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"What a stud!" The thought had run through Spence's mind at least a dozen times as Bart's introduction to bondage continued throughout the warm afternoon. 

First had been a long, slow and comfortable sequence of hand to ankle bondage in different positions and views.  

Spence had been quiet and gentle, thanking his lucky stars that such a handsome young hunk had sought him out in the Palermo-Hollywood, Anglicized area of Buenos Aires. 

There among the artists, musicians, writers, and playwrights, the young man had approached him and shyly inquired about the nature of Spence's photography, his interest in male bondage and discipline, and, yes, whether  he would be paid for modeling. 



Spence had sighed, but seeing the need of the young man, quickly agreed to a sum equal to a nice dinner for two and a night in a decent hotel at the current rate of three pesos per U.S. dollar.  
Soon afterward, he had Bart in his studio apartment. 

Bart had not seemed worried, even as the ropes encircled his chest, and only slight worried when Spence decided to elaborate with an "X" of the rope crossed over the young man's crotch. 


Spence thought the camera loved Bart. He took more photos in the first part of the session than he normally did, but he rationalized that his chosen art was cheap in Buenos Aires, especially compared to Paris in the '80s and Prague in the 90s, where he had lived in gentile poverty, never quite realizing it.
 
"Photogenic lucky son of a stud," thought Spence. Aloud, he said, "You ready to change position and get the rest of the way nude?"


Bart looked up and nodded.  

"Nude" and "artist" went together, he thought. He was being well paid, and he might even get to see himself in one of the numerous small art galleries popping up around the city.  

Nude photos of himself, he could only imagine, would make it spicy, when he showed his current strait-laced boyfriend, a loving, but unimaginative Swedish market analyst named Bjorn to whom Bart had scrupulously faithful.
 
Nudity, Bart found out when he had lowered his briefs and pushed back his hair, was rewarded with a young, but heady glass of Argentine wine. It was as yellow as a goldenrod and fruitier than anything he had sampled in California, his home.  Eagerly, he accepted a second glass. 


"May I use your bathroom?" Bart asked, and Spence watched with approval as the young man padded to the corner of the loft apartment.  Spence sighed, and then he picked up a small rug and tossed it over the weight-lifting bench. 

"Um?" said Bart as he looked at the weight bench. 

"Um," smiled Spence, "what if you get an erection? Don't worry."

"Should I comb my hair?" Bart asked. 

"No. It'll great hanging over your gagged face." 


"Oh, yeah."  Bart rolled his eyes upward as Spence applied the tape. 

Then Spence took his fingertips and deliberated pulled some hair into Bart's face.

He gestured the young man to the weight bench and had him lay down on his belly.  Spence looked at Bart's feet, his toes resting on the floor, and at the muscular expanse of Bart's back. 

As Spence methodically weaved the colorful restraint into redundant loops, he reflected that he could still name the major muscle groups of Bart's legs and back. 



As he stepped back to admire his handiwork and reach for his camera, he mused at the long, crazy trip to this time and place it had been. 

An amiable anarchist in Paris in the 80s, a medical student in Prague during the 90's, and now he was an artist of some small acclaim in Buenos Aires. 

Bohemian, he thought, very bohemian.

And then here was Bart willingly in bondage.  Mmm.