Free Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) by Erika Masten Page A

these photos, Iva?” he asked, cutting me off. “It’s an old, old
story. Takes place in every city every night, behind closed doors where no one
will see what really happens, what people really want.”
    I only realized I was already
arching my back to lean into Nolan’s grip on me, letting my head loll slightly
back, when that shutter hissed and snapped again. “Don’t I get a mask this
time?” I whispered, feeling now—so soon, as soon as he’d touched me—the
unrestricted flow of desire through my veins as it blurred my thoughts. I
gripped the seat of the chair with white knuckles, trying to hold on to that
insolating irritation I’d felt with Beal only a moment before, but it wasn’t
working.
    “You’re already wearing
a mask, Brown Eyes,” he said with a low chuckle that didn’t sound amused.
“Never mind what I mean. You’re not going to sign a model release anyway, are
you? So pay attention to the story.”
    “The story,” I murmured
in agreement.
    “The upright couple,”
Nolan explained. “Good-looking and well-heeled. Everyone would call him
debonair, a gentleman, and the lady is gracious and elegant. No one would
suspect how he handles her in private—his hand down her dress or yanking up her
skirt to make use of her—and how much she gets off on it.”
    This time Nolan was in
the photos, in the story with me. His hand possessively squeezing my breasts and slowly slowly slowly pinching and
twisting my nipples as they ached for more. His fingers sliding back up to curl
under my chin, to angle my face upward, to pry my lips open and slip his thumb
into my mouth and against my tongue. His thickening breath behind me as I
sucked. And the shutter snapped.
    “Stand up and turn
around,” he commanded, and he swept the teetering chair aside with his foot as
I complied. While his voice was cool and smooth, his actions swift and exact
and perfectly controlled, the muscles of his arms and along his chest under the
thin cotton t-shirt rounded and strained with building tension. With need? The
idea had my sex slicking itself for him.
    Nolan’s advance drove
me back against the edge of the vanity. His body didn’t touch me, just his
force of presence, which was considerable. Then his hand closed along my neck,
not squeezing, but holding. Pinning. Controlling. I tilted my head back, as
though to bare my throat to him, without even thinking about it. I swallowed
hard and tried not to squirm and whine as the shutter snapped, snapped,
snapped.
    Then he turned and
walked away, while I blinked and fought down my panting breath, my growing
confusion and frustration at being perched and posed and primed and left waiting. He reached out nonchalantly to fuss with
this light, to turn a knob on that one. And I pinched my lips tight, determined
not to sigh or whimper, refusing to beg for the attention he was using to bait
me, coaxed me, manipulate me. I hated that I wanted his ministrations, his
touch, his cock in me. If I could at least have kept myself from making it easy
on him, I’d have salvaged some dignity, taken one step toward weaning myself
from these passionate cravings.
    From nine or ten feet
away, Beal turned to face me again, his penetrating expression dark and hungry
but otherwise unreadable. “We are going to try something a little rougher, Iva.
More severe. High contrast.” His insinuation had my stomach and thighs and
fists tightening with alarm as much as desire, but the smoothness of his
voice…. It was like there was nothing that voice couldn’t have talked me
through, no disaster, no dread.
    He calmly instructed,
“Tell me you want it,” which drew me up taught and tense again. It was a
constant push-pull, this magnetism acting on us. Tense me and then soothe me
and then tense me again, that was what Beal was playing at. And when he had
worked all the resistance out of me….
    “I….”
    “Tell me you want it,”
he repeated. “Tell me you want to be taken.”
    I didn’t think