The Art Of Domination: Model Release (A Domination And Submission Romance Serial)

By Erika Masten

From Bestselling Erotic Romance and Erotica Author Erika Masten
The First Title In A New Eight-Part Erotic Domination And Submission Romance Serial

The Art Of Domination: Model Release
A Domination and Submission Romance

Reformed wild girl Iva Moreau is doing a passable job of convincing herself that leaving behind the artist lifestyle for the safety of suburbia and the respectability of academia is the mature decision. She suffers her job as an Art Department secretary at Vandergriff University, belittled by her supervisor and pursued by lecherous professors, as willing penance for her former life on the art scene and all the damage it ultimately did not only to Iva but to her family. But she can’t maintain that distance when her baby sister, Cheri, starts down a path all too familiar to Iva.

Unrepentant bad boy Nolan Beal is the up-and-coming rock star of the photography world with a seven-figure salary snapping shots for glossy fashion magazines and his own nouveau noir erotic exhibition at the gallery in town for controversial and provocative art. His work explores power and the hypocrisy behind sex... and the masks people use to hide their true natures and desires even from themselves. Themes of domination and submission run as rife through his life and his liaisons with beautiful woman as they do through his photographs.

When Iva shows up at Nolan’s studio to demand that the photographer stop using her younger sister as a model for his erotic exhibition, an instant recognition and attraction between them causes the very different masks they wear to slip. And they strike a deal. In exchange for Iva submitting to one modeling session for Beal, he will give her Cheri’s signed model release and relinquish the right to use the photographs forever. The perfect solution, giving Iva the chance to see once again how self-destructive the hedonistic artist’s lifestyle is while she is also saving Cheri from the same mistakes, and providing Nolan with the opportunity to crack the false front Iva presents to the world and possess the passionate submissive he senses behind her defenses.

Neither are prepared for the passions released by the first meagre glimpses of the true Nolan and Iva behind the masks.

Novella Length: 24,600 words or roughly 80 traditional print pages.

This is a domination and submission romance containing strong sexual content intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

Bonus Material: Includes excerpts from bestselling At His Whim: His #1 (A Billionaire Domination Serial) and the domination and submission romance novel The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir by Erika Masten.

The Art Of Domination Series
The Art of Domination: Model Release (release date 1/3/2014)
The Art of Domination 2: Photo Slave (release date 1/10/2014)
The Art of Domination 3: Catchlight (release date 1/17/2014)
The Art of Domination 4: Dominant Object (release date 1/24/2014)
The Art of Domination 5: Soft Focus (release date 1/31/2014)
The Art of Domination 6: Double-Exposure (release date 2/7/2014)
The Art of Domination 7: Safelight (release date 2/14/2014)
The Art of Domination 8: Flare (release date 2/21/2014)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erika Masten
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310981708

Erika Masten

I'm the girl next door with an unexpected wicked streak (and an addiction to sexy high heels). I love turning forbidden desires and secret fantasies into erotic tales with literary flare and a dirty mouth. Let me tell you a naughty story...

Book preview

THE ART OF DOMINATION: MODEL RELEASE

(A DOMINATION AND SUBMISSION ROMANCE SERIAL)

by

Erika Masten

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2014 Erika Masten

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika Masten

Contact: [e-mail]

Website: http://erikamasten.com

Blog: http://erikamasten.blogspot.com

Newsletter Sign-up: http://eepurl.com/pTLx1

Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.

Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years of age or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Art Of Domination: Model Release

Excerpt From Erika Masten’s

At His Whim: His #1

Excerpt From Erika Masten’s

The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir

THE ART OF DOMINATION: MODEL RELEASE

IVA

Someone once said that the ability to foresee the consequences of one’s actions was the mark of a profound person. Whoever that was, they weren’t talking about me—Iva Moreau—not at any stage of my twenty-five years of life. After a few hard falls and some painful collateral damage, I was trying to change that… but not today….

I’d been in such a hurry that I darted out of my car without my coat, leaving me shivering in the early winter chill as I walked, even when I quickened my pace with hard steps that matched my mood. A mosaic of cracked pavement and piles of unexpectedly upscale trash—from gourmet coffee cups and bright red sushi takeout boxes to artsy (empty) bottles of expensive alcohol—set the scene and my nerves on edge as I stalked up the street of rusty industrial goliaths to the warehouse oddly named The Cathedral. My polished Oxford-style heels clunked on the worn asphalt, the rain-slicked sidewalk, then the austere cement entryway. The dull tap announced my approach with less anger than I’d have liked, more anxiety; I wasn’t dressed for this and not prepared for it. Gray work slacks and a lavender sweater set had no business in a hipster haven and wouldn’t encourage anyone to take me seriously.

Pity that when I’d gotten dressed this morning for another day of answering phones and filing for the dean of the Art Department at Vandergriff I hadn’t anticipated a showdown with some lecherous poseur of an artist trying to take advantage of my baby sister. Tangling with one Moreau girl meant inviting the wrath of all of us.

I could have taken the elevator up. It was oversized for freight, though, and had one of those sliding screeching retractable gates common in older industrial buildings like this one. I bristled from tailbone to nape at the unfamiliarity of it, the strange openness. From what I could see, the whole building was like that, oversized and cavernous, with aged metal squeaking and grating somewhere in the distance. A newly upscale address with a touch of bohemian grit to make its occupants feel cool. To think I used to daydream about living and working in this building, having my own artist’s loft space. Now I snuck in up the absurdly narrow stairway that would never have satisfied modern building standards.

The crumpled university rag clutched in my fist told me I was looking for a photographer named Nolan Beal. A quick Google check directed me to suite 700, the top floor. On the way, I tried to ignore the sinus-clearing scent of paint, turpentine, photo development and lithograph etching chemicals. Most people would have found it a god-awful smell; I felt goose bumps prickling up high and stiff over every inch of my light olive skin with unbearable excitement and anticipation. I could have gotten high off not just the smell but the reflexive swell of creativity, the thrill of making art.

Maybe that was why I was breathing hard as I stepped out of the stark white stairwell into the fourth floor passageway, to get a grip on my runaway pulse, to remind myself I wasn’t scoping out a painter’s studio or admiring the architecture of this renovated warehouse in the old downtown cum art district. But I couldn’t help myself. Right there where I stood was urban redevelopment at its hippest, coolest, most modern ironic. And I absolutely resented how much it appealed to me.

A paint-dribbled wooden floor forged a path down the corridor. Chill October light strafed the scuffed grain from a tall, thin window framed by an anachronistic plaster arch. The archways over the doors to the six studio spaces on that floor all had different shapes and embellishments, but all were…. How would I have described it? Industrial gothic. The architects for the redevelopment had certainly earned their fee, transforming a derelict warehouse into living and workspace for the creative class. It was whitewashed and high contrast, anachronistically high concept as it dressed industrial space in ironically faux historical shapes. I wasn’t sure I really got it. But it was both alien and alluring, like someplace I knew I wasn’t supposed to be.

Someplace I knew I wasn’t supposed to be…. Too reminiscent of places I’d already been, to no good end. Places that smelled like this and looked like this and felt like this, if not quite so slick and pretty. Places where the gritty touch hadn’t been a commercial affect.

But the pretty was… nice. Glossy. Exciting and inviting. I could imagine doors and windows like those in a white-walled, wooden-floored painter’s studio with my snapshots and color studies all taped up along the archways and my oils and watercolors and charcoals arrayed over a beaten up secondhand dining table next to my easel, off to one side of the bed and my bookcases and my dad’s old reading chair. I could just feel it: the silky slick paint between my fingers, my grip on a paintbrush, the ache in my knees from standing at the easel too long, collapsing at the end of the day into that chair with its saggy padding and once-coarse fabric worn smooth, and….

And that was enough of that, Iva. My fingers sore and slow to respond after so long squeezed around the wadded newspaper, I made a point of opening up my creased copy of The Vandergriff Voice, delivered as usual to my desk little more than an hour ago. Student staff always dedicated the last few pages of The VV to local events of interest, from college band gigs to big concerts, fundraising marathons for breast cancer survivors or special needs kids or environmental causes, avant-garde indie film screenings or art exhibits.

The quarter-page advert on page seventeen had made me slosh coffee over the stack of fall term student evaluations on my desk. I’d barely heard or acknowledged the bellowing from Mitsy, the round, overly made-up prune of an admin supervisor whose job it was to caustically belittle all Art Department secretarial staff five to seven times per day. Nothing could have broken my attention from the photograph advertising the upcoming Amor