Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 33

She had it now and fired several rapid shots, squaring off Malin's exquisite face, then broadening out to include her shoulders and deep cleavage. Syria pulled over a ladder to get a full-body shot, letting the image focus on her eyes and skim across her body to the ankles.

"Spin the dress," Erik said, and Malin immediately rose from the chair.

Syria jumped off the ladder and tugged the chair out of the way. "Do you know how dancers turn in circles?" she asked. "Where they sort of pause then go around, pause and go around?"

Malin nodded.

Syria wondered if the submissive was allowed to speak or if Malin was just naturally quiet.

Malin spun precisely as Syria described, revealing some dance training.

"Beautiful," Syria said, s.h.i.+fting her shutter speed up to freeze the movement of the skirt. She kneeled to focus on the girl's amazing strong legs, working a swift pattern as the dress rose higher to her thighs.

It wasn't until she glanced at the screen did she realize Malin was naked beneath the dress, and the shots were more bare than she realized. The girl kept spinning. She had to be tired, or dizzy. "I have it," Syria said, but Malin continued to spin.

Syria looked at Erik, who watched with calm deliberation, his face unreadable. "She can stop now," she said to him.

Erik made no indication that he'd even heard her, watching the girl turn and turn and turn.

Syria's discomfort grew. "I'd really prefer it if we let her stop."

"You may stop," Erik said.

Malin halted, clearly affected by the whirlwind, but standing as straight and relaxed as possible with her rapid breaths.

Erik walked up to caress her bare shoulders, his fingers slipping across her skin so lightly that she s.h.i.+vered. "That's my beautiful girl."

Syria was caught between horror and envy. She could see how their relations.h.i.+p probably played out in other ways with rope or bondage or even infliction of pain.

He toyed with the silver clasps on the straps of the dress, then stepped back. "Take it off," he told her.

Syria's heart beat painfully as Malin opened the clasp at the shoulder. She trained her lens to focus on the graceful hands with their simple French manicure. When Malin let go, that side of the dress slid down, revealing a perfect golden breast and a dark puckered nipple. Syria swallowed, pulling back on the shot to show more of her body.

Malin turned to the other clasp and freed the opposite side. The gold silk cascaded across her skin, puddling together at her hips. A small blue jewel winked from above her belly b.u.t.ton. She released the dress with only the slightest push from her palms, and it fluttered to the floor. Malin stepped away from it, now naked other than a pair of gold stilettos encasing her delicate feet.

Erik stepped forward and into the shot, lifting Malin's chin as he leaned in to kiss her. Syria's pulse beat in her throat, snapping as quickly as her studio lights would reset, some shots pulled out, to show the contrast of his suit against the unbroken skin, others tight, especially when Erik's strong hand cupped a breast and his thumb crossed her nipple.

Malin stepped her feet wide to give him access, but Erik did not touch her. He grasped her elbow and spun her to face away, holding her arm tightly. Now Syria could see the things he did to her, the skin of her back crisscrossed with red. He ran his fingers across the scars, some fresh welts, some older, with measured care. Malin sighed at his touch, her head lowered.

Syria a.s.sumed he wanted her to capture the scars, but when she lifted her camera, he waved his hand at her and shook his head. Apparently this show was just for her.

Syria stepped back. The shoot was for her. To let her see how he worked. She burned inside, unable to even imagine such a life. No way.

Everyone turned to the hall as Elise and the boy helped Aliara into the room.

Her outfit was breathtaking. The sheer pink corset pressed her body into a s.h.i.+ny coc.o.o.n, her girl-like b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed into a tender cleavage above it. She still wore the strange silver ring around her neck.

The fine-strung thong was mostly invisible, just a touch of pink between her legs, drawing attention more than concealing anything. The shoes, though, were not something you could walk in. Aliara took each step with great pain, her feet straight up from the floor. The boy kept his eyes on the ground as he and Elise moved the girl toward the set.

"Pick up your dress and move away, Malin," Erik instructed. "Put on the slave attire."

Malin's eyes lit up at this instruction and she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the gold dress.

Aliara watched the eager girl move toward the wardrobe. "Already, Erik? I'm not even gone yet before you hand my chains to my replacement."

"It's just for size, my love," Erik said. "We'll see if it suits her."

He took Aliara's hand as though she were a princess. Elise and the boy backed away as he led her to the center of the set in small, careful steps.

Syria snapped shots as they moved across the drop, not sure what else to do. Some power s.h.i.+ft was occurring, but she didn't quite get it. She supposed that maybe the submissive had done her time as the toy, and she could move up to the more exalted position of slave. When Erik turned Aliara in a slow circle, his hand holding hers above her head, Syria could see her back was smooth and unscarred.

The pair danced together in a graceful movement, agonizingly slow due to the heels. Erik turned Aliara back into him, balancing her on his arm as she leaned with an arched back to look up at him, not unlike a ballerina might do with her cavalier. The shots were gorgeous and arresting, the near-naked wraith in the arms of the handsome businessman, the sort of scene that you could imagine in a painting or on the cover of a book.

Erik was more affected by this girl, his jaw tight as he gazed down on her. His hand moved to her waist, where it tightened against the corset. "You will be missed," he said, and lowered his lips to her exposed throat just above the silver ring. Aliara's eyes closed and a tear squeezed out from her eye. Syria framed the shot tightly, Erik's profile against the girl, her uplifted face, and the sadness of their goodbye.

Malin came up behind her, and Erik straightened from his position, the moment lost. Syria turned, and stifled a gasp at the transformation. The luxurious hair was now in a thick braid, her makeup deepened at her eyes and cheeks and lips to something dangerous, powerful, and dark.

Her neck was encased in a leather collar with four metal links. Three broad straps came down from it, one on either side of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the other down the middle. They attached to a belt that fit low on her hips. Below the belt hung several metal rings. Brown boots came up over her knees. Otherwise, she was exposed.

Elise walked up and attached a silver chain to either side of her neck. Malin grasped a chain in each hand and whirled them so that they wrapped around her wrists and up her arm in an incredible show of dexterity.

"You've been practicing," Erik said. He let go of Aliara. "Let's get the two of you together one last time." He make sure Aliara was well balanced on her shoes and stepped away.

Malin covered the distance to the fragile girl with a menacing stride. At first Aliara stood straight and firm, but as Malin let the chain slide over her hand to the floor, the smaller girl began to shrink back.

Syria snapped shots, unsure what was happening, or what she'd gotten involved in. Malin looked like she was about to devour Aliara whole. Was it an act? Or was this some sort of ritual as a slave pa.s.sed her position to another?

Erik stood next to her now, poised and calm. Syria's heart was thundering like a freight train, but she didn't dare ask him about anything. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Malin lifted her arm in the air, her breast stretched high. Syria found the fear working to heighten the s.e.xual tension in her own body. She tried to concentrate on the job, but something about the power struggle was moving her.

Malin wrapped the chain around the girl, jerking her toward her. Aliara couldn't hold her position in the difficult shoes and began to crumple. Malin caught her, bending to lift her legs. Together, they moved to the floor, the chains falling loose.

Aliara raised her hand to her forehead in a swoon, and that was the first hint Syria got that this was scripted. Malin tightened the chains again, forcing Aliara to arch her back. With slow measured movements, Malin began to loosen the ties to the corset.

Next to her, Erik did not move or change expression, but Syria began to feel the heat coming off him. So this is what he liked, to watch these power struggles play out. Syria knelt to get away from him, snapping images of the two, Malin tossing the corset away. She leaned forward, capturing a small pale nipple in her mouth, and that's when Syria realized this was going to go well beyond a photo shoot.

She could call it off, say it wasn't the sort of thing she did. But the room was transfixed, Elise, the wardrobe boy, Erik. Syria looked back at the two girls. Malin had pushed beyond the wispy thong and was pressing fingers into Aliara.

The girl's reaction was either Oscar-worthy, or unscripted, because Aliara arched up, crying out, her legs shuddering. Malin bent down, her tongue flicking between the girl's folds, and Aliara's hands clenched, her body vibrating.

Syria could feel it now, each cry of the girl going straight through her own body. She was wet and hot, the camera heavy in her hands. She swallowed and glanced up at Erik to see if she should continue shooting.

But he was watching her, not the girls, his eyes penetrating. He wanted to see what Syria thought, how she responded. Again, Syria realized, this was not for him, but for her. She set the camera on the floor.

Aliara began a keening cry, an o.r.g.a.s.mic release. Syria closed her eyes, trying to maintain control. She would not let Erik see what affected her. She would maintain her distance and her professionalism. Collect her money. Finish the job. Never see these people again.

After a few minutes, Erik said, "Thank you girls, that was lovely."

He helped Malin stand, and scooped up Aliara to set her on the sofa and remove the difficult shoes. "This is a good memory," he said to her.

The team moved swiftly to restore the girls to their normal clothes and pack up the wardrobe. Elise presented Syria with another envelope, and as the party walked down the hall, Syria felt both relief that it was over, and confusion about why Erik had chosen her to doc.u.ment this goodbye.

8: Santa Fail Syria looked over the images later that day, particularly transfixed on the Aliara's single tear as Erik pressed his face into her neck. Did this girl love him? Syria didn't get it. Aliara had given up her life to this man, who obviously treated her well. But how could she just do anything he said? What if she wanted to say "no" to something?

She pushed away from her desk and glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Tyson had some big job that night, a Christmas-themed bachelorette party. Twenty girls and three strippers, he had said. It should be winding down, although it was an hour earlier in Seattle.

The floorboards squeaked as she headed to the kitchen. Between December 1 and 20, she allowed herself the vice of energy drinks. The extra caffeine made her body zing and staying up was no problem at all as long as she didn't do it so often that she built up a tolerance.

She'd just popped open the silver can when "Santa Baby" started playing in the other room. Syria dashed down the hall, stubbing her toe on a side table. She turned in circles, yelling, "f.u.c.k f.u.c.k f.u.c.k!" while yellow liquid flowed over her fingers, leaving drops along the floor.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and realized it was actually a video chat request. She hit "Accept" but instead of Tyson's face, she saw a ceiling, then the blur of movement.

At the same moment, a text message came through from Mia. "If Tyson calls, don't answer!!!"

Syria couldn't even write her back, trying to puzzle out the scene. "Tyson?" she asked.

A woman's face filled the screen, her blond hair puffing out from what had probably once been a glamorous updo. Her mascara left black shadows below her eyes, and her vivid lipstick was a smear.

Syria's stomach knotted. "Who are you?"

"Are you Tyson's girlfriend? He has SO MANY girls in his contact list!" She flipped the phone around to the room, but her high-pitch voice still carried. "Take a look at him now!"

Syria squinted at the scene. She could see a fuzzy Santa hat, and boots, and an indistinct body, a blur of skin. She should kill the call. Obviously this girl was going down the list, and had hit Mia before getting to Syria, prompting the frantic text.

The phone walked closer to the scene, one corner of the image obscured by a blurry pink finger. The autofocus s.h.i.+fted, trying to lock in, then there he was, Tyson, naked and kneeling by a sofa. Syria tried to make out some strange projections coming from around his back, then realized something.

They were knees.

The phone jerked to the side - the girl holding it was probably too drunk to be managing electronics - and the owner of the knees came into view. The situation wasn't clear, but it looked a whole lot like part of Tyson, a naked part, based on his pumping a.s.s, was going up the girl's skirt.

Was he having s.e.x with her?

Syria began gulping gasps of air. He was just a stripper. He wasn't a prost.i.tute.

Or he hadn't been. Maybe the money was good.

Just like the money for her shoot.

Syria hit "end" to kill the connection. She wouldn't jump to conclusions. Things were never what they seemed. But why had the drunk girl felt compelled to tattle?

Suddenly the energy drink seemed like a really bad idea. Syria stuck the can on her desk and headed to her bedroom, wiping her sticky hand on her jeans. But the silk fabric hanging on the bed posts made her think of Tyson, pulling it down to tie her up. The window was where he photographed her in her underwear, an intimacy both frightening and seductive with someone she barely knew. She closed her eyes, trying not to see him everywhere. She could not, would not overreact. But things were so hard already. He wasn't coming for Christmas. He was so far away. And now, this. Even if he wasn't actually having s.e.x...

Syria had no grounds for fault with him. She had been on stage, having s.e.x with Mia in front of roomful of strangers. Tyson had been nothing but encouraging, and when Syria had felt remorse at what happened, he was perfect, understanding and careful. She had to treat him the same.

She eased off her jeans and slid into the covers. When "Santa Baby" played from the other room an hour later, she was still awake, but she didn't go answer the call.

9: The Proposal Syria punched the b.u.t.tons to retrieve her voice mails on the studio line late the next morning, practically noon. She'd slept fitfully, Tyson's red velvet hat morphing into the Santa doll her father had given her.

She had the money to go to India now, but no idea how or where to look for him. She deleted two calls by photo retouchers looking for work, jotted the number for someone looking for a last-minute photo shoot for Christmas - not that she'd take the job - she was backing off for a bit. Then she laid her pen down as Erik's satin voice came through the line.

"Syria, I'm in no hurry for the images, but I would like to speak with you privately, if you have a moment. I have a business proposition for you, and I think we would find it mutually beneficial."

She wrote down the number he gave her and noted that it was different from the one he'd left before, which connected to an office and a secretary.

The wheels of her chair squeaked as she rolled backward and away from the desk. What sort of business proposition could he possibly have for her? Maybe he had more women to photograph, enough to keep her busy for a while. Heck, just a few more jobs like this last one and she'd cover what she made in a year. Maybe he wanted his own private photographer.

Syria paced the room, crossing the set where she'd photographed the women yesterday and sitting on the Queen Anne chair. For the first time in a long while, she wondered where she was going and what she wanted out of her life. Five years ago, she'd been down and out, flunking out of two medical programs. Luck struck in meeting Anthony, a boudoir photographer who became her first lover and helped her discover her talent for s.e.xy imagery. He'd even helped her set up this studio before leaving for Italy.

Since then, she'd been spinning her wheels. She did all right, making enough money for most of the things she wanted, and dating here and there. But Tyson had changed her again, and now she hungered for more from her life, excitement, new people, unexpected experiences.

She punched in Erik's number, trying to keep her stomach calm as it rang through.

He answered it himself. "Syria, you got my message." His voice was liquid and low.

"I did. What did you want to speak about?"

"It's not something that can be discussed on the phone. Perhaps we could have dinner tonight?"

That sounded like a date. She thought briefly of Tyson, but then corrected herself. This was business. "We can't just meet here?"

"If you agree to my plan, we might feel like celebrating."

"Well, all right." Maybe he was going to hire her full-time.

"I will send a car for you at eight. Does that work?"

"All right. Fancy? Casual?"

"It will be a night out."

"Got it." Syria's stomach fluttered again.

"I will see you tonight, then," Erik said.

"Yes," Syria said. "Tonight.

She dashed to her closet. Erik's girls had dressed awfully well even in the middle of the day, and he'd been in a three-piece suit. A night out sounded even more formal.

She s.h.i.+fted through her meager choices. It looked like shopping might be in order.

The sleek Mercedes arrived promptly at eight. The driver knocked on her door, and Syria, who had been watching from a window, counted to five before opening.

The older gentleman bowed, tucking his hat under his arm. "I'm here to take you to Mr. Andrada."

Syria turned to the side table. "Let me grab my coat." She picked up the faux sable wrap and a small black purse, all purchases from that day. The driver took the fur piece and helped her in it, covering her bare arms in the glimmering charcoal sheath dress. She'd selected it because it was knee-length and simple, so she could almost pa.s.s for an ordinary night out, but the s.h.i.+mmer gave it enough glamour to not be out of place if they ended up some place where everyone was decked in actual gowns.