A Study in Foreplay

by PocketRocket

Copyright© 2013 by PocketRocket

BDSM Sex Story: Jason was a surfer with the dream job. He had women and sex, but no discipline. That changed.

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa   Ma/mt   Consensual   Reluctant   Gay   BiSexual   Heterosexual   BDSM   DomSub   FemaleDom   Rough   .

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Shakespeare – Twelfth Night

Introduction -- Son of the Beach

Sometimes your life's work is handed to you. Sometimes you fall into it. Sometimes it comes to you in a kind of religious experience. That was how it was for me. This is how it happened.

I was never a great student, a great football or baseball player, a great employee, or, frankly, a great lay. Of course, at the time, I would have said otherwise. High School kids are cocky that way. Following senior year, I drifted from job to job, and finally landed with Charlie Conner of Conner's Custom Van and Detail, in La Jolla. Charlie hired me to wash the vans as they came in. When I was finished, the detail team did their thing.

It was entry level work, with an opportunity to learn detailing and the custom car business generally, not that I cared. The money was enough that I could kick a couple hundred a month to my parents, for the room I was still using. On occasion I could borrow a van, but fucking in a van gets old, and there was hell to pay if the van came back smelling of sex. Like any 18, then 19, year old kid, I wanted a place of my own, to turn into a sex haven. I was drifting, and did not have a clue that I was doing so.

Then along came the big announcement; Charlie was putting a team on the road for a string of car shows. Everyone wanted in, until they found out that it meant being away from California for almost six months. Soon all the married, engaged and seriously committed guys had pulled out. A bit reluctantly I think, Charlie put me on the traveling crew. I had never been a great employee, but I look good and speak well.

Charlie needed a portfolio of pictures from the shows, so he had hired a professional photographer named Justin Immons. Justin and I worked closely during the shows. I was lighting man, gofer, agent, model, or lover, depending on time, place and circumstances. After Philadelphia, Charlie and several of the team headed home. Justin wanted me to stay on and continue working with him. Much as I wanted to get back to the coast, and to my board, I agreed.

It shows how much a simple decision can lead you to unexpected places. A few weeks later I found myself, gagged, tied up like a turkey, hanging by my armpits, staring at a totally beautiful witch as she stretched her catlike legs on a ballet bar. Then she looked at me.

Chapter 1: - Snow in my Sandals

The car shows had been going smoothly until we hit Syracuse. Charlie had gone back to La Jolla, leaving CJ (Charles Jr.) in charge. Yeah, I thought it was funny too. At least I did until CJ dropped the ball. Charlie had only made modeling arrangements one city in advance. When he left, CJ did not make any new arrangements, which left us without any bikini girls. A car show without bikinis is like a surfboard without waves: functional but it gets no action. In a fit of desperation we had a contest. We went to the college hangouts and posted announcements:

Model Tryouts

Four Days Immediate Work

Full References

Professional Portfolio Shoot

It worked like a dream. We got six very hot girls, eager to work for a quarter of what we were prepared to pay agency models. After the show, five of the fashion shoots went smoothly. The portfolio gave each girl had a solid introduction to any modeling agency in the country. That was enough for most. Then there was Gina. She was a 20-something college senior and high priced call girl. Her portfolio was not intended for Madison Avenue. Shoots were for 30 minutes. After 10 minutes of watching her undress for the camera, I was ready for a cold shower. Justin was ready for me.

He blew me in the hotel elevator. By the time I had the door to my room open, he had a tube of K-Y in his hand. It was my cherry. Little Jay had never corn holed anyone before, but in the next six weeks the little guy did it 30 times at least. In Cleveland, Justin had the room next to mine. That night I reamed him out. In the morning, he returned the compliment. Since he did not stay the night, the wake up blow job was a complete surprise.

It became a pattern and then a game. I never gave Justin a key, but he was always inside my door for his bedtime ass reaming. He would go to his room and I would go to sleep, sooner or later, depending on my company and what time she (they) left. In the morning he would give me my wake up. I changed rooms, set alarm clocks, asked for wake up calls, all in an attempt to be awake before his lips locked on to my little buddy. Except Sundays, when Justin went to mass, I only managed it twice.

It became clear as we moved through the Midwest that word had gone before us. In Cleveland Jodi followed Gina's footsteps. In Scranton it was Candy and Bambi, and then Carmen and the twins; Melissa and Marissa. By Dayton Justin and I were turning away more pros than amateurs. Gina had been a hot Penthouse style shoot. Jodi wanted a prop, and I was handy. Then Melissa and Marissa were into kink, and they offered to do scenes on the side. After that, I never spent an evening alone.

So it went, to the last show in Atlanta. I learned to go without sleep and Justin was doing fantastic business. Word of mouth generated a ton of business offers on the side. Justin's voice mail was wall-to-wall hookers wanting publicity shots and Madams wanting catalogs. When the last show wound down in April, Justin's studio was booked through Labor Day.

It was a hell of a summer, but that would be another story. Suffice to say that I had enough on camera sex to keep a teenager happy, and enough off camera experience to run a gigolo college. It is amazing what working girls want to do on their own time, especially if they pay you.

I laid down some rules in Ohio, and mostly the girls respected them. That left a lot of room for experimenting. If that was insufficient, Justin was available to blow me at any time, in any place, not to mention giving me his tight ass. Justin was not the only one who carried K-Y everywhere. Most of the girls wanted to play out some their fantasies in my hotel room, not that that stopped Justin from getting his night cap. There were exceptions. Jay managed three kinds of sexual penetration of Tanya in a Transit Authority baggage stall, with pictures. I still have them.

Chapter Two -- The Road to Perdition

Eventually the flood slowed to a stream and Justin started fishing for other work. He found a beauty. It was a High Class auction, with a very discrete profile. Two big name firms had looked at the job and walked away. A lesser company had picked it up and set it aside. Time was short, and the client was getting desperate.

The project was the auction catalog. Justin's summer of slut and smut may have given him an inside track. Everything in the sale was sexually charged. It was all either erotic, sexually oriented, or associated with someone famous for sexual reasons; and expensive. The centerpiece of the sale was a collection of D/s wear, with related gear and implements, from a Hollywood brothel of the 1920s. The minimum bid on that item was $500,000, but it was expected to bring well over $2 Million. Justin was beside himself with excitement, as I would have been, except for two things.

The first problem was Peter. He was an equipment nerd Charlie had hired for the road show. Peter and I disliked each other on sight. Within a week we had moved past not speaking to not even acknowledging each other. My duties did not require me to speak to him, so I didn't. Unfortunately, he and Justin got along fine.

The other problem was the client, Sean Richards. As the man with the checkbook, what Mr. Richards wanted, we wanted to get for him. The problem was not a like/dislike, it was communication. We could never figure out what he wanted. Sean was extremely literal. He dealt in facts not ideas. If we brought something to him, he would like it or not, but never could tell us why or why not. It drove all three of us nuts. We had worked three weeks getting every item shot a dozen times, in all kinds of light, against all kinds of settings. Nothing worked. Then Sean brought in Cynthia.

We had been having a typically unproductive day. Peter and Justin were arguing something technical about film speed and light flux, when a message came from Mr. Richards to come to his office. We had been waiting about 10 minutes when she walked in. Cynthia, Mr. Richards introduced her with no last name, was tall, dark haired and moved with a dancer's grace. If you remember the old song Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, that was her to a T. Think of the line "tall walking big black cat": smooth, sinuous, dangerous. Her suit was conservative, but she made it talk. As I said, she looked dangerous. Sean introduced the three of us, by full names, and left us alone with her. I felt outnumbered.

Peter opened up with a technical question. Cynthia sent it back with topspin. Justin pulled out some of the more provocative prints. She pulled out a portfolio that topped his. Even I could see she had a great eye for depth of field. After maybe 15-20 minutes of verbal fencing, she sent for Mr. Richards. I had no need to listen; she knew her shit and she was The Boss. Sean Richards just underlined it.

He left and she jumped right in. I think it was the first time she had seen the entire sale inventory laid out. She had Peter and Justin walk her through it all. They huddled for a few minutes, and then she called me over. In 30 seconds she gave us what we could not get from Mr. Richards in three weeks: a theme. Her vision was art gallery meets Outer Limits, with a nod to Rocky Horror Picture Show. She set Peter to matting each existing photo into a virtual frame, thematically and by period. Peter took the ball and ran with it.

One of the items was a genuine letter by Donatien Alphonse François, better known as the Marquis de Sade. It concerned several of his infamous writings, and was every bit as graphic as most modern erotica. Cynthia told Justin she wanted the manuscript shot in every conceivable range and light, including specifically candlelight. My heart sank. If Justin was in his normal mode, he might get sleep around dawn, if he got any at all. Then she turned to me. Yikes.

"That brings me to you Jason. What is your dress code?" Uh-oh. She and Peter had been talking about the dungeon stuff. She had to be thinking about that. I was scared shitless, but no one had told Little Jay. My compass point had just ticked north.

"Um" I fumbled. "I usually chose whatever was best for the shot. Justin always took my lead." Sure. The fact that Justin wanted to see me in that stuff, is beside the point.

"Well then", her grin was distinctly predatory, "why don't you and I go look over the material? Justin and Peter have enough to keep them busy for a while." That was an understatement. They might starve to death if someone did not bring them food. That left the two of us, with nothing better to do, so we went to the vault.

The merchandise was in a temperature and humidity controlled secure room. It did not have a huge steel door with a combination lock, but that was all it lacked. A vault was a good term for it. Inside were armed security and several million dollars in auction property. The D/s gear was primo stuff, all handmade red and black leather. Several pieces were custom made, according to the tags, and these were the pieces Cynthia wanted to see.

I was breathing hard just looking at it. A lot of it was just restraints and lashes, but there was some really exotic stuff that I could not even put a name to. Left to, I was going to have to pick and choose very carefully. I did not expect the chance, and sure enough she threw it to me, literally. She picked up valuable, handmade pieces, destined for a high end auction and threw them across the room.

At that point in my life, I had never done much in the BDSM area. In the course of a summer, many of the models had shot pics in Dominatrix gear. Several had needed me as the prop. I had gotten to know a fair amount about restraints and rope, but it was purely theatrical. A playful swat was just that, play and not foreplay. The working girls that wanted to do a real scene, generally wanted to be on bottom, and even that was light stuff. I knew a few guys, and one girl, that had been in deeper, but no one really serious. The Marquis de Sade is a serious as it gets, almost as serious as Cynthia.

"Jason dear, I have in mind a little drama, cinema in fact. My studio is equipped with four digital cameras. I think that the two of us, with a few props, might make some usable shots. I had in mind choosing a few of these for you. For myself I have a new custom made undergarment that I want to try out, a corset actually. Why don't you pick out a few things that you find interesting?"

Corset? My compass swung toward north again. By that time, I had a pile of items -- nothing I didn't recognize except a nifty truss I could never get into. Little Jay was beginning to seriously ache. Down boy. We have a ton of paper to wade through.

Chapter 3: - I Thought I Knew these Guys

The paperwork was an experience all by itself. Cynthia was amazing; I could watch this woman for hours. Sean's secretary always seemed cold to me, but Cynthia worked with her like beer with pretzels. In half the time I would have guessed, two of the security guys were loading up the van and we were heading for Cynthia's studio.

Paul and Richard, Mr. Richard's security men, were cool. We had worked together for three weeks. After hours, we had knocked back more than a few brews. I had shown them some of my pics and introduced them to a couple of the girls. Having them at my back should have been reassuring, but it was not happening. There was something different about those two today. It was like she owned them, like they were her hired muscle and not someone else's security detail. Weird. It was just one more thing to set me on edge.

Then I saw her place and edgy took on whole new meanings. Paul and Richard stiffened when they saw it. Nothing was a surprise. We had seen it all in the pictures in her portfolio. But there is nothing like seeing a BDSM studio in person. Everywhere you looked was another way to tie someone up or inflict discomfort or outright pain. Cynthia twirled and watched us take it all, but never said a word. Then she turned an unlocked a door.

I just began to wonder why we bothered with the stuff we brought with us. I found out that Cynthia had no intention of using them. She just wanted close matches from her prop room. It was a revelation unto itself. There were rows of outfits ranging from full formal to strappy bits of nothing, which did not cover any of the usual places. Other places held restraints, floggers, whips, even a cat of nine razor tails. Of course there were boxes of cuffs, collars, gags, and harnesses, in every size and color.

We were in there for an hour. We; Paul, Richard and I that is, worked up a sweat pulling down boxes, going through a thousand items and finding things that looked right and fit me. Then, when we were done, I could hold everything in one hand. Maybe she was doing it as a tease. Somehow I would not put it past her. But, by the time we came out of that room you could have sent any of us to the roof with a tap on the shoulder. There are worse things -- as I soon found out.

As bad as being in the prop and costume room was, heading for the changing room was worse. I was in the lead, with Richard and Paul a step back on either side. I was feeling very crowded, but I kept telling myself "She is a professional and so are you. Get the shot and get back to the hotel." It was not working.

Chapter 4: - Hanging Around and Waiting

Did you ever hear that old song about a yellow polka dot bikini? The girl stays in the shower because she's embarrassed to come out in public. It was like that. I took off my clothes and put on the jock. That much was normal. It was a simple cotton jock strap like I wore all through High School sports. The wrist and ankle cuffs were next, nothing new so far. I had worn leather cuffs for dozens of shoots. Then came the harness, it looked like a weightlifter's belt with suspenders, and it had enough tie rings to run a horse show. It was impossible to tell the front from the back. I decided to put the belt buckle in front, which meant all the other buckles were in back. Rings were front and back either way. I pulled the straps tight and decided to chance it. There was one other item, a pink gag, but it was not in my program. Finally I stepped out.

Evidently I had taken too long. Cynthia was pointing to me when I came out the door. She said, "Richard, Paul, fetch that young man for me. I believe he may be a little reluctant to begin."

They definitely did not grin, but they managed to put a definite sense of desire into their task. Side by side, they strode up to me, and picked me up by the armpits. As they carried me to her, she smiled and my blood froze. I realized that leaving out the gag was a mistake, a very big mistake.

"Tsk. Tsk." she said, "Jason, I am put out with you. I was very sure that we had a meeting of the minds as to what the appropriate garb would be. But now, here you are unprepared. We will have to remedy that." OK. All right, give me the damn gag. For some reason, I never made a sound.

Much to my surprise, she did not tell me to get the gag, or send one of the guys after it. Instead she turned to a table and picked a big padlock. She knelt and locked my ankles together. A gesture had Richard and Paul position my wrists for another lock. No sweat so far, right? I was sweating so hard it was cold. Then she had Paul and Richard force me to my knees so she could lock my wrists to my ankle. The position very quickly convinced me that the human body is not meant to bend that way. I started to protest, but she gave me a tiny shake of her head and I thought better of it. Cynthia eyed me for several seconds; I suppose waiting for a reaction. I may be dumb, but not stupid. There was perhaps a tiny glimmer of approval in her expression, when she turned to Paul.

"Paul, Jason seems to be under sufficient control for the moment. Would you be so kind as to fetch the item he neglected to bring?" I could not see Paul, but there was a feeling of a soldier saluting before he left. Cynthia walked back to her table and picked up a riding crop. She flexed it a couple of times, then swished it threw the air. With an air of unconcern, she said, "Dear boy, please understand that I only want to get the shoot to work correctly. To do that, I need your full cooperation. You do want to cooperate don't you?" Yah. No problem. I did my very best not to move anything but my head to nod.

That is how we stayed until Paul came back with the gag. She said, "Dear boy, I need you to open your mouth. Would you do that for me please?" I tried, but it was not even close to enough. That ball looked small in her hand, but by the time Paul forced it into my mouth, it felt like a soccer ball. Ouch.

She gave me no time to think about my creaking jaw. Instead she took a riding crop and stroked my compass point. I had no chance of not reacting. Her lips twitched as she walked around to release the lock that held my feet to my hands. Paul and Richard hauled me to my feet. For a moment I thought I would fall, but no chance. Richard stopped me with a jerk. Naturally, she had a comment, "Dear boy, you must learn to trust me to take care of these little details. If I were to want you to fall, you would fall. As you will have noticed, Richard and Paul have had training in handling hobbled men." Then and there, I could believe it and I had thought I knew these guys.

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.

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