The Art Of Domination 2: Photo Slave (A Domination And Submission Romance Serial)

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 22,100
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From Bestselling Erotic Romance and Erotica Author Erika Masten The Second Title In A New Eight-Part Erotic Domination And Submission Romance Serial Available for 99 Cents Through Its Debut Weekend Only!

The Art Of Domination 2: Photo Slave A Domination and Submission Romance

When Iva Moreau made a deal with sexy bad boy photographer Nolan Beal to keep her younger sister from becoming his erotic pin-up model—in exchange for one photo session with Iva herself—she thought she could fulfill her bargain and walk away from the life of art, hedonism, and passion that had once consumed her. She hadn’t anticipated that taking creative direction from the intense photographer would lead so naturally and inevitably to taking sensual direction from him as well, as she submits to the forbidden thrill of his sexual domination.

With his fair share of attention from wannabe models and art world groupies, Nolan expected to satisfy his curiosity over the fiery and protective Iva with one night’s seduction. As she defies the stereotypes that have kept Nolan at a distance from love, however, he finds himself compelled to seek out the Iva hidden behind the mask of fierce duty and stifling respectability.

What began as Nolan’s mission to obtain Iva’s signature on a model release for the use of her photos now becomes a Dom’s seduction and instruction of the woman he would take as his submissive. And the signature he has decided he wants from her is the very opposite of a release.

Novella Length: 22,000 words or roughly 74 traditional print pages.

This is a domination and submission romance containing strong sexual content intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

The Art Of Domination Series The Art of Domination: Model Release The Art of Domination 2: Photo Slave The Art of Domination 3: Catchlight The Art of Domination 4: Dominant Object The Art of Domination 5: Soft Focus The Art of Domination 6: Double-Exposure The Art of Domination 7: Safelight The Art of Domination 8: Flare

The Art Of Domination 2: Photo Slave (A Domination And Submission Romance Serial)
0 Ratings (0.0)

The Art Of Domination 2: Photo Slave (A Domination And Submission Romance Serial)

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 22,100
0 Ratings (0.0)
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“This is my favorite.”

“Hm?” I asked, rising from my private thoughts to see Nolan pointing out one photograph in particular.

“I like this one the best.”

I remembered the shot, the pose, and the moment in perfect sensory detail. I had just drawn my legs up and put the heels of those amazing lavender and silver stilettos on the cushion of the loveseat. With my knees pressed together and my ankles spread, I had folded my hands so pretty and prim showing off my French manicure and the smooth bare skin of my thighs and my silk panties for the camera. Nolan had cropped the photograph in a way I wouldn’t have expected, so that the bottom of the frame stopped at mid-calf and my underwear didn’t show at all. The composition was all about those delicate nails and my hands folded over my bare knees, the suggestion of a smile and the way it seeped up into the look in my eyes, past the gray silk mask.

“Why?” I asked. “Why that one? Like that?”

He slipped me a subtle little smile that disturbed me with how much I wanted to run my tongue along it. Would he taste like rum again? Make me feel drunk with kisses again?

“Because you’re not wearing your mask in that one,” he answered.

Which made no sense, because the mask was clearly visible in the shot.

Nolan must have seen my confusion, because he breathed out an amused, “Doesn’t matter, Iva. We have a new story to tell and new photographs to take tonight.” And he glanced pointedly toward the vanity, then nodded in the opposite direction, toward a doorway I hadn’t been in a position to see when I was here before. “The clothes I picked out for you are in the bathroom.”

They weren’t what I expected. Not lingerie or a slinky, revealing gown. It was another LBD—a little black dress—with a vintage 1960’s couture feel to it, fitted and structured somewhat like a slip. And high black stilettos, of course, with pointed toes and sharp heels and a femme fatale rating off the scale. I almost felt flattered—that Nolan saw me this way, or wanted to see me dressed like this, imagined me as a sort of Jackie O sophisticate with an ultra-sexy streak running down her naked and arched spine. That was, I was flattered until I remembered that most fashion models were just hangers and that artists models were little more than outlines on a canvas in the artist’s eye. Meaning and substance didn’t enter the picture until later, when the models were gone and artistic technique and staging brought the actual composition together. Whatever Beal saw in his mind’s eye, it wasn’t me.

Nolan had one of his cameras in hand and all the white commercial lights warmed up and focused on the dressing table when I shuffled anxiously out of the bathroom. Despite the number of lights, they didn’t so much glare as glow, adding a hazy depth instead of flattening everything with harsh contrast. The man really did excel at conjuring the active elements of retro glamour that threw time as well as place into question.

“Sit down at the vanity,” he told me. I did, peering at myself in the mirror and then at his reflection where he stood behind me. It made the hair at the nape of my neck bristle and stand on end, the awkward anticipation of seeing the man studying me from behind, like two people caught watching one another surreptitiously. “Do what you would normally do sitting at a dressing table, Iva. Brush your hair. Put on your makeup for the evening.”

While he watched. Again, that made it even stranger, more disturbing, and thrilling. My hands shook, and my fingers fumbled with the brushes and lipsticks and the elegant metal eye shadow compacts. It took a few deep breathes—hidden from him—and a firmer grip on the slim brush handles, but I steadied myself. I could almost have pretended Beal wasn’t there, if not for the hissing click of the periodic shutter snap.

“Darker,” he murmured from behind me, “for the camera.” After a moment, I realized he meant the makeup, and I soothed down the tremor in the pit of my stomach. I knew what was coming, the endgame that was going to have me giving myself to Nolan tonight. All part of our agreement. No point in fretting over the inevitable, I concluded. “Good,” he said as though he could hear what I was thinking and approved, but again he just meant the makeup.

Maybe because my thoughts refused to still as easily as my stomach, I glanced up into the mirror at the photographer’s reflection, his roguishly handsome face hidden by his Nikon. “Why do you do this?” I asked him haltingly, knowing I wasn’t making myself clear. “The bondage theme? In your work, I mean.”

He responded while circling me, without lowering the camera, still filtering his vision of me through the viewfinder. “Because nothing in this world carries the weight and power of subtext the way sex does. Sex is never just about sex.”

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