Chapter 2
I was sitting halfway back, off to the side, when the painting came up. It was
relatively late in the auction, and most people were done with their bidding.
Not wanting to take any chances, I had volunteered to attend the auction myself,
coming up with a flimsy pretext to justify my unnecessary presence. No one had
thought anything of it.
This time I let my gaze linger on the other, dark-haired woman, reclining on the
hard wooden bench, her left hand lazily holding the chain that depended from the
slave girl's collar, her right hand stoking the master's pleasure. What was
she, I wondered. Was she also a slave, but a more privileged one, one entitled
to clothing at least? Or was she a concubine, one who enjoyed participating in
the abuse and training of captured beauties? Her face suggested serenity and
experience, not the innocent helplessness of the nude girl kneeling on the
floor.
I lifted my marker quickly, indicating a bid of $16,000.
My eyes paused also on the slippers to the left of the master's feet, so neatly
placed there. Had the slave girl delicately removed them from his feet with her
teeth just a moment before? Had she been commanded to worship them with her
lips and tongue, before being granted the privilege of paying homage to his body
directly?
I lifted my marker again. The bid was up to $21,000.
And how had the man undressed? Had he torn down his clothes in his haste to
have the girl offered before him, or had she also been compelled to gently
disrobe him with her teeth, unveiling his manhood in the process?
"Sold," came the auctioneer's voice. I blinked my eyes to clear them. The
price had been no higher than I had expected, meaning that no one could find the
purchase remarkable. Soon the painting would be delivered to my gallery. I
realized I was pressing my thighs together underneath my skirt. My palms were
sweating. Luckily there were no more paintings that I needed to bid on. I
waved to Myron as I rose and slipped out the back of the auditorium.
In the cab, I called the gallery and said I would be taking the rest of the day
off because I didn't feel well, which was at least close to the truth. Because
of the rush hour traffic, it was beginning to get dark when I finally arrived at
my apartment building in Gramercy Park. I knew Robert would be working late,
which meant I would be left to my own devices for the entire evening.
I stood in front of my full-length bedroom mirror as I took off my clothes,
first taking care to close the curtains tightly. I saw the naked woman in the
mirror straighten her body, drawing in her stomach and lifting her breasts as if
for inspection. At an unseen command, she lowered herself to her knees, the
palms of her hands sliding down onto her soft thighs. Eyes closed, she felt a
booted foot thrust her knees apart, opening her body vulnerably. I watched in
shock as she wantonly tossed her head back, letting her brown hair fall behind
her shoulders so as not to obscure her rounded, lifted breasts. Her lips parted
invitingly.
I compared the girl in the mirror to the one in the painting fixed in my mind's
eye. Perhaps the girl in the painting was a bit thinner, her hair a few inches
longer, but I thought the girl in the mirror might measure up acceptably. The
girl in the mirror shifted to her right, sliding her right foot under her left
ankle, and crossed her wrists behind her back, arching her back as she tilted
her head forward. A few strands of hair drifted back in front of her shoulder
and grazed the side of her breast. I gazed at her out of the corner of my eye.
Yes, she might do, I thought. A man might find her worthy of taking, and
keeping, to do with as he pleased. All she needed now were a collar on her
neck, ropes about her wrists, shackles on her ankles, and a master to serve.
I squirmed on my knees, feeling the warmth build up between my legs. I moaned
softly, but kept my hands crossed behind my back, confined by the bonds of my
imagination. I had long known of my submissive tendencies, but had limited
myself to a few light-hearted bondage sessions with my boyfriends - surely
nothing too far from the norm. I had always been too concerned with my career,
and the pleasures available to a young woman with a decent salary in Manhattan,
to be tempted to pursue those tendencies further. However, seeing the painting
- otherwise so unremarkable and devoid of real historical interest - had somehow
triggered and inflamed those desires, to the point where I could almost feel the
taste of my servitude in my mouth.
I wondered what the girl in the painting would be forced to do next. Unbidden,
the girl in the mirror bent forward, lowering her forehead to the carpeted
floor, lifting her bottom up in the air, completely exposed from behind.
Turning my head to the side, I saw her body heaving as she felt her imaginary
tormentors casually making use of her offered body. With a whimper, she
squirmed down onto her stomach, her breasts pressed against the floor, her legs
widely spread behind her, her wrists still held captive by invisible cords. As
I watched, scandalized, she pressed her belly down further into the carpet,
moaning as she rubbed herself against its thick pile, pinned in place by
invisible masters, forced to cry out her submission to them.
Dazed, I unclasped my hands and crawled up to lie on my bed, my breast heaving.
I had not known that girl existed inside me. My torrent of emotions drowned by
fatigue, I fell asleep.
***
The crisp morning air was still drifting into the room from the large window,
not yet warmed by the bright sun. I cautiously peered out and down to the
street below, frightened of what I might see but irresistibly drawn
nevertheless.
Below, the city streets were a jumble of frantic activity. Heavily booted
soldiers, their black hair flowing out from under their helmets, tramped over
the unpaved streets, weapons drawn, seeking out stragglers from the defending
forces. Wounded men lay slumped against the stone walls, their mouths open in
gasps or screams. Single women fled through the streets on bare feet, seeking
shelter in an open doorway. Strangely, the entire scene was completely quiet,
as if an invisible curtain separated me from the world below.
Suddenly I gasped in surprise. Two fair-skinned young women rounded a corner
and headed down the street below my window, stumbling as they hurried. Their
clothes hung on them in tatters, clearly revealing the softness of their breasts
and the lines of their hips. Their hands bound behind their backs, they were
unable to close their garments about them to hide themselves from the soldiers'
leering gazes. Their necks were confined in rope collars, by which they were
yoked together. Most frighteningly, they were being driven down the street by a
moustached, dark-skinned man with a flowing scarf on his head, cracking a whip
over their heads and occasionally across their scantily protected backs.
I wanted to shrink back from the window, but some unseen force kept me there, my
eyes glued to the scene below me. Now they were just below my window. I could
see tears in the eyes of the girl on the left, her face familiar to me from one
of the many social occasions we had enjoyed in peacetime. Still locked in
place, I was unable to hide when her tormentor lifted his gaze to my window, a
cruel smile growing on his lips as his eyes locked with mine. I saw him issue
commands to his men, but still no sound reached my ears. As I watched, he tied
the two women to a post by their collars, and slowly walked through the
entranceway to my building, following the two soldiers he had sent ahead.
Only then was I able to tear myself away from the window, but I could only make
it as far as the door to my bedroom, afraid to open it and see what lay in wait
for me. I clutched my nightgown to my body, feeling the flimsiness of the one
veil that might protect me from these intruders. I could feel my heart beating
in panic, could hear the ragged breaths escaping my lips as I stared at the
door.
Suddenly the eerie silence was broken by sharp pounding against the door.
Terrified, I shrank back against the far wall. The pounding increased as the
door began to weaken ...
***
I blinked my eyes. Someone was knocking on the door of the apartment next to
mine. My clock read 6:55 AM - still another 5 minutes to sleep before I had to
get up to go to the gym. I closed my eyes, wondering if I would slip back into
that exotic, frightening dream. But I only heard the sounds of delivery trucks
on the city streets below.
Five minutes later, I got up, started my coffee maker, and turned on the water
in the shower.
