The Unveiling of Evan (M/M) (part 10)

[owenlewisgrey]

The Unveiling of Evan


Part one; The Approach



I’d been walking for hours. Not because I had anywhere to be, but because I couldn’t stomach going back to my apartment just yet. The job interview that morning had ended with the kind of polite smile that told me everything before the words even landed — “We’ll be in touch.” They wouldn’t. They never were.

The late afternoon light in the city was doing that strange thing it sometimes does — it made everything look sharper, cleaner, but also hollow. Shadows stretched longer than they should have, and every face that passed me was glazed over in its own private urgency. I drifted in and out of shop windows, pretending to browse, until I realized I’d been staring at my own reflection longer than was comfortable.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“Hey — excuse me.”

I turned, expecting some street surveyor or someone trying to hand me a flyer. Instead, a man was standing a few feet away, camera slung across his chest. He wasn’t young, maybe late thirties or early forties, but there was something ageless in the way he carried himself. His clothes were simple, but not casual — like every piece had been chosen, not just worn.

“You’ve got an incredible face,” he said. Just like that. No preamble, no awkward laughter.

I felt my stomach tighten. Compliments from strangers usually made me suspicious. Still, the way he said it — as if it were an observation, not flattery — disarmed me.

“I’m a photographer,” he continued, nodding toward the camera as if I might have missed it.

“Fashion, mostly. Editorial work. I know this is… random, but have you ever modeled?”

“No,” I said, a little too quickly. My voice felt clumsy in my throat.

He smiled in a way that was almost imperceptible — a flicker at the corner of his mouth. “Would you like to?”

I should have said no again. Instead, I asked, “For what?”

“Test shots. Just to see how you photograph. No pressure, no weirdness.” He said it like the word “weirdness” was a private joke between us, though we’d only just met.

I looked around, as if the city might hand me an excuse to walk away. But there was something in the way he watched me — not hungry, exactly, but assessing, like a painter considering the angle of light on a statue. I hated how much I wanted to be whatever he was seeing.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Julian,” he said. “And you?”

“Evan.”

“Well, Evan… if you’ve got an hour, my studio’s just a few blocks from here. No obligation. You can walk out any time.”



It should have sounded reassuring. Instead, it felt like a dare.

The building didn’t look like a studio from the outside. Just an unmarked door between a dry cleaner and a shuttered bookstore. Inside, a narrow stairwell climbed to a single floor that smelled faintly of dust and something metallic.



Julian unlocked a door at the end of the hall and stepped inside first, holding it open for me.

It was… minimal. A white-walled space with high ceilings, one tall window that bled grayish light across a backdrop stand. There was almost nothing in the room except a low table with some photography books, a few coiled cables, and a folding chair. The air was cooler than the hallway, still.

Julian shrugged off his coat, setting it neatly over the chair. “Don’t overthink it,” he said. “We’ll keep it natural. Just you, the light, the lens.”


I didn’t move at first. The window seemed too quiet, as if the city outside had been turned down to a murmur.


“You okay?” he asked.


I nodded, though I wasn’t sure.

He started with simple instructions. Stand here. Turn your head slightly. Look past the lens, like something’s caught your attention. His voice was low, deliberate.


At first I felt ridiculous, stiff. But something about the way he worked kept pulling me in. He didn’t crowd me — he stayed just close enough that I could feel his presence without him touching me. Every few frames, he’d glance at the camera’s screen, nod faintly, then look at me again, as though searching for the next angle.


“You’ve got this… restraint,” he murmured at one point. “Like you’re holding something back. That’s good. Don’t lose it.”


I wasn’t sure if he meant it as praise or instruction, but I clung to the idea, trying to inhabit whatever he was seeing.


Minutes blurred. My awareness of the camera dissolved until it was just the sound of the shutter, the faint shift of Julian’s stance, the occasional soft exhale from him when something worked.

Then, between shots, he lowered the camera and tilted his head slightly.


“You ever done anything more… conceptual?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Like what?”

“Something with texture. Shape. Restriction.”

The way he said the last word made it hum in my chest.

“Fashion’s full of it,” he added casually. “It’s not all just clothes. Sometimes it’s about the frame, the containment. It changes how the viewer sees you.”


I didn’t answer. My mouth felt dry.


“Not today,” he said, almost reading my silence. “But maybe next time, we try something with rope. Very clean, very controlled. It can be… striking.”


I felt a flicker of something I couldn’t name. A mix of curiosity and… not quite fear, but something close.


“Think about it,” Julian said, lifting the camera again. “For now, let’s finish what we started.”


The shutter clicked, and for the first time all day, I forgot about the failed interview, the hollow light outside, the reflection I’d been staring at earlier. All I could see was the image of myself he hadn’t yet taken — the one he was already holding in his mind.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part two : A Second Shoot



Julian called two days later.
Not text, not email — a phone call.
I almost didn’t answer because no one calls anymore unless something’s wrong.


“I’ve been looking at the shots,” he said, skipping any kind of hello. His voice on the phone was different — flatter, like he was speaking from a room where all the sound was padded. “They’re good. Really good. You’ve got range you don’t even know about yet.”


I mumbled something like thanks, though the praise felt less like a gift and more like an incision — cutting into me to see what I’d do.


“I’d like to do another round,” Julian continued. “Something more… layered.” He paused for a beat, then added, “Saturday. Four o’clock. Same place.”


I told him I’d check my schedule, though we both knew I had no schedule worth checking.

When Saturday came, the light was colder, the streets slick from a morning rain.
Julian’s door was unlocked when I arrived, the click of it closing behind me echoing down the white hall.


Inside, the studio had changed. The backdrop stand was gone, replaced by a wide sheet of deep gray fabric draped from the ceiling to the floor. A small, stark spotlight hung low over it, throwing an oval of light onto the center. On the table were a few props — a wooden stool, a wide-brimmed hat, a pair of thick leather gloves. And coiled neatly beside them, a length of pale rope.


I caught myself staring at it too long. Julian noticed.


“It’s just an option,” he said, almost offhand. “We’ll see where the session goes.”


But the rope stayed there the whole time, coiled like a resting animal, its presence shaping the air around us.

The first hour was straightforward. Jacket on, jacket off. Hat tilted forward, then back. Hands in pockets, then on the stool. Julian moved with the same deliberate pace as before, his instructions quiet but precise.



Still, I kept glancing toward the table. Each time, I told myself it was only curiosity, but the truth was, the coil had become an unspoken participant in the session — a silent audience, waiting for its cue.

Julian eventually set the camera down and stepped closer. “Let’s try something with more… stillness,” he said. “The body contained, the frame tighter.”


I felt the shift then — subtle but unmistakable. This wasn’t about posture anymore. It was about control.


He reached for the rope without looking at me, as though the decision had been inevitable from the moment I walked in.

Up close, the rope wasn’t as rough as I’d expected. The fibers were clean, almost soft, but there was a weight to it — a promise in its density.



“I want you to think of it as structure,” Julian said, letting it uncoil in his hands. “Not constraint. Like the lines in a suit, or the seams in a garment. It’s just another way to define you.”


The first loop went around my forearm, slow and precise. I could have pulled back. I didn’t.

The rope tightened just enough to remind me it was there. My pulse shifted under my skin, and I realized I was holding my breath.


He stepped back to check the angle of the light, leaving me half-bound in the center of the space. The quiet in the room grew thicker, as though the rope had absorbed some of the air.

Julian didn’t rush. Each movement was deliberate, as if the tying itself was part of the shoot — an invisible sequence he was capturing even without the camera.


“There’s something that happens,” he said, almost to himself, “when a person stops deciding what to do with their own body. A kind of… focus. It reads differently in the lens.”

I felt my shoulders stiffen. His words should have unsettled me more than they did. Instead, there was a strange clarity in standing there, waiting for his next move.

The second coil circled my upper arm, pulling it slightly toward my side. My range of motion shrank without me realizing it, and the rope began to hum faintly in my awareness, a constant low note under my skin.


Julian finally stepped back, picked up the camera, and raised it to his eye.


“Good,” he said softly. “Now look right here.”


The shutter clicked, but it didn’t sound like before. This time, the sound felt closer, heavier, as though each frame was sealing something in place.

We worked like that for what could have been minutes or hours. My mind began to narrow — no longer scanning the room, no longer wondering what he saw. It was just the light, the rope, and his voice, guiding me into angles that didn’t feel like mine anymore.


At one point, he adjusted the knot near my wrist and said quietly, “You see? It changes the story. You’re not just posing. You’re… held.”


Held. The word reverberated through me in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Three: The Ropes Added



I thought Julian would untie me after those first few frames — loosen the knots, let me rub the faint marks from my skin, reset for another look. He didn’t.


Instead, he paced slowly around me, the camera hanging at his side. “You take to this better than most,” he said, his tone almost reflective. “It’s not just the way you look. It’s the way you let the rope happen to you.”


I swallowed. The words felt heavier than they should have.


Julian reached forward, fingers brushing the binding at my arm, testing the give. “We could go further,” he murmured. “More coverage. More… intention. It changes the entire story when you’re fully contained.”


There was no rush in his voice, but there was inevitability.

From the corner, he retrieved a second coil — darker, denser, the kind that seemed built for permanence. He started with my wrists, cinching them together until I could feel the pulse in my thumbs. The loops climbed upward, drawing my arms in against my sides, crossing my chest, tracing lines over my ribs.


The rope was careful, almost gentle, but it had a way of rearranging me. Every pull adjusted where I belonged in space, until the idea of standing without its shape felt distant, abstract.

“You’re different now,” Julian said, stepping back to take in the new symmetry. “It’s not just posing anymore. It’s the image owning you.”

The camera came up, the shutter began again, but something had shifted. I wasn’t thinking about where to put my chin, or how to stand. The rope had already decided that for me. All I had to do was look — and in that moment, even that didn’t feel entirely mine.


Julian lowered the camera after a while, tilting his head. “Your eyes,” he said. “They’re your moneymaker. They’re sharp, arresting. But with all this going on, they risk getting lost.”


He set the camera down and walked over to the table. From it, he picked up a wide roll of silver duct tape, its metallic surface catching the light. The sound of it peeling from the roll cut through the quiet like a blade.


“If we cover your mouth,” he continued, holding the tape loosely in one hand, “everything else falls away. No smile, no words — just the eyes. They’ll burn straight through the frame. It’s more dramatic. More permanent in the viewer’s mind.”


My breath slowed.


“And if we push it just a little further,” he said, almost to himself, “we could layer it. More than one strip. Really commit to the effect.”


I didn’t answer right away. The rope pressed against my arms, my chest, a constant reminder that I was already partway down this road. The tape felt like the last step — the one that would lock me in place, not just in the room, but in the image he was making.


Julian waited, not moving, not pressing — letting the weight of the choice settle entirely on me.


I nodded once.


His eyes lit, faint but certain.

Julian tore a strip from the roll with a sharp snap and smoothed it firmly over my lips, pressing at the corners with the flat of his fingers. The adhesive bit into the warmth of my skin, sealing away the shape of my mouth in an instant.


“There,” he murmured, stepping back to look. “Already better.”


Another strip followed, wider this time, overlapping the first. The smell of the adhesive filled my nose, metallic and faintly chemical. The pressure deepened, flattening any trace of expression. My breath came slower now, through my nose, each inhale a deliberate act.


Julian’s eyes flicked over me like he was seeing the concept crystallize in real time. “Perfect. Let’s add one more, just to sharpen the lines.”


A third strip crossed the others, smoothing out any imperfection, leaving me with nothing but my eyes and the rope. He stepped back, the corners of his mouth lifting in quiet satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Now the silence speaks for you.”

The camera was up again. The shutter clacked in steady rhythm, each frame catching me in the same stillness, the same narrowing of self until I was nothing but shape and gaze. Julian moved around me like a sculptor inspecting his work — crouching low, angling from the side, leaning in close enough that I could feel the faint heat of his presence.


Between shots, he gave small, approving hums. “This is exactly the kind of look that stops someone mid-page. You look… inevitable.”


The word lodged in me.

When the last sequence was done, Julian lowered the camera, his breathing calm and even. He didn’t untie me. He didn’t reach for the knots or the tape.


Instead, he walked to the far corner of the studio and gripped the handle of a large, black flight case — the kind I’d seen musicians use to haul heavy gear on tour. It was wide, deep, and sat on sturdy wheels.


He rolled it toward me, the rubber wheels murmuring over the studio floor. The case stopped just in front of me, its latches dull and unshiny, like they’d been used a hundred times.


Julian rested a hand on the lid and smiled — not a wide smile, but a knowing one.


“You’ve passed the audition, Evan,” he said. “And since you’re all wrapped up already… let’s transport you to your new modeling agency.”


His fingers tapped the top of the case lightly, almost affectionately.


“In here.”

[DeeperThanRed]

Simply superb!

The tone and intrigue of the story are impressive. I love how Evan is captivated and coerced into bondage by Julian without any force required. Even without a particularly strict bondage, the protagonist's fate already feels sealed.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Four — The Case

Something cold and tight wound its way up my chest.
It wasn’t the rope — that was already there, dug into me like it had been waiting all my life — it was the understanding that whatever Julian was about to do wasn’t part of any “shoot.”

“Julian—” I tried, but the word was nothing but a muffled breath behind the tape.
He stepped forward, one hand gripping my arm, the other steady on my back. The grip was iron disguised as calm. His voice was level, almost soothing.

“This is just the next step, Evan. Don’t fight it. You’ll ruin the lines.”
The case lid swung open, revealing the hollow black inside — padded, but still smelling faintly of dust and something metallic. My knees weakened. I shook my head hard, the rope pulling against my skin, the tape stretching with the soundless shapes of no, no, no.
Julian didn’t argue. He just lifted.

Bound like I was, I couldn’t help him or hinder him — I just went where his hands put me. My moan broke into a frantic hum when my back touched the padding. The interior felt smaller than it looked from outside, the lid’s shadow closing in. My ankles pressed awkwardly against the end. I tried to shift but the rope turned every movement into a useless twitch.

Julian leaned over me for a moment, his face calm, studying me like a final frame before the camera’s click.
“You’ll thank me,” he said softly. “When you’re where you belong.”
The lid came down.
The sound of the latches locking was more final than any knot.
________________________________________

Darkness wrapped tighter than the rope ever could. My breathing came in short, loud bursts through my nose, the sound magnified by the enclosed space. My shoulders strained instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. My own pulse was loud in my ears, thudding like distant footsteps.

Then — movement.

The case tilted, my weight shifting into the padding. The wheels began to roll, their vibration humming through my spine. Somewhere beyond the dark walls, the sound of the studio grew faint, replaced by the hollow echo of the hallway.
Julian was humming. I could hear it through the thin layer of case and fear, steady and tuneless.
The angle shifted again — a door opening, cooler air brushing against the sides. My heart hammered.
The wheels rolled on.
________________________________________

The wheels rattled over a lip in the floor, then smoothed out again. The sound was different now — emptier, wider — like we’d left the building and entered open air.

Cold seeped in through the padding, thin but noticeable, like the case itself was inhaling the outside and breathing it over me.
I tried to listen for street sounds, something to place me — a horn, a shout, footsteps — but all I caught were faint shifts in Julian’s humming, the creak of the handle as he pushed. Every so often the case bumped over something, jarring my ribs against the rope, reminding me that I wasn’t moving myself.

I shifted my wrists, testing the knots. Nothing. The tape pulled faintly against my skin with each swallow, its adhesive warming in the heat of my breath. I tried to grunt loud enough to make it through the walls of the case, but the sound stayed in here with me, trapped and useless.
The rattling slowed. Stopped.

I heard the faint scrape of metal — a latch, maybe, or a key in something larger. Then the case tilted, not sharply, but enough that my stomach dipped. Gravity told me we were going down.

A ramp.
The wheels clattered, then hit solid ground again. The air changed — warmer now, heavier, with a faint scent of oil and rubber.
A vehicle.
________________________________________

The case shifted sideways. My shoulder thumped against the wall as the interior swayed. Then came the unmistakable thunk of a door sliding shut, sealing me in with a new silence — denser, insulated.

An engine turned over. The vibration crawled up through the padding into my bones. The motion steadied, became constant.
Julian wasn’t humming anymore. For a few seconds I thought I heard nothing at all, and then I caught it — a faint rhythm, just on the edge of hearing. Tapping. His fingers, maybe, drumming against the case lid in some private time signature.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t nervous. It was patient.

The rope around my chest felt tighter, though I knew it hadn’t changed. My breath hit the tape and came back hot, the air in here thickening with it. The sound of the wheels on asphalt was hypnotic in the worst way — a steady reminder that we were moving forward, that each second took me farther from anywhere I knew.
________________________________________

I tried to think of where he could be taking me.
A warehouse. Another studio. Some underground place that called itself an “agency” but wasn’t.
But the truth was — I didn’t know. And the part of me that had agreed to the rope, to the tape, to standing still while he decided what I would become — that part was realizing it had no say anymore.

The vehicle made a slow turn. The case shifted. Somewhere in the front, Julian’s voice spoke — low, conversational — but I couldn’t hear who he was speaking to. Or if there even was anyone else.

I pressed the back of my head into the padding and kept my eyes open in the dark.
Because whatever came next… I didn’t want to meet it with my eyes closed.

[DeeperThanRed]

Uncanny! I don't think Evan could do much, even if he gets himself free - he can't even know if there's someone to call for help.

Let's hope Julian isn't taking him to somewhere too bad.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Five — Arrival

The van slowed. I felt it in my ribs first — the gentle deceleration, the shift of weight. Then the engine’s hum faded into a low idle.
The vehicle door slid open, and cold air rushed in again. My skin prickled.
Julian’s voice cut through the muffled space around me.$

“Here’s a special delivery for the boss.”

The words were casual, almost playful, but the title — the boss — hit me like a hand on the back of the neck. This wasn’t an agency. This was… something else.

Another voice answered, lower, rougher. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone had weight — the kind people use when they don’t need to speak loudly to be heard.
________________________________________

The case tilted forward. My body shifted helplessly against the rope as Julian’s grip steadied it. The wheels began to roll again, and the sound of the van gave way to the hard, hollow echo of a different floor.

Inside here, sound traveled strangely. The wheels rattled over concrete, then smoothed to a softer, carpeted hush. My ears caught fragments — a distant clang of metal, a faint electrical hum, the creak of a heavy door opening.

The air grew warmer, heavier, with a faint tang of something chemical — not cleaning supplies, but sharper, industrial.
The door closed behind us, shutting out whatever light had been leaking into my prison. Now it was just me, the rope, the tape, and the muffled thrum of my own pulse.
________________________________________

The case stopped. My shoulder pressed into one wall from the momentum. Then came the sound of latches — not mine, not yet, but something else being unlocked nearby.

Julian exhaled faintly, like he’d just finished carrying something heavy, though I hadn’t felt him strain.
He tapped the case lid twice.

“She’s all yours,” he said.
“She?” the other voice asked.
Julian chuckled. “Figure of speech. Trust me — they’ll photograph well.”

I froze. The word they cut colder than the air had. I wasn’t being spoken to. I was being spoken about.
________________________________________

The latches on my own case clicked. One. Two.
The lid shifted. Light bled in, sharp and foreign, burning my eyes after so much darkness. A shadow fell over me — not Julian’s. Broader shoulders. Heavier frame.

I tried to push back into the padding, but there was nowhere to go. The man looking down at me didn’t smile. His gaze moved from the rope to the tape, then to my eyes — just as Julian had promised.

“Yeah,” he said. “The boss will like this one.”

[Red86]

Well this has slowly escalated. Wonder where Julian has dropped Evan off at. More pics or modeling? Hopefully nothing sinister. Curious to find out though!

[DeeperThanRed]

Julian really charmed Evan into a tough spot - now if his new captors aren't as kind as him, there's not much he can do about it.

[owenlewisgrey]

Julian really charmed Evan into a tough spot - now if his new captors aren't as kind as him, there's not much he can do about it.

that all depends on your definition of kindness

[harveygasson]

Blimey what a journey this one has been already so far! Really looking forward to more.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Six — The Boss

The lid lifted slowly. Light spilled into the case, blinding me for a moment. My eyes watered behind the tape, but I could still make out shapes — the walls of a vast, dimly lit room, punctuated by shadows of tall furniture, racks of mannequins, and industrial lights dangling from the ceiling.

The man from before leaned closer, one hand resting on the case edge. I tried to shift, tried to make myself smaller, but the ropes held me like a cage inside a cage.

“Eyes up here,” he said softly, nodding toward mine. The sound of his voice was calm, but underneath it was an undertone I couldn’t ignore — the way someone speaks when they know they have absolute control.
I lifted my gaze, meeting his. Cold. Calculating. Not a trace of warmth.
________________________________________

“Julian told me you were… promising,” the man continued, crouching slightly to level with the case. “All wrapped up. Bound. Silent. That takes commitment. The kind we value.”
My throat moved. I tried to speak, but the tape stretched, muting everything into a strangled hum. I wanted to plead, to explain, but the more I tried, the more my muffled sounds bounced back at me.

“Don’t fight it,” he said. “It’s part of the presentation.”
Presentation. The word felt like a weight pressing down on me. Every muscle in my body coiled, instinctively resisting, but the ropes wouldn’t let me act. My chest heaved. My eyes darted, seeking an escape, a hint of another door — anything. But the room stretched endlessly, shadows swallowing corners, light landing in sharp pools.
________________________________________

He straightened and circled the case, eyes never leaving mine. “Most people think modeling is about posing for pictures. Cute smiles, shiny hair, clean skin. But it’s more than that. It’s control. Presentation. Obedience. It’s about who can surrender themselves entirely to the image we want to create.”

My stomach churned. The tape pressed against my lips, the ropes bit into my skin. Each word sank deeper into me, reshaping the narrative I had clung to: that I was here to become a model.

I realized now — the “agency” wasn’t a place for portfolios and auditions. It was a place for someone else’s designs. My body, my expressions, my eyes — all for display, all for manipulation.
________________________________________

He crouched down again. His face came close, barely a foot from mine. “The trick,” he said, “is to trust the frame. Let it define you. The better you surrender, the more… iconic you become.”

I swallowed, feeling the tape stretch. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, loud enough that I was certain he could hear it.
The man stood. I felt the case tilt again, this time unnervingly gently, as if he were considering whether I would survive the next step.
“You’ll meet the boss soon,” he said, almost conversationally. “Julian brings the right ones here, all prepared. And you… you’re ready.”
________________________________________

I realized that “ready” didn’t mean free.
It didn’t mean safe.
It meant I was a piece of someone else’s art now, and the art didn’t care whether I screamed, struggled, or begged.

The room seemed to grow darker as the man backed away. Shadows pooled over the case. Julian’s laughter — soft, light, teasing — drifted from somewhere behind me.
I didn’t know what awaited me. Only that every second stretched like a tether, every rope and strip of tape another chain drawing me closer to the unknown.

And the worst part? I had agreed to it.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Seven — The Exhibition

The case tilted again. I felt it carried me over polished floors, the faint echo of our footsteps reverberating beneath me. I couldn’t see much — only the shifting shadows as the lid opened slightly — but the air changed immediately: warmer, heavier, with a faint smell of varnish and polished stone.

A hand gripped my arm, hauling me out. I fell onto something hard, yet smooth. I tried to catch myself, but the ropes cut into my wrists, my chest, my legs. The tape muffled a gasp.

“Relax,” Julian’s voice said behind me. “You’re ready.”
I didn’t.
________________________________________

Light hit me in waves. At first, I thought it was just brightness — but then I realized it was the room itself. It was enormous, like an art gallery. High ceilings, polished floors, shadows cast by dramatic spotlights. And I wasn’t alone.

Eleven other men were there. Bound. Tied in different positions — some upright, some sprawled across low platforms, some suspended from hooks I couldn’t quite see clearly. Their eyes met mine briefly, wide with the same fear I felt gnawing at my chest. Some tried to move. Some froze. Some looked resigned.

And then I saw him.
The Boss. Tall, angular, and impossibly composed. He walked past me slowly, eyes taking in every detail. His presence was cold, magnetic, and the kind of authority that made the room itself feel smaller.

“You’ve all done well,” he said, voice smooth, almost melodic, yet carrying a weight that made the walls tremble. “But tonight is about one thing: focus. Control. Display. And one of you…” His eyes rested on me. “…will be the centerpiece.”
________________________________________

Julian moved quickly, lifting me slightly, dragging me across the gallery floor. My ropes cut deeper as I was shifted, my stomach pressing against the polished wood. My legs kicked instinctively, but the tape and knots held firm.

We stopped at a low table in the center of the room. It was broad, smooth, and polished to a high sheen. Julian eased me onto it, my stomach pressing against the cold wood. Extra ropes were already waiting. He secured my wrists and ankles, then my torso and thighs. Each pull sent a shiver of helplessness down my spine.

I tried to shift, to plead, to at least glance at the other men. But the ropes held me perfectly still, stretched tight and unyielding. My breath was loud, ragged, and hot against the tape.
________________________________________

The Boss walked around me, inspecting the ropes, the angles, the way the light fell across my bound form. “Perfect,” he said. “You will be the most important part of tonight. Every eye will pass through you. Every guest will orbit your form. You are… central.”

I swallowed hard. “Central,” he repeated, pacing slowly. “Where the guests will gather for food, for drinks. Around you. You are the heart of the experience.”

The words sank like lead. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. And my mind spun in loops — the ropes, the tape, the gallery, the other men, the Boss — all combining into a realization: I wasn’t here to model. I was here to be observed, fully, helplessly, as an object in someone else’s vision.

Julian stepped back, a small, satisfied smile on his face. The Boss’s eyes lingered on me, then swept the room, lingering briefly on each of the other men, before returning.

“You’re ready,” he said simply.
And I knew — I was.

[blackbound]

Now this is a party I'd love to be invited to, especially if one's allowed to play with the food. I mean artwork.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Eight: The Exhibition Begins


The doors opened, and the first waves of guests spilled into the gallery. The click of polished shoes on marble echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Men in tailored suits, watches that gleamed under the dramatic spotlights, crisp ties, silk pocket squares — wealth and power radiated from them in waves.

They moved slowly, deliberately, as though the space itself demanded attention. Glasses of champagne caught the light and glittered like liquid gold. Conversation hummed, polite, light, but layered with subtle judgment.


I lay on the table, my chest pressed against the cold wood, ropes biting into my wrists and torso. Every shift in their steps sent vibrations up through the table. My eyes — my only real freedom — darted between the guests, the other men, and the Boss, who had settled into a shadowed corner, watching silently.

Some men stopped to comment.

“Remarkable composition,” one said to his companion, nodding at a man bound elegantly in a corner, arms stretched in a pose that looked almost statuesque. “The restraint… the formality… exquisite.”

Others lingered near me, whispering just loud enough for me to catch fragments:
“Notice the tension in his back… perfect contrast with the relaxed pose of the others.”
“Central piece, definitely. Everything else orbits him.”


Some sipped their champagne, completely ignoring the fact that twelve men were tied up in the room. They talked about art, architecture, the lighting, their latest acquisitions. One man gestured vaguely at the table I lay on, then waved it off: “Fascinating… but I’m more interested in the wine.”

I felt eyes on me constantly — and yet, paradoxically, invisible. A strange duality: every glance measured me, cataloged me, and I had no agency to respond. I was central, and yet I could vanish into my own panic if I shut my mind to them.

Occasionally, a guest would approach the edge of the table, tilt their head, murmur a critique or a compliment. “Look at how he occupies the space… it’s commanding.”

One even ran a fingertip lightly along the ropes on my back — not maliciously, but as though testing texture in a sculpture. I froze, muscles taut against restraint, heart hammering.


Others passed entirely unnoticed, discussing stock options, clubs, vacations — oblivious to the twelve men suspended in the gallery. The contrast was suffocating: the most human, bound, exposed, and silent beings in the room, while the crowd treated it like just another accessory to the evening.

I tried to breathe quietly, counting each sip of champagne I heard, each echoing step on marble, each whispered comment. The ropes held me in place, tape muffled me, yet my mind spun frantically. How long had this been going on? Hours? Minutes? It didn’t matter. I was visible. I was central. And the room — alive with wealth, power, and casual indifference — was already consuming me.

The Boss moved slowly through the crowd, a phantom presence, observing reactions, cataloging which men lingered, which spoke, which ignored. When he passed behind me, I could feel the heat of his gaze, piercing, calculating. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak. Just watched.

And I realized, with a chill that ran down my spine, that the exhibition had only just begun.

Time stretched in slow, oppressive waves. I felt the chill of the table under my stomach, the rope cutting into my wrists and thighs, the tape muffling every attempted sound. But the world around me pulsed with movement: champagne glasses clinking, polished shoes on marble, whispers bouncing off the high ceilings.

Guests wandered, commenting on the arrangement of men across the room as though they were sculptures in a modernist display. Some lingered at a corner, admiring a man suspended in a pose that mimicked classical restraint. Others ignored the human forms entirely, discussing the lighting, the gallery’s acoustics, or the rare vintages in their flutes.

One man paused at the edge of the table where I lay, tilting his head as he took me in. He whispered to his companion, loud enough that I could hear, muffled as it was:

“Remarkable. And truly… an impeccably organized event. Everything flows perfectly. You can tell the boss has a keen eye for composition and control.”

The companion nodded. “Yes. Alexander Greer’s touch is everywhere tonight. Every detail, every movement, every interaction… it’s seamless.”

My breath caught in my chest. Alexander Greer. The name rolled through my mind, heavy, resonant, unfamiliar yet chilling. This was the man behind the spectacle, the one who orchestrated every rope, every tape strip, every human form like a living sculpture.


The Boss himself remained in the shadows, watching. His presence was constant, silent, like the unseen hand of gravity holding the room together. But now, with his name spoken casually, lightly, by men who wandered through his curated gallery, I understood the magnitude of it. Alexander Greer was not just wealthy or powerful — he was an artist of control, a director of obedience, a curator of human bodies as objects.

I shivered, pressing my face slightly into the table. The ropes held me still. The tape held my voice. My eyes darted across the room, catching glimpses of the other men — their posture, their tense muscles, the way they occupied the space Alexander Greer had designed.

Another group approached the central table, glasses raised. They spoke softly, noting the angle of my back, the curve of my spine, the tension in my shoulders. “The centerpiece is extraordinary,” one remarked. “It commands the space without effort. You can tell Greer’s hand guided every knot, every line.”


I tried to shrink further into the table, even though I was already fixed in place. Every word, every comment, every passing glance hammered the truth into me: I was not here to participate. I was here to exist — as art, as spectacle, as the focal point for Greer’s wealthy patrons.


Alexander Greer moved along the perimeter of the room, unseen by most, watching, judging. I glimpsed him briefly — tall, precise, angular — eyes sweeping over the crowd, then pausing on me for a moment longer than anyone else. His gaze burned in my memory even after he moved away.

The murmurs continued, the champagne continued to flow, the men wandered and whispered. And now, the name “Alexander Greer” resonated through my mind, a constant reminder of the orchestrator behind the spectacle I had become.

Every bound inch of me, every muffled breath, every tense muscle was under his command. Every eye that glanced over me passed through him, through his vision, through his control.

And I realized, with a cold, sinking clarity, that this exhibition — this night — was not about them noticing me. It was about Alexander Greer seeing exactly what he had created, and I was at the center.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Nine— The Auction

The room shifted subtly, a ripple of anticipation passing through the guests. Alexander Greer emerged from the shadows, tall and precise, every step deliberate. He carried a slim microphone, its silver gleam catching the spotlight. The murmurs quieted as he reached the center of the gallery, a calm authority radiating from him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Greer’s voice was smooth, measured, almost hypnotic. “Thank you for joining us tonight. Your attention, please.”

Even muffled as I was, I felt the room stilling around me. The guests straightened, glasses paused midair, and conversations faded into quiet murmurs. The ropes held me taut against the table, tape sealing my voice, but my pulse raced.

“I trust you have enjoyed the exhibition thus far,” he continued, pacing slowly around the center. “Each piece you see tonight — every line, every tension, every form — has been meticulously designed. The human body, when curated, can become a living expression of beauty, restraint, and emotion.”

I swallowed hard. My chest heaved against the tape, my wrists burning from the ropes. He’s talking about me. All of us.
“And now,” Greer said, pausing deliberately, letting the words sink, “in five minutes, the auction will commence. Those who wish to participate may select a board with a number to place your bids. Every piece in this room — every bound, living artwork — shall be delivered to your home, installed exactly as you see it now. Every rope, every position, every detail preserved.”
My mind froze. Delivered to their homes? Installed as is?
I struggled against the ropes instinctively, my muffled breath catching. A cold panic spread through me. The thought of leaving this gallery, being moved — helpless, bound, displayed — into someone else’s private space was unbearable. I pressed my forehead into the table, hoping no one could see my panic, but I could feel every eye in the room, every shadow, every subtle shift of the guests’ attention.

The crowd reacted almost immediately. A ripple of murmured excitement passed through them, some nodding thoughtfully, others exchanging subtle, satisfied glances. One sharply dressed man whispered to his companion, holding a champagne flute:
“Delivered? Fully installed? This is… beyond anything I imagined. Alexander Greer never disappoints.”
Another tilted his head toward me and the other men, a faint smirk on his face. “Every detail preserved, exactly as in the gallery… a rare opportunity, indeed.”

I tried to shrink further into the table, but there was nowhere to go. The ropes, the tape, the table itself held me in place, every inch of my body completely at the mercy of Greer’s vision and these wealthy strangers.

Greer’s gaze swept the room, briefly meeting mine. Even through the tape, even bound, even terrified, I felt the intensity of it. He knew. He always knew. The control, the anticipation, the fear — it all belonged to him now.

“I trust you will bid wisely,” Greer said, voice calm and melodic, “and treat each living artwork with the respect it demands. In precisely five minutes, the auction begins.”

I lay on the table, my body a taut, trembling instrument of display. My mind raced. The ropes cut deeper as I struggled against them instinctively. The tape muffled every attempt at protest. And as the guests began to murmur and move toward the boards to claim their numbers, my stomach sank with a certainty I could not escape: tonight, my life, my freedom, and every bound inch of me was now a commodity in someone else’s game.


The first number was raised, crisp and deliberate, and the room’s atmosphere shifted instantly. The murmurs and polite champagne chatter gave way to something sharper, more clinical, like a laboratory observing living specimens.
I lay on the table, ropes tight, tape muffling my breath, and tried not to flinch as the first man was brought forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, bound elegantly yet restrictively, placed under a spotlight that made every muscle tense, every restrained movement visible.
The guests circled, murmuring appreciatively. “Exquisite lines… the tension… incredible control,” one whispered. Another traced his eyes along the man’s back and arms. “A masterpiece. Truly a rare specimen.”

The man tried to protest, small muffled noises escaping his gag, tiny struggles against the ropes that held him taut. A sharp tug here, a shiver there. The guests barely acknowledged it — some even seemed amused by the human friction. My heart pounded as I watched, imagining what was coming for me.

One by one, each man was auctioned. They were called to the center, evaluated, whispered over, examined with a detached curiosity I had never imagined. Some guests raised their numbered boards slowly, deliberately, making offers. The ropes, gags, and body positions were discussed as if they were fine art, wine, or exotic furniture.
Every moan, every subtle protest, every muffled plea only heightened my own fear. I felt it twist in my stomach, a coiling panic: I was still here, waiting, still bound, still visible, and still entirely at the mercy of these men and Greer’s vision.


Finally, the auctioneer’s eyes swept over the room and then settled on me. My pulse hit a rhythm that almost drowned out the muffled clinking of glasses and the soft conversation.

“You,” Greer said calmly, pointing to the table where I lay. “The final piece.”

I froze, muscles locked, heart hammering against my chest. I could barely breathe through the tape, my eyes darting to the other men — some already removed from the gallery by attendants, still bound, still gags muffled, disappearing into the unknown of delivery and installation.

Greer’s gaze lingered, piercing, evaluating. “He will be the centerpiece,” someone murmured from the crowd. “The one every guest will orbit… the focus.”

My chest tightened, panic threatening to overtake me entirely. Every movement I might have made was impossible. Every muffled whimper trapped against the tape. My mind spun with the horrors of what awaited me, the helplessness of being a commodity, displayed and judged like an object in someone else’s collection.

Greer stepped back, letting the guests approach. I could feel them leaning in, circling, whispering. Their eyes traced every rope, every angle, every line my body formed while restrained. Some raised their boards immediately. Some studied me, murmuring about potential placement in their homes, discussing how the ropes and posture would complement their private spaces.

And all the while, I lay there, unable to protest, unable to move, aware that my fate — my entire existence in the next moments — was now entirely in the hands of strangers and the man who orchestrated this nightmare: Alexander Greer.


The room tightened around me like a vice as the bidding began. My stomach churned; every muffled breath, every beat of my heart seemed to echo in the gallery. The first hand raised was cautious, almost polite, a tentative number held aloft. Greer’s gaze swept across the guests, sharp, approving.

“Thirty thousand,” one man called out, and the room hummed with whispers.

I tried to shrink further into the table, the ropes digging into my wrists, the tape sealing every attempt at sound. My eyes darted across the sea of sharply dressed men, all evaluating, all calculating, all willing to put their wealth on me — on my body, my restraint, my helplessness.

The numbers climbed steadily, each new bid a spike of fear in my chest. Fifty thousand. Seventy. One hundred. My pulse raced uncontrollably. My arms ached from the taut ropes, my legs burned, and my breath caught in the tape with every surge of panic. I could feel the crowd’s anticipation pressing down on me, the unspoken understanding that I was no longer a person here — just the centerpiece of this living exhibition.
The whispers of the guests became a low hum of admiration and appraisal. “Exquisite lines… remarkable posture… tension perfect…”
I wanted to scream, wanted to struggle, but I was utterly helpless.

The bidding escalated further. Two guests emerged as frontrunners, trading numbers back and forth, voices calm, deliberate, competitive. Every increase made my stomach tighten, a wave of nausea and fear sweeping over me.

Finally, the room fell into silence, all eyes on the two men who had cornered the price. The final numbers were called, tension hanging thick as syrup in the air.

“And… sold!” Greer’s voice rang sharp and clear. “To the gentleman in the grey suit.”

I looked up, my wide eyes scanning the crowd, and caught sight of him: tall, commanding, the aura of a man used to winning. His dark hair was slicked back, his grey tailored suit immaculate, crisp white shirt beneath, and a necktie perfectly knotted. He was in his early forties, his physique remarkable — broad shoulders, defined chest, long, strong limbs.

He stepped forward, a small, satisfied smile crossing his face. “Excellent,” he said smoothly. “I’m pleased to have won.”
Greer nodded curtly, almost in approval. “Very well. He is yours to transport and install as you wish. He is the centerpiece of the exhibition, and his form must be preserved exactly as presented.”

The Italian looking man — now the winner — ran a hand along the rope over my back as he approached, inspecting the tension, the angles. I tried to recoil, but it was useless. The ropes held me tight. The tape held my screams. My body was entirely at his mercy.
“I look forward to seeing him in my home,” the man said casually, voice smooth and assured, exuding ownership. He gave a nod to Greer, signaling the start of the next stage.

I lay there, muscles tense, heart hammering, realizing fully that my life, my freedom, and every inch of me was now a prize, a possession, purchased and controlled. The ropes, the tape, the table, the room — it all meant nothing against the will of this man, and against Alexander Greer’s orchestration.

And as the crowd turned its attention elsewhere, champagne glasses refilling, whispers resuming, I understood the depth of my helplessness: I was no longer just a model, a spectacle, or even art. I was property, and the reality of that fact pressed down on me like the weight of the ropes themselves.

[owenlewisgrey]

Part Ten - Taken to the Estate

The workmen came quickly, silent and efficient, binding me tighter before lifting the table I was strapped to. The ropes cut into my wrists and ankles as I writhed uselessly, tape choking back my frantic breaths. Boots thudded on polished floors, Greer’s heels clicking behind us, calm and approving. Around us, the gallery murmured with idle conversation, indifferent as I was carried out like the auction’s prize.

A black truck waited outside, cavernous and cold. The men secured me with heavy straps, each tug and adjustment pressing my body deeper into its prison. The doors slammed, darkness closed in, and the engine’s low rumble shivered through the table, through me.

The drive was steady, merciless. Every bump and turn reminded me that I was at the mercy of others. I tried to focus on breathing, but the tape smothered every gasp. There was no escape — only the slow, relentless motion and the dread of what awaited me. I imagined the estate ahead: grand, secluded, impenetrable. Each mile pulled me closer to a future I couldn’t change.

The truck slowed, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Through the faint slivers of light, I glimpsed towering hedges, stone façades, and a mansion sprawling like a fortress. My pulse spiked. This wasn’t a gallery anymore. This was private. Personal.

The doors opened. Straps were undone. I was lifted again, carried inside. Marble gleamed under warm lights; priceless art lined vast halls. And then I saw him.

The Italian man stood waiting — tall, immaculately dressed, every movement deliberate. His gaze fixed on me as he stepped forward. “Welcome,” he said smoothly, almost pleasant. “I trust the trip was… comfortable?”

I tried to shake my head, tried to speak, but the tape consumed it all. He smiled faintly, satisfied. Circling, he studied every rope, every taut line of my bound body. “Perfect condition. Exactly as I envisioned.”

The table was set in a private wing, bolted to the floor. My muscles ached, my heart raced, and terror coiled in my stomach. He leaned close, voice low, certain. “You are remarkable. And now, you are mine.”

I blinked rapidly, panic flooding me. There was no crowd anymore, no stage, no chance of witness. I had been bought, possessed, and placed under his complete control.

He stepped back, surveying me like a master appraising a prize. “We’ll get you ready,” he said calmly. “Everything in its place. This will be… an experience.” Then he left, issuing orders, leaving me to choke on my own fear in the muffled silence.

When he returned, he was not alone. Attendants surrounded me, moving with precise, predatory calm. Their hands tightened ropes, shifted angles, adjusted the gag. Every change sent new jolts of pain through me, reminding me I had no autonomy left.

“You will remain like this,” the man said, his tone steady, unquestionable. “Until everything is ready. Do you understand?”

I blinked frantically, nodding, tape sealing away every plea. His eyes met mine, ownership heavy in his gaze.

They worked around me with ruthless efficiency, padding joints, refining restraints, perfecting every line of tension. My body had become their canvas, my fear the material they molded. He circled, studying me with meticulous attention. “There is beauty in helplessness,” he murmured. “And you, my dear, are the finest example I’ve ever acquired.”

My wrists burned, my legs throbbed, my chest heaved shallowly against the tape. No relief. No escape. Only observation. Only control.

The attendants shifted me one last time, securing me tighter, and I caught his eyes again — calm, calculating, utterly assured. I wasn’t a model anymore. I wasn’t even a spectacle. I was property. His.

Silence thickened, broken only by soft movements and his occasional commands. Bound and gagged, I lay helpless, terror spiraling through me. And yet the truth was stark, undeniable, inescapable: every glance, every adjustment, every decision belonged to him.

And I had no choice but to endure.

[DeeperThanRed]

Wonder what else they have for poor Evan. Even without the bonds, his situation seems hopeless enough.

[Red86]

Well the questions I had may have been answered but new ones have been formed. Curious to see what Evan's new "owner" is going to do with him. Doesn't sound like he's got much choice but do what he want hims to do anyways

[blackbound]

So intrigued what the end game is here!