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Renaissance
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Copyright ©2004 Reese Gabriel
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GETTING NAKED
A Romance of Bondage and Discipline
By
REESE GABRIEL
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-58873-543-5
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2004 by R. Gabriel
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information contact:
Renaissance E Books
Email [email protected]
A Sizzler/Romantica Edition
Chapter One
Morgan hadn't expected the nude photographer to be so gorgeous. For sure, it threw a monkey wrench in her plans. It was one thing to try and prepare one's self for the shame of stripping and posing for an ugly man, but when he looked like a cross between Pierce Brosnan and George Clooney, you were rather doomed from the start.
"I won't do any face shots,” she tried to hold her dignity as she stood before the mahogany desk of Nick Tremaine, owner and manager of Dream Images, Incorporated. “Ever."
The picture on the corner of it, featuring the man in a swim suit, a beaming smile on his face, his bare muscled chest wet with sea spray as he holds up a captured marlin. Just to the left of the dorsal fin she can make out his crotch. Near as she can tell, the fish isn't the only prize winning thing in the photo.
Looking up from her sorry excuse for a modeling resume, the no-nonsense Tremaine pierced her with gray blue eyes, the cleft chin jutting out, the perfectly sculpted, clean shaven face bearing an expression somewhere between total disbelief and mild condescension.
"And what exactly would you be showing us, Miss Baines? Skeletons from your anatomy class? Drawings of your liver copied from one of your school textbooks?"
Morgan attempted to keep the pink from her cheeks. Obviously he'd picked up on the fact that she was a medical student and not a model per se. It was a salient point, though she might have wished for a little more tact on his part.
"This is difficult enough for me, Mr. Tremaine without your adding sarcasm. I've come here to offer you my naked body, if you don't want it..."
Morgan winced internally. Talk about tipping your hand. Right about now she would like to be crawling over that desk and ripping open his blue silk shirt so she could apply her dry and thirsty lips to his hard man nipples. Did he have hair there, she wondered, to match the shock of black on his head, peppered with silver? She'd chew up every bit of it straight down to his tight waist, licking his belly till he begged her to open his pants and take out his cock for a nice long suck, hard and deep, the perfect foreplay for a royal screwing over this aircraft carrier sized desk.
Business must be good, though, huh? Tremaine's office looked more like a CEO's than a nude photographer's. From the leather bound volumes on the shelves to the rich paneling and black leather furniture, everything in here spelled top drawer.
"Uh, that didn't come out right,” Morgan amended herself sheepishly. “But you know what I mean."
The totally edible and beddable Nick Tremaine sighed deeply, templing his fingers on his chin. It was an adorable gesture; one that made her want to just kiss all that aggravation off his handsome face.
"Look, Miss Baines, it's nothing personal. I am sure you are a quite sincere young lady. You're just not the type of woman we need here, that's all."
"Why not?” She asked stubbornly. “You're a businessman, aren't you? I have something men enjoy looking at and you can get it to them. Everyone's happy, and all our bills get paid."
"It's not that simple,” he shook his head. “I need a very special brand of woman. Not even many professional models are up for the challenge, much less amateurs like you. Dream Images captures fantasies, the desires of men, rich men who pay extremely well to see beautiful women act them out, heart, body and soul. I can't just have tittering maidens; I need nuanced goddesses who can play the role of everything from kidnapped virgin to horny, irrepressible sex siren. You see what I'm driving at?"
Morgan squeezed her thighs together under her simple, floral print dress. Oh, he was driving all right. Straight to her pussy. At this rate she was going to be soaking wet, with hard bristling nipples. Some job interview, she thought miserably.
"But I still don't see why you think I couldn't do it,” she declared, as usual having no concept of when to give up the ghost. “You know nothing about me. You haven't even seen me in action. Granted I've never done this sort of thing before, but don't I at least deserve a test shoot or something?"
The man's lips thinned. The blue gray eyes darkened slightly. Was he unhappy with her? She couldn't tell.
"I could give you your test, Miss Baines,” he warned. “But you'd be playing with fire."
"I'm in medical school,” she reminded him. “When I graduate ... if I can find the money to keep paying all my tuition bills and still support my grandparents back home ... I intend to do overseas relief work. Gunshot wounds and machete cuts in the middle of battle zones. Epidemics in the middle of deserts. I think I can handle a few risque pictures."
Nick Tremaine rose from behind the desk, as if summoned into battle himself. “Very well, Miss Baines. Or should I say Dr. Baines. We shall test your mettle."
It was a low blow, probably, bringing up Granny and Gramps money troubles. But Morgan was on her last quarter here; she needed to make the connection somehow.
She tried to keep her heart steady as he rounded the edge of the desk. What was that heart, after all, but a muscle, an extremely efficient one that pumped blood, easily controllable, easily understood. As for Tremaine himself, he was nothing but a male organism, with cellular and physiological structure.
Including that cock outlined in the crotch of his navy blue pleated trousers. It was the same one in the photo, up close and personal. She felt a bit giddy, like she was seeing some celebrity in the flesh. Or at least in a different covering.
Tremaine was quite the dresser, with his expensive slacks, thin black leather belt and tasseled loafers. She pegged him about five ten, just five inches taller than herself. The perfect height difference, according to her beloved gray haired Granny, between a husband and a wife. Every trip home from school she could count on some blind date already cut to size. God help her if she ever brought home her own date. The tape measure would be out before they sat down for dinner.
"Stand there,” he told her, “in the middle of the room."
Morgan swallowed as he stood there, hands on his hips, feet a foot or so apart, angled out. Were they not going to some studio, where she could change into a robe, hide out in a dressing room and be gradually coaxed out for a few quick and friendly shutter snaps?
"Here is our scenario,” he began, sounding like a film director. “You are a captured Western maiden, I am an Oriental pasha. You are to be visually inspected by me prior to being admitted into my harem. I will put you through paces and you will follow my instructions to the letter. Is this understood?"
Morgan pulled her lower lip between her teeth. She'd been expecting something a bit more ... professional, was that the word? Or maybe it was the distance; the scena
rio he was laying out put them way too close to one another, physically, and emotionally, too.
"Is there a problem, Miss Baines?"
She ran her hand through her silky brown hair, wishing she'd gotten a little more lift from it this morning. “I just expected we'd go to a studio, that's all."
Nick frowned. “You expected incorrectly. I need to know how a potential model reacts in an unfamiliar setting. I need to know her inhibitions off camera so I will know them on camera as well. This is why I told you it wouldn't work between us, Miss Baines. I can't have you questioning my judgment."
"I won't,” she heard herself promise, though she was pretty sure it would prove unavoidable unless she shut off her brain altogether. “Please, let me just try. This is acting; I can do that."
But was it really? There was no pretending about her wanting this dark haired paragon of a man. As for their little role-play, he could easily be that kind of pasha, a harem owner, with a bevy of beauties at his feet. And it wasn't really a stretch for her to be his next victim, eager and willing to succumb to the loving of his body and the power of his heart.
"You will remove your shoes first,” he declared. “No woman of the pasha's harem may appear before him save she be barefoot, ready to run swiftly and submissively to his side, her ankles prettily belled."
Morgan took a deep breath, attempting to cleanse herself of all the world's distractions. She wanted to be here, with him, following directions. She'd worn a pair of slip-on heels; pink ones. Ordinarily she wore sneakers to go out or something else practical. For today she'd wanted to look her best, passing as best she could for a model.
Tremaine's carpeting was thick and blue. Her bare toes sunk decadently into the piling. It was rather a peculiar feeling, to be in a man's office, exposing her feet. A tingle ran along her sole, all the way up her calves and legs and beyond. This was only a taste of things to come, she knew. Shortly he would make more demands, forcing her to shed more articles of clothes.
Repeating the action with her second shoe, she put her feet together, awaiting his next command.
"Step away,” he said of her abandoned heels. “You will not go back to them."
Morgan thought of his earlier words. She was a harem slave, being denied footwear. The tingle spread to her pussy now, a direct warmth, hinting of wetness.
"Remember, Morgan,” he declared, teetering between the position of director and sexual master. “It is in your interest to please the pasha. Though you are afraid to fall prey to his sexual whims, you know that if you do not catch his fancy you will be relegated to the recesses of the harem, languishing in an iron chastity belt, denied the touch, the cock of a man for months, perhaps even years."
Her eyes fell immediately below the line of his belt. Tremaine's cock. The pasha's cock. Oh, how she wished she could see it, in its naked splendor. But that would make it all the harder, wouldn't it? To be denied its silky hardness. To have an image, concrete and detailed, of the shape, the line of the veins, pulsing and purple, the dimensions of the shaft, tapering to its glorious head. To lie in her splendid loneliness upon a woman's pillows, surrounded by women's perfume and women's silk, with nothing to do but dream of being fucked like a woman should. Taken, fore and aft, filled and fulfilled, the ache, the emptiness screwed out of her, banged and hammered away by a muscular, bicep and tricep ridden, strongly thighed, cock-wielding man.
And his tongue and hands. Tremaine had the hands of a leader, comfortably placed on his belt, not arrogantly so and the tongue to sow magic ... words to make her dream, to transform her ordinary life and even this potentially awkward experience into something almost sacred.
"Run your hands over your hips,” he said now. “Light touches, your fingertips only. Close your eyes. Try to sink deeper into this world. The pasha's palace with its vaulting ceilings, indoor fountains, shooting the purest clear water, floors of intricate mosaic, sandstone walls, painted with the images of ancient warriors and goddesses, the banquet halls, with plush pillows in purple and red, food laid upon marble tables, inches from the floor, platters of fine meats and cheeses. Barefoot slave girls, harem girls like you to serve the wine and food and tend to the cocks of the men, thick beneath their robes and choked with seed. This is the world you must occupy, the one you must convey.
"Place your hands on your breasts, Morgan. Cup them lightly; imagine them naked and owned, burning for your master's touch, literally hurting from neglect. You want so much to please, to show him how beautiful they are, how perfect and round, made to be teased and tormented, to be suckled and squeezed. Squeeze them Morgan; imagine everything I'm telling you.
"But there's more ... I want you to imagine the man or woman for whom you would be making the photos, too. This isn't just something abstract. This is someone's fantasy. A man will take his cock in hand, burning over your image, a woman will touch herself and shiver and come, or maybe it will be a couple ... with you the centerpiece of their pleasure."
Morgan's pussy was dripping. She was hot and helpless, Nick's voice shaping and molding, making her own hands into his. She wanted him touching her, having his way, putting those hands wherever he liked, up under the hem of her dress, or unzipping the back. Yes, unzipping sweet and slow to get at her bra strap and her bare back.
She wanted to crawl to this pasha now, to look up into his eyes, a wild barefoot beast, begging him to fuck her, to rip off her clothes and stuff himself into her hot, wet hole; making her into just the kind of little slave he needed her to be.
A moan escaped her throat, giving away the extent of her absorption. How had she gotten to this point, anyway? The man was a stranger. She'd had out and out lovers, men with full access to her body who'd done less to stir her libido than this man was doing with a few simple words.
And it wasn't as if she were some romance novel buff, either. Morgan had no use for novels at all, unless they had some practical bent. That's what she liked about medicine, everything was cut and dried, generally diagnosable and usually treatable, if not curable. Her father had spent his life as a small town doctor, unwrapping the mysteries of life and she would be just as hardnosed, practical, unflinching.
These pictures, the ones she would eventually make, it was a last resort, the best and only way to pay the bills. She had the body, she exercised it hard, maintained it like a machine, so why not use it. But she didn't feel like a machine now. With this silky dress on her body, her hands running up and down her flesh. Men would look at her pictures, and jerk off...
Morgan's nipples strained against her cotton bra. The front panel of her panties was drenched. Her body was undulating, every bit of her alive and aroused. Pure sex, a living dream, like Nick had said. A raw electric cable to which to touch her tongue ... Technicolor passion ... a million fantasies. The pasha's slave girl, and so much more besides.
With both hands she gripped her belly, digging in her fingertips, her body shimmying against the press of her false nails, slapped on just for the occasion. Down she dragged them, raking electricity. It was time to lift her dress, time to show her underwear ... her pussy. A naughty little thing, stripping for the camera.
Or rather for the man who would and should be operating the camera. Strictly professional, that's what it was supposed to be and yet she could not purge the images of Nick Tremaine's zipper, clawed open by his own hands, his cock, full and hard extracted. She would lay herself at his feet, pulling at his hands, giving him no choice but to fuck her, taking her wet sex in one thrust, taking like it was supposed to be taken, by a real man, one who wasn't afraid of a woman's body and of her potential for raw sexuality.
"Nick,” she whispered, so, so soft, so even he would not hear from across the room.
Oh, hell, it had been too long, way too long. A year and a half since she'd had a really good screw. Too much studying, too many dates with pale, mama's boy wanna be gynecologists.
Up, up with her hem, time to show her panties. He'd like what he saw. Men always did. Morgan was a hottie, so
much so she'd had to fight the stereotypes, avoiding cheerleading for anatomy club. He'd give it to her ... a job, an orgasm.
Her hands gripped the dress, tugging, her eyes were closed. She clenched her thighs, her secret delta. Something was roiling up from underneath, in this office of musk and manliness, something familiar but overdue, the washing of waves, promising something more. Was she actually going to come like this ... untouched?
She took a deep breath, her last one on this side of meltdown. The edge of the cliff loomed and beckoned and sang to her. She had wings, the wings to fly, wings to soar and then to plunge, down, spiraling, to the depths, the core of creation herself...
"That will be all, Miss Baines."
Tremaine's voice came to her like a slap across the face, cold and brutal, awakening her from pleasure and joy into ... shame. Opening her eyes, she saw he was sitting behind his desk again, examining a set of photos, oblivious to her existence.
Instinctively she hugged herself, orgasm denied. She could see that she was still wearing her dress; though she might as well have been naked from the show she'd been giving him.
And yet he hadn't even bothered to see it through or give her any commentary. Okay, maybe she sucked as a sex bomb, he at least owed her the courtesy of an explanation, a thank you for coming.
Or almost coming as the case might be.
"What do you mean that's all?” Morgan demanded.
"I mean your interview is done. Please close the door on your way out."
Morgan felt the fury well up from within her. The bastard wasn't even making eye contact. Did he think he had the right to treat her this way just because she'd come here to be a nude model?
Marching to his desk she made short order of the photos. With a swish of her hands, she sent them flying in either direction. So much for his little blonde bimbo with the cups. “I'm talking to you,” she said.
Nick leaned back, his face expressionless. “Really? I would put it more into the category of harassment at this stage, or maybe assault."
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