“I bet that one strips nicely,” Art’s godmother had said, staring appreciatively at some well built rugby-player.
“Lizzy!” his mother exclaimed, gesturing Not in front of the children. Comical, really, that she’d thought he still had some innocence left to lose, even at, what, thirteen?
William’s not the best looking man Art’s ever had naked, but he does strip nicely, in both senses. It’s always a pleasure to watch him undress, and the results are always worth waiting for.
He marks easily too, if not quite as easily as Jonathan. It’s a pleasure to stretch him out over the table and lay a pattern of stripes and bruises across his pale freckled skin. To wrap him in an intricate harness of scarlet ropes that leaves him barely able to move.
With most men, recording what he does to them is part of the ritual, part of the humiliation. He doesn’t bother to keep the footage; it’s not as if he needs a memento. Somehow he doesn’t get round to deleting the sessions with William, though. There’s quite a sizeable file on his hard drive by the time he comes down with chickenpox and has to spend three weeks in quarantine.