A Sweet Story of Bondage and Exhibitionism
"Six Hours," a Licorice Whips story by J.M. Kaye
At fifteen dollars an hour, six hours would pay for a motel room. It meant one night not spent in the shelter. He’d be able to sleep uninterrupted, take a shower, clean up a little. He had gotten a tip that there would be a movie shoot at the end of Third Street tomorrow morning, and that they would probably need extras. He stood a better chance of getting picked if he looked decent, and even if he didn’t get paid, it would still mean free food.
Her apartment building was four blocks from the bus stop, and looked like all the other buildings on the street: plain stucco boxes with fancy names. It appeared that she did not have much money; he thought that most artists probably didn’t. Hiring him for the day seemed like an extravagant expense for someone only slightly better off than he was, but she had assured him, when she slipped him her business card, that he was exactly what she needed.
He found her door and rang the bell, waiting apprehensively as a shadow flickered across the peephole. A moment later, the door opened.
He couldn’t guess how old she was; she did not have many wrinkles, but he could tell by the sharpness of her facial bones that she was older than he was. Thirty, forty, fifty? She had a lean build and very short, bleached blond hair. She was wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, no shoes, and multiple piercings in both ears. She did not look like someone trying too hard to look young, but she did look like someone trying too hard to look like an artist.
“Hi,” she said. “Did you bring your I.D.?”
“Yeah.” He took out his driver’s license and showed it to her. She frowned at it; he could see her doing the mental arithmetic to make sure that he really was over eighteen. He knew he didn’t look it.
“Okay,” she said at last. “Come on in.”
The inside of her apartment was as unimpressive as the outside. A small, cramped studio, with most of the floor space taken up by a crude stage in the center. It was just a wooden box, about two feet high and ten feet square, covered with canvas.
One wall was completely mirrored. A futon was shoved into a corner, as if it had merely been an afterthought.
Music was playing; he did not recognize the song, but thought it sounded like something from the eighties. That gave him a hint as to her age, but not a very good one. He knew a few people his own age who liked eighties music.
“You can get ready while I set up the lights. The bathroom’s that way,” she said, pointing. “There’s a robe there you can change into.”
He nodded and went into the bathroom. The robe was faded green terrycloth. He took off his clothes and stood for a moment, looking at himself in the mirror. He thought he probably looked better than average, but still nothing special. Five-feet-ten, slim, with hazel eyes and dark hair that hung past his shoulders. He pulled on the robe, telling himself it was ridiculous to feel so nervous.
It wasn’t anything illegal, after all. It was an easy way to make money, and the opportunity had presented itself many times in the past. But he had avoided it, not so much embarrassed by nudity as by the possibility of what might happen while he was nude.
He tried not to think about it, but the fantasy popped into his mind anyway. The one where he was abducted by aliens and taken aboard their ship. They did not do anything to him, they barely touched him, but they looked him over very closely. He did not know why he found that so exciting, the idea of being looked at. Not just looked at, but examined. Studied. Admired.
He told himself not to be stupid. It wasn’t an audience, it was just one person, and she was probably a lesbian, anyway.
There was a knock on the door. “Are you okay?” came her voice from the other side.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“I forgot to ask, but would you mind putting your hair back? There’s some bands in the drawer.”
“Okay.” He looked in the drawer, took out an elastic band, and pulled his hair into a ponytail.
When he re-entered the room, she was on the stage, adjusting the lights. “Have you done nude modeling before?”
“No.”
“But you’ve done clothed modeling, right?”
“Once.”
“Well, this is the same thing,” she explained. “Only difference is that we have to be more careful about the temperatures. These lights get hot, but I’ve got the AC on. Just let me know if you start getting a cramp.” She motioned him onto the stage.
He climbed up next to her. She was looking at him expectantly, and he realized she expected him to take the robe off then. He did so.
“The first pose is standing,” she said. “Like this.” She demonstrated, checking her reflection in the mirror. “Feet apart, one arm stretched out, the other one hanging.”
He copied the pose.
“That’s good,” she said, hopping off the stage. “Just face the other way now.”
Poise by Mick Payton (available on ObsessionArt.com)
He repeated the pose, facing in the opposite direction. She turned off the music, then settled herself into a beanbag chair with her drawing pad propped up on her knees.
He held the pose for almost an hour. She then had him change to another standing position, this one a rear view. After another hour, he was tired, but much more relaxed. His mind began to wander, and he had to quickly stop himself from slipping into the alien fantasy again. It was too late; he could feel his penis coming to life.
“Time for lunch,” she said, putting down her drawing pad and heading for the kitchen.
He quickly grabbed the robe and covered himself, relieved. He saw the pad lying on the floor where she had left it. “Do you mind if I look?”
“Go ahead,” she replied.
He picked up the pad and looked at the images of himself. “Wow. I didn’t know I had that much muscle definition.”
She laughed. “That’s what the lights are for. They pick up all the subtle contours under the skin. The sweat helps, too.”
He looked at her sharply, but her back was turned, and she was digging through the refrigerator.
She took out cold meat and condiments, and set them on the table next to a loaf of sourdough bread. “Turkey or roast beef, help yourself.”
She talked as he prepared his sandwich. “I’m counting lunch time as time worked, since you’re here anyway and I can’t exactly expect you to go out to eat.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
“I really appreciate this. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a male model.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah. Guys will take their clothes off at the drop of a hat if they think they’re going to get laid, but ask them to just stand there, and they freeze up.” She rolled her eyes. “And then you get these idiots who think I’m inviting them over here for sex.”
He decided to change the subject. “What are the drawings for?”
“Illustrations, commissions,” she said, making herself a sandwich. “Most of it is erotic. But don’t worry, I won’t use your face.”
“I don’t care if you do,” he said. It was true, he didn’t really care if anyone saw a drawing of him naked. It wasn’t like they were really seeing him, live and in the flesh. “How is it erotic, if, uh…I mean, I’m alone…”
“I pose the models separately, then put them together in the final version,” she said. “There’s no way I’d ask two people to model together. I’d get nothing but freaks wanting to put on a show.” She threw him a quick glance. “I hope you don’t mind, but some of the stuff is gay.”
“I don’t care,” he repeated.
They finished lunch in silence. She told him they’d wait a half hour before resuming, so that his stomach wouldn’t be distended, and that this would be a good time to draw his hands.
“Why did you leave them off?” he asked, holding his hands out in the same way he had in the first pose.
“Hands are hard, so I don’t even try to get them on the first sketch,” she answered. “It’s better to just capture the pose, then fill in the details later.”
He wished she hadn’t used the word capture.
A half hour later, he climbed back up on the stage.
“This one’s a reclining pose,” she said, “so you can rest a little now. Just prop your head up with your left hand.”
He did as he was told. The lights were warm on his skin; it was really very pleasant to lie here, well-fed, feeling appreciated—
Shit. Don’t think about it.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The aliens wanted samples: skin cells, hair, saliva, semen—
“Would you like to take a break?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered, grabbing the robe again.
She nodded in the direction of the bathroom. “Ten minutes enough?” She did not make eye contact, busying herself by adding more shading to her drawing.
He couldn’t believe she was telling him to go jerk off. “Maybe I’d better leave,” he mumbled.
She looked annoyed. “All right. I’ll pay you for your time so far.”
“Will this throw off your schedule?”
“I’m afraid so, but if you’re uncomfortable, I’d rather not have you here.”
He glanced at the clock. It was after four in the afternoon; there wouldn’t be another bus for an hour. He’d never make it to the shelter before they ran out of beds. He hadn’t made enough money to get a room; he’d have to sleep on the street.
“I’d rather stay,” he said in a low voice. “The truth is, I really need the money.”
She put down her pencil. “All right, but we’ve got to do something about this. It’s ruining my concentration, and probably not doing wonders for yours.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, heading for the bathroom.
He heard her make a noise that was half exasperated and half amused. “Or I could take care of it for you.”
He turned around quickly, wondering if she had said what he thought he’d heard. She was looking at him coolly, a slight smile on her face.
She shrugged. “But if you’d rather not…”
When he didn’t move, she came over and put a hand on his arm. “Well?”
He nodded, and she guided him over to the futon. She reached up and slipped the elastic from his hair. “You understand, this is all off the clock, right?”
“I know,” he replied, feeling both offended and slightly disappointed. “Just because I was on the street doesn’t mean—“
She shushed him. “It’s okay. I did it for a while, you know. Prostitution. It didn’t work out.” She pushed him gently onto the mattress. “Lie down.”
He lay back, and she smiled, arranging his hair against the pillow as if he were a doll. She opened his robe, then stepped back and removed her own clothes. He still couldn’t guess her age. Her flesh was tight and toned, but her skin had a slightly leathery look to it.
Her hands went to his groin, fingertips stroking, and he sighed, becoming fully erect. She moved away from the bed, them returned, ripping open a condom package. She put it on him expertly. He started to sit up, reaching for her, but she pushed him back down again.
“Hands off,” she whispered. “Just lie back.”
A rubber, and with her on top, I won’t be able to feel a damn thing, he thought. But there was something about her tone that made him want to cooperate. He let his body go limp and pliant.
“That’s it,” she said, mounting him. “Just lie there and let me fuck you.”
Her words sent a current of excitement through him. She began to move, thrusting forcefully. He took hold of her hips to guide the rhythm, but she pulled his hands away.
“Hands off,” she repeated. “Or I’ll tie you up.”
He thought she was kidding, and grabbed playfully at her hips again. In one swift move, she ripped the belt from the robe and wrapped it three times around his wrists.
“Hey!”
“I warned you,” she said, pulling his bound hands over his head and securing the belt to the futon frame.
“I didn’t—“
She put a hand over his mouth. “Do you want me to gag you, too?”
“No,” was the muffled reply.
“Then no talking, unless the building’s on fire.”
Deprived of his hands, deprived of his words, all he could do was concentrate on the sensations. He had never seen anything like her before; she was not the least bit shy about letting him see her face contorted with pleasure, letting him hear her animal-like grunts. She rode him faster and faster, her fingers going to her clit and rubbing furiously. He moaned with excitement.
“Don’t come,” she ordered. “Don’t you dare come until I say you can.”
He held back, but knew he wouldn’t be able to for long. His body went rigid, tensing with effort. She stopped moving suddenly and arched her back, shuddering. He felt her contracting, rippling around him. He couldn’t stand it any more.
“Now?” he whispered, forgetting the prohibition against speech.
“Go ahead.”
He let go with a gasp, feeling it flood out of him, lasting longer than it ever had before.
For a moment she stayed on top of him, breathing heavily. Then she quickly dismounted and peeled off the condom. He watched her go into the bathroom, heard the water running. A minute later she returned with a wet washcloth, and spread it over his deflating penis. He braced himself for cold, but it was warm. It felt wonderful.
“How did you know?” he asked as she cleaned him.
“How did I know what?”
“How did you know I’d like this kind of stuff?”
She untied him. “Just a lucky guess. I figured you’d like it, or be so turned off you’d stop thinking about sex completely. Either way, problem solved.”
He chuckled, sitting up. She put her clothes back on. “Shall we continue?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“The next pose is seated…”
They worked in silence for three more hours. Night fell.
“That’s it,” she said, putting her pad down and stretching. He got up and went back to the bathroom to get dressed. When he came out, she was counting his money.
“I wish I could pay you more,” she said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I’ve had my share of shit jobs; I know what it’s like.” She handed him the cash. “Want another sandwich?”
“Sure,” he said. One less thing to buy.
She talked as they ate. “It’s not fair, you know? Your time, your life, is just as important as the next person’s. So why do some people make seventy bucks an hour while others make seven? It’s still somebody’s life we’re talking about.”
He got the feeling that she wanted him to tell her about himself, so he obliged. He talked about the foster homes, the halfway house, working minimum wage jobs and sharing small apartments with meth heads, until he’d had enough and decided to go out on his own. He could tell that she understood.
“It was almost the same with me. I got tired of being someone else’s slave, so I decided I’d rather be a starving artist. If you’re going to be poor, be poor with dignity.”
When they finished their sandwiches, she walked him to the door. “Sorry I can’t ask you to spend the night,” she said. “Do you have a place to go?”
“I do now,” he replied, patting his pocket where the money was folded. “Thanks for the food.”
She nodded. “Keep my card, and call me next week if you need more work.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, her professional veneer slipped. “You really are beautiful,” she whispered. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” he said.
He smiled before turning and heading down the walkway. Behind him, he heard the door close softly.
Originally published February 2010
