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Chapter 8
The villa lay on the outskirts of the southern suburbs, near the main road leading to the border. The high walls offered seclusion from prying eyes, but Moriarty knew that even a gallery of a thousand braying spectators would no longer unsettle Dean as he walked naked and bound through the garden to the patio by the oval pool. He stood before the glass door, his reflection highlighting the outline of his firm legs and tight torso, until the glass pane slid open to reveal a young woman in jeans and a blue top, her dark hair drawn back in a band. She cast a glance over his naked body and offered him a disdainful smile.
“You must be the convict whore.”
“Yes, Miss, I am. May I come in?”
She tilted her head as if resenting even talking to her subject and walked away. He followed her into the middle of the room to stand on a carpet.
“You have a very nice home, Miss. Thank you for inviting me.”
“This is not my home.”
The sound of a flushing toilet announced the arrival of another woman, younger than the first with loose blond hair. She uttered a slight bark of surprise to find visitors, and a lower, more prolonged, growl when she saw Dean, naked and chained, standing in the centre of the room. He offered her a winning smile that brought an embarrassed laugh.
“This is my assistant, but she will be also taking some pictures once I am done. So, when she gives you an instruction, you will obey. Is that understood?”
The woman’s tone was stern, as if she was speaking to a child, and Dean was wounded by her hostile manner. Moriarty stepped forward, having lingered by the glass doors while the two women were absorbed by their first sight of Dean.
“Do you want the restraints removed, or do you intend to begin with some bondage?” The guard appeared behind Moriarty, bearing the keys to the cuffs.
“We’ll start with the bondage and then we’ll move onto the cock shots. We’ll use our own irons. They’re easier to use.”
Moriarty remained during the shoot, poring over some files at the table by the far window, while with the guard sat at the back of the room reading a magazine. She would occasionally glance up from the clandestine pictures of Hollywood weddings and lurid accounts of celebrity drunk driving to see Dean splayed across the furniture or lying on the rug.
For the next forty five minutes the photographer recorded dozens of different poses from a variety of angles. His backside was a favourite view, followed by close up shots of his penis, which would swell and wane throughout the session. He remained bound throughout the shoot, so whenever she demanded a strong erection Dean would be forced to lie on the floor and pump into a towel to rouse his penis. She would frequently change camera and lens settings, often spending minutes studying her collection of machines while Dean was expected to hold his pose until she was ready to resume. Any slight movement would provoke a barrage of demeaning abuse.
The photographer barked her instructions and he responded briskly to every order, raising a leg, bending a knee, staring into the camera or over her shoulder. She was disgruntled by the light, the shade, the tone of his skin. Her assistant was also victim to her disdainful manner, suffering condescending comments and curt instructions. She was clearly in a foul mood and Dean was grateful when, finally, she handed her camera to the assistant and declared that she was leaving.
“Download all the work to a memory stick and bring it over tonight. I’ll look through them in the morning.” She looked at the bound captive, his legs apart from her last set. “He’s all yours. Enjoy. Make sure you get some good money shots.” She went to the table and spoke a few words to Moriarty before leaving without even a last glance at her subject.
The assistant set down her employer’s camera in favour of a smaller model. She checked the settings and began to snap her camera at Dean. She did not ask him to move or to pose, just circled him slowly. She told him to remain still and then, every few seconds, to turn to look at the camera before returning to his original stance.
His shackles were removed and he was able to move more freely, though he was still required to follow the instructions of the assistant, a girl no more than twenty years old. However, she seemed less assured than her mistress, almost pretending to be assertive.
“Lie on the couch, legs apart.” She barked at him. “Wider. Now, take your cock in your hand, get it hard, really hard, but don’t come.”
“Yes, Miss.”
He massaged his penis and it began to rise. He looked across the room to see her kneeling down, watching his erection. Their eyes met and she quickly looked down to study the readings on her dials.
“Can I have a look?” Dean rose from the couch and approached, his erect penis bouncing with every stride. She stepped back in alarm and looked to the guard sitting at the back of the room.
“Stay away from me. Don’t take one step nearer.”
“Why? I won’t hurt you.”
“Is that what you said to that young girl?”
“What?”
“The girl you raped. Did you tell her she was safe?”
“Who? Rape?” Dean turned to look at Moriarty, still studying her files at the table and paying no attention to the conversation by the couch.
“Miss, what is she talking about?”
Moriarty shifted in her seat, setting down her glasses.
“What is she talking about? Rape? She says I raped a girl.” The tone in his voice changed from surprise to a trace of anger. The guard was moving towards him, her hand by her holster.
“Well, I thought …” Moriarty hesitated and suddenly the other women in the room were looking at her as she replaced her glasses before removing them again and returning them to her nose once more. “I was told that you were … you were … a rapist.”
“Who? Who told you that?”
“It was something someone said, I … I don’t remember the details.”
“I do,” the young woman spoke out, glaring at Moriarty. “Fifteen years old. Abducted and taken to a camp site. Raped all weekend. Bite marks and cigarette burns. You were very specific.”
“Who told you that?” he asked the photographer. “How told you these lies?”
“She did.” The photographer looked across the room to Moriarty who was rising to her feet, her face crimson and her hands searching to press her glasses against her nose. “You’re a vicious rapist who’s a charmer most of the time, but you turn violent without warning. Those were her words.”
“Listen, I just told you what I heard,” she tried to explain as she collected her folders.
“You know that’s not true. We spoke about the man I shot. How I felt guilty, and how I hoped one day to leave all that behind. Did you not listen to me?” His voice was rising towards a shout, but the guard was no longer reaching for her revolver.
Moriarty dropped one of the folders, the papers littering the tiles around the table legs. She reached down and grasped the loose pages in her fist and marched out of the villa. The photographer, Dean and the guard watched her wrench open the glass doors, shedding more pages onto the patio stones as she headed for the back of the garden and the green wooden door that led to the street.
Dean turned to the photographer.
“I shot a man. I’m not proud of it. I regret it now, and I’m in jail because I deserve to be there. But, you have to believe me. I have never harmed a woman in my life, not even a slap, I swear.”
“I believe you. She’s been telling vicious lies.” Dean smiled and squeezed her hand in gratitude. “Now, do you want to carry on?” Dean looked uncertain, still agitated by Moriarty’s deceit. “I won’t blame you if you ask to go back.”
“No,” Dean returned to the couch and taking hold of his penis. “Let’s carry on.”
The photographer moved closer, kneeling down only feet from his crotch, but she was pointing the camera at his face. He stared intently into the lens.
“Good, turn your head to the left. Keep your head to the left and look at me. Excellent, now …”
She drew the camera from her face.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Dean, but my friends call me Dino.”
“What would you like me to call you?”
“You believe me, so I’d like you to call me Dino.”
“I’m Dara.”
“Hello, Dara. Do you want to take some great pictures?”
He lay on the couch and she moved closer, capturing his smile. He rolled onto his back and she stood over him as he reached for his penis before laying his hand on his stomach just above his member. He looked down and then up into the lens.
“Great,” she said, offering him a smile.
“What about some shots by the window?”
He offered himself in a variety of poses, stretching his limbs to refine the shot. She was surprised to discover his expertise in knowing how the image would look through her lens. He would come to the camera for a view of her work, and he would suggest modest changes that almost always produced a better picture.
The air outside was surprisingly cool as the light began to fade so he suggested running a hot shower, and stepping out onto the patio for a portrait with the steam rising from his body.
“It may not work, but it would make a great shot. What have we got to lose?”
The water was scorching hot and he howled as he warmed his body beneath the steaming spray. She waited for him on the patio as he came running across the room and through the glass doors. He stood gazing across the pool as she took four pictures of him from the rear before asking him to turn around. She could see the vapours rise from his shoulders and the haze of the steam against his chest. He returned to the shower for another dose and she was able catch the vents rising from his arms and his chest as he turned to face her, his face and hair glowing from the warm water.
They returned to the room and she recorded him drying himself, asking him to drape the towel across his genitals because “what you hide is sometimes more enticing than what you show.” Once he was almost dry he engaged in some stretching exercises, shaping his body to create alluring profiles. She moved around him, sometimes calling for a look into the camera. He followed every instruction, but her tone was different now, encouraging and amiable, as she collected dozens of prints.
They were interrupted by a call on the guard’s mobile. It was Moriarty. The prisoner was to return immediately to the Research Centre.
“A shame. This is hot stuff,” she told him.
“Maybe we’ll have a chance to meet up again, some time.”
“Perhaps.” She stroked his arm.
“Until then, why don’t we go into one of the bedrooms and I can show my gratitude. I’m sure the guard won’t mind.” She pretended to be uncertain, but she did not resist when he took her hand.
“Listen, I know this sounds arrogant, but I want to show you how much I appreciate you believing in me.”
“Well, if you put it like that,” she said, stroking his phallus that was once more rising towards a full erection. He kissed her and she offered him a shy smile as he led her into the bedroom.
The cell was dark and Dean was almost asleep when the room burst into light and the door opened on Moriarty. He did not move. She stepped inside and approached the bed. He was facing the wall.
“Dean,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“I am.” He did not turn to face her.
“I just had to come to see you before I went home. I am so sorry about today. I never knew that … that Tiffany could be so cruel. She assured me that she had spoken to a friend in the prison who knew about you. Her friend, according to Tiffany, said that you were a notorious rapist, a smooth talker. I was convinced, and I’m so sorry that I never believed you. I’ll never listen to her again, I promise. Can you ever forgive me?”
He did not reply, and for a few moments she wondered whether the entire Dionysus Project was facing collapse. Then, he slowly turned to face her. She asked him again if he would ever forgive him for her lack of trust.
“I’ll make Tiffany apologise to you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Why did you run away? Why didn’t you tell me then that it was Tiffany’s fault?”
“I was too embarrassed. I should have stayed. I’m sorry.” A slight turning of the head offered her hope that she was winning him back, and she touched his arm, his left arm, to emphasise her regret. He smiled and she was able to grasp his hand. “I’m so glad you understand. I thought you might never trust me again.”
She rose from the bunk and left him, turning out the light to cast him back into the darkness.
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