"So, how much erotic modeling have you done?"
Normally a question like this would be a red flag for Marianne, the sort of thing a creep would ask right before dooming the shoot and putting the offender on her no-work list forever.
Not this time, though. Marianne had some idea what she was in store for and had consented to it all ahead of time. Leading questions and vague lasciviousness were all part of the plan, and she was game for it.
"Just pinup type stuff so far," she admitted. "You know, swimsuits, undies, tasteful nudes. I've got my portfolio back in the car if you want to..."
"I saw some of your work on your IG feed already. I agree, very tasteful," the photographer said without a hint of disappointment. "Any fetish stuff? Leather or latex?"
Marianne shook her head. It was hard to tell from looking at him what he thought of her apparent lack of experience in the realm that interested him the most.
Marianne had met men like Frank before, well off and well-to-do photographers, trust fund artists who were accustomed to getting what they wanted and expected accommodation, even deference, from everyone.
Marianne would soon learn that Frank was the sort of man who wanted a lot, but unlike those other men, he worked hard to earn it. He always paid well and never crossed any hard lines. Boundaries, in his opinion, were meant to be pushed, but a carefully planned and executed journey getting to the borders of the acceptable was vital and satisfying in its own right.
He was also nothing special to look at and knew it.
To Marianne's eyes, he was a guy you smiled at in the Starbucks line but forgot about until you caught his eye there again, a day or week or month later. Six feet tall, nice but not notable. Definite Dadbod (with a capital D) with its soft edges and wholesome curves. Blue jeans and a black crewneck t-shirt. Sensible shoes. Unstyled, lunch bag brown hair about two weeks overdue for a haircut. A salt-and-pepper beard trimmed to always look like a few days' worth of stubble.
He'd spent his life making up for his vanilla averageness by cultivating a fiercely perverse imagination that, once revealed, tainted every look, word, and gesture.
"Though, I think I'm finally ready to go beyond Marilyn Monroe and start being a little more Betty Page."
"An admirable goal, Miss Marianne."
To Frank's eyes, Marianne was a maiden in black yoga pants and clean white tennis shoes. Her red hair was even more striking in person than her IG selfies, especially as it sat in a messy pile on top of her head. She was short and pale like a proper highland princess and wore minimal makeup, as requested. As little as her leggings left to the imagination, her baggy gray hoodie did much to cover up the rest.
"Oh, please, just Marianne is fine."
Frank had come to meet her in the driveway of his cookie-cutter home. Sitting halfway on a block that was one among dozens along the same stretch of the anonymous suburban street, the house was just as unassuming as its owner. He'd chosen to take the state's advice and let his lawn die but had taken great care to keep up the rest, unlike most of his neighbors. It was two stories, appointed in brown and beige, and utterly normal.
"Actually," Frank retorted, "I prefer a certain amount of, oh...I don't know, formality I suppose, when shooting with such lovely ladies as yourself."
"Alright, I guess that's ok."
"And if you don't mind, please call me 'Sir' or 'Mister Frank'."
"Seriously?"
The man had an easy smile, but his eyes were hard in a way that struck Marianne as strange. She knew she would be looking more to eyes than his mouth for answers in the coming hours but what she found there now, barely past the greeting and small talk, was a little scary and a lot compelling.
"'Seriously, sir,'" he insisted. "Please."
"Um, ok...Seriously...sir?"
"Seriously," he confirmed. "Sir."
"Alrighty, Sir," Marianne repeated, but instantly regretted her tone. Sarcasm was Marianne's default response to pressure, and she was sure that it would only get her into trouble in this situation.
Frank didn't seem to notice though. He reached into his pocket and gave the remote in there a press.
The garage door rolled up to reveal what had been filling Marianne with exquisite dread since she had left the house that morning. Inside was a do-it-yourself bondage dungeon complete with several custom pieces of furniture and every implement of pain and pleasure that Marianne could imagine and a few more on top of that.
Marianne was entranced, but she could sense Frank nearby looking on, appraising her reaction.
"Well, this escalated quickly."
She stepped inside the space, unable to think, filled with a Jackson Pollack painting's worth of emotions. She knew she would soon be tied down to one of the devices that were pushed up against the wall. Was it going to be the medieval looking high-backed chair? Or the kinky cousin of her gynecologist's exam table? What on earth was the modern art erection of twisted metal pipes doing attached to that hardware store's flatbed cart?
"Would you take off your sweatshirt, Miss Marianne? We should get started."
"I, uh, yeah," Marianne answered, absentmindedly pulling the comfy hoodie over her head.
"'Yes, sir,' please, Miss Marianne."
She couldn't detect any threat in his words or tone, just a simple request. She held the ball of warm fabric and looked up at Frank.
"Is this really going to happen? Like..."
"Only if you want it to. And I'll be checking in with you every step of the way."
She looked at Frank, seeing him for what felt like the first time, even though they had met and talked a couple times before. Kindness was written all over his face, radiating through his body language. His voice was soothing in its firm confidence. The eyes, though. Blue-gray, armor piercing, X-ray laser beam eyes.
"Now your shirt and bra, please."
"Where do I put this?" She heard his request, but the significance escaped her for the moment. "Sir?"
Frank took her hoodie over to a tall, slim cabinet of lockers against the wall near the door to the house.
"Everything personal goes in here. Do you have your phone on you?"
"Yes," she pulled the phone from her hip pocket and handed it to him. "Yes, sir."
"This is going on the counter here. Ask for it any time, no judgment."
"Oh, is that usually a problem?"
"Some, um, models like to have it nearby. Others are content to let me lock it away. Since this is your first time..." he trailed off. Marianne wondered where he might have been taking that thought.
"Shirt please, then bra," he repeated.
Marianne pulled her old university t-shirt over her head and handed it to him. She reached back to unclasp her bra when she realized that the garage door was still open, and she was about to put on a show for anyone who happened by.
"Are you going to close the door, sir?"
"No. Why?"
"For privacy?"
"Not yet. Bra, please, Miss Marianne."
Modesty didn't come naturally to Marianne but getting naked in a bondage dungeon in full view of the neighbors helped her find it quickly. She looked down at herself, wondering about the choices that had led her to this stranger's garage. Her pale breasts were cradled in her favorite black bra that had been bought years ago from Target and worn down to sublime comfort. She quickly discarded the last layer of protection against Frank's klieg-light eyes.
Once she had handed the bra over, a faint feeling of liberation stirred inside her.
"I don't have any garment related kinks," Frank offered, as if he were having a perfectly normal conversation, "but there is something undeniably erotic about holding the warm clothing of a nude woman."
He held her bra with an odd reverence. Marianne had a strong desire to have those hands cradling her breasts instead.
"What next, sir?" Marianne asked, aiming to please him.
"Shoes and socks, please. There's a stool over there."
Marianne crossed the space and sat on a small wood footstool, next to what looked like a massage table on wheels.
