Lucas and I had been up late the night before. It had taken me some time to get bored with the fetish night, but I got there eventually. That wasn’t a terrible thing: we were able to join the queue at the coat check at a low ebb. After prancing around in minimal clothing for hours, I preferred to cover up again in incongruous luxe cardigan and well-worn yoga pants at the table beside the coat-check girl’s podium, rather than squeeze through the throngs to one of the restrooms in a more literal reversing of my original kitting-down. Such modesty seemed superfluous at this point, almost feigned. Lucas returned his floggers to his bag of tricks, unused.
The drive home was lengthy, and worrisome. The engine light of his scrupulously maintained car had lit up the day before. As a precaution he topped up the oil, and then concluded that it was a relic of a known glitch relating to the gas cap, which would have no effect whatsoever. But during the return — on a quiet freeway under a black sky — the car began to lose power, pulsing regularly and quickly. It wasn’t oil, or the gas cap glitch, or exhaust, or loss of a cylinder. He changed into the rightmost lane and, contrary to all factors — the city’s driving culture, the car’s design, the time of night and lack of traffic, and Lucas’s own preferences — drove somewhere below the speed limit, with the hazard lights on. But the car soldiered on all the way home and got tucked into its heated underground parking spot.
Time to decompress, get changed, remove makeup (just me), and have a snack and a chat. We were going to bed not too long before Wolf would be getting up in his time zone.
Despite it all, I had a decent sleep and was up at an hour I considered respectable, though many wouldn’t. I made myself breakfast, and Lucas eventually joined me. We chatted. We hung out, vaguely wasting time. All the while I was lounging in my nightshirt and nothing else.
Eventually, I asked whether we’d be starting soon. He said something vague.
“Basically, I just want to know if I can put a bra on.” It was mid-afternoon.
“Well, you could put it on and take it off again later.”
“Ah, but I don’t want to leave marks.”
That was enough to spur action, not that the action had anything to do with my breasts. He got himself set up with camera, tripod, and some lights, moved the coffee table out of the way, took a painting off the wall behind the couch. I was vaguely concerned about latent clutter.
We had discussed the shoot ahead of time, though not in minute detail. I find it frustrating to take photos of myself without being able to see what the camera sees, so I wanted simply to be in front of the camera and rely on his skills to frame the shots and direct some poses. I had also mentioned a few specific poses I wanted to try, but mostly I expected him to guide me. He was the one who could see what the camera saw, and this was once his job, while I’ve never posed for anyone but myself before. He had plenty of ideas, he said, though we didn’t discuss much more than some rope bondage, which is a fetish of his.
Finally, we were starting. He asked me to stand in front of the (closed) vertical blinds, mostly facing away from him, and to lift my nightshirt to show my bottom. He talked me part way into the pose, then smirked. He explained that he’d been about to give another direction that, in his experience, would create a nice roundness in my bottom but was pleased to find it unnecessary.
I had, as it turned out, brought much more clothing than we could ever hope to get through. Jackets, dresses, jewelry, shoes, knickers, bras, stockings, and more besides. I’d felt ridiculous approaching the weight limit on my luggage for a trip lasting all of four days, and I’d been tempted to embrace the stereotype fully and wear my gladiators while travelling.
Despite my concern about lines, we decided to start with the white dress that Gawan bought me, a push-up bra, and those gladiators. I didn’t bother with knickers, which meant I didn’t have to wonder whether the color was visible through the dress.
We did some shots this way and eventually graduated to some relatively simple bondage — my arms behind my back, hand to elbow. As he strung the rope across my front, above and then below my bust, I paid close attention, looking within myself for any subtle response. There might have been a tiny glimmer.
He was concerned about my balance and ability to walk in 4-inch heels, up a few stairs, while tied. Piece of cake! I felt a little smug about being so footsure. I found that having my arms bound had very little effect on my movement, and was even able to do a torso bending and twisting dance move, which I ended up doing repeatedly while he snapped away, and I hoped it was somewhat aesthetic.
This, he announced, was all the bondage he would do on me unless I asked for more.
“I could do more,” I replied.