Dante - Daryl Banner Page 0,26
camera a sarcastic gesture. “Or is this not quite … the shot you intended?”
“I …” He suddenly appears conflicted about what to say. The big boy from earlier is traded for a scared, horny, clueless cat who’s climbed way too far up the tree to get safely down.
It’s growing increasingly impossible to respect the separation of client and photographer. I cannot cross that line, no matter how tempting, no matter how he looks at me …
No matter what.
“Want me to keep directing you?” I ask. “Or do you need me to undo the binds and … give you a moment?”
His cock is still throbbing hard in his pants. It flexes before our eyes, pushing against the unfairly tight, leathery confines. I don’t think that flex was given with Tye’s permission.
He meets my eyes. He’s out of breath when he finally answers, “Yes.”
“Undo your binds and give you a moment?” I nod, assuming my businesslike demeanor. “Alright. Let’s get you out of—”
“No.”
I stop. “No?”
“I meant … yes, keep directing me.”
Our eyes hover on one another’s. He is trying to breathe evenly, but I can tell his heart is racing so fast, he has no hope of going soft anytime soon.
I step away with a nod. “Good.” I turn on the flash, redirect one of the lights, then come around him for a new angle. “Keep squirming. Show me your frustration, your desire, your anguish.”
The overdramatic words do the trick. He gets right into character, pulling against his restraints again. He is so excited, he can’t contain himself to just one limb at a time; he squirms against all four.
“Good, yeah,” I encourage him. Flash, flash.
And I take picture after picture, coming around him and capturing all the angles. I zoom in to his face, capitalizing on everything real that happens on it—even the emotions he’s likely not intending to show: his shyness, his embarrassment, his bliss, his insecurity, his curiosity …
His uncertainty …
His sexuality …
“Gag me.”
I stop snapping photos and give him a look. I don’t think I heard him right. “What was that?”
His heart is racing so fast, I can see ripples of excitement in his shimmery eyes. “Gag me. Can … Can you gag me? Please?”
Holy mother of fuckers.
Professional, Dante.
Keep it goddamned professional.
This is a professional photo shoot you’re still having here with a legitimate budding model you are working for and with. He is a client. You are his photographer.
This is not a fantasy leaping out of your damn head.
I speak in a level tone. “You want to be gagged for a set of photos?”
He hesitates. “I want …”
“Yes?”
“I want to experience it.” He swallows. “I mean I want to be gagged so I … so I can really feel that sense of … of being owned. Objectified. Silenced.”
Tye is quickly turning into one kinky cat.
Professional. “Alright. Gag, it is.”
I move to a drawer and pull it open, revealing a spread of different gags—ball gags, rope gags, red and black cloth gags … even athlete mouth guards.
Tye watches me, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
I pull out a ball gag, the exact same one I used in the photo that brought him here: a black, leather strap with a red ball, which I know will fit perfectly between his cute, wet lips.
Just holding it again gives me a power I haven’t felt in ages—a power that makes me feel alive.
Photographer. Client.
Rules.
Boundaries.
Tye doesn’t blink as I approach him, like he’s afraid to miss a moment of this. His nostrils flare with anticipation as I bring the gag toward his lips.
Professional. Duty. Honor.
Just a job. Just a task. Just work.
“I want you to have fun with it.”
I look down at him, gag in hand. “Excuse me?”
“With the shoot. I mean … if you want me in character, I think you should be in character, too. I want you to have fun with … w-with gagging me. And having me helpless and …” His heart races so fast, he looks like he might pass out. “… and … at your total mercy.”
His heart is racing.
I think mine just stopped.
Is he trying to instigate what I think he’s trying to instigate? Am I crossing a line here that he wants me to cross? Do I have what it takes to break my most precious rule?
“Alright,” I agree mildly. “Any last words?”
He chokes on his next breath before sputtering, “S-Sorry?”
“Sorry? That’s a lame last word.”
Before he can manage to say anything else, I bring the gag to his mouth and slip it right past his lips.