The shadow of a past love had blinded Clayton MacAllister until his life was slipping through his fingers. Just as Clay was ready to give up on the idea that he might ever be happy, a charming stranger stepped into his life. Mal was rich, handsome and persuasive; everything Clay thought he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve. Mal’s sadistic desires made Clay uncomfortable, but it seemed like a price he could pay—until he learned the price might be his very soul in chains. (M/M)
The décor was modern, sleek and elegant with a kind of minimalistic sparseness to it, but there was a definite touch of decadence in the smooth black leather of the sofas, the deep wine color of the draperies. The pictures on the walls were expensively framed and depicted live models in a variety of bizarre and—on further reflection—alarming poses.
One featured a naked woman tied spread-eagled to a kind of wooden cross, her head tipped back with an expression of almost embarrassing amorousness on her face. Another showed a muscular man kneeling on the floor facing away from the camera with his head bowed, a series of raised stripes covering his hunched shoulders and the backs of his bare buttocks. Yet another showed a close-up view of a man’s scrotum, highlighting the series of small metal pins pierced through the skin of his sac and rising in a narrow ladder up the shaft of his softened prick.
“Good god,” Clay breathed, his chest tightening. His own balls twinged in empathy for the poor victim in the photograph.
He felt more than heard Mal step up behind him. “Breathtaking, aren’t they?”
That was one word for it. “What the hell are these?”
“Photographs.” There was definite amusement in Mal’s voice now. When Clay turned around to stare at him, he shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. I’m an amateur photographer in my spare time.”
“You took all of these?” Clay turned again to look at the pictures, his skin prickling. There had to be more than a dozen of them, and that was just in this room.
“I did.” Mal sounded proud of them. Sensing Clay’s unease, he added, “Each of the subjects chose to be there willingly; don’t worry about that.”
That made Clay’s shoulders relax slightly. Of course the models were there willingly; he knew perfectly well that some people liked to practice an alternative sexual lifestyle, although he’d never felt the urge to experiment in that way himself. It was called BDSM; he’d watched enough television to know that.
“Weird,” he said with a low laugh, shaking his head.
Mal’s hand touched his arm, just above the elbow. “Well. Are you ready to get started?”
Clay shivered, his mouth going suddenly dry. Just like that, his prick was hard and straining against the front of his jeans. “I think so.” He glanced at the photographs nervously. “I mean….”
“Don’t worry, Clayton.” Mal leaned in close to him, breathing out moistly across his ear. His fingers curled around Clay’s arm. “Nothing’s going to happen to you that you don’t want. It has to be your choice; that’s how it works.”