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

we’d
need the lights with as bright and hot a red as I felt myself flush. But there
was no point in pretending—that I wasn’t here for this, at least. That I didn’t
find the sexual tension and exploration more thrilling than anything I’d felt
in three years, or more. “I want it,” I whispered in a low, frayed voice.
    Beal was just holding
the camera loosely, letting it brush his leg, against the denim that only
vaguely suggested the musculature and power of his thigh. Looking straight at
me, no lens or filters between us, he said, “Again, louder.”
    “I want it,” I managed
a little louder but no steadier. “I want to be taken.” It was hard to
concentrate with my core beginning to burn and sting with need.
    “Tell me you want to be
fucked.” And no word in any language had ever sounded like Nolan Beal using the
F word. Fuck, fucked, fucking . A
dirty, dangerous, suggestive word that came out polished smooth and warm and
smelling like expensive designer perfume.
    A galling mew slipped
out of me when I took in the breath to sigh, “I want to be fucked.”
    He was still staring at
me, no attempt to raise his camera. “You want to be fucked hard.” It wasn’t a
command or a prompt or a question. It was a plain statement of fact. “You want
to forget all the bullshit pretense of class and civility that’s keeping you
from spreading your legs and giving yourself to a man who doesn’t care what’s
proper and respectful. So do it.”
    With my face hot and
tingling, I nodded, my anxieties finally silenced by the low, lulling roar of
desire pounding in my ears. “Like the story.”
    “Exactly,” Nolan said.
“Like the beautiful, elegant lady in her expensive dress and her perfect
makeup, in her life of luxury.” He lifted the camera at last, muttering in that
moment before I lost sight of his face and those dark eyes, “Who just wants to
feel out of control in the hands of a man she can trust to take it from her.
She wants to be protected and owned, wanted, spread open and taken. A helpless
girl ravaged and possessed. A dirty little bitch punished and used just the way
she likes it. All at once. Every night. Can you feel her, Iva?”
    Breathing so hot and
deep I didn’t even want to try to speak, I gave a slow, slight nod.
    “Then pull up the dress
and show me,” he ordered, voice deeper and flatter than normal, like it was
part Nolan talking to me and part the man from the story. A Dom who needed no
name, no specific history to establish his right to touch me this way.
    My hands felt like
someone else’s as I reached for the hem of the black slip, then drew it
smoothly up my thighs until Nolan could see—the camera could see—the black
panties I wore under the dress.
    Eyes out of focus as
the fantasy Nolan had described overtook me, I only heard his voice as he
asked, “Did you shave for me?”
    “Yes,” I rasped.
    “Show me your pussy.
Pull your panties down.”
    No forcing him to do it
for me this time, I told myself. Not even the slightest pretense of reluctance.
The last time, I had given myself to the moment without warning. Now it was—had
to be—a conscious choice without excuses later. Was I ready for that?
    I slid my wet silk
panties down my thighs, over my knees, and let them slip to the floor around
the sharp toes and heels of the black stilettos. When I straightened, a sudden
flare of light from the lamps—all of the lamps at once—caught me off guard,
blinded me, made me recoil and cover myself. “What—?”
    “It’s the slave units.
Photo slaves,” I heard Nolan say. “I make one flash go off, and they all go off
together.”
    I felt like I’d been
slapped, like he had slapped me, just
hard enough to startle me. Blinking, still covering myself and looking away, I
thought to myself, that figures . The
slave unit might not have been what I’d thought it was, but the concept and the
name made perfect sense in the context of Nolan Beal. He pulled the trigger,
and a