photo shoot trip, day 4: more actual photos

I told Lucas I could handle more bondage, but he didn’t immediately take me up on it. The white summer dress I’d been wearing had inspired him to do something with his sunny yellow rope, but after that we just kept working, slowly, through the clothing options.

The next day was my last in town. Counting backwards from the flight time, we’d have to wrap up shooting by about 4:00 to allow me plenty of time to pack up my voluminous wardrobe, so it was going to be a short day.

He requested my quasi school uniform — blazer, little pleated skirt, white shirt, knee socks (and fishnets), and tie. I put on the shirt and skirt (with push-up bra and white cotton panties). But I’d forgotten my tie at home. Dammit! He rummaged around in his closet and then produced a dark grey silk tie he’d bought to wear to a recent funeral. I draped the tie around my neck, with the wide part hanging much lower than the narrow, started wrapping and twisting the silk, decided I didn’t have enough length, undid my work a little self-consciously, and tugged the wide end down a smidge more. Lucas was still in the room but not obviously paying attention. Around, over and through to the back; around, over and through to the front. Straighten the knot. Slide the smooth silk up snug to my neck. Done! He looked up; I’d gotten it just the right length, he said, sounding impressed.

Once he left the room, I gingerly pulled on the large gauge fishnets; the tights are effectively just a bundle of elastic string, and the holes are so big that it’s hard not to stick toes right through, at every stage. I always worry that I’m about to rip them to shreds.

We did a few shots with the outfit, and then he did a similar tie to the one from the day before, with my arms behind my back. This time he tied me a bit more snugly, and my response was more pronounced. Again, he wrapped the rope across my front, but this time the gesture was accompanied by a mild but sudden and otherwise inexplicable appreciation for the shape of his forearm as he went about the rigging. I’m not very visually oriented, and I don’t consider forearms (or any body parts, really) a turn-on. Since much of what was happening with the rope was behind my back, there wasn’t much for me to see. I think I was responding to the feeling of the rope and my brain simply latched onto the one image that was available.

Once he had me secure, I felt content being held in the rope and found it pleasant. I was a bit surprised to find it faintly comforting. This wasn’t a “scene”, and Lucas wasn’t domming me; there was no deliberate emotional content, nor was there an emotional connection beyond our friendship and the fact that I trusted him enough to do this. But I was having some kind of mild emotional reaction just to the sensation of the rope. I wondered if it was connecting generally with the human need for touch or specifically with my own significant touch hunger. Perhaps both.

We did some shots of my knit sheath dress, which has the silhouette of a cheongsam. Push-up bra again, no knickers. Stilettos. We did some poses with a faintly submissive tone, and then I put on the wrist cuffs. How odd it felt to be doing this for myself, but how much odder it would have felt to allow Lucas to do it. Having cuffs put on me does make me feel a little submissive. It’s a kind of adornment, and thus a temporary marking. It also represents permission to control me. It has significance.

I sat on the black leather couch with my knees together, hands resting on my knees demurely. The combination of being a bit dressed up and sitting carefully, almost studiously, was reminiscent of waiting for a job interview.

He put a golden lock, open, on one cuff, carefully concealing the word “Samsonite”. After taking a few shots, he locked the cuffs together. That instantly kindled heat. But I’m good at hiding my reactions and I’m sure he didn’t notice. “I just have to pop out for a minute,” he joked while I was bound. Har har. We also tried some shots with my wrists cuffed behind my back. When I retired to the bedroom to get changed, I saw that I was glistening and sticky, as I’d sensed.

More rope, less clothing. He’d had the idea of tying the torso without restricting movement and putting a blazer on top. This idea required knickers. It was a karada tie: a loop (the bight) around the back of my neck, straight down the front with a knot placed against my mound, both strands between the legs and up the back, then zigzagging front to back, and framing the breasts. Most of the work was done from behind. I felt a bit shy, but not uncomfortably so. The bondage didn’t challenge me because it didn’t restrict me at all. If there was a challenge, it was the nudity.

More rope, no clothing. Wolf’s cuffs on my wrists and ankles. Lucas had me sprawl on the couch, tied the wrist cuffs together using the attachment points, then tied off to the couch leg. Same with my ankles. “I hope you’re comfortable there,” he said as he turned away. Har har. Again. But it wasn’t actually a joke this time. The batteries in his camera had just died and he couldn’t remember where he kept the new ones.

I was naked, stretched out in the dimness under a spotlight, bound hand and foot, not especially comfortable, and somewhat chilled in his inherently chilly condo.

He could have said, “Now I’ve got you where I want you. You’re at my mercy, girl. I’m going to warm you up ­— well, your ass.”

He could have brandished a flogger, or a cane, or a paddle.

He could have purred in my ear, telling me all the dreadful things he intended to do to me.

But that’s not a game that I wanted to play with him. He rifled through dusty cupboards and drawers for his batteries. Fortunately he found them before I got seriously vexed.

photo shoot trip, day 3: actual photos

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.