Foreplay

Things moved quickly for a while. My hands were relocked to one of the rings on that heavy belt. Well I knew what those were for, so that was no surprise. Cynthia said "Now its show time. Richard, Paul, over there if you please." They hauled me to a wall: one that was covered floor to ceiling with big, heavy rings. You could hang an elephant or a whole football team from that wall. I glanced at it, but my eyes were on her hands

She had picked up what looked like a fighting stick: hard wood, four feet long, maybe an inch and a half thick. My eyes must have bugged out. I have no idea what she could do with that stick, but I could put four or five people in the hospital if I had it in a bar fight. Her eyes told me she had wanted me to think exactly that. Then, with a ghost of a smile, she ran the stick inside my elbows, uh oh. She nodded to Richard and Paul, who picked me up by the stick under my armpits.

Holy fucking shit. Levels of pain I had never dreamed in my nightmares came to visit. Richard and Paul tied the ends of the stick to the rings on the wall with my heels off the ground. My toes could just reach the floor, so I tried to take some of the load off the agony below my shoulders. It did not seem to help. As I struggled to find some way to control the screaming of my muscles, Cynthia patted my cheek, "There. That should keep you out of trouble while I change. Don't go anywhere."

If I were in any condition to comment, I would have come up with something sarcastic. Instead I tried to communicate "Don't leave me here." through my eyes. She left anyway.

Chapter 5 -- Waiting, Anticipating

It's funny how pain seems to stretch time. After what seemed like an hour, Paul switched his weight to his other foot, and I realized it had been a couple of minutes. My legs started to cramp. When I played football in high school it was a matter of faith that nothing hurt worse than a bad muscle cramp. We were all wrong about that, because somehow it was better. It balanced the fire in my arms. Time passed and Richard leaned over to tell Paul something. It must have been a joke. They both laughed.

Time passed and all the aches and pains merged into one sense of intense discomfort.

...

Time passed.

...

I found myself reflecting on the day past. Remembering how things had been that morning was so ironic I had to laugh. Laughing hurt and the gag got in the way. Somehow that was funny too. I may have gone hysterical for a moment, but that kind of thing does not mix well with gags and reatraints, so I went back to being horribly miserable.

...

Time passed.

...

I started to wonder how long she would be gone.

...

Time passed.

...

Eventually I remembered why she left: a corset. She had gone to get a corset. My compass point ticked north, again.

...

Time passed.

...

Then, time no longer mattered. A wash of clarity, one that I might have enjoyed under other circumstances, swept through my mind. Many seemingly important things ran through my mind, and did not return. It was as if they had been hosed into the drain. I had more important things to think about. It came to me how odd I had been acting all day. Mr. Berle, my tenth grade band conductor, used to call me "Motor mouth." My job at the car shows was as spokesman, a hired mouthpiece. Half of my ex-girlfriends claimed they never got a word in edgewise. Not today. There was hardly a thing I had said, since I met Cynthia, that was not a short answer to a direct question. Every urge to speak had been squashed by a glance, a stern look, or a raised eyebrow. It was surreal, almost unreal, but revealing.

In fact, it was such a revelation that I missed her return.

Chapter 6 -- Dressing and Stretching

Speaking of revelations, Cynthia was one. She wore a simple white bra, white panties and a large white hair bow. There was nothing else, not even shoes or sandals. In her hand she had a basket, which had the shoes, stockings, and something else. My compass twitched again -- she had mentioned a corset. As crazy as it must have looked with me hanging on the wall trussed up as I was, I struggled for a look into the basket. Little Jay stretched out for a look too. She only went over to Paul and handed him the basket.

"Paul, could you help me out a bit here. I need someone to hold my things. This is not something that can be worn without assistance. Would you be so kind?" She glanced at me with just a twitch of the lips, "Jason seems to have other things to do just now." No kidding.

Cynthia pulled up a stool and set one of her sculpted legs on it. My Lord she was built. Every time she moved, muscles rippled under the skin. It was easy to make out the 36 -- 24 -- 34, which, if anything, looked larger but bound up a bit. I had not noticed her perfect pale skin before. Now her long dark hair and the white cotton gave it a luster, like polished marble.

She took a silk stocking out and for one moment stopped in place while her fingers rolled the stocking. Of everything that went on that day, that was the image of her that stays with me: standing motionless, one leg firmly on the ground, the other bent with the foot on a stool, intent on the fingers that slowly rolled a white silk stocking. A statue in life, it was like a light went on and made everything clear.

As I said, there was clarity to my thinking. This is important, because what occurred to me next, would not have occurred to me under other circumstances. In many ways she was like a human statue. Her emotions seemed so controlled; her coloring was so light and dark, her attitude so hard and unyielding, she might have been sculpted. This is not to say that I would not have bruised my prick on that unseen cunt, even if it was hard as rock. Right then Little Jay could have matched any stone for hardness.

Then she bent to roll the stocking over her perfect leg and turned to take the other. I realized I had not drawn breath in some time and rejoined the living. It was a good time to do it: she was putting on the corset. I had never actually seen one before. I had known that corsets were laced in back, but not that they came apart in front. Cynthia told me about corsets as she hooked it together, bottom to top. The corset covered everything from panties to bra plus a little. The discussion would probably be interesting if I could remember anything she said. I spent all my attention watching her. She absently pulled stray bits of elastic and lace clear, and then she turned to a pommel horse and gestured to Paul. Paul moved forward with a start. He had been looking on very intently himself.

"Paul, don't ask." she said, "You cannot afford it. If you do the rest of your job as well as you have so far, I might give you a photo, and you too Richard. I do insist, by the way, that they not be sold. Jason, my sweet, you are already being paid rather well. Let us see if you are, maybe, worth some of it." There was no smile in her smile. I began to get the impression that she reserved pet names for her victims, and wondered how much one had to pay to become a victim.

Cynthia finished adjusting the corset, calmly grasped the pommels of the horse and nodded to Paul. As aroused as I was, I almost felt sorry for Paul. His pants were straining as he reached out to pull the strings tight. Look, smell, touch, but no consummation. Then he had to do it all again, pulling hard on each string. The effect was so gradual it was almost unnoticeable, but when he was finally finished it was remarkable. Before she had been a nicely stacked 36 -- 24 -- 34. Now she was a Barbie-like 36 -- 21 -- 34. If they had Barbies that came with corsets and stockings I might start collecting.

When it was done and tied, she walked around rolling her shoulders for a few moments. That alone was worth the admission. Then she put her leg over a ballet bar like it was the most natural act in the world and stretched her hands out to grasp her ankle as her head came down to her knee. Impossible as it sounds, she seemed comfortable in that position, like she had been born there or spent hours every day stretched against that bar. Then she turned her body against the bend until she was facing parallel to the bar with one arm over her head in an arc while the other having never strayed from the ankle. Then she rolled back to the first position and held it. Then she repeated the whole process with the other leg. Had I not had my mouth gagged open already, it would have hung open then. The most incredible part was the air of unconcern, as if this was casual stretching.

Then she picked up the riding crop and turned her attention to me. My whole world slipped sideways.

Chapter 7 -- Fire and Ice

What had been an erotic cross between Barbie, Gumby and a Victoria's Secret catalog, turned, in a glance, into the Ice Bitch from Nordic Hell. It seemed natural that the black riding crop she had teased me with was in her hand. I have no idea how long it had been since I had paid any attention to my body's aches and pains, but they all came rushing back to me. I hurt. Lord how I hurt. My shoulders screamed from bearing my weight. My calves were cramped from trying to keep the weight off my shoulders, and everything between ached and demanded attention.

It did not seem so important. My whole attention focused on the end of the riding crop. Naturally Cynthia wanted to play with it. She tickled my nose. She flicked lightly on my nipples. It was the first time I ever really appreciated my own nipples as erogenous points. It would have been something else to appreciate in my new clarity, but Cynthia gave me no time to think about it.

She stepped close and ran the braided leather up and down the inside of my thighs and across the underside of my balls. If that was not enough, I got my first good whiff. Lord she smelled luscious. There was the expected musk of a light sweat, the smell of a recent shower, and that indefinable scent that says female of breading age. I could have her for three meals a day.

She stepped back and played with my ears and the hair on my neck. Even though I had no range of movement, I squirmed. She stepped to one side and ran the tip over my bare ass. I had time to think that Justin would prep up perfectly this way, before I reamed out his ass.

Then she made eye contact and raised the crop high. I wanted to watch the crop, but her eyes skewered mine. I could still see it in my peripheral vision. Down it came and... flicked Little Jay on the head. My compass had been pointing north so long that the relief of the orgasm almost knocked me out. My whole body surged as my wad shot through the heavy fabric of the jock strap. All my strength went with it. When it was gone, I sagged against the restraints, spent in more ways than one.

She reached out and patted my cheek, like she might a child that recited his lessons well. "Richard, Paul, please let him down. I think we have sufficient footage for our purposes. You can get him cleaned up through there." They removed the wood stick and carried me to the shower room, where they dumped me on a bench and undid the locks.

I was vaguely glad someone had brought the key. Paul and Richard removed all the gear, but they left the cum filled jock for me. It must have been five minutes before I had the strength to stand and strip it off. Even the cold water barely revived me. Eventually I managed to dress for the street and went outside to find Sean's limo waiting. I didn't ask. I just crawled in the back and told the driver to take me to the hotel. He never said a word, but he kept glancing to the mirror as he drove. The doorman at the hotel gave me the same expression as I waved off his offered hand. I must have made it to the bed, because Justin woke me when he came in the next morning.

Chapter 8 - Editing

Cynthia had indicated that she was not going to give me a picture, but when I met her back at the studio, she relented. She even offered to help me choose one from the tapes. I took her up on that. Sitting next to her as we went through the four, half hour, tapes was an experience I value. Neither of us touched the other, except purely by chance, but it did not matter. Having Cynthia present and the stimulation of jointly doing something was sufficient.

In the course of a four hour session, we selected and cut hundreds of shots for further editing. In the course of that time, we spent 5 minutes selecting my picture. I think my choice surprised her. In any event, Cynthia had reserved veto power, but chose not to use it. The frame was of her with her foot on the stool and her attention on the silk stocking she was rolling. She may have been pleased with the selection, but with her I can never tell for sure. Even without the shot, it would be the enduring image in my mind.

Epilogue -- Work, Work, Work

The pictures used for the catalog were mostly of me. I went through them with Cynthia for an hour. Then, Peter and I spent another 10 hours choosing the exact shots and framing. Funny, we never seemed to clash after that shoot. What Peter did was pure art. eventually the selections were made, and approved -- Cynthia had a hellacious eye for this stuff too. Peter performed digital magic, and turned them all into 17th and 18th century paintings, 19^th century daguerreotypes and 1920's silent movie stills. About then, Justin finally emerged. He had candlelight pictures of the Marquis' letter, readable size to arms length. It was easily the best work I had ever seen him do. After that, it was all downhill.

We used Justin's shots as wallpaper for everything written or printed. We used shots of Cynthia and/or me for everything else, including the cover. The cover shot was of Cynthia leaning close and brushing my face with the crop; I still get chills. It has been showing up in picture framing shops all over the east coast, and presumably elsewhere.

The exposure has jump started my career. Becoming a model for Justin had been almost an afterthought. Within a week of the release of the catalog Justin had a dozens of offer to shoot me, usually specifying some form of restraint. Several other offers came directly to me, again to pose for similar shots. All were photographic, except for one artist who wanted to sculpt me nude. That was the one I took first.

Suddenly all the offers were from artists. I posed nude, clothed, disrobing, and of course trussed. Media included paint, virtual paint, and several kinds of sculpture. After the first deluge of mail, Justin had to give up and moved on to other things. Sean Richards suggested me to an agent: JD Mann, of Mann and Hartman. JD is very exclusive and also happens to be one of Cynthia's patrons. At his suggestion I become the "Human Statue."

The name is a bit much, but it expresses the nature of the posing I do. I am told sessions of over an hour are rare. Whether posing for a painter or a sculptor I usually go 4-5 hours before a break. For some reason, being frozen in place seems right to me now. It certainly has financial benefits, but what really surprises me is what it has done for my sex life. Everyone wants to fuck the model who posed for Prometheus Chained.