and the emotional turmoil from having Mr. Mogul so close, yet not being able to look him in the eyes and say, “I want you, Daddy.”
As tears welled in my eyes, he lifted my body up, relieving the tension in my muscles and nerves, which had taken all of the pressure that they could stand.
“It’s okay, Maddie, I’ve got you.” He held my body in his arms like one of the lifts in ballet that always enchanted me as a little girl. James gazed up at me as I stared down at him, tears gently streaming down my cheeks, still wanting what was just out of reach. Still holding me in his arms he pressed me close to his body and bowed his head, his lips finding my flesh, starting at my navel and working his way up to my breasts, my neck, and eventually my lips. He slowly brought me down to the ground, caressing me as he unwrapped my limbs, his mouth tracing the red marks that were left behind. I was liquid, a confused mess of desire and need, laughter and sobs, moaning with pleasure. He scooped me up off of the ground, ropes dangling from my arms and torso, and placed me on the air mattress, where he unzipped his jeans and removed his white T-shirt and underwear. His chest, strong and defined, was covered in hair. He was the first man I had been with in two years, and the only man with chest hair that I had ever felt up against my skin. His hands and mouth toyed with my breasts, then he gently slid his condom-covered cock into my tight, dripping cunt. I nuzzled my face against Daddy’s furry chest while he held me close, pumping his cock into me, both of us insatiable and hungry with desire. Daddy came hard, as I clenched around his cock, then he curled up next to me, my limbs were still twined in rope.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered in his ear.
“You’re a good girl, Maddie.”
From that day forward, we couldn’t get enough of one another. He flew to San Francisco for my birthday and we fucke
d on my rooftop while watching the sunset over the foggy city. I flew to Seattle for Thanksgiving, where we prepared a vegan feast of Tofurkey, artichokes, and mashed potatoes. He spent an hour creating the perfect lighting for our dinner and dressing the table with autumn leaves he found on the sidewalk pooled under cement-bound oak saplings that lined the streets and avenues of his Pioneer Square studio. We ran around playfully, inspired by overcast Seattle afternoons, me dressed in head-to-toe latex with James’ ropes clenched firmly around my body, accentuating and hugging my curves, binding my ass into one tight package.
The seasons passed by with haste and I felt like my life was split between Seattle and San Francisco. My queer activist life immersed in the arts remained in San Francisco, but work and stress melted away once I handed over the keys to the gallery intern and boarded a flight to Seattle, where I would be welcomed into the arms of Daddy. When I was with Daddy, computers were turned off and books were shut, and it would just be us.
Christmas came, and I flew to Seattle to be with Daddy. We sat around the loft sipping cheap champagne out of licorice straws, feeding one another artichokes dipped in melted butter, and huddling around the television watching Scrooged. At home in Ohio it was our tradition to watch this movie every year, my brother and I laughing hysterically as my dad mimicked the high-pitched voice of the air-headed Ghost of Christmas Present in her large pink taffeta princess dress. “Sometimes you have to slap them in the face to get their attention,” my dad would shout in a falsetto voice.
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