Syria couldn’t even imagine wearing something like that.
Aliara stepped forward to touch the tinsel-thin thong. “Can we shoot that one, Erik? I’d love to have a print of it.”
Erik bent and kissed her on the forehead. “Of course. And the outfit goes with you. I cannot imagine anyone else wearing it.”
Aliara reached for one of his hands and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t we start with that?” Erik said. “Elise, can you prep Aliara?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a dressing room just around the corner,” Syria said. Elise and Aliara disappeared that direction. “Anything you want to do while we wait?”
Erik turned to Malin. “Yes, I love this dress on her. Can we do a few like that?”
“Absolutely.” She led Malin to the center of the set to a Queen Anne chair that matched the French-styled drop. “Sit here, cross your ankles, and lean on the arm.”
Malin lowered herself primly onto the cushion, but when her eyes lifted to the camera, the expression was pure sex. The heat of it bolted straight through Syria, and she tightened her grip.
A quick glance at Erik confirmed that he was cool as always, seemingly unaffected. Syria took a couple test shots, then adjusted the lights. As she passed Malin, she tugged on the hem of the flowing skirt, making sure it didn’t gather or crinkle.
She had it now and fired several rapid shots, squaring off Malin’s exquisite face, then broadening out to include her shoulders and deep cleavage. Syria pulled over a ladder to get a full-body shot, letting the image focus on her eyes and skim across her body to the ankles.
“Spin the dress,” Erik said, and Malin immediately rose from the chair.
Syria jumped off the ladder and tugged the chair out of the way. “Do you know how dancers turn in circles?” she asked. “Where they sort of pause then go around, pause and go around?”
Malin nodded.
Syria wondered if the submissive was allowed to speak or if Malin was just naturally quiet.
Malin spun precisely as Syria described, revealing some dance training.
“Beautiful,” Syria said, shifting her shutter speed up to freeze the movement of the skirt. She kneeled to focus on the girl’s amazing strong legs, working a swift pattern as the dress rose higher to her thighs.
It wasn’t until she glanced at the screen did she realize Malin was naked beneath the dress, and the shots were more bare than she realized. The girl kept spinning. She had to be tired, or dizzy. “I have it,” Syria said, but Malin continued to spin.
Syria looked at Erik, who watched with calm deliberation, his face unreadable. “She can stop now,” she said to him.
Erik made no indication that he’d even heard her, watching the girl turn and turn and turn.
Syria’s discomfort grew. “I’d really prefer it if we let her stop.”
“You may stop,” Erik said.
Malin halted, clearly affected by the whirlwind, but standing as straight and relaxed as possible with her rapid breaths.
Erik walked up to caress her bare shoulders, his fingers slipping across her skin so lightly that she shivered. “That’s my beautiful girl.”
Syria was caught between horror and envy. She could see how their relationship probably played out in other ways with rope or bondage or even infliction of pain.
He toyed with the silver clasps on the straps of the dress, then stepped back. “Take it off,” he told her.
Syria’s heart beat painfully as Malin opened the clasp at the shoulder. She trained her lens to focus on the graceful hands with their simple French manicure. When Malin let go, that side of the dress slid down, revealing a perfect golden breast and a dark puckered nipple. Syria swallowed, pulling back on the shot to show more of her body.
Malin turned to the other clasp and freed the opposite side. The gold silk cascaded across her skin, puddling together at her hips. A small blue jewel winked from above her belly button. She released the dress with only the slightest push from her palms, and it fluttered to the floor. Malin stepped away from it, now naked other than a pair of gold stilettos encasing her delicate feet.
Erik stepped forward and into the shot, lifting Malin’s chin as he leaned in to kiss her. Syria’s pulse beat in her throat, snapping as quickly as her studio lights would reset, some shots pulled out, to show the contrast of his suit against the unbroken skin, others tight, especially when Erik’s strong hand cupped a breast and his thumb crossed her nipple.
Malin stepped her feet wide to give him access, but Erik did not touch her. He grasped her elbow and spun her to face away, holding her arm tightly. Now Syria could see the things he did to her, the skin of her back crisscrossed with red. He ran his fingers across the scars, some fresh welts, some older, with measured care. Malin sighed at his touch, her head lowered.