Well, she wasn't slapping him, calling for security or reaching for a can of Mace... that was a good sign.<em>Kinkster-sense... tingling!</em>Irons thought to himself, suppressing a grin. Could it be that the lovely Miss Tate had an interest in the Dark Arts; or was she just one of those who'd jumped on the Rihanna and<em>Fifty Shades</em>bandwagon, interested in bondage-chic because it was 'edgy'? Either way, he'd never forgive himself if he didn't take the opportunity to find out. What was the worst that could happen? He could be fired, blacklisted throughout Hollywood, sued and sent to prison. Well, actually, that<em>was</em>pretty bad, but still, he had to find out.<br/><br/>Jon pursed his lips for a moment, and slowly began undoing the buckles. He caught Hannah's delicate foot by the Achilles tendon and lifted it, placing it within the compass of the strap... then the other... his face tilted towards her, eyes level and intent. He watched her closely, ready to pause if he saw any untoward reaction in the starlet's eyes, anything beyond the anxious desire that glimmered there now. His motions were smooth, practised, utterly assured as he cinched the leather tight, letting the broad straps lock her legs onto the chair, leaving her half-bound.<br/><br/>He rose from his stool and loomed above her suddenly, prowling up towards the headrest with one stride, looking down at her invertedly. “You'd be surprised,” he replied airily, reaching out and taking her arm, pulling it to the side to give him plenty to of space to work. “Some struggle, others submit... or even yearn for it. Jon raised her arm away from the padded rest, and bent it swiftly up behind Hannah's head, placing her wrist at the back of the neck in a mild stress position, leaving her arm bent and taut in his strong grip. He leaned down, his face hovering above hers upside down, and there was something in his eyes... not cockiness, which suggested a brash, undeserved sort of confidence... but<em>authority</em>, a sense of familiarity with power and its applications, a surety that he knew how to use things... and people.<br/><br/>“Do you like to writhe, Hannah?” he asked, lips peeling back in a smile of suave, smouldering menace. Jon reached down along her supine body, one finger touching her leg just above the knee, and slowly swiping up along her thigh in those tight black leggings. “See, I'm guessing you do”