“What’s wrong with the rope? Damn it, we don’t have all day.”
Naked, Ferren Cooper planted herself in front of Richard Witson. She ignored the cameraman and two robe-draped women standing to the side of the set and stared at him. “First, I don’t need a lecture about time management. I’m a pro.”
“A pro who’s being a pain in the ass this morning.”
Grinning, Ferren turned to the side and wiggled her rear at the middle-aged man. Then she became serious. “What I’m doing is looking at the bottom line. Every porn site on the Net uses red rope. You want Cages to be unique, right?”
“We are unique. For one, we put up with spoiled bitches like you.”
“You’re the only one who has ever called me that. I’m worth every penny. Look, you wouldn’t have hired me if you didn’t trust my judgment. I know what I’m talking about.”
Richard stared at her over the top of his glasses. “We hired you after you came begging for a job.”
It had hardly been like that. Cages hadn’t been the first porn business to try to lure her away from Leather ’n’ Chains. When she’d started out in the business, she’d done whatever Leather ’n’ Chains’ owner, Philip Blackwell, told her to and as a result had learned an incredible amount about what it took to be a valuable commodity in a highly competitive industry. Unfortunately, among the things she’d learned was that beneath his suave exterior, Philip was a slimeball who treated his models, especially the women, like pieces of merchandise. She even had a couple of whip scars as proof of what he was capable of.
At least he no longer pulled his nonsense on her. Unwilling to lower her standards, she’d jumped ship and signed on the line with Cages when they’d promised her steady work, health insurance, creative input, and, most importantly, regard and respect.
Once she’d been assured of a steady paycheck, she’d blown the whistle on Philip via the underground network. Her mother had pressed her to lodge a formal abuse complaint with law enforcement, but she hadn’t wanted the exposure for either herself or her mother. It was enough to be able to move on while doing what she could low-key to warn other models of what they were getting into with Philip.
“Read my contract, Richard.” Unembarrassed, Ferren folded her arms under her generous and natural breasts—breasts which had a lot to do with why she was in demand. “I have as much say as you do on how things are handled, and I’m telling you, red rope strung all over my body is going to look like a Christmas tree decorated by elves. Leather’s sexier: black leather with large, shiny buckles.”
Richard, who went by the title of Creative Director, studied her from the top of her long pale blonde hair (not her own color) to her pink toenail polish. She had no doubt he was contemplating how the leather would look against her allover tan. Spectacular.
“All right. You win. This time.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was all but encased in leather. A strap that turned out to be stiffer than she’d thought it would be secured her wrists behind her back, while another cinched her elbows so close they nearly touched. The same arrangement kept her ankles and knees together. Straps above and below her breasts pushed them out, providing the finishing touch. As always when she was tied up, a hot calm seeped over her. She was no longer responsible for anything. Nothing mattered except responding to her body’s carnal messages. Living as a sexual creature. Acknowledging her primitive nature. At the moment she laid on her back on a rubberized mat inside a set holding cell, pretending to be terrified as she stared at a closed door.
What would her former high-school classmates think if she went to a reunion and pulled out photographs demonstrating what she did for a living? How would she explain what she did—who she was—to those who’d thought of her as quiet and conservative, a brain with an early-to-ripen body?
My mom told me to do what I love, and success will follow. And I celebrate just about everything to do with sex.
Like they’d understand that?
The tall, skinny cameraman moved in for a close-up of her face followed by a slow pan down her helpless body. She writhed about, moaning and pretending to be in fear to add to the effect. At least the college acting classes she’d taken had paid off. If she hadn’t dropped out, she’d have signed up for more just for the heck of it. It hadn’t made sense, though, to run up debt when she hadn’t been sure why she was even going to college.
Work. Get into the scene.
In her mind she was no longer on a set being bathed in bright lights with a high-powered camera lens checking out everything but her ear hairs. Instead, she’d been captured by pirates and was aboard their ship. They’d take her to some secret island, where she’d be secured next to ill-gotten treasures. The pirates would fight over her, but in the end, she’d become the prize of the biggest, most virile of the bunch. Hopefully her captor had heard of a toothbrush, and the island came with soap and deodorant. Otherwise, her time as his sex toy would be a miserable experience.
Fantasy. Think fantasy.
Unfortunately, she’d been drawing on the same daydream—or a variation thereof—since getting into the business. Images of cowering helplessly at the feet of some powerful man no longer turned her on. These days, getting her sex to cream took more and more stimulation, as did conjuring enthusiasm for showing up for work. Climaxing on cue was hardly a cakewalk.
Concentrate. Earn your keep.
What if her pirate had a hook instead of a hand, a smooth, shiny, clean hook with a nicely rounded end, which he slowly slid into her defenseless pussy?
Just then the door to the set opened. In walked a man dressed in black, complete with a black hood that obscured everything except his eyes. She’d known she’d be working with C.J., so there was no surprise about her captor’s identity. As riggers went, C.J. was a master at getting women’s bodies to respond. Thanks to him and his expertly applied vibrators, she’d climax several times before this session was over and not have to do 90 percent of the work making it happen.
It didn’t get any better, right?
Do you understand, old man? You might not care about your daughter, but countless men jack off watching me. Guess I’m not a throwaway after all.
A sigh escaped her. The last thing she needed to think about was the man who was responsible for her existing. That was all he’d been, a sperm donor. She didn’t need him any more than he obviously needed her. Falling into her role, Ferren sobbed and tried to wriggle away. She couldn’t accomplish anything with the bonds, but she kept up the pretense of being terrified.
“Save your strength, slut.” C.J. knew his lines all right. His forceful tone added to the role-playing. “You belong to me today.” He stood over her, his left hand wrapped around a lightweight whip. “And if you don’t do what I say, I might never let you go.”
Something she couldn’t put a name to pulled her attention away from C.J. and toward something that was taking place elsewhere in the room. Hopefully the camera wasn’t on her face. But if it was, there was no way she could hide the unexpected pull she felt on her senses. Something had changed.
, her nerves shouted. Down-and-dirty male. Sex appeal to the max.
Outsiders were hardly ever allowed on a set, but the newcomer was lounging against a 4X4 at the opposite side of the room that was sometimes used to string bondage models up. There he was. A stranger.
Intriguing and yet frightening.
He wore a white dress shirt open at the throat and faded jeans that rode his lean hips and muscled thighs. He had on tennis shoes but no socks. The little bit she saw of his arms told her he worked out regularly. His flat belly said he watched what he ate and respected his body. He was tall, at least two inches past six feet, a day overdue for a shave, and at least a month on the downhill side of needing a haircut. His eyes, like his hair, were dark. Piercing. Probing. Rolling over every inch of her.
He stared openly at her, not with the air of a man who was being turned on—although the bulge in his jeans was too large for an at-rest cock—but as if he needed to take his measure of her.
What are you looking for?
She’d been stared at by more men than she could count, to say nothing of the nameless thousands of porn-site members who paid to watch her bondage videos. One more shouldn’t make a difference.
But it did.
“Hey.” C.J. tapped her cheek. “Where’d you go?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. She reluctantly dismissed the newcomer.
“About finishing this scene. They’ll have to edit out what we’re saying right now, but if you’ll get with the program, we can salvage things.”
Angry for allowing herself to be distracted, she nodded, then focused on reconnecting with her body. Fortunately it was accustomed to performing on cue.
Warm fingers slipped between her legs and headed unerringly for her pussy. “Good job,” C.J. said. “You’re so wet you’re going to drown me.”
Any other time she’d be tempted to remind C.J. that she knew how to get her body to respond—it was, after all, part of the job requirement—but he was right. Today she wasn’t just damp. There was a flood. How had that happened?
Like you don’t know? Mr. No Name’s responsible.
Even with C.J. trying to spread her legs despite the restraints, she couldn’t keep her mind or attention off the newcomer. Was it just his hard and knowing gaze, the thin slash of his mouth and slightly askew nose, his undeniably hunky body, the bulge between his legs? Or did her subconscious sense something about him that the rest of her didn’t?
Assaulted by thoughts of the stranger’s strong hands roaming over her, she shivered. So much for being in control.
“Got your attention, have I?” C.J. said. “I would hope to hell so.”
But C.J., the script, the rolling camera, the leather holding her prisoner, had nothing to do with her reaction. Only the big man with the deep eyes did.
You’re what I expected
, they said. What I was looking for.
It wasn’t easy, but she managed to give most of her attention to finishing the scene, which called for her to beg C.J. to turn her into his sex slave. When she’d first read the script, she’d seen that little was expected of her except to supply a loud and highly visible climax. She could do that all right, practically in her sleep. She was glad management had approved her suggestion that she include details of what she’d do to prove her submission to him once she was wearing his collar.
Now as she confessed to a desire to kneel at her Dom’s feet while wearing nipple clamps, she wondered if the man who’d briefly made her forget what she was here for was imagining her submitting to him.
Did he want that?