black-and-white photos, a cityscape, but then I realized the gridded shapes weren’t buildings with windowpanes. They were rows of blindfolded people, ropes crisscrossing their bodies, squares of dark makeup giving the illusion of tinted windows. Another photograph appeared to be a pastoral upon first glance, but depicted models hunched into a mound and tied to resemble haystacks. The meticulousness and artistry of what Black had created amazed me.
“Did I give you permission to violate my privacy?” His voice came from behind me.
A shiver of trepidation shot through me. His tone was not the controlled one he used when we played. There was an undercurrent of something else—genuine annoyance, a splash of hurt. I turned to face him.
Black fiddled with a cufflink. Charcoal-gray slacks and a pale-green shirt—again impeccably tailored—set off his eyes. His irises seemed to glow in the dim light of the hallway.
“No. I’m sorry. I—I just wanted to see your work.”
“You should’ve asked.”
He crossed the floor and took the portfolio. I expected him to zip it shut and then punish me, but he didn’t. Flipping through the pages, he inspected the imagery, then laid the book open to a specific series of proofs.
“This is what you’re looking for.”
The photos featured a tiny woman in geisha makeup, nude and bound with elaborate knotwork in different sexually graphic poses. I flipped through the 8x10s that followed the proof pages.
“Who is she?” My fingertips outlined her body.
“Mika. She was my sub for many years. My lover.”
That he’d been committed to one woman for years surprised me. From what I’d read on the forums, Black was finicky and easily lost interest. And it was the first time the word “love” in any form had crossed his lips.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“You’re like her in some ways.”
Faced with the woman’s thin, petite form, long black hair and snow-white skin, I couldn’t see any similarities at all.
“Not physically,” he said as if he’d heard what I was thinking. “She was a brilliant photographer, but lacked the confidence to pursue her dreams. I helped her find her courage and after that she blossomed. She did the picture in the dining room and the ones in the hall.”
“What happened to her?” His use of the past tense told me this woman was more than an ex-lover.
“She died.”
I stayed quiet, unsure what to say.
“Aneurysm. She was here one day…and then she wasn’t.”
His expression turned to stone. I knew it belied what he really felt. He was the kind of man who shut down or exerted control when he couldn’t deal with a surge of emotion, that much I’d learned even in the short time we’d spent together.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been nosy.”
With a curt nod, he buckled his watchband and collected his portfolio. “I’ll be home by five. Get some work done and be ready to play by then.”
Before I had a chance to reply, he turned and strode out of the house.
* * * * *
By four in the afternoon, I clapped the laptop shut. I’d gotten next to nothing written. Years of neglect had eaten away at my writing skills—the existence of which I still doubted. All the stories I thought lurked inside me had run and hidden now that they had the chance to see the light of day. Ridiculous.
I’d need daily practice to get back into the swing of things, but today was not that day. I needed a break from my failures both past and present. A bath, I decided, would do the trick.
Padding into Black’s bedroom, I shed my shirt and jeans, hanging them in the closet. A huge floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall reflected in the dresser mirror, showing me from an angle I didn’t often see. Usually when faced with my full figure, pale, freckled skin and mass of curly hair, I would turn away as quickly as possible, but now I saw myself through Black’s eyes.
Instead of disdain for my fleshiness, I admired the curve of my hips into my
“Did I give you permission to violate my privacy?” His voice came from behind me.
A shiver of trepidation shot through me. His tone was not the controlled one he used when we played. There was an undercurrent of something else—genuine annoyance, a splash of hurt. I turned to face him.
Black fiddled with a cufflink. Charcoal-gray slacks and a pale-green shirt—again impeccably tailored—set off his eyes. His irises seemed to glow in the dim light of the hallway.
“No. I’m sorry. I—I just wanted to see your work.”
“You should’ve asked.”
He crossed the floor and took the portfolio. I expected him to zip it shut and then punish me, but he didn’t. Flipping through the pages, he inspected the imagery, then laid the book open to a specific series of proofs.
“This is what you’re looking for.”
The photos featured a tiny woman in geisha makeup, nude and bound with elaborate knotwork in different sexually graphic poses. I flipped through the 8x10s that followed the proof pages.
“Who is she?” My fingertips outlined her body.
“Mika. She was my sub for many years. My lover.”
That he’d been committed to one woman for years surprised me. From what I’d read on the forums, Black was finicky and easily lost interest. And it was the first time the word “love” in any form had crossed his lips.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“You’re like her in some ways.”
Faced with the woman’s thin, petite form, long black hair and snow-white skin, I couldn’t see any similarities at all.
“Not physically,” he said as if he’d heard what I was thinking. “She was a brilliant photographer, but lacked the confidence to pursue her dreams. I helped her find her courage and after that she blossomed. She did the picture in the dining room and the ones in the hall.”
“What happened to her?” His use of the past tense told me this woman was more than an ex-lover.
“She died.”
I stayed quiet, unsure what to say.
“Aneurysm. She was here one day…and then she wasn’t.”
His expression turned to stone. I knew it belied what he really felt. He was the kind of man who shut down or exerted control when he couldn’t deal with a surge of emotion, that much I’d learned even in the short time we’d spent together.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been nosy.”
With a curt nod, he buckled his watchband and collected his portfolio. “I’ll be home by five. Get some work done and be ready to play by then.”
Before I had a chance to reply, he turned and strode out of the house.
* * * * *
By four in the afternoon, I clapped the laptop shut. I’d gotten next to nothing written. Years of neglect had eaten away at my writing skills—the existence of which I still doubted. All the stories I thought lurked inside me had run and hidden now that they had the chance to see the light of day. Ridiculous.
I’d need daily practice to get back into the swing of things, but today was not that day. I needed a break from my failures both past and present. A bath, I decided, would do the trick.
Padding into Black’s bedroom, I shed my shirt and jeans, hanging them in the closet. A huge floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall reflected in the dresser mirror, showing me from an angle I didn’t often see. Usually when faced with my full figure, pale, freckled skin and mass of curly hair, I would turn away as quickly as possible, but now I saw myself through Black’s eyes.
Instead of disdain for my fleshiness, I admired the curve of my hips into my
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