Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories

 

Sophie Collared

From the novel Sophie & Maureen

Lizbeth Dusseau

Copyrighted © 1999
all rights reserved

 

 

It was nearly a week before Sophie returned to the studio. She wasn't sure she actually agreed to do another photo shoot, but when her photographer, Martin, called her on Thursday to confirm a session for the following day, he assumed she'd come. She knew she'd be there.

Friday it was another matter.

"How would you feel in a collar, Sophie?" the question whipped through her mind like the tendrils of a chilly wind through a desert canyon. She felt empty and deserted with this man--as though she were as vacant as a cloudless sky.

His name was Jon Rush--the man in the charcoal one-of-a-kind suit--blue eyes, jet-black hair and rich, determined voice.

"I've never worn a collar," she replied.

Starting the first session with this unexpected question, he followed with a tangible demonstration. A black, silver-studded leather strip lay across his palm as though it were a precious find. Martin was already clicking pictures while she stood shivering on the empty hardwood floor waiting for directions. Though a foggy San Francisco afternoon, the window in the studio was left wide open to deliberately chill the air. Her bare arms shuddered inside the silver slip dress they'd given her to wear, raising a thousand goose-bumps on the surface of her skin. She would hug herself if she were free to, instead, she tried remaining poised, tried breathing deeply, letting her anxiety fall away. ' I've had tougher assignments," she kept telling herself, but she couldn't remember when.

As the collar closed around her neck, the cold dropped down her body, through her crotch and to her toes. Her knees knocked together so much she thought they'd clatter.

"Easy Sophie, these are just pictures. Nothing more. You're a professional. Remember?" He was almost smiling.

She almost smiled back, just a half smile.

"No need to be nervous."

Easy for him to say, she thought.

"I've never worn a collar," she repeated herself.

"But perhaps you've wanted to."

"I've never thought about it."

"Somewhere you have, I'm sure," he smiled knowingly and backed away.

The leather clutched her throat. If she should panic she would choke. But it wasn't that tight and this was a senseless fear. Martin was there, broad daylight, the window open. Her new friend, Jon Rush, was no madman. In fact, he was much more relaxed than he'd been the week before. No suit today, but a pair of casual grey slacks and a draping lavender shirt. His hands were warm and should have been comforting.

"Let's put you on your knees," he said.

This was so much like her weird audition the week before except that the camera was on, and Martin was capturing all her frail and frightened expressions. She was unconscious of how she looked, but it didn't matter to Jon Rush or Martin Scoffield that her poise had fled minutes ago and any resolve she had to maintain a professional aplomb had vanished the minute her eyes rested on the Jon's placid face.

When she arrived at the studio, Martin had directed her to the dressing room behind the Japanese screen, to the silver slip dress and matching high-heeled silver sandals that were hanging there. The fabric felt as soft as silk sliding over her naked flesh. It clung because her body had already begun to dampen with perspiration. She wiggled her hips so the short skirt would drop over her thighs. Looking down, she could see her nipples poking through the fabric, tight perky bullets of silver.

"Very nice, Sophie." Jon was sitting in the director's chair as she knelt before him, bowing her head. Without being told, her hands were clasped behind her as she rested on the tight paunch of her ass cheeks. "Now come closer," he said, making her wiggle her way inside the narrow place between his parted thighs.

Reaching out to her, he stroked the side of the collar, fingering the metal and leather with his thumb.

"Raise your head," he directed her and she stared into his eyes. She gazed at him with parted lips and wide wet eyes, unaware that she was trembling, her entire body a sensuous mass of trepidation. He inspected her carefully, making decisions as he went along.

This shoot seemed more like a movie, but Martin was snapping stills somewhere outside her line of vision. A conscious part of her brain registered the sound, while the rest focused totally on the astounding clarity of Jon's blue eyes.

"You need this tighter," he said. Fiddling with the buckle, he pulled the leather strap, constricting her throat.

"Relax, Sophie," he ordered kindly. "The pressure will ease in a second."

Once pulling his hands from her neck, he pinched the collar with two fingers and wiggled it, Sophie gulping back her fear, finally feeling more at ease with the leather loosening slightly--enough for her to breathe more easily. The collar felt twice as tight as it had been, and more alarming.

"Tell me how that feels?"

"Confining," she said.

"Good, very good." He smiled, obviously pleased by her response. "Now, lower your eyes and stay as you are."

Jon was swiftly off his chair, moving purposefully to the other side of the room while Sophie waited. Her knees ached and her back seemed unduly tense. She tried to relax but could do nothing but tremble shakily. When from the corner of her eye she saw him pluck a bamboo cane from Martin's desk, she quickly looked away, afraid of what that cane implied.

"That won't do," Jon Rush observed, "sit back on your ankles." Settling her ass on her heels took the pressure off her body and allowed her back to stretch. Yet, the position left her pussy almost exposed, and when she tried to pull her knees together, Jon objected. "No, leave them wide. In fact, I'd like them wider still."

Her crotch was naked as she assumed he'd want it. With her legs spread the short dress pulled up tighter and the tuft of blonde hair between her thighs appeared as a tiny cloud of cotton in the empty hollow.

Pulling away his chair, Jon circled her diminutive body, stalking it from high above. She saw the picture of herself, as though she were floating out-of-body above the scene: she a small form of silver kneeling on the hardwood floor, while an imperious virtuoso with a thin sleek cane poised in his fist paced unhurriedly around her, occasionally poking her back, her ass, her naked thigh. When he was in front of her the cane came to rest flat against her cheek.

"Look at me," he said.

She peered up yearningly, her eyes blanched and frail.

She watched as Jon's face broke into a dazzling grin--if only she could duplicate that mirth with her own expression, but she held her pose like a frozen statue. Even her mind was going numb.

"Ah! She's brilliant, Martin!" the man exclaimed before he backed away. "You have enough to get started?" Jon continued with the photographer, ignoring his subject. Sophie's mind swept back inside her body, feeling the whole of it suddenly ache.

"I should have some proofs for you tomorrow morning," he said.

"They'll be outstanding. Let's book her for the afternoons next week. Does this time of day suit you?" he asked--not Sophie but Martin; she seemed extraneous.

"Perfectly," the photographer answered.

"Good." He strode to the window, looking happily down on the city then returned to the center of the hardwood floor where his model waited. The cane remained in his hand, now almost lovingly stroking her back. "I think the natural fear in her face will translate, don't you?"

"All of Sophie's emotions seem to spill into my images," Martin said, almost proudly. "Which sometimes makes her difficult to photograph. Have to keep her mute."

"Ms. Russo," Jon patted her with the cane as if telling her to stand, which she did an instant later; though she found it awkward getting gracefully to her feet in clumsy high-heels, her legs now almost paralyzed.

"I'm sorry I'm a little shaky."

"You'll be fine," he was quite sure of himself. "We'll see you here Monday afternoon about four-thirty."

She nodded, her voice too halting to be trusted now.

"Yes, yes, that would be fine. Now, go get dressed." He waved toward the Japanese screen, and she tottered that way barely getting there before she collapsed. Dropping to the frayed couch in the dressing area, she took a deep breath while listening to the mumbled conversation between Martin and Jon Rush.

Only after she heard the sound of the front latch closing did Sophie venture from the dressing room. She hadn't bothered to put on her clothes, and she left the silver dress in a wad on the tattered couch. Reaching Martin's back, her hand massaged his ass, until he stood up straight and turned around to see her naked and luring him away from his cameras.

"They can wait, can't they?"

He put his palm to the side of her face, cupping her neck in his hand, drawing her, leather and all, deeper inside his embrace.

"You want me to take this off?" he asked while admiring the look of the collar on her neck.

"No, fuck me now with it on," she said. She pulled him with her to the dressing room behind the screen, where she tore at his clothes. When his shirt came free, she discarded it on the floor. His pants, unzipped and stripped from his hips, turned into a tangle at his ankles, though Sophie hardly cared.

"Hey, my darling, slow it down," he gently admonished her.

"I can't. I'm too hot. Besides you're as hot as I am." She tugged his penis, which appeared erect as a British soldier standing at attention; the wide shaft glistened with precum. She lathered the surface as she jacked it in her palm. "In my mouth," she purred, as her languid body fell back against the couch. Sophie opened like the petals of a flower in full bloom, while Martin straddled her leather-clad neck planting a knee on either side and pressed his cock inside her mouth. Her throat opened, her head coming off the flat of the couch drawing him downward inside her greedily. She worked him hard her with lips and tongue while her lower body gathered steam and her pussy moistened.

When she pushed him out of her mouth, he slid to her hips and straddling those, thrust his cock head into her cunt, and then drove it to the end of her vagina as if he were knocking down the door to her womb.

"Fuck me hard," she screamed while beating her fists into his back. Her ass danced off the prickly burgundy--a scratchy old fabric that would leave her skin with a rug-burn when they were done. "Damn it more!" It wasn't enough. Nothing was--not if they fucked for hours or days, or even a week. Nothing could possibly take away the gritty hard side of this passion.

Enough was enough, when Martin shot his thick cream at the base of her pussy and he triggering her orgasm. She thrashed beneath him clutching the spasming prick, drawing it down deeper, as though she were drawing him into a hiding place, sharing her darkest secret. Still, it wasn't enough.

 

 

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