Cosima
I was blindfolded.
For the first time in years, my sight was taken from me, and I was half naked before a man.
Only this wasn’t a scene with my Master.
This was professional, a shoot for one of the top clothing brands in the world.
The air in the studio was clinically cold to keep my nipples beaded behind the delicate silks and satins of their expensive lingerie. The man instructing me to bend, curve, and smile was not my Dominant with a whip, but my director with a camera. One of the most famous in the fashion world.
Professional, not personal.
But as I sat on an uncomfortable antique wooden chair that reminded me of something from Pearl Hall with my legs spread to expose the placket of the black lace panties I wore and the leather harness encircling my hips and thighs like a kinky bracket for my sex, I went wet.
My pussy began a slow, steady beat like a kickdrum of dancing feet against the earth.
I tried to focus on the set of my matte painted wine-red lips and the angle of my head as I tipped it back in pretend ecstasy so my hair fell behind me like curls of sooty smoke. This was my job, my livelihood. There was no reason to feel aroused by bondage and my own mild discomfort.
I’d moved on from those desires.
I’d moved on from Alexander fucking Davenport no matter what he said.
The flight to London had been long and sleepless, the drive in the luxury Town Car too reminiscent of Alexander’s Rolls Royce to be relaxing. Even the scenery out the rain striped windows evoked memories I couldn’t defend myself against. By the time we arrived at Kynance Cove, I was a mess of clammy skin and frayed nerves.
Jensen had taken one look at me and sent a masseuse to my change room before I got into hair and make-up.
It hadn’t helped.
The only thing that quelled my unease was the cold crush of the briny winter wind off the Lizard peninsula as I climbed the rocks to the grassy outcrop in one of St. Aubyn’s statement gowns. Xavier Scott was a seasoned professional with a vivid eye for cinematic shots, and we’d wrapped up the first half of the shoot in under six hours.
Then a quick full make-up and hair change had me sitting in the godawful, erotically familiar antique chair in the cold chamber that reminded me too much of Pearl Hall’s ballroom.
Six long hours stood between me and the safety of my hotel room with my emergency vibrator and a pair of particularly vicious nipple clamps, and six minutes into it, I was already unravelling.
It was an empty set because I would be mostly nude for the duration, and it was so silent I could hear the click of the Xavier’s expensive loafers across the polished concrete floor as he circled me with his camera.
I’d been working with him for hours outdoors, but as he moved closer behind my closed eyes, I was surprised by the scent of him.
Cedar and pine, a wildfire dampened by cool, wet British air.
I’d never smelled that fragrance on anyone but my Master.
I sucked in a deep breath through my shock parted lips and tried to rationalize the odour.
The photoshoot was dredging up old memories.
Suddenly, his hands were on me, lifting and spinning me to face the chair before pressing into the base of my spine so I was bent over it. His palm slapped on my inner thigh, prompting me to spread my legs wider, my weight precariously balanced on the razor thin edge of my six-inch stilettos.
I bit my lip as he moved me like a doll into position. It was so hard to ignore the wet moor, cold forest air scent of him. Coupled with the way he moved me so perfunctorily, my lusty thoughts were impossible to suppress. My skin broke out in gooseflesh, and I shuddered delicately as the hand on my lower spine slid up my back to rearrange my hair in curtain to the left of my cheek.
It wasn’t unusual for photographers to pin me into positions with their hands or their cold orders, but this was the first time it gave me such an animal thrill.
I told myself it was his smell. It was a conditioned response my body had to the fragrance of Alexander, how it warped so fluidly into the scent of Dominance.
Finally, he stepped back, and the rustle of fabric let me know he’d crouched almost level with my raised bottom. The shutter click, click, clacked rapidly as he took shot after shot, moving around to the front when he was finished to capture the catch of my red lip in my teeth and the obscene swell of my breasts as they threatened to spill out of the half-cups.