Dante - Daryl Banner Page 0,31

back into his nipples.

His mouth drops open, his eyes grow twice their size, and he groans loudly in anguish. “Holy fuckin’ fuck!” he shouts out.

And it’s right in the middle of that expletive that I plant my lips right on his, giving him what he wants, while then pressing my thumbs against his reddened, exposed nipples, massaging away their stinging, mixing his pain with pleasuring relief.

From the way his body melts against mine, and the throaty growl he lets out, he’s getting exactly what he wants—something he didn’t ask for.

I let go of a nipple, reach around, and cup his tight, firm ass, which feels like it might as well be bare with the material of his pants. I pull his slender waist against mine. Our hard, throbbing crotches grind together.

His brand of satisfaction seems to be a lot like mine: a blend of conventional and unconventional.

A little bit of loving. A little bit of kink.

And a little bit of something else that has no name.

When our kiss ends, I smirk at his eyes. “What I’m gonna show you tonight, it’s going to give you a lot to think about. What you want. What you don’t want. What you like and don’t like. You just need to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. That’s all I ask. You got me?”

Tye gives it a moment’s thought. I almost think he’s just getting lost in my eyes. Then he tilts his buzzed head and squints at me. “Is this still free of charge under that ‘time for prints’ thingy?”

To that, I give him an honest laugh. “Boy … I told you the first time we met, I’m not here to just satisfy your sexual desires. Hell, do I look like a damn escort to you?”

He swallows, shrinking a bit. “Nah.”

“I’m either your photographer, or I’m …”

Suddenly I realize I don’t have a word for what the hell I am.

What am I being right now?

It doesn’t matter, because Tye pulls away from me, peels off his tank the rest of the way, and flings it aside. “I wanna try everything,” he tells me. “I’ve never felt safer with anyone like I feel with you. I trust you. More than just … my photographer. Or whatever it is you want to call yourself. You get me. You know me … and I can see it.”

I stare at his beauty—and his insatiable appetite for what I’ve only given him the tiniest taste of.

Have I awakened the man in him, or the beast?

“You’re in for a real long night.”

16

I tie him up twelve different ways, from hogties to behind-the-back leather wrist bindings to artfully suspended arrangements.

All of which I take pictures of.

I clothe him in sports gear, leather gear, and in a number of the photos, nothing but his tiny black boxer-briefs.

Between some of our scenes and positions, we kiss, as if to remind ourselves that despite our taste for objectification and power play and giving up control, we are in fact very much human.

I’ve never felt more connected to someone else.

Not like I do tonight with Tye Jenson, the kid I once thought was just here for himself.

I severely underestimated what he would give me in return.

I bind him in positions that are uncomfortable, and in that discomfort, he moans with pleasure as he struggles against his binds. I know the feeling of bliss that surges through his heart when he feels like he can’t escape the traps I put him in.

Just like me at his age, Tye can’t get enough.

It must be well past two in the morning—over four and a half hours later—when an inevitable stroke of humanity interrupts a particularly skillful Shibari tie I achieve: the growling of Tye’s stomach.

I snort, lowering my camera. “You hungry?”

He grimaces, then attempts to shrug despite the beautiful red rope keeping his arms woven in place behind his back. “Yeah, a bit.”

After snapping a few more shots, I set down the camera and undo his binds. A moment later, the pair of us are in my kitchen where I fix us some late-night grub: reheated pasta mixed with scraps of bacon (not quite my nonna’s carbonara, but close enough). By seeing the way Tye devours it, I’m guessing it does the trick … or else he’s just starving.

I guess a four-hour bondage session has a way of working up an appetite. “I gotta tell you, this isn’t how I expected to spend my night,” I admit, scraping up the last little scraps