by Julia Kent
He paused of the image of a woman in white lingerie on a motorcycle, the same one that got Tyson’s attention weeks ago. “Stunning. So you will shoot on location?”
“Yes, of course.”
Erik nodded. “Excellent.”
They entered the studio space, and he glanced around, tapping a finger against his chin. “All very much in order.”
Syria dashed around to the lights, switching them on. “I thought this might be a nice drop to start with, although if you’d rather keep it black or high key for simplicity…” She trailed off.
Erik watched her with his dark eyes beneath immaculately combed black hair and perfect eyebrows.
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what I’m shooting,” she said.
He smiled and once again Syria warmed over. What was so charming about this man?
“Let me introduce you to my associates,” Erik said. “First is Aliara. She is my slave.”
Syria inhaled sharply at the word, but Erik went on, gesturing to the other girl. “And this is Malin, my submissive.”
Syria looked from one woman to the other, beginning to pick out their discerning features. Aliara had longer hair, black and glossy, parted neatly down the middle to frame an oval face. She was slight, dressed in a black shift that accentuated her wraith-like body, not unlike the women Syria remembered from the bondage exhibition. She wore an unusual silver ring around her neck, fitted with an ornate series of loops.
Malin was perhaps a few years younger, early twenties, and wore a flowing silk sundress in a tawny gold. She was large-breasted but not otherwise curvy, her almond eyes emphasized by skillful makeup.
“Hello,” Syria managed to choke out, still wondering the difference between the two labels. She turned to Erik. “Will I be photographing them both?”
“Yes, in some instances. Aliara has come to the end of her contract with me, and is moving on. I am very sad to see her go.”
The woman lowered her eyes, focusing on the wood floor. Erik touched a finger to her chin and brought it up again. “I thought I might like to capture some of my favorite things about her before she was gone.”
Syria picked up her camera, fiddling with dials to avoid having to stare at the woman, who seemed perfectly nonchalant as this man talked about her. “So what sorts of things?” Hopefully not body parts.
Erik turned to her and placed his hand on the camera, stilling her nervous movements. “I know that you are probably thinking that in this modern day, we should not have women as slaves. And I am not overly fond of the word. It’s just a common term in the BDSM community. Aliara is one of my favorite possessions, and I have treated her very well. She chose of her own free will to give up her life to me for a period of five years.” He turned to look at the woman, who smiled at him now. “It’s been a very good five years for us both.”
Aliara nodded. “It has.”
Syria startled a little to hear the girl speak. She had no understanding how these relationships worked. The only submissives she’d seen had been at the exhibition, and that had been in the context of the bondage show.
“So the stylist has some outfits for Aliara?” Syria said. “Maybe if I saw them, I’d get an idea of what we’re going for.”
“Absolutely.” Erik turned to the blond woman, who was showing the boy where to place the wardrobe box. “Elise, show Syria what we brought along.”
Malin stepped back to let Syria pass by to approach the wardrobe, a tall cherrywood box with ornate gold latches. Elise bent to pop them open, and the boy pulled the front cover aside.
Syria felt a little wave of shock at the contents. Hanging inside the door was an assortment of whips, floggers, paddles, and objects she couldn’t identify. On a rack in the main section, several outfits in leather, some with solid pieces, and others with cutouts in intriguing places, shifted from side to side from the movement of the box.
“I think you may sense the direction the shoot is going now,” Erik said.
“I do,” Syria said.
Elise pulled out a drawer from the bottom of the box with professional detachment. “We also have some silks, a few bits of lingerie, and this.” She unfolded a shiny vinyl body suit.
“I do hope we’ll get one in the Ligne,” Aliara said.
Syria whirled around. “The Ligne?”
Elise rummaged in the drawer. “It’s a ballet term. I have the shoes.” She pulled out a pair of silver heeled shoes so high that it would not be possible to walk in them. The feet went straight up, like a ballerina on pointe. Elise pushed aside a solid leather dress to reveal a soft pink, almost completely sheer corset with silver laces. “Here’s the top.” She shifted through the lingerie. “And here’s the bottom.” She held up a scrap of pink silk on a silver wire.
Syria couldn’t even imagine wearing something like that.
Aliara stepped forward to touch the tinsel-thin thong. “Can we shoot that one, Erik? I’d love to have a print of it.”
Erik bent and kissed her on the forehead. “Of course. And the outfit goes with you. I cannot imagine anyone else wearing it.”
Aliara reached for one of his hands and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t we start with that?” Erik said. “Elise, can you prep Aliara?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a dressing room just around the corner,” Syria said. Elise and Aliara disappeared that direction. “Anything you want to do while we wait?”
Erik turned to Malin. “Yes, I love this dress on her. Can we do a few like that?”
“Absolutely.” She led Malin to the center of the set to a Queen Anne chair that matched the French-styled drop. “Sit here, cross your ankles, and lean on the arm.”
Malin lowered herself primly onto the cushion, but when her eyes lifted to the camera, the expression was pure sex. The heat of it bolted straight through Syria, and she tightened her grip.
A quick glance at Erik confirmed that he was cool as always, seemingly unaffected. Syria took a couple test shots, then adjusted the lights. As she passed Malin, she tugged on the hem of the flowing skirt, making sure it didn’t gather or crinkle.
She had it now and fired several rapid shots, squaring off Malin’s exquisite face, then broadening out to include her shoulders and deep cleavage. Syria pulled over a ladder to get a full-body shot, letting the image focus on her eyes and skim across her body to the ankles.
“Spin the dress,” Erik said, and Malin immediately rose from the chair.
Syria jumped off the ladder and tugged the chair out of the way. “Do you know how dancers turn in circles?” she asked. “Where they sort of pause then go around, pause and go around?”
Malin nodded.
Syria wondered if the submissive was allowed to speak or if Malin was just naturally quiet.
Malin spun precisely as Syria described, revealing some dance training.
“Beautiful,” Syria said, shifting her shutter speed up to freeze the movement of the skirt. She kneeled to focus on the girl’s amazing strong legs, working a swift pattern as the dress rose higher to her thighs.
It wasn’t until she glanced at the screen did she realize Malin was naked beneath the dress, and the shots were more bare than she realized. The girl kept spinning. She had to be tired, or dizzy. “I have it,” Syria said, but Malin continued to spin.
Syria looked at Erik, who watched with calm deliberation, his face unreadable. “She can stop now,” she said to him.
Erik made no indication that he’d even heard her, watching the girl turn and turn and turn.
Syria’s discomfort grew. “I’d really prefer it if we let her stop.”
“You may stop,” Erik said.
Malin halted, clearly affected by the whirlwind, but standing as straight and relaxed as possible with her rapid breaths.
Erik walked up to caress her bare shoulders, his fingers slipping across her skin so lightly that she shivered. “That’s my beautiful girl.”
Syria was caught bet
ween horror and envy. She could see how their relationship probably played out in other ways with rope or bondage or even infliction of pain.
He toyed with the silver clasps on the straps of the dress, then stepped back. “Take it off,” he told her.
Syria’s heart beat painfully as Malin opened the clasp at the shoulder. She trained her lens to focus on the graceful hands with their simple French manicure. When Malin let go, that side of the dress slid down, revealing a perfect golden breast and a dark puckered nipple. Syria swallowed, pulling back on the shot to show more of her body.
Malin turned to the other clasp and freed the opposite side. The gold silk cascaded across her skin, puddling together at her hips. A small blue jewel winked from above her belly button. She released the dress with only the slightest push from her palms, and it fluttered to the floor. Malin stepped away from it, now naked other than a pair of gold stilettos encasing her delicate feet.
Erik stepped forward and into the shot, lifting Malin’s chin as he leaned in to kiss her. Syria’s pulse beat in her throat, snapping as quickly as her studio lights would reset, some shots pulled out, to show the contrast of his suit against the unbroken skin, others tight, especially when Erik’s strong hand cupped a breast and his thumb crossed her nipple.
Malin stepped her feet wide to give him access, but Erik did not touch her. He grasped her elbow and spun her to face away, holding her arm tightly. Now Syria could see the things he did to her, the skin of her back crisscrossed with red. He ran his fingers across the scars, some fresh welts, some older, with measured care. Malin sighed at his touch, her head lowered.
Syria assumed he wanted her to capture the scars, but when she lifted her camera, he waved his hand at her and shook his head. Apparently this show was just for her.
Syria stepped back. The shoot was for her. To let her see how he worked. She burned inside, unable to even imagine such a life. No way.
Everyone turned to the hall as Elise and the boy helped Aliara into the room.
Her outfit was breathtaking. The sheer pink corset pressed her body into a shiny cocoon, her girl-like breasts pressed into a tender cleavage above it. She still wore the strange silver ring around her neck.
The fine-strung thong was mostly invisible, just a touch of pink between her legs, drawing attention more than concealing anything. The shoes, though, were not something you could walk in. Aliara took each step with great pain, her feet straight up from the floor. The boy kept his eyes on the ground as he and Elise moved the girl toward the set.
“Pick up your dress and move away, Malin,” Erik instructed. “Put on the slave attire.”
Malin’s eyes lit up at this instruction and she snatched up the gold dress.
Aliara watched the eager girl move toward the wardrobe. “Already, Erik? I’m not even gone yet before you hand my chains to my replacement.”
“It’s just for size, my love,” Erik said. “We’ll see if it suits her.”
He took Aliara’s hand as though she were a princess. Elise and the boy backed away as he led her to the center of the set in small, careful steps.
Syria snapped shots as they moved across the drop, not sure what else to do. Some power shift was occurring, but she didn’t quite get it. She supposed that maybe the submissive had done her time as the toy, and she could move up to the more exalted position of slave. When Erik turned Aliara in a slow circle, his hand holding hers above her head, Syria could see her back was smooth and unscarred.
The pair danced together in a graceful movement, agonizingly slow due to the heels. Erik turned Aliara back into him, balancing her on his arm as she leaned with an arched back to look up at him, not unlike a ballerina might do with her cavalier. The shots were gorgeous and arresting, the near-naked wraith in the arms of the handsome businessman, the sort of scene that you could imagine in a painting or on the cover of a book.
Erik was more affected by this girl, his jaw tight as he gazed down on her. His hand moved to her waist, where it tightened against the corset. “You will be missed,” he said, and lowered his lips to her exposed throat just above the silver ring. Aliara’s eyes closed and a tear squeezed out from her eye. Syria framed the shot tightly, Erik’s profile against the girl, her uplifted face, and the sadness of their goodbye.
Malin came up behind her, and Erik straightened from his position, the moment lost. Syria turned, and stifled a gasp at the transformation. The luxurious hair was now in a thick braid, her makeup deepened at her eyes and cheeks and lips to something dangerous, powerful, and dark.
Her neck was encased in a leather collar with four metal links. Three broad straps came down from it, one on either side of her breasts, the other down the middle. They attached to a belt that fit low on her hips. Below the belt hung several metal rings. Brown boots came up over her knee. Otherwise, she was exposed.
Elise walked up and attached a silver chain to either side of her neck. Malin grasped a chain in each hand and whirled them so that they wrapped around her wrists and up her arm in an incredible show of dexterity.
“You’ve been practicing,” Erik said. He let go of Aliara. “Let’s get the two of you together one last time.” He make sure Aliara was well balanced on her shoes and stepped away.
Malin covered the distance to the fragile girl with a menacing stride. At first Aliara stood straight and firm, but as Malin let the chain slide over her hand to the floor, the smaller girl began to shrink back.
Syria snapped shots, unsure what was happening, or what she’d gotten involved in. Malin looked like she was about to devour Aliara whole. Was it an act? Or was this some sort of ritual as a slave passed her position to another?
Erik stood next to her now, poised and calm. Syria’s heart was thundering like a freight train, but she didn’t dare ask him about anything. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Malin lifted her arm in the air, her breast stretched high. Syria found the fear working to heighten the sexual tension in her own body. She tried to concentrate on the job, but something about the power struggle was moving her.
Malin wrapped the chain around the girl, jerking her toward her. Aliara couldn’t hold her position in the difficult shoes and began to crumple. Malin caught her, bending to lift her legs. Together, they moved to the floor, the chains falling loose.
Aliara raised her hand to her forehead in a swoon, and that was the first hint Syria got that this was scripted. Malin tightened the chains again, forcing Aliara to arch her back. With slow measured movements, Malin began to loosen the ties to the corset.
Next to her, Erik did not move or change expression, but Syria began to feel the heat coming off him. So this is what he liked, to watch these power struggles play out. Syria knelt to get away from him, snapping images of the two, Malin tossing the corset away. She leaned forward, capturing a small pale nipple in her mouth, and that’s when Syria realized this was going to go well beyond a photo shoot.
She could call it off, say it wasn’t the sort of thing she did. But the room was transfixed, Elise, the wardrobe boy, Erik. Syria looked back at the two girls. Malin had pushed beyond the wispy thong and was pressing fingers into Aliara.
The girl’s reaction was either Oscar-worthy, or unscripted, because Aliara arched up, crying out, her legs shuddering. Malin bent down, her tongue flicking between the girl’s folds, and Aliara’s hands clenched, her body vibrating.
Syria could feel it now, each cry of the girl going straight through her own body. She was wet and hot, the camera heavy in her hands. She swallowed and glanced up at Erik to see if she should continue shooting.
But he was watching her, not the girls, his eyes penetrating. He wanted to see what Syria thought, how she responded. Again, Syria realized, this was not for him, but for her. She set the camera on the floor.
Aliara began a keening cry, an orgasmic release. Syria closed her eyes, trying to maintain control. She would not let Erik see what affected her. She would maintain her distance and her professionalism. Collect her
money. Finish the job. Never see these people again.
After a few minutes, Erik said, “Thank you girls, that was lovely.”
He helped Malin stand, and scooped up Aliara to set her on the sofa and remove the difficult shoes. “This is a good memory,” he said to her.
The team moved swiftly to restore the girls to their normal clothes and pack up the wardrobe. Elise presented Syria with another envelope, and as the party walked down the hall, Syria felt both relief that it was over, and confusion about why Erik had chosen her for this goodbye.
8: Santa Fail
Syria looked over the images later that day, particularly transfixed on the Aliara’s single tear as Erik pressed his face into her neck. Did this girl love him? Syria didn’t get it. Aliara had given up her life to this man, who obviously treated her well. But how could she just do anything he said? What if she wanted to say “no” to something?
She pushed away from her desk and glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Tyson had some big job that night, a Christmas-themed bachelorette party. Twenty girls and three strippers, he had said. It should be winding down, although it was an hour earlier in Seattle.
The floorboards squeaked as she headed to the kitchen. Between December 1 and 20, she allowed herself the vice of energy drinks. The extra caffeine made her body zing and staying up was no problem at all as long as she didn’t do it so often that she built up a tolerance.
She’d just popped open the silver can when “Santa Baby” started playing in the other room. Syria dashed down the hall, stubbing her toe on a side table. She turned in circles, yelling, “Fuck fuck fuck!” while yellow liquid flowed over her fingers, leaving drops along the floor.
She snatched up the phone and realized it was actually a video chat request. She hit “Accept” but instead of Tyson’s face, she saw a ceiling, then the blur of movement.
At the same moment, a text message came through from Mia. “If Tyson calls, don’t answer!!!”
Syria couldn’t even write her back, trying to puzzle out the scene. “Tyson?” she asked.