Page 45 of Under Fyre

I show her how to use the camera and instruct her to take pictures of herself on the bed after I’ve slipped a pink sheet over the mattress.

The first few go well, but when I tell her to lift up her skirt and take shots of her panties, she throws the camera at my head.

I retrieve the camera, turn it over in my hands to make sure she didn’t damage it. There’s a scratch, one loose panel, but it’s otherwise intact.

“This was expensive,” I tell her.

“I’m sure you’ll make your money back selling my photos,” Charlotte spits. She clambers off the bed, ripping the blond wig off her hair.

Her dark hair is disheveled, her bun already coming undone.

I stand and watch as she shrugs off the cheerleading outfit, until she’s down to just her bra and panties. She yanks the socks out of her brassiere and reaches for her clothes, but I grab her wrist to stop her.

“What?” She tugs her hand out of my grip. “Do you have another outfit for me? What’ll it be this time, a schoolgirl? Diapers?”

I grab her jaw and growl out, “What you’re wearing is fine.”

When Charlotte sees the knife in my hands, her eyes start to sparkle again.

If I want the pictures to look realistic, then I can’t ease her into this. I’m certain on some level she must understand that, but she fights me every inch of the way.

When I grab her throat and push her onto the bed, she tries to claw out my eyes. When I lash her to the bedposts with the thick, rough rope I bought at the hardware store moments before they closed for the day, she tries to kick me in the groin.

Since I’m sporting a massive erection, I’m not sure if it would have hurt more or less than usual. Thankfully I don’t get to find out.

She screams as if someone could hear her cries for help and struggles like she actually stands a chance to overpower me.

But when she’s finally spread-eagled on my bed, a gag in her mouth and her makeup running in streaks down her face, she gives up.

Her luminous eyes track my movements across the room as I go about setting the scene. Milly’s pictures needed a somewhat romantic air about them. Soft lighting, pink sheets, a candle flickering in the background.

These next photos won’t be romantic.

There is nothingsweetabout what I’m about to do to Charlotte.

I turn up the chandelier’s lights. Poke apart the fire until the flames dissipate and only hot coals are left.

Sharp shadows fall over a bed stripped bare but for a tight, white sheet. No pillows. No blankets.

Just Charlotte, perfectly poised on a blank canvas.

I stare for a moment at her scantily-clad body. She’s fattened up a little, but she’s still too bony. Today that’s a good thing—I wouldn’t want the person seeing these photos to think that she’s had it good the past few weeks.

Charlotte is supposed to be my captive.

I need to make her look like one.

Climbing onto the bed, I yank out her hairband and muss up her hair, leaving it in wild disarray. She pulls her head away from my touch, but there’s hardly any give in the tight ropes bound to her wrists and ankles.

Just enough to let her struggle a little.

My balls start aching, and I grab my dick through my pants to try to calm myself. Charlotte follows the movement, her eyes flickering back to mine a second later.

I set up the camera on its tripod at the foot of the bed, the remote control in my hand as I move to Charlotte’s side. Her eyes are locked on the camera, but when I slip the mask over my face, she turns and gapes at me.

Her face goes red as she screams.

I grab a fistful of her hair, and press the remote.

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