focus 2/3 (lotrips au, dom/elijah)
Title: Focus (2/3. Part one here.)
Fandom: Lotrips (AU)
Pairing: Dom/Elijah
Summary: A while back I had this vivid dream, with a very particular mental image of Elijah as a fetish model and Dom as a photographer. So.
Ratings/Warnings: Fetish gear and swearing.
Notes: I'm not a professional photographer, so if there are errors in the photography techniques in this piece, that's why. Thanks to laeliacatt for advice on photography details. Any mistakes are my own.
*
Dominic has photographed loads of amazing men. Sometimes people ask him how he manages it, how he keeps from mooning about all the time with tented trousers and his tongue hanging down his shirtfront. After all, he has an eye for the blokes as well as the birds, and he has a bit of a thing for bondage; it's hard to be good at this sort of work if you don't see the appeal of it, and Dom is very good at his work.
Usually he tells them that no matter how sexy and glamorous the setting and model, the appeal is dulled by the massive tedium of setting up, lighting, directing, and taking the photos. The people stop being sexy human beings; they become landscapes, puzzles, interstices of light.
That's how Dom can look at a gorgeous oiled bloke with a sex toy half sunk into his arse and see only the question of how best to eliminate the shadow that the dildo casts across a tensed and perfectly rounded buttock.
Dom's real secret weapon, though, is that the models don't interest him sexually, only aesthetically. It only took two or three photoshoots before he acquired a sort of immunity to the whole spectacle. The more ripped and bronzed and pancaked and powdered a man looks, the less attractive Dom finds him.
So his instant and powerful crush on Kitty doesn't worry Dom. Once they spiff the bloke up and trundle him onto the set all kitted out in his makeup and costume, Dom's infatuation will suffer a quick death. He's never so much as had a wank over any of Kitty's work. It's too airbrushed and perfect, it doesn't turn Dom on.
Gorgeous stuff, though. Out of the specs and scruff, Kitty's quite beautiful. Assuming it's not all smoke and Photoshop.
A forest of poles fills the bedroom, cords snaking all over the floor. Once everything's set up, Rupert switches it all on and looks at Dom, expectant and resigned.
"I'm going to need harder light," Dom says, ignoring Rupert's weary sigh. "Let's change the light covers to the 300°K clear glass, and open the barn doors on the Sunlite Set. Get the compacts ready as well, in case we need to flood the vinyl to get the proper shine."
"Right," Rupert says, getting to work.
*
It takes another half hour to adjust the lights to Dom's satisfaction. "Cheer up," he tells Rupert, "This should cover us for all the shots in this end of the room. We'll only have to break it down and do a reset once, to light the bed and the cross."
Rupert's copper hair blazes under thousands of watts. "Can I quit before then?"
"No."
They check on the talent. Kitty is newly shaved, his hair damp and gelled into darker, more artful spikes and tufts. He reeks of witch hazel and powder foundation. His skin looks porelessly smooth; it's hard to believe that earlier a crop of stubble was poking out from that sleek square jaw and gently cleft chin.
Dom grits his teeth and stops himself staring at Kitty, currently half-perfection, half-dishabille. This is a bit of a big shoot, he doesn't want to start it off distracted. "Any idea how much longer?"
Waggling a hair dryer at him, Daisy says, "Six hours. You can't rush genius." Dom moves a bit out of range to avoid the prongy prod of the diffuser.
Liv looks up from blending color on a lip brush. "Not long. Ten minutes to finish, and then maybe some touch-ups."
Stealing another look at Kitty, Dom frowns. The bloke is quite still; his eyes are closed, and it's not because Liv's working on them, they're already lined and shadowed, his lashes mascara-dark. "You didn't kill him, did you? I hate to tell you, but that's not the particular fetish we're meant to be photographing today."
Kitty snorts through his nose but otherwise remains motionless.
The striking blonde who arrived with Kitty stands and approaches Dom. "Since you have a moment... I'm Cate Blanchett, Kitty's manager."
It's a bit unusual for someone doing fetish modeling to have staff on hand, but then, Kitty has got quite popular in the past year or so. Dom shakes Ms. Blanchett's hand. "Nice to meet you. Anything I should know? He's not allergic to latex, I hope."
Miranda and Daisy both laugh, Miranda covering her face in mock horror: "Not again!"
Ms. Blanchett lets the in-joke pass and answers with a very slight smile, "No."
"Or dogs?"
"I reviewed the assignment in advance, Mr...?"
She doesn't know his last name, of course. No one does. His photos are credited under the name "Zoom", which seemed funny four years ago when he chose it. "Dominic. That is, just Dominic, not Mr. Dominic, cheers."
"Dominic, I reviewed the brief. Kitty will have no problem with any part of the assignment. I only wanted to make sure you won't mind if I sit in on the session."
"I don't mind, no. That's up to Kitty. Though if we have trouble getting a shot, I may throw everyone out on their ears, I make no guarantees."
"Thank you," Ms. Blanchett says, and walks across the hall to the set. Dom peers across and watches her; she paces the large room, in and out of his field of vision.
"What's she on about? Does she think we mined it with explosives?"
"Didn't you hear?" Daisy drops into a chair and puts his feet up, still gesturing with the hair dryer. "Couple of weeks ago, Harry was snapping Hugo done up as a drag dominatrix, they were using a dungeon in somebody's basement. The owners had a bed of nails stood up against a wall for god knows what, and they hadn't said a word, they'd just thrown a tarp over it. Hugo tripped on his heels and fell straight onto it."
"Shit! Was he hurt?"
"No, thank god," Miranda says, "luckily he went wig-first."
"But Daisy was heartbroken," Liv smiles, blotting at Kitty's lips.
"It was one of my greatest masterpieces!" Daisy says. "An updo, with braids and ringlets, in five different shades of pink and purple kanekalon-- ruined! Perforated! It looks as if someone ran over his head while they were aerating the garden. You can't just comb that sort of thing out, you know."
"I don't blame her checking the set over, after an accident like that," says Miranda. "Harry has such a good reputation, you know, if it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone."
Dom peers over at the set again to make sure Ms. Blanchett isn't trifling with his camera. "Well, we'll all do our level best to keep Kitty from being lacerated."
"Thanks," Kitty says.
"Almost done... just stand up and let me make sure everything's blended." Liv levers herself up out of her chair, compensating a little for her changing center of gravity; Kitty bolts to his feet and cups her elbow as she straightens.
"How far along are you?" Dom asks, reminded. Liv examines the shading of color along Kitty's throat. Dom tries not to look at him.
"Five and a half months!"
"I hate to succumb to cliche," says Dom, "but you really do look radiant."
"Thank you, sweetie." Liv pats Kitty's shoulder. "I think I'm finished; what do you think, Dom?"
Dom thinks that Kitty doesn't seem to need smoke, mirrors, airbrush or Photoshop to look incredible. The lines of his face hold endless promise; Dom can picture a dozen compositions using his hard curvy little mouth alone, never mind his round, heavy-lidded blue eyes, the structural integrity of his jaw and cheekbones, the straight precision of his nose. Liv's makeup job sets it all off beautifully, emphasizing all those sculpted contours, utterly disappearing any flaws. Dusted with powder, Kitty's skin has a sort of depthless clarity and subliminal glow.
Clearing his throat, Dom says, "That'll do, yeah. Thanks, Liv."
Kitty cranes to look in the mirror. "That's amazing. You did a fantastic job. Thank you."
"A good complexion makes everything easy."
"My turn!" Miranda says, swooping in with the white shirt. Kitty pulls off the paper shroud that was pinned around his neck, and fuck if he's not naked to the waist and half in the costume-- such as it is. He's only wearing the vinyl shorts, molded indecently to his tight little arse. His chest is smooth and narrow, decorated with small pink nipples, like little sugar candies. Despite the cosmetics, the gloss, the gel and the general air of perfection, Kitty looks positively edible to Dom, who really ought to have lost interest completely by now.
"I'll make sure Ms. Blanchett hasn't found anything pointy," Dom mutters, and retreats.
*
The set looks fine to him, but Dom lets Ms. Blanchett go through her paces.
He wonders if she's a consequence of Kitty's success, or the cause of it. After just over a year of modeling, Kitty has practically become an institution in the fetish photography scene. There's hardly a single issue of a fetish magazine that doesn't have one of his images in, whether it's a feature editorial spread like this one, or a lush one-page advert. His pictures appear on dozens of fetish websites, in addition to his own quite popular site and several fansites devoted to scans of his appearances.
If Ms. Blanchett was the impresario behind Kitty's rise, she deserves loads of credit. Kitty doesn't quite fit the typical mold of long-bodied, skinny blond twinks or butch, beefy musclemen. He quickly found a niche, that was no surprise: he looks sixteen on a good day.
Early spreads of Kitty used his angelic looks to predictable subversive effect, making the most of the shock value. One shoot in particular, with Kitty in drag in a delicate chemise, let Exotika magazine in for an investigation, and no wonder; in those clothes and makeup and a soft focus, Kitty could've passed for twelve.
By now everyone in the industry knows he's twenty-two simply because it's been checked and re-checked and verified so many times.
Perhaps the controversy boosted his profile, but however it happened, Kitty quickly became a staple of the arty fetish magazines, with enough momentum to gain a bit of attention beyond the rarified circles of rubber and bondage glossies.
He's been photographed wearing Versace for L'Uomo Vogue, Dom has seen some proofs from the shoot. But the spread never ran in the magazine. Rumor has it that the photographer and the editor had a badly timed creative falling-out. No one knows for sure, but it's true that Viggo's work hasn't appeared there since.
The possible L'Uomo Vogue spread was the source of a certain amount of excitement at the time. If Kitty rose out of the fetish magazines to do fashion editorials, he might be able to take a photographer or two soaring up with him.
When the shoot didn't make it to print, some of Dom's friends were crushed. Dom took them out drinking and tried to convince them they were best off taking photographs of women mock-crushing men's scrotums under their eight-inch heels, but it didn't go down easy.
Ms. Blanchett seems to finish her inspection, finding a seat for herself among the folding chairs that Rupert put well off out of the way in a corner of the vast bedroom.
"Everything tickety-boo?" Dom asks.
"It seems safe enough."
Dom walks the set himself. The artist came in yesterday and laid down the pentagram they're meant to be using in some of the shots, and it looks quite good, a bit worn as if it's been there ages. All the furniture is quite clean, showroom new, if spanking horses were sold in showrooms. The cross has such a gorgeous buffed sheen and lovely oiled-wood fragrance that he almost wants to lick it.
He can feel Ms. Blanchett watching him, and though Dom's not the sort to be too self-conscious, she's a rather imposing woman. "We'll have two sessions with a break for lunch," he says, thinking aloud to fill the empty room. "First the shots here with the pentagram, the cage and the bureau. Then everyone can stop for a bite while we break down our lights and set up to do the cross, the bed and the horse."
"Efficient planning," says Ms. Blanchett.
He's almost, but not quite, entirely sure she's winding him up. Dom shrugs off the unaccustomed bout of nerves and checks on his camera, touching the case. He doesn't like to bring it out until the last moment; it's like a samurai's sword, it ought not to be unsheathed unless it's going to be put to use.
"Ta-da!" Daisy sings out. Dom turns to look as Kitty walks onto the set at last.
It's almost staggering just to see him put one foot in front of the other; he doesn't look as if he should exist in three dimensions. The naughty-schoolboy costume ought to be laughably camp, but Kitty makes it look dead sinful. The tailored black blazer fits snugly over the translucently tight white shirt. The black tie arrows down his chest to point fatally downward. The black vinyl shorts reveal rather more than they hide; if he didn't already know from the American accent, Dom would nearly be able to tell Kitty's cut just by looking.
He's staring, and he never stares. Dom swallows. "Very nice work, Liv, Daisy, Miranda; bang-up job. Cheers. Thanks for shooting with us today, Kitty. If you'll just take your place there by the pentagram... we're hoping to get the trickiest bit of the assignment out of the way early on. Has anyone seen my assistant? The dodgy-looking redhead."
"He said he was going to wait for someone at the front door," says Ms. Blanchett.
"That'll be the bloke from Viscount with the boots, and the trainer with the dog." Dom checks his watch. "We're running a bit ahead, that's a first. I hope they turn up on time."
"Since when is Billy dodgy-looking?" Miranda demands.
"It's Rupert, actually. My intern. Billy's doing a gig up north tonight, couldn't be here." At some point, Dom is going to have to look at Kitty again. This is a bit ridiculous.
Fortune smiles; he hears voices, and the yap of a dog. He'll have to pull himself together and deal with Kitty eventually, but not just yet.
Rupert leads in two men. One has two satchels, a sharp outfit, and a messy pile of glistening black curls. The other's an older fellow with long grey tresses and a pet carrier.
More yapping. "Sh, Princess, calm down, hush," the older geezer says. The dog whines once and subsides.
"You must be Mr. Noble," Dom says. "Dominic. Thanks for coming out, it's good to meet you."
Mr. Noble shakes his hand. "Charmed. I'd like to let Princess out to get accustomed to the environment. And to the company, if the model is about."
"Sure, please do. Kitty's here and all ready to go," says Dom.
"Oh!" Mr. Noble clutches the carrier. Dom didn't know it was possible for a bloke in his fifties to look so ingenuous. "Bernard didn't mention the model is... oh. What a-- pleasant surprise."
"You're a fan, I take it."
"I'm. Familiar." Mr. Noble takes a deep breath and goes through the thicket of lighting apparatus and into the clearing, but he doesn't quite approach Kitty, just sets down the carrier and opens the little door. A white poodle steps out, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. She yips once, hopping in place, but as soon as Mr. Noble says her name again, she plunks down obediently, trembling with excitement but staying otherwise quite still.
That seems a good sign. It's even better that Kitty comes over and kneels nearby. "Okay if I try to get her used to me?"
"I'm sure she'd be delighted to make your acquaintance," Mr. Noble says. He stares a bit but keeps his dignity about him. "Princess: shake."
The poodle puts up her paw. Kitty grins and takes it gently, then offers his hand to the dog's muzzle to let her sniff. "I love dogs," he says, petting her. "I have two back home."
"Where's home?" Dom asks before he can stop himself.
Kitty looks up, lashes thick as brambles, bright blue eyes lined in shadow. "Iowa. Cedar Rapids."
"Oh," says Dom intelligently, and wrests himself away before he's stuck staring again. He turns to the second new arrival and shakes his hand. "Hiya. Dominic. Pleasure."
"I'm Andy, I'm here for Viscount, brought along our gear."
"Great! We're all quite excited to see it," Dom lies.
"Here's the boots for the feature!" Andy opens the larger satchel and hauls out a pair of stiff-backed, thigh-high monstrosities.
At first Dom thinks they're just sagging a bit weirdly, but they stand firm and tall, bending most definitely backwards. Never mind the funny wedge heels-- the whole shape of the leg is completely turned round from what it should be.
There's a bit of a pause as everyone takes the boots in. Dom tugs his ear, nerves flaring again. "...These? Really?"
"They're our latest design, the centerpiece of the whole spread," says Andy. "A sort of ponyboy look, but not so hoovesy."
"All right... well, then. How do they work?" Dom asks, trying to sound game.
"They work like boots!" Andy says. "You put them on, buckle them up, and off you go."
"Only you don't, I mean, you couldn't even hobble. Are you-- are you understanding my confusion at all? Human knees don't bend that way. Wardrobe? Can you back me up on this?"
Miranda's already close at hand. She has a look at the boots, feeling inside them. "There's no trick to it, they just force your knees the wrong way." She straightens, shaking back her long ginger hair and frowning at Andy. "You realize, no one can stand like that more than a few minutes at a time. Your knees lock up, your circulation goes all wonky, you pass out."
"Maybe Viscount's going into fainting couches as well," Daisy chuckles.
Andy's bright tones drop away, and he says more tersely, "Viscount is in the business of selling fantasies. No one's going to wear these boots. Some poor sod is gonna see them on Kitty in a magazine, he's going to buy the boots and have a wank with 'em, end of story. They come with a sheet explaining that if you do wear them, which no one ever will, you shouldn't do up the buckles past the knees."
Miranda says, "No bother then, if we don't have to do up all the buckles. They'll be fine."
"No, you have to do them all up. We need shots of what they would look like if anyone did wear them properly. That's the fantasy."
"But nobody can!" Dom explodes. "Look, you didn't mention you wanted a bloody faun for a model, we only have Kitty, whose knees-- and Ms. Blanchett you can correct me if I'm wrong here-- only bend in the conventional way."
"She just said, anyone could wear them, for a few minutes at a time," Andy gestures to Miranda. "So clap them on him for a few minutes, get the shot and take them off! For god's sake, how long can it take to snap a photo?"
Dom tears at his hair a bit and makes a strangled noise he wasn't previously aware could issue from his throat. "We're booked here for ten hours today, does that give you a notion? For fuck's sake, have you looked at the brief? I'm meant to photograph him with a dog, it could take ages to get her settled into place. Meanwhile the talent's swooning away in the background."
"Look, this is the assignment. A photo of these boots, on him. I thought you were meant to be good."
"Good photographers don't make models wear boots designed to make them lose consciousness. It's a bit counter-productive."
"You seem to have things a bit backwards, mate. The boots aren't here for the model. The model is here for the boots. And so are you."
"How d'you reckon? I'm doing an assignment for Bernard, for the magazine. I wasn't hired by Viscount. This is an editorial spread, not an advert."
"It's a spread for a promotional consideration. Our products are meant to be in every shot, and the most important is the one of these boots. If you have a problem with the job perhaps you ought to speak with Bernard."
Dom hesitates at that. Bernard owns a good half-dozen of the magazines that run Dom's photos regularly. He's not the sort of man one likes to ring up and trouble with problems. Ideally one wants to hear from Bernard only at the start of a job, with no further contact beyond his signature on the cheque. Anything else is apt to spell disaster.
The boots loom, inverted and absurd. Dom imagines turning to Kitty and insisting he put them on, versus bothering Bernard and possibly scuppering his career. Such as it is.
He sucks on his lower lip. Fuck it, he can always chuck it all and be a wedding photographer. Dom fishes for his mobile. "Fine then, I'll phone him, cos I'm not doing it."
"I'll wear them," Kitty says.
"What?" Dom asks, brought up short.
"The boots. I'll wear them. If there's a problem I'll unfasten them at the knees and stretch. Just have someone handy by me to help me undo the buckles."
"That's not very safe," Dom says weakly, looking over at Ms. Blanchett. He expects her to protest, but she doesn't say a word.
"Beats working in a coal mine," Kitty says.
Dom chuffs a hand through his hair. "Fine, yeah. If you're willing..."
"I'll stay close to give him a hand if he needs it," says Miranda.
The tension's broken, but it's going to be a job of work to set up a good atmosphere after that little episode. "All right, we'll set up as much as we can before we deal with the boots, so let's go. Rupert, lights. Miranda, if you can stand by the cage there, you should be near enough to help without getting in the shot. Cheers." To Andy, Dom offers, "I'll help you put your stuff over to the side here, you can take a chair."
"Cold in here," Andy comments.
Dom hefts the satchel the boots were in. "Just wait til we switch on all those lights."
"Do you want a look at the rest I brought?"
Does he hell. "Not til after. I want to focus on this tricky bit before we go on."
"Suit yourself. You'd think you'd want to know what you're working with."
"I did read the brief," Dom stabs his tongue between his teeth to stop himself resorting to invective. He drops the satchel near the folding chairs. "I know what we're meant to be shooting, I have ideas prepared, and if there's any more surprises like the boots on the way, I'll cope them out as they come. I can only deal with one thing at a time."
"Hm," Andy shrugs, his interest already switching to Daisy as he takes the chair next to him. Daisy makes a show of examining his manicure. Dom rolls his eyes. At this rate of slow calamity, they'll probably be shagging in the toilet before the day is out.
Dom negotiates the border of light poles and tripods to get back to the set. "Mr. Noble, is there anything you or um..."
"Princess."
"Sorry, yeah. Anything you or Princess needs?"
"No, no, we're just waiting for her moment in the spotlight, aren't we, darling," Mr. Noble says. The dog barks shortly, quieting at a pat of her owner's hand.
Dogs trained that well freak Dom out a bit, actually. It's unnatural.
"Brilliant, then, if you could just stand off over here by the horse... if you'd like to have a seat there, yeah. Give a shout if you need anything." There's nothing for it, time to deal with-- the model. Right. "Kitty, if you'll just stand. Yeah, there," he says, realizing Kitty's already at the head of the pentagram. "Okay! Thanks for bearing with us. Sorry about the aggro."
"Not your fault." Kitty's lips are subtly glossy. It's makeup, it's only makeup, it's fake as a geisha's blackened teeth. There's no use mooning over him, who knows what he really looks like?
Only Dom does know what he really looks like, at least a bit, and liked what he saw then just as well. Hopeless. Dom sets his shoulders and charges on.
"I'll tell you what I want as we go, but primarily I'm looking for something a bit stern and take-charge. A sort of topping from the bottom vibe. So! Need anything before we start in earnest?"
"I'm good."
"We can put on music if you like."
"Really?" Kitty looks amused with nothing more than a tiny lift of his eyebrows. "I heard you liked it quiet."
"I like to be able to hear the room," Dom says, "but you're the one I'm asking to put a good face on things for the next few hours. If music helps, we'll put something on."
"That's okay. Let's do it your way."
"All right. We'll go on then, we've lost enough time already. Rupert!"
Rupert hustles forward and drops the boots nearby, coming forward with the light meter, his belt clustered with pouches and belt-clipped gadgets. "We're getting good levels. Happy with the look?"
He gives the whole mise-en-scene the eye. The room looks good. All right, fair dues, he's madly attracted to Kitty still, even with Kitty polished up to an artificial shine, but Dom forcibly sets that aside. Time to work. "Hand me the modelling light," he says.
Rupert slaps it into his hand like a nurse giving forceps to a surgeon. "Modelling light."
"Aren't they all modelling lights?" asks Andy.
Dom ignores him, angling the modeling light around, watching how illumination slides across the planes of Kitty's face. "Good... good... good... hm. It'd be hard to take a bad photo of you," he says.
"But plenty of people do," Kitty answers without moving his mouth much.
"Ah ha. This is no good, like this," Dom notes, freezing position. Rupert uses the digital camera to take a snap. "And down... no, that's no good either. It's here, through to... here... are you seeing this?"
"I think so." Rupert comes over and shows Dom the last few shots on the digicam's preview screen. When the light falls just so, Kitty's face looks square and flat, his eyes goggly, his mouth small and prim.
"Yeah, that's it. All right. Let's move the bounce a bit, keep it well out of this angle. Rupe, when he's moving I'm going to need you to make sure we're not lighting him too much in this range, all right? Keep an eye out, and if you need a moment to move things about, give a shout."
"Right--" Rupert jumps to adjust the lights yet again. Kitty stands in his stocking feet, quite still, as they reposition the accent light behind him and drag the compacts into place on the floor to get more light on the boots. Gleaming with highlights, the boots stand so tall they nearly seem to have a life of their own.
"You're sure about this?" Dom asks, studying the backs of the boots. The angle really seems quite acute.
With those last adjustments, the light flatters Kitty beautifully, outlining the lines and curves of his face and body to best effect. Even his elbows are appealing. It hardly seems fair.
"I'm pretty flexible," he says.
"...Right."
"Good?" Rupert asks, giving the bounce a last nudge.
Dom looks hard. "Yeah, I think we're ready. Miranda, if you can give Kitty a hand with the boots... let's get started."
*
Fandom: Lotrips (AU)
Pairing: Dom/Elijah
Summary: A while back I had this vivid dream, with a very particular mental image of Elijah as a fetish model and Dom as a photographer. So.
Ratings/Warnings: Fetish gear and swearing.
Notes: I'm not a professional photographer, so if there are errors in the photography techniques in this piece, that's why. Thanks to laeliacatt for advice on photography details. Any mistakes are my own.
*
Dominic has photographed loads of amazing men. Sometimes people ask him how he manages it, how he keeps from mooning about all the time with tented trousers and his tongue hanging down his shirtfront. After all, he has an eye for the blokes as well as the birds, and he has a bit of a thing for bondage; it's hard to be good at this sort of work if you don't see the appeal of it, and Dom is very good at his work.
Usually he tells them that no matter how sexy and glamorous the setting and model, the appeal is dulled by the massive tedium of setting up, lighting, directing, and taking the photos. The people stop being sexy human beings; they become landscapes, puzzles, interstices of light.
That's how Dom can look at a gorgeous oiled bloke with a sex toy half sunk into his arse and see only the question of how best to eliminate the shadow that the dildo casts across a tensed and perfectly rounded buttock.
Dom's real secret weapon, though, is that the models don't interest him sexually, only aesthetically. It only took two or three photoshoots before he acquired a sort of immunity to the whole spectacle. The more ripped and bronzed and pancaked and powdered a man looks, the less attractive Dom finds him.
So his instant and powerful crush on Kitty doesn't worry Dom. Once they spiff the bloke up and trundle him onto the set all kitted out in his makeup and costume, Dom's infatuation will suffer a quick death. He's never so much as had a wank over any of Kitty's work. It's too airbrushed and perfect, it doesn't turn Dom on.
Gorgeous stuff, though. Out of the specs and scruff, Kitty's quite beautiful. Assuming it's not all smoke and Photoshop.
A forest of poles fills the bedroom, cords snaking all over the floor. Once everything's set up, Rupert switches it all on and looks at Dom, expectant and resigned.
"I'm going to need harder light," Dom says, ignoring Rupert's weary sigh. "Let's change the light covers to the 300°K clear glass, and open the barn doors on the Sunlite Set. Get the compacts ready as well, in case we need to flood the vinyl to get the proper shine."
"Right," Rupert says, getting to work.
*
It takes another half hour to adjust the lights to Dom's satisfaction. "Cheer up," he tells Rupert, "This should cover us for all the shots in this end of the room. We'll only have to break it down and do a reset once, to light the bed and the cross."
Rupert's copper hair blazes under thousands of watts. "Can I quit before then?"
"No."
They check on the talent. Kitty is newly shaved, his hair damp and gelled into darker, more artful spikes and tufts. He reeks of witch hazel and powder foundation. His skin looks porelessly smooth; it's hard to believe that earlier a crop of stubble was poking out from that sleek square jaw and gently cleft chin.
Dom grits his teeth and stops himself staring at Kitty, currently half-perfection, half-dishabille. This is a bit of a big shoot, he doesn't want to start it off distracted. "Any idea how much longer?"
Waggling a hair dryer at him, Daisy says, "Six hours. You can't rush genius." Dom moves a bit out of range to avoid the prongy prod of the diffuser.
Liv looks up from blending color on a lip brush. "Not long. Ten minutes to finish, and then maybe some touch-ups."
Stealing another look at Kitty, Dom frowns. The bloke is quite still; his eyes are closed, and it's not because Liv's working on them, they're already lined and shadowed, his lashes mascara-dark. "You didn't kill him, did you? I hate to tell you, but that's not the particular fetish we're meant to be photographing today."
Kitty snorts through his nose but otherwise remains motionless.
The striking blonde who arrived with Kitty stands and approaches Dom. "Since you have a moment... I'm Cate Blanchett, Kitty's manager."
It's a bit unusual for someone doing fetish modeling to have staff on hand, but then, Kitty has got quite popular in the past year or so. Dom shakes Ms. Blanchett's hand. "Nice to meet you. Anything I should know? He's not allergic to latex, I hope."
Miranda and Daisy both laugh, Miranda covering her face in mock horror: "Not again!"
Ms. Blanchett lets the in-joke pass and answers with a very slight smile, "No."
"Or dogs?"
"I reviewed the assignment in advance, Mr...?"
She doesn't know his last name, of course. No one does. His photos are credited under the name "Zoom", which seemed funny four years ago when he chose it. "Dominic. That is, just Dominic, not Mr. Dominic, cheers."
"Dominic, I reviewed the brief. Kitty will have no problem with any part of the assignment. I only wanted to make sure you won't mind if I sit in on the session."
"I don't mind, no. That's up to Kitty. Though if we have trouble getting a shot, I may throw everyone out on their ears, I make no guarantees."
"Thank you," Ms. Blanchett says, and walks across the hall to the set. Dom peers across and watches her; she paces the large room, in and out of his field of vision.
"What's she on about? Does she think we mined it with explosives?"
"Didn't you hear?" Daisy drops into a chair and puts his feet up, still gesturing with the hair dryer. "Couple of weeks ago, Harry was snapping Hugo done up as a drag dominatrix, they were using a dungeon in somebody's basement. The owners had a bed of nails stood up against a wall for god knows what, and they hadn't said a word, they'd just thrown a tarp over it. Hugo tripped on his heels and fell straight onto it."
"Shit! Was he hurt?"
"No, thank god," Miranda says, "luckily he went wig-first."
"But Daisy was heartbroken," Liv smiles, blotting at Kitty's lips.
"It was one of my greatest masterpieces!" Daisy says. "An updo, with braids and ringlets, in five different shades of pink and purple kanekalon-- ruined! Perforated! It looks as if someone ran over his head while they were aerating the garden. You can't just comb that sort of thing out, you know."
"I don't blame her checking the set over, after an accident like that," says Miranda. "Harry has such a good reputation, you know, if it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone."
Dom peers over at the set again to make sure Ms. Blanchett isn't trifling with his camera. "Well, we'll all do our level best to keep Kitty from being lacerated."
"Thanks," Kitty says.
"Almost done... just stand up and let me make sure everything's blended." Liv levers herself up out of her chair, compensating a little for her changing center of gravity; Kitty bolts to his feet and cups her elbow as she straightens.
"How far along are you?" Dom asks, reminded. Liv examines the shading of color along Kitty's throat. Dom tries not to look at him.
"Five and a half months!"
"I hate to succumb to cliche," says Dom, "but you really do look radiant."
"Thank you, sweetie." Liv pats Kitty's shoulder. "I think I'm finished; what do you think, Dom?"
Dom thinks that Kitty doesn't seem to need smoke, mirrors, airbrush or Photoshop to look incredible. The lines of his face hold endless promise; Dom can picture a dozen compositions using his hard curvy little mouth alone, never mind his round, heavy-lidded blue eyes, the structural integrity of his jaw and cheekbones, the straight precision of his nose. Liv's makeup job sets it all off beautifully, emphasizing all those sculpted contours, utterly disappearing any flaws. Dusted with powder, Kitty's skin has a sort of depthless clarity and subliminal glow.
Clearing his throat, Dom says, "That'll do, yeah. Thanks, Liv."
Kitty cranes to look in the mirror. "That's amazing. You did a fantastic job. Thank you."
"A good complexion makes everything easy."
"My turn!" Miranda says, swooping in with the white shirt. Kitty pulls off the paper shroud that was pinned around his neck, and fuck if he's not naked to the waist and half in the costume-- such as it is. He's only wearing the vinyl shorts, molded indecently to his tight little arse. His chest is smooth and narrow, decorated with small pink nipples, like little sugar candies. Despite the cosmetics, the gloss, the gel and the general air of perfection, Kitty looks positively edible to Dom, who really ought to have lost interest completely by now.
"I'll make sure Ms. Blanchett hasn't found anything pointy," Dom mutters, and retreats.
*
The set looks fine to him, but Dom lets Ms. Blanchett go through her paces.
He wonders if she's a consequence of Kitty's success, or the cause of it. After just over a year of modeling, Kitty has practically become an institution in the fetish photography scene. There's hardly a single issue of a fetish magazine that doesn't have one of his images in, whether it's a feature editorial spread like this one, or a lush one-page advert. His pictures appear on dozens of fetish websites, in addition to his own quite popular site and several fansites devoted to scans of his appearances.
If Ms. Blanchett was the impresario behind Kitty's rise, she deserves loads of credit. Kitty doesn't quite fit the typical mold of long-bodied, skinny blond twinks or butch, beefy musclemen. He quickly found a niche, that was no surprise: he looks sixteen on a good day.
Early spreads of Kitty used his angelic looks to predictable subversive effect, making the most of the shock value. One shoot in particular, with Kitty in drag in a delicate chemise, let Exotika magazine in for an investigation, and no wonder; in those clothes and makeup and a soft focus, Kitty could've passed for twelve.
By now everyone in the industry knows he's twenty-two simply because it's been checked and re-checked and verified so many times.
Perhaps the controversy boosted his profile, but however it happened, Kitty quickly became a staple of the arty fetish magazines, with enough momentum to gain a bit of attention beyond the rarified circles of rubber and bondage glossies.
He's been photographed wearing Versace for L'Uomo Vogue, Dom has seen some proofs from the shoot. But the spread never ran in the magazine. Rumor has it that the photographer and the editor had a badly timed creative falling-out. No one knows for sure, but it's true that Viggo's work hasn't appeared there since.
The possible L'Uomo Vogue spread was the source of a certain amount of excitement at the time. If Kitty rose out of the fetish magazines to do fashion editorials, he might be able to take a photographer or two soaring up with him.
When the shoot didn't make it to print, some of Dom's friends were crushed. Dom took them out drinking and tried to convince them they were best off taking photographs of women mock-crushing men's scrotums under their eight-inch heels, but it didn't go down easy.
Ms. Blanchett seems to finish her inspection, finding a seat for herself among the folding chairs that Rupert put well off out of the way in a corner of the vast bedroom.
"Everything tickety-boo?" Dom asks.
"It seems safe enough."
Dom walks the set himself. The artist came in yesterday and laid down the pentagram they're meant to be using in some of the shots, and it looks quite good, a bit worn as if it's been there ages. All the furniture is quite clean, showroom new, if spanking horses were sold in showrooms. The cross has such a gorgeous buffed sheen and lovely oiled-wood fragrance that he almost wants to lick it.
He can feel Ms. Blanchett watching him, and though Dom's not the sort to be too self-conscious, she's a rather imposing woman. "We'll have two sessions with a break for lunch," he says, thinking aloud to fill the empty room. "First the shots here with the pentagram, the cage and the bureau. Then everyone can stop for a bite while we break down our lights and set up to do the cross, the bed and the horse."
"Efficient planning," says Ms. Blanchett.
He's almost, but not quite, entirely sure she's winding him up. Dom shrugs off the unaccustomed bout of nerves and checks on his camera, touching the case. He doesn't like to bring it out until the last moment; it's like a samurai's sword, it ought not to be unsheathed unless it's going to be put to use.
"Ta-da!" Daisy sings out. Dom turns to look as Kitty walks onto the set at last.
It's almost staggering just to see him put one foot in front of the other; he doesn't look as if he should exist in three dimensions. The naughty-schoolboy costume ought to be laughably camp, but Kitty makes it look dead sinful. The tailored black blazer fits snugly over the translucently tight white shirt. The black tie arrows down his chest to point fatally downward. The black vinyl shorts reveal rather more than they hide; if he didn't already know from the American accent, Dom would nearly be able to tell Kitty's cut just by looking.
He's staring, and he never stares. Dom swallows. "Very nice work, Liv, Daisy, Miranda; bang-up job. Cheers. Thanks for shooting with us today, Kitty. If you'll just take your place there by the pentagram... we're hoping to get the trickiest bit of the assignment out of the way early on. Has anyone seen my assistant? The dodgy-looking redhead."
"He said he was going to wait for someone at the front door," says Ms. Blanchett.
"That'll be the bloke from Viscount with the boots, and the trainer with the dog." Dom checks his watch. "We're running a bit ahead, that's a first. I hope they turn up on time."
"Since when is Billy dodgy-looking?" Miranda demands.
"It's Rupert, actually. My intern. Billy's doing a gig up north tonight, couldn't be here." At some point, Dom is going to have to look at Kitty again. This is a bit ridiculous.
Fortune smiles; he hears voices, and the yap of a dog. He'll have to pull himself together and deal with Kitty eventually, but not just yet.
Rupert leads in two men. One has two satchels, a sharp outfit, and a messy pile of glistening black curls. The other's an older fellow with long grey tresses and a pet carrier.
More yapping. "Sh, Princess, calm down, hush," the older geezer says. The dog whines once and subsides.
"You must be Mr. Noble," Dom says. "Dominic. Thanks for coming out, it's good to meet you."
Mr. Noble shakes his hand. "Charmed. I'd like to let Princess out to get accustomed to the environment. And to the company, if the model is about."
"Sure, please do. Kitty's here and all ready to go," says Dom.
"Oh!" Mr. Noble clutches the carrier. Dom didn't know it was possible for a bloke in his fifties to look so ingenuous. "Bernard didn't mention the model is... oh. What a-- pleasant surprise."
"You're a fan, I take it."
"I'm. Familiar." Mr. Noble takes a deep breath and goes through the thicket of lighting apparatus and into the clearing, but he doesn't quite approach Kitty, just sets down the carrier and opens the little door. A white poodle steps out, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. She yips once, hopping in place, but as soon as Mr. Noble says her name again, she plunks down obediently, trembling with excitement but staying otherwise quite still.
That seems a good sign. It's even better that Kitty comes over and kneels nearby. "Okay if I try to get her used to me?"
"I'm sure she'd be delighted to make your acquaintance," Mr. Noble says. He stares a bit but keeps his dignity about him. "Princess: shake."
The poodle puts up her paw. Kitty grins and takes it gently, then offers his hand to the dog's muzzle to let her sniff. "I love dogs," he says, petting her. "I have two back home."
"Where's home?" Dom asks before he can stop himself.
Kitty looks up, lashes thick as brambles, bright blue eyes lined in shadow. "Iowa. Cedar Rapids."
"Oh," says Dom intelligently, and wrests himself away before he's stuck staring again. He turns to the second new arrival and shakes his hand. "Hiya. Dominic. Pleasure."
"I'm Andy, I'm here for Viscount, brought along our gear."
"Great! We're all quite excited to see it," Dom lies.
"Here's the boots for the feature!" Andy opens the larger satchel and hauls out a pair of stiff-backed, thigh-high monstrosities.
At first Dom thinks they're just sagging a bit weirdly, but they stand firm and tall, bending most definitely backwards. Never mind the funny wedge heels-- the whole shape of the leg is completely turned round from what it should be.
There's a bit of a pause as everyone takes the boots in. Dom tugs his ear, nerves flaring again. "...These? Really?"
"They're our latest design, the centerpiece of the whole spread," says Andy. "A sort of ponyboy look, but not so hoovesy."
"All right... well, then. How do they work?" Dom asks, trying to sound game.
"They work like boots!" Andy says. "You put them on, buckle them up, and off you go."
"Only you don't, I mean, you couldn't even hobble. Are you-- are you understanding my confusion at all? Human knees don't bend that way. Wardrobe? Can you back me up on this?"
Miranda's already close at hand. She has a look at the boots, feeling inside them. "There's no trick to it, they just force your knees the wrong way." She straightens, shaking back her long ginger hair and frowning at Andy. "You realize, no one can stand like that more than a few minutes at a time. Your knees lock up, your circulation goes all wonky, you pass out."
"Maybe Viscount's going into fainting couches as well," Daisy chuckles.
Andy's bright tones drop away, and he says more tersely, "Viscount is in the business of selling fantasies. No one's going to wear these boots. Some poor sod is gonna see them on Kitty in a magazine, he's going to buy the boots and have a wank with 'em, end of story. They come with a sheet explaining that if you do wear them, which no one ever will, you shouldn't do up the buckles past the knees."
Miranda says, "No bother then, if we don't have to do up all the buckles. They'll be fine."
"No, you have to do them all up. We need shots of what they would look like if anyone did wear them properly. That's the fantasy."
"But nobody can!" Dom explodes. "Look, you didn't mention you wanted a bloody faun for a model, we only have Kitty, whose knees-- and Ms. Blanchett you can correct me if I'm wrong here-- only bend in the conventional way."
"She just said, anyone could wear them, for a few minutes at a time," Andy gestures to Miranda. "So clap them on him for a few minutes, get the shot and take them off! For god's sake, how long can it take to snap a photo?"
Dom tears at his hair a bit and makes a strangled noise he wasn't previously aware could issue from his throat. "We're booked here for ten hours today, does that give you a notion? For fuck's sake, have you looked at the brief? I'm meant to photograph him with a dog, it could take ages to get her settled into place. Meanwhile the talent's swooning away in the background."
"Look, this is the assignment. A photo of these boots, on him. I thought you were meant to be good."
"Good photographers don't make models wear boots designed to make them lose consciousness. It's a bit counter-productive."
"You seem to have things a bit backwards, mate. The boots aren't here for the model. The model is here for the boots. And so are you."
"How d'you reckon? I'm doing an assignment for Bernard, for the magazine. I wasn't hired by Viscount. This is an editorial spread, not an advert."
"It's a spread for a promotional consideration. Our products are meant to be in every shot, and the most important is the one of these boots. If you have a problem with the job perhaps you ought to speak with Bernard."
Dom hesitates at that. Bernard owns a good half-dozen of the magazines that run Dom's photos regularly. He's not the sort of man one likes to ring up and trouble with problems. Ideally one wants to hear from Bernard only at the start of a job, with no further contact beyond his signature on the cheque. Anything else is apt to spell disaster.
The boots loom, inverted and absurd. Dom imagines turning to Kitty and insisting he put them on, versus bothering Bernard and possibly scuppering his career. Such as it is.
He sucks on his lower lip. Fuck it, he can always chuck it all and be a wedding photographer. Dom fishes for his mobile. "Fine then, I'll phone him, cos I'm not doing it."
"I'll wear them," Kitty says.
"What?" Dom asks, brought up short.
"The boots. I'll wear them. If there's a problem I'll unfasten them at the knees and stretch. Just have someone handy by me to help me undo the buckles."
"That's not very safe," Dom says weakly, looking over at Ms. Blanchett. He expects her to protest, but she doesn't say a word.
"Beats working in a coal mine," Kitty says.
Dom chuffs a hand through his hair. "Fine, yeah. If you're willing..."
"I'll stay close to give him a hand if he needs it," says Miranda.
The tension's broken, but it's going to be a job of work to set up a good atmosphere after that little episode. "All right, we'll set up as much as we can before we deal with the boots, so let's go. Rupert, lights. Miranda, if you can stand by the cage there, you should be near enough to help without getting in the shot. Cheers." To Andy, Dom offers, "I'll help you put your stuff over to the side here, you can take a chair."
"Cold in here," Andy comments.
Dom hefts the satchel the boots were in. "Just wait til we switch on all those lights."
"Do you want a look at the rest I brought?"
Does he hell. "Not til after. I want to focus on this tricky bit before we go on."
"Suit yourself. You'd think you'd want to know what you're working with."
"I did read the brief," Dom stabs his tongue between his teeth to stop himself resorting to invective. He drops the satchel near the folding chairs. "I know what we're meant to be shooting, I have ideas prepared, and if there's any more surprises like the boots on the way, I'll cope them out as they come. I can only deal with one thing at a time."
"Hm," Andy shrugs, his interest already switching to Daisy as he takes the chair next to him. Daisy makes a show of examining his manicure. Dom rolls his eyes. At this rate of slow calamity, they'll probably be shagging in the toilet before the day is out.
Dom negotiates the border of light poles and tripods to get back to the set. "Mr. Noble, is there anything you or um..."
"Princess."
"Sorry, yeah. Anything you or Princess needs?"
"No, no, we're just waiting for her moment in the spotlight, aren't we, darling," Mr. Noble says. The dog barks shortly, quieting at a pat of her owner's hand.
Dogs trained that well freak Dom out a bit, actually. It's unnatural.
"Brilliant, then, if you could just stand off over here by the horse... if you'd like to have a seat there, yeah. Give a shout if you need anything." There's nothing for it, time to deal with-- the model. Right. "Kitty, if you'll just stand. Yeah, there," he says, realizing Kitty's already at the head of the pentagram. "Okay! Thanks for bearing with us. Sorry about the aggro."
"Not your fault." Kitty's lips are subtly glossy. It's makeup, it's only makeup, it's fake as a geisha's blackened teeth. There's no use mooning over him, who knows what he really looks like?
Only Dom does know what he really looks like, at least a bit, and liked what he saw then just as well. Hopeless. Dom sets his shoulders and charges on.
"I'll tell you what I want as we go, but primarily I'm looking for something a bit stern and take-charge. A sort of topping from the bottom vibe. So! Need anything before we start in earnest?"
"I'm good."
"We can put on music if you like."
"Really?" Kitty looks amused with nothing more than a tiny lift of his eyebrows. "I heard you liked it quiet."
"I like to be able to hear the room," Dom says, "but you're the one I'm asking to put a good face on things for the next few hours. If music helps, we'll put something on."
"That's okay. Let's do it your way."
"All right. We'll go on then, we've lost enough time already. Rupert!"
Rupert hustles forward and drops the boots nearby, coming forward with the light meter, his belt clustered with pouches and belt-clipped gadgets. "We're getting good levels. Happy with the look?"
He gives the whole mise-en-scene the eye. The room looks good. All right, fair dues, he's madly attracted to Kitty still, even with Kitty polished up to an artificial shine, but Dom forcibly sets that aside. Time to work. "Hand me the modelling light," he says.
Rupert slaps it into his hand like a nurse giving forceps to a surgeon. "Modelling light."
"Aren't they all modelling lights?" asks Andy.
Dom ignores him, angling the modeling light around, watching how illumination slides across the planes of Kitty's face. "Good... good... good... hm. It'd be hard to take a bad photo of you," he says.
"But plenty of people do," Kitty answers without moving his mouth much.
"Ah ha. This is no good, like this," Dom notes, freezing position. Rupert uses the digital camera to take a snap. "And down... no, that's no good either. It's here, through to... here... are you seeing this?"
"I think so." Rupert comes over and shows Dom the last few shots on the digicam's preview screen. When the light falls just so, Kitty's face looks square and flat, his eyes goggly, his mouth small and prim.
"Yeah, that's it. All right. Let's move the bounce a bit, keep it well out of this angle. Rupe, when he's moving I'm going to need you to make sure we're not lighting him too much in this range, all right? Keep an eye out, and if you need a moment to move things about, give a shout."
"Right--" Rupert jumps to adjust the lights yet again. Kitty stands in his stocking feet, quite still, as they reposition the accent light behind him and drag the compacts into place on the floor to get more light on the boots. Gleaming with highlights, the boots stand so tall they nearly seem to have a life of their own.
"You're sure about this?" Dom asks, studying the backs of the boots. The angle really seems quite acute.
With those last adjustments, the light flatters Kitty beautifully, outlining the lines and curves of his face and body to best effect. Even his elbows are appealing. It hardly seems fair.
"I'm pretty flexible," he says.
"...Right."
"Good?" Rupert asks, giving the bounce a last nudge.
Dom looks hard. "Yeah, I think we're ready. Miranda, if you can give Kitty a hand with the boots... let's get started."
*