The Aftermath

"I need to go"

I jump out of bed and have a quick shower.

When I come back, he's sitting up, wearing his glasses and reading cricket news online. He looks quite cute in his glasses actually. More vulnerable.

"Where is my dress?"

"In the living room I think", he says smiling. Yes, it must be. That's when I last wore it, before being tied up and handcuffed.

I walk into the living room. It's like a fetish equivalent of 9/11.

A lone stiletto is languishing in the middle of the room, right next to a roll of bondage tape, cat o'nine tails (that's what he used on me, it hurt as fuck), a beautiful  pair of leather handcuffs and some bondage rope.

I was a feisty mouthy escort last night. I arrived late (on purpose), wearing slutty make up and no knickers. He punished me accordingly.

Then I notice his camera on the sofa, lens cap off.

He likes taking pictures of me when he torments me. Cheeky fucker.

I pick it up and start flicking through the pictures.

Here is a good one of me. Kneeling in the middle of the room, blindfolded, my hands cuffed on my back, my dress hiked up. I look helpless, the whiteness of my flesh contrasted against the dark hems of my hold ups.  

Another one of me lying down on my belly, when I threw a strop, called him a cunt and refused to suck his cock, my arse covered in whip marks as a result.

"Are you okay?", his voice comes from the bedroom.

"Yeah, fine. Just admiring your work my dear"

I take the camera to the bedroom.

"What did I tell you about taking photos of me?"

"Oh" he smirks smugly. "I forgot about them"

"I am sure you did", I say calmly and press the delete button.