The Painting

"The Painting"

by Vlad Potemkin

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Leslie knew she was going to buy the small painting the instant she saw it. It was strange. It was kinky. And it was absolutely mesmerizing, the way the scene materialized from the perfectly orchestrated swirl of gray and black paint.

She could also feel the eyes of the proprietor of this quaint little Soho store. The tall attractive blonde remained seated behind a curved glass table, staring at Leslie who stood transfixed at the far end of the gallery.

Leslie knew about people staring. People had been gawking since she was 14 and her athletic form acquired curves in all the right places. She was a stunning brunette, although a little too short for modeling. Her dimpled chin and sculpted nose, both beyond cute going on sexy, drew as many stares as the rest of her beautiful body.

But Leslie always took the straight and narrow: a few boyfriends in her 22 years on Earth, the longing of a prince to sweep her away to a royal existence in Monaco, a limited sexual life removed from anything remotely deviant. Her sole venture out of Ken & Barbi land was a platonic friendship with her good friend Nicole, a lesbian into the BDSM lifestyle. She, on the other hand, was a simple girl with simple needs, so she thought. Which made it even more surprising that she HAD to have this painting.

Her self-analysis was interrupted by the brush of a blouse on her elbow.

"Interesting," the proprietor said, softly, "isn't it?"

"Um, yes," Leslie said, taking in as many details of the artwork as possible. "I just started a MFA program in creative writing. I'd like to specialize in horror and this work evokes quite an intense reaction."

Her eyes focused on the central figure, a naked teenager, mouth open in some sort of scream, or maybe a moan, her limbs stretched beneath a round table by thick ropes. A large masculine figure stood behind in the shadows, holding something - the outline suggesting a monstrous phallus. The realistically textured walls of what must be a dungeon were caked with evil-looking devices. In the upper right, a solitary circular window transmitted light, revealing the top of some skyscraper with twin antennas beyond.

"I keep it back here since it's on consignment from a family friend. I've thought about removing it because some people don't react well to the imagery. But if you want," the proprietor said, moving closer, "we can bring it out into better light."

Normally, Leslie would have stepped back, reestablishing her all-important personal space, but this time she remained, riveted by the painting. Her eyes moved across the tied limbs, amazed at the sense of restrained motion, thrashing, evoked by the brushstrokes. She felt a soft push on her left shoulder, finally realizing the blonde's right breast, barely contained in a silk blouse, rested on Leslie's skin.

"Ah, no," stammered Leslie, retreating away and noticing how wet she'd become. "I... I'll take it."

The blonde's provocative smile widened into a big grin as she handed Leslie a card. In addition to an address and phone number, the card revealed "Rebecca Moore, Art Dealer."

"Could you tell me about the artist?" Leslie asked, trying to establish a semblance of normalcy in this transaction.

Rebecca's grin dissolved. "It's a sad story. The artist was a troubled young woman. My parents knew her, and told me the woman on the table resembled her, kind of a self-portrait."

Leslie looked back at the victim's image. She was young, maybe 17, with short hair, a moderately cute face and small perky breasts. The thought of this girl drawing herself into such a vulnerable position seemed so bizarre.

"Well," Rebecca continued," she was into all kinds of things - drugs, Satanism - you know, the rebel teen without a clue... except she was a prolific painter and sculptor too."

The proprietor removed the painting from the wall, a poorly lit stalag at the gallery's end, and walked with Leslie to the glass table.

"They lived in Chicago. I think you can see the top of the Sears Tower in the portal over on the right. Anyhow, she went crazy after graduating from high school. Burned and smashed all her work, then just disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Leslie stammered.

"Yeah, about a month ago. At first, the parents thought she was kidnapped. It didn't look like any of her clothes were gone. But nobody saw anything."

"So she may have just run away?" Leslie asked.

"It's possible. A bra was the only thing left."

"A bra?"

Rebecca pointed to the lower left of the painting. Nearly obscured in the shadows was a shape that looked like a torn bra. The bra was simple and white with small cups like one Leslie wore when she was 12.

"Her parents found a torn bra in the basement. At first they thought there was foul play, but a detective noticed the painting. If she painted a torn bra, then it was probably some weird parting statement."

"Weird," Leslie murmured, watching Rebecca stow the painting in a cardboard box. "And you said this was the only work she didn't destroy?"

"Yep," Rebecca said, handing over the box. "Her parents didn't want the painting hanging around their home, so they strong-armed my parents to place it here. And voila..."

The smiled returned to Rebecca's face as she stared down at Leslie. "Please let me know if there is anything you want. Like maybe if you want to go out or something."

"Uh, thanks," Leslie said immediately. "I'm driving back down to Virginia today."

"Oh well," Rebecca said, almost pouting. "Have a nice trip."

***

The ride down from New York City went fast, her mind filled with images of the painting in the trunk. Before getting on Route 29 to Charlottesville, she decided to stop off in Northern Virginia. Her light blue Geo pulled up to the small brick house where a cute brunette burst from the door.

"Hey grrl," cried Nicole. "I'm sooo glad to see you."

They hugged. Unlike Rebecca who almost went down on her right in the store, Nicole had always been warm and friendly without hitting on Leslie. They were internet buddies, forged from a joint interest in writing.

"OK. I have to show you something I picked up in New York." Leslie lowered her voice and looked around the deserted street. "I know you like the kinky stuff, and so you'll probably appreciate this." She popped the trunk and pulled the painting from the cardboard box.

She nearly screamed.

Two things hit her like a solid punch in the gut. First, the teenager was gone. The wooden table was bare, it's grimy surface only disturbed by empty knotted loops of four ropes along the edge. Both the girl - and the bra - were gone! Leslie could feel her heart skip a few beats and her stomach seemed to drop to the ground. Her eyes wandered to the left of the table where she now saw a hideous face framed in light falling from the portal. The villain -- she was sure he was in the shadows before -- had advanced. Penetrating black eyes, a mouth curled in a feral smile revealing teeth filed to thin points.

"Ugh. That's a disgusting picture," Nicole said, only beginning to notice how pale Leslie had become.

Leslie's arms starting to tremble. She gasped and took a step back. The painting fell. It landed on its edge on the hot asphalt.

"That.. that was not the painting I bought," Leslie said. She followed the light revealing the evil face, seeing the top of the Empire State Building through the circular window instead of the Sears Tower.

"That bitch," she finally said, trying to block the sense of unease. "She switched the paintings after I told her I was driving back to Virginia." Leslie seemed to stagger as her eyes fixed on the details of the painting.

"Well those New Yorkers. You gotta watch them!" Nicole worried about her friend's reaction. She bent down and slid the painting back into the box, tossed it in the trunk. "That's that. Forgettaboutit." She grabbed Leslie about the shoulders and led her into the house. "You're back among friends Leslie-chan."

Leslie tried hard not to look back at the Geo as they walked into the house. She didn't like being ripped off, and had no idea why that woman - Rebecca was it? - screwed her over. Was it some payback for not going out with her? But on a deeper level, the calmer right side of her brain cried out that something was not right. How could Rebecca make a switch? Wasn't she there, watching that painting the whole time? And that face, that hideous face with such malevolent piercing eyes.

It took a good ten minutes of Nicole's best efforts for Leslie to lighten up. In the end, the analytical side won out. She was the victim of a hoax. What else could it be?

***

After a few hours of welcome distraction, Leslie was back on the road, heading down pastoral Route 29 towards Charlottesville. It was turning dark, not that she minded driving at night; in many respects, it was usually more peaceful. But on this particular night, a sense of dread crept into her mind. It didn't matter what music she played on the junk cassette player or whether the windows were up or down. That uneasy feeling nibbled then chewed then began devouring every thought.

It was in the middle of nowhere when she finally pulled over, maybe 30 miles south of Warrenton, on a gloomy dirt road that might have led to a farm. She nervously pulled the painting from the box in the trunk and brought it into the front seat. She switched the tiny overhead light on. The interior of the Geo began to swelter and everything seemed to blur around the accursed picture locked into her twitching hands.

The painting had changed again. And the new image scared the shit out of Leslie.

The victim was back, naked, writhing on the table with her limbs stretched obscenely beneath the table, but this was no teenage artist. Long, lithe legs were widely spread. Firm ample breasts pushed out towards horrors she could not imagine. The face, pale with fright, looked out towards Leslie, imploringly, perhaps wishing the round object strapped into the distended lips was gone.

Tears began running down Leslie's shaking cheeks as she tried to imagine any way Rebecca, the tall blonde art dealer, had been drawn into the painting.

Leslie tried not to look at any other part of the picture, but her eyes disobeyed her, just another thing rebelling against her previously sane existence. Her vision drifted slightly to the left of Rebecca's helpless form and took in the evil apparition, its grey body now fully visible, stripped of all clothing. The specter's face, filled with those sharpened teeth, showed demented glee as its powerful muscles glistened, a massive erect cock jutting forward towards its bound victim, one hand extended towards a waiting breast.

Trying to avert her eyes from the monster, Leslie saw another torn bra in the lower left corner of the painting. This time, an embroidered bra, more like something from Victoria's Secret than the previous victim's simple underwear, rested on the floor. Her mind barely registered the outlines of paintings on a wall. The scene was different as well. It was a studio. It looked like *the* studio, the one in New York.

Leslie grabbed the painting and jumped out of the Geo. With as much strength as she could muster, she hurled it into the blackness, savoring the groan of the weeds as the canvas landed far away. She was still shaking as the Geo launched itself back onto Route 29, speeding at a good clip towards home.

**

It was a Friday night. The Downtown area of Charlottesville was Mecca to an eclectic mix of the local population. They formed little encampments; the Goths taking up residence by the cinema multiplex, the teeny boppers clustering by the ice skating rink, the yuppies enjoying fine cuisine besides the open air tables.

Leslie worked her way through the crowd, strangely comforted by the stares and smiles as she walked from her parking spot on the west end of the long pedestrian mall. Someone to watch over me, she thought, that's what I need. Her boyfriend was on a business trip to Los Angeles and she resisted the strong urge to simply grab the nearest guy. She might have done it if her utter terror hadn't turned into a subdued panic after getting some distance from the painting.

For now, Leslie was content to check the facts. Hopefully, the bizarre events could be squirreled away in some deep recess of her memory, buried there for all eternity if she had her wish. Horror films are fun when you see them on the big screen. But when you are living them out, it's quite another matter.

Her humble abode was in the middle of a stretch of shops and restaurants that made up the Downtown mall. It was a small two bedroom apartment above a toy store, a few doors before a flight of stairs leading to the busy street.

After opening the door, Leslie made a beeline for her bedroom. She retrieved the business card from her handbag and nervously dialed the gallery, seriously hoping that Rebecca's voice would finally put the madness to rest. But there was no answer. She tried a cell phone number and got the same result.

She took a few deep breaths and rationalized away her inability to contact Rebecca. How often did she have trouble contacting friends? Lots of times, her analytic mind answered.

A few minutes later, she tried the gallery again and this time a woman answered.

"Rebecca!" Leslie shouted. "I'm so glad to reach you."

"Sorry," answered the voice, "I'm her friend Carol. Do you know where Rebecca is?"

"She's not there?"

"No. We were supposed to meet here and trek up to a midtown party."

Leslie went limp. There's got to be a rational explanation, she heard herself repeating over and over. "Carol?" she finally whispered.

"Yeah, what?"

There was a long pause as Leslie couldn't believe she was going to ask the question, and part of her really didn't want to hear the answer.

"Um, I don't know how to say this so I'll just come out and say it," Leslie said. She tried not to let the trembling of her body creep into her voice. "Is there part of a bra on the floor?"

"A bra?"

"Please, I know it sounds weird, but just tell me, please."

There was silence as she heard the phone clatter on the glass table. Leslie waited.

"Who is this?" asked the voice on the line.

"My name is Leslie. I am calling from Virginia. I saw Rebecca early this morning. Please tell me you didn't find anything."

More silence. Leslie stood up and began pacing by her bed.

"Yes, I found a ripped bra, just one cup at the end of the store."

Leslie fell to the floor and began to curl up, the phone barely reaching her ear.

"It might be a robbery," Carol continued. "The bra was right under a blank spot on the wall. Hello?"

Leslie no longer had the phone and she wasn't sure she had any sanity either. She stood outside her bedroom door, staring down the hall into the living room. A collection of photos had occupied the wall above the old wooden dining table. They weren't there now. Instead, in their place, was the painting, neatly mounted, sucking all the breath from her lungs and blood from her veins.

***

Leslie walked slowly, delicately towards the living room. Usually the sounds from the mall filtered into her apartment, but now, Leslie only heard the sloshing beat of her pulse banging in her head. She forced herself to look away from the painting, check out the apartment as if a boogieman was hiding under a table or staring from the closet. When she was only a few feet away from the wall, convinced that she was alone in the apartment, she turned and looked at the painting.

Her blood felt like it drained to the floor, leaving her cold and breathless.

The painting showed her apartment: the track lighting on the living room ceiling, the draped window on the right, the small bookcase in the corner, and the dining table. The dining table… with four ropes coming off the corners. She turned, saw the ropes on her table. She screamed but no sound came out. Her mouth filled and the light went out and hands, dozens of strong frozen hands, reached out, grabbing her in tight painful grips. She felt herself lifted even as she kicked, flailed helplessly against the vice-like hands that held her ankles, knees, and wrists.

She felt her shirt tug against her skin and then there were ripping sounds followed by the feel of cool air. Fingers wrapped around her right then left breasts, kneading them. Tongues flicked across her nipples. More ripping sounds. She landed hard on her back, the wind forced around the unseen pulpy material in her mouth. It was hard for her to breathe and then her limbs were being forced wide, scratchy material circling each ankle and wrist. She screamed again, not hearing any sounds, and knew she was being tied nude, spreadeagle on the dining table.

Her limbs were pulled harder, so tight, she was straining, barely able to breathe between the hands fondling her breasts, pinching her nipples, stroking the lips between her widely spread legs. It went on and on, despite her screams and writhing in the ropes, despite her pleas and gradual arousal, despite her first and second gut-wretching orgasms. She clawed at the air with her fingers and toes, one of the few motions afforded her as the tongues lapped at her clit and quivered in her cunt. She bucked wildly when a growing object slowly slid deep into her. Large. She felt the ridges and bumps as it pushed against her slick vaginal walls until it filled her entirely, stretching her as it rotated and bumped against her cervix. painful and mind-numbingly orgasmic. In, out, it pushed back and forth as she twisted in the bonds. At some point she felt that her senses should be numb, that she shouldn't be able to orgasm like this over and over, but it does not stop. The hands, the tongues, the vicious, beautiful impalement continue.

Welcome . The gravely voice echoes in the room. She whips her head about, still blind, and can't tell where it's coming from. Welcome to your new life, the one you've always wanted Leslie.

* * *

"Everything?" The man with the clipboard looks around the apartment, jots down a few more items on the inventory.

"Sell it all," the old woman says. "Maybe it will pay for the rent that was due. Anything you can't use will be thrown out."

The man scratches at his red flannel shirt, then moves toward the painting on the living room wall. "What the hell is this?"

"What?" The old woman shuffles by the man and peers at the wall, horrified at the X-rated art before her. The spreadeagled woman is drawn in a way that's almost photorealistic. Sweat gleams on her naked skin. The strain of her muscles is pronounced as the figure fought against the ropes. The old woman recognizes the young beauty in the picture. It disgusts her, the way the kids flaunt sex and their attributes nowadays. She turns away, shuffles back past the appraisor who stands mesmerized by the painting.

"Make sure to sell that one too," the old woman says.

The appraisor licks his lips. He knows this painting will find a place in a private corner of his home.

"Are you coming?" asks the old woman.

He reluctantly turns away from the artwork and nearly falls when his feet becomes tangled. On regaining his balance, he bends down and unhooks a torn bra from the tip of his shoe. He's seen pictures of the missing woman in the bedroom and can only imagine what she was like if she hung a painting of herself in bondage, in the living room no less. He smiles and pushes the lacy bra into his pocket.