Chapter 8
The villa lay on the outskirts of the southern suburbs, near the main road leading to the border. The high walls offered seclusion from prying eyes, but Moriarty knew that even a gallery of a thousand braying spectators would no longer unsettle Dean as he walked naked and bound through the garden to the patio by the oval pool. He stood before the glass door, his reflection highlighting the outline of his firm legs and tight torso, until the glass pane slid open to reveal a young woman in jeans and a blue top, her dark hair drawn back in a band. She cast a glance over his naked body and offered him a disdainful smile.
"You must be the convict whore."
"Yes, Miss, I am. May I come in?"
She tilted her head as if resenting even talking to her subject and walked away. He followed her into the middle of the room to stand on a carpet.
"You have a very nice home, Miss. Thank you for inviting me."
"This is not my home."
The sound of a flushing toilet announced the arrival of another woman, younger than the first with loose blond hair. She uttered a slight bark of surprise to find visitors, and a lower, more prolonged, growl when she saw Dean, naked and chained, standing in the centre of the room. He offered her a winning smile that brought an embarrassed laugh.
"This is my assistant, but she will be also taking some pictures once I am done. So, when she gives you an instruction, you will obey. Is that understood?"
The woman's tone was stern, as if she was speaking to a child, and Dean was wounded by her hostile manner. Moriarty stepped forward, having lingered by the glass doors while the two women were absorbed by their first sight of Dean.
"Do you want the restraints removed, or do you intend to begin with some bondage?" The guard appeared behind Moriarty, bearing the keys to the cuffs.
"We'll start with the bondage and then we'll move onto the cock shots. We'll use our own irons. They're easier to use."
Moriarty remained during the shoot, poring over some files at the table by the far window, while with the guard sat at the back of the room reading a magazine. She would occasionally glance up from the clandestine pictures of Hollywood weddings and lurid accounts of celebrity drunk driving to see Dean splayed across the furniture or lying on the rug.
For the next forty five minutes the photographer recorded dozens of different poses from a variety of angles. His backside was a favourite view, followed by close up shots of his penis, which would swell and wane throughout the session. He remained bound throughout the shoot, so whenever she demanded a strong erection Dean would be forced to lie on the floor and pump into a towel to rouse his penis. She would frequently change camera and lens settings, often spending minutes studying her collection of machines while Dean was expected to hold his pose until she was ready to resume. Any slight movement would provoke a barrage of demeaning abuse.
The photographer barked her instructions and he responded briskly to every order, raising a leg, bending a knee, staring into the camera or over her shoulder. She was disgruntled by the light, the shade, the tone of his skin. Her assistant was also victim to her disdainful manner, suffering condescending comments and curt instructions. She was clearly in a foul mood and Dean was grateful when, finally, she handed her camera to the assistant and declared that she was leaving.
"Download all the work to a memory stick and bring it over tonight. I'll look through them in the morning." She looked at the bound captive, his legs apart from her last set. "He's all yours. Enjoy. Make sure you get some good money shots." She went to the table and spoke a few words to Moriarty before leaving without even a last glance at her subject.
The assistant set down her employer's camera in favour of a smaller model. She checked the settings and began to snap her camera at Dean. She did not ask him to move or to pose, just circled him slowly. She told him to remain still and then, every few seconds, to turn to look at the camera before returning to his original stance.
His shackles were removed and he was able to move more freely, though he was still required to follow the instructions of the assistant, a girl no more than twenty years old. However, she seemed less assured than her mistress, almost pretending to be assertive.
"Lie on the couch, legs apart." She barked at him. "Wider. Now, take your cock in your hand, get it hard, really hard, but don't come."
"Yes, Miss."
He massaged his penis and it began to rise. He looked across the room to see her kneeling down, watching his erection. Their eyes met and she quickly looked down to study the readings on her dials.
"Can I have a look?" Dean rose from the couch and approached, his erect penis bouncing with every stride. She stepped back in alarm and looked to the guard sitting at the back of the room.
"Stay away from me. Don't take one step nearer."
"Why? I won't hurt you."
"Is that what you said to that young girl?"
