I saidglerble. Or thereabouts.
A sharp slap to that vulnerable and sensitive flesh managed to reach me through the lust haze. “I can’t believe you’re trying to sex me over photos of me.”
“PhotosItook of you.” She laughed against my neck, deep and rich with joy. “I did warn you, Arden, the first time we met. I like sex and I like art, and right now, you’re both.”
I rocked against her knee, shamelessly taking whatever stimulation I could get, the plug shifting inside me—little shocks of sensation that were as tormenting as they were satisfying. “I can live with that.”
“Good. Now let’s see how pretty you are.”
Pushing my heavy eyelids up, I focused on the images. Gasped. I hadn’t wanted my wang, or too much of my bum, in the public domain, so the shots were suggestive rather than explicit—lots of coy angles and strategically placed shadows—but there was also no getting away from it: These were some sexy pictures.
Sexy, kinky pictures.
Sexy, kinky picturesof me.
Kneeling, crawling, lying in a fucked-out heap, tied up, tied down, leashed, collared, marked, suspended from the ceiling, rolling around on rumpled sheets…Probably I should have been embarrassed to have such intimate moments framed, preserved, potentially reproduced, but the more I stared at the photos, the more I realised I loved them.
I just looked so fucking happy. And it was…nice—weirdly nice, but nice—to see that side of myself. I mean, I was no model but George had found ways to flatter me: the places I was sleek and the places I was soft, the silly freckles across my nose, the glint of my nipple jewellery, the dimples at the top of my arse that were probably some of my favourite bits of me, the way my mouth in pleasure made shapes like laughing. Basically, I came across like a normal boy having a whale of a time.
There were some other pictures too—one taken the night of Ellery’s birthday, another at George’s window—but these had a grainer quality, the colours less vivid. I seemed…distant in them, restless, my gaze slipping past the camera, like I was Penelope in search of a horizon.
“Well?” asked George.
“They’re…amazing.” I let out a shuddery breath. “I honestly can’t quite believe they’re me.”
“Which do you like best?”
“All of them.”
She gave one of my nipples a tweak sharp enough to make me yelp. “No cheating.”
“Haven’t I already blown you today?”
“Yes.” Her touch became a caress. “And now it’s time to suck my other cock.”
In spite of being sweaty and naked and wracked with denied…no, delayed…arousal, I giggled. “You’re completely shameless.”
“I try to be. Shame is the most self-destructive of vices.”
There was something in her voice, an unusual hint of fragility, that made me nuzzle at her clumsily with my chin. “I’m crazy about what you do—with me and with your camera. These are stunning. So much beyond anything I could have imagined I can’t quite wrap my head round it.”
“What did you imagine?”
“I honestly don’t know. I guess I thought you’d realise I wasn’t all that photogenic.”
“There’s no such thing as photogenic. Just people who are more comfortable having their photo taken.”
“I wouldn’t put myself in that category.”
She laughed and nipped at my ear. “Neither would I, poppet. Which is why I made sure you were sufficiently distracted that your comfort was neither here nor there.”
That made sense. I’d lost track of the camera so thoroughly that I couldn’t actually remember half these photos being taken. Since my hands were still out of action, I jerked my head towards one of the images. “That one…I like that one.”
For her own use, ever the efficient despoiler, George preferred cuffs. But that day she’d gone for rope—rope in every colour of the rainbow, wound around me as bright as birthday bunting. I was kneeling, legs bound and spread wide, my arms—also bound—braced in front of me so I wasn’t flaunting my wares to the world. Knots crisscrossed my torso, the ropes vanishing over my shoulders and into the shadows between my legs. It was one of the few times I was looking directly into the camera lens and I was grinning like I’d just spotted the loophole in a deal with the devil. Which could have been incongruous with my pose but, somehow, wasn’t—as if the two were not oppositional, but connected, my triumph and my submission.
“So do I.” George’s fingers closed around my cock and I sighed with what was at first pure relief—though no less intense for it.
“Oh God.” My hips arched involuntarily, legs falling open still further. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Even if this is seriously fucking narcissistic.”
