by Kitty Thomas
A few minutes later, Lindsay returned with a black velvet box. It was somewhat thin and square but not small. Shannon's breath hitched. She opened it and let out a gasp. Even knowing what was in the box, seeing it was something else. It was her collar. Just like Mina and Julie and Annette. Except that the band on Shannon's was thinner, more discrete.
The collar was a platinum band with four rows of tiny square cut diamonds going all the way around it. The light caught the diamonds, sending flecks of light onto the walls as she turned the collar this way and that.
Lindsay took it from the box and secured it around her throat. Then he withdrew a small hand-held mirror from his desk drawer and held it in front of her, no doubt anticipating she'd want to see it.
“You take it off to shower and that is the only time you take it off, understood?”
“Yes, Master.” She ran her fingertips over the metal, giddy. She'd never owned a piece of jewelry this nice in her entire life. Shannon liked the thinner band. It was subtle and classy. No one would ever look at it and suspect what it meant. It wasn't that she was ashamed, but she still wanted to blend in with the rest of the world when she was out on Friday afternoons.
The band was strong and no doubt as sturdy as the collars the other permanent pets at the house wore, but Shannon felt like she could go out in public for lunch wearing this one without stares. And because it wasn't enormous and the design was simple, she could wear it with an evening gown, like tonight, or jeans and a scoop-neck T-shirt—as though she were intentionally going for some chic casual glam combination.
“Thank you, it's beautiful,” she finally said.
He just smiled at her and offered his arm.
***
Lindsay guided Shannon into the gallery, his hand resting on her lower back. Against her protests, he'd made her carefully fold the silk wrap and place it in a handbag he'd purchased to go with the rest of it. The bag had been waiting for her in the car. Now she clutched it like a lifeline as he shielded her, letting her walk just in front of him under the street lamps which illuminated the sidewalk.
The house had offered to train a girl for Lachlan Niche—tonight going under the artist name, Jacob Hunter. The tech tycoon had entertained the idea briefly, but in the end he'd politely declined and soon after had stumbled upon the woman who now wore a collar around her throat and seemed to adore him.
Word was that Saskia had tried to run a con on him, forging a piece of art he'd paid her to acquire for him from the owner.
When Lindsay opened the door and led Shannon inside, they were at once swallowed up by a pounding electronic base, darkness, and black lights. Next to the entrance to the exhibit was a sign, painted with white paint so that it glowed under the lights.
The sign read: Jacob Hunter, “What we do in the dark”.
This should be interesting.
Anton and Annette had attended a private party at his private gallery on his own property the previous year which had featured Saskia as the centerpiece. The word was that it had been painfully erotic and pretty much everyone in attendance had slunk off to fuck behind columns or in the garden beside statuary or behind rose bushes.
It had been a frenzied affair.
Shannon seemed to relax as she realized the lighting situation. She pulled away from Lindsay, no longer needing his broad body to protect her from whispers and stares. He admired her for a moment, and pressed a kiss against the center of her back. The scars really weren't noticeable here.
“Let's go inside,” he whispered. He took her hand and led her through a small cluster of people sipping champagne and delicately eating hors d'oeuvres. They laughed in that tinkling fake way people do at art galleries, as if they were pretending this was a normal art exhibit.
It was an act, of course. Lindsay was certain every fucking person to receive an invitation to the exclusive private opening was a certified freak.
Shannon let out a gasp as they cleared the group and the art installation came into full view. His little pet had seen a lot and done a lot, but Niche was in a class all his own. It was such an appropriate name that Lindsay wondered if it was yet another alias, yet another layer he placed over his real identity.
Along the back wall were various naked men and women bound in glow-in-the dark ropes in extremely compromising positions, exposing them to the gazes of the entranced audience. The rope work was in the Shibari style and was so ornate and intricate, that it was as if each bound man or woman was the equivalent of the wall you hang a piece of art on rather than the art itself.
The men and women were each blindfolded, their blindfolds glowing under the black-lights matching the same neon pink or green or yellow or blue of the ropes which bound them. There were black placards with bold white lettering glowing in the dark between each piece. Instead of the standard art gallery instruction to not touch the art, the signs read: “Please touch the art. It likes to be touched.”
As if to give proof to this little memo, one of the pieces of art, a blonde woman with a pixie cut, let out a loud moan as a well-dressed man slipped a finger inside her pussy. She had large breasts, painstakingly bound in artistic erotic bondage. They moved even inside her bonds as she shuddered against the stranger's hand.
There was a sharp tinkling sound—a spoon tapping against a champagne flute—and then a spotlight found its way to a corner of the room where Niche stood, smiling.
“Welcome, everyone. As you all know, I am Jacob Hunter.”
There was a laugh from the group because of course they all knew him. It was invitation-only.
“But what you may not know,” he continued, “is that every piece on exhibit is for sale. They will be on display during specific show hours until the end of the month, but after that, you may take your purchase home with you. The public is unaware of the sale, of course. It is open only to you, my special guests. All art is signed. When you inspect the art, you will find J. H. branded into the right hip on the back of each piece. All art is clean and has been vigorously tested for any defects.”
Murmurs went up from the group because this was audacious, even for Niche.
“You may enter your bids in the silent auction next to each piece. Winners will be notified tomorrow afternoon. We accept all payments in the form of wire transfer. Thank you, enjoy your evening.” The spotlight went off.
Shannon turned, giving Lindsay a look that mirrored his thoughts exactly. Obviously every participant here was willing, if the pleasurable moans and whimpers and begging “Please, yes, more” were solid indicators. Where had Niche found people willing to not only be part of this exhibit but to be branded and sold to the highest bidder?
Fascinating.
“Wait here a moment, kitten,” Lindsay said.
He left her to go inspect the art. The men held no interest for the house, but the women might. Niche may have more money than he was able to count and no true need for more, but he also hadn't sent his invitations out as a charitable act or as a form of exhibitionism. He wanted buyers. Being an art broker would be a new experience if Lindsay won one or more of these girls.
Niche must have assumed Lindsay's interest would be aroused by this. Niche assumed right.
On the one hand, Lindsay wanted to know just where the man had found these willing sluts, so he could find more fresh meat for his own enterprise. But for now he considered the possibility that he might be able to purchase a few of the women, send them to the house for training, and turn a profit.
The artist's signature would raise their resale value. Jacob Hunter had only been recognized in the art scene for a year, but already his risque kinky art installations were causing a stir. He was already getting invitations to show his art all over the world. Word was that his own pet featured in many of the installations, but she was never for sale. Saskia was part of the artist's private collection, and there she would remain.
Lindsay's gaze drifted over to the woman in question. Niche whispered something in her ear, and even though Lindsay coul
dn't see it under the black lights, her shy demeanor indicated she may have blushed at whatever he'd just said. That Niche's pet could still be made to blush was impressive in itself.
Lindsay turned his attention back to the bound women lining the wall. He found three he particularly liked. He touched them, tested their responsiveness, and then entered a bid for each one.
***
Shannon watched as Lindsay seemed to be inspecting the bound women against the wall. When he touched them, he clearly wasn't doing it for his own pleasure, and probably not for theirs either. Despite the sexual nature of the touch, it was still more similar to the way one might touch and inspect an animal they were considering buying rather than anything really sexy.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he wrote something down on several white slips of paper and slipped them into the clear glass bowls next to three different women. He wanted them for the house.
“I don't believe we've met.”
Shannon spun at the voice she'd just heard booming across the room. The man held out a hand and said “Jacob Hunter. And you are?”
“S-Shannon Foster. I'm with him,” she gestured to Lindsay as if he were her ticket to prove she belonged here.
“I see. So you're a stowaway to my private party.” He looked her over as if he were accessing or determining something. Then he took a step back as if taking her in. Finally after several long agonizing seconds of this perusal, he said, “You have such tragic beauty. Those eyes. I wish I could paint you.”
Before she could reply, Lindsay was beside her, his hand pressed against her lower back. She wasn't sure if the action was meant to steady her, make her feel safe, or make his ownership claim clear to the other man.
Hunter turned his attention to Lindsay. “I knew you'd be interested in some of my girls,” he said. “I've got a sense about these things.”
“How did you find them?” Lindsay asked.
“Artist trade secret.”
As if there were some secret place artists went to get this kind of thing.
It was clear Hunter wasn't about to reveal where he'd found these people. The artist pulled Lindsay aside a few feet away from Shannon and whispered something in his ear. Both of them looked over at her. Was he complaining that she'd been brought without an invitation? Was a Plus One not acceptable tonight? If the artist was reclusive and didn't like to mingle with the public, maybe he considered her part of the public and therefore unwelcome. Was her presence here a violation of some deviant bro code?
Lindsay stared at Shannon intently while Hunter continued to speak low in his ear. Even if she'd been standing closer she wouldn't have heard his words over the music. Lindsay nodded and said something back to Hunter, then the artist disappeared back into the crowd to greet his other guests and potential buyers.
Lindsay returned to Shannon.
“What was that about?”
“Don't worry about it,” Lindsay said. “You'll find out when it's time for you to find out. Come, let me show you the art.”
Lindsay grabbed a champagne flute off a tray and pressed it into Shannon's hand. “Here. You look nervous.”
She was nervous. The evening had taken a dark and thrilling turn, and Hunter had taken some sort of interest in her. Hunter. Appropriate name because she suddenly felt very hunted.
Shannon drank the glass of champagne. Not the casual refined sipping one was supposed to do at these sorts of events, but throwing it back like a shot of whiskey, barely tasting it.
Lindsay shook his head at that, took the glass, put it on a tray, and handed her another. “Try sipping this one,” he said. “I'll wait for your nerves to settle. You're safe here,” he whispered against her hair.
Shannon drank this one more slowly while Lindsay flagged down one of the roaming waiters to collect a couple of mini-quiches. Shannon ate them when they were passed to her. They were still warm from the oven, a delicious blend of cheese and spinach in the most delicate homemade crust. She finished the champagne and again Lindsay took the glass from her and put it on the tray.
She did feel more relaxed as the calming warmth spread over her face. The nerves had settled, the anxiety receding, and suddenly everything here felt very normal. And that was her first clue that 2 glasses of champagne consumed that fast was probably too much.
“Good girl. Now, let me show you the art.”
Lindsay guided her to each bound man or woman, speaking about the art and what he'd learned about it on his previous exploratory mission. He spoke of them as if they were inanimate statues or paintings, commented as others fondled them and they moaned. Each piece of art had a name connected with the designs carefully tied into the rope work, mostly to do with trees and flowers.
They stopped in front of a bound and blindfolded man. He had sleek muscles, as if he'd been sculpted out of marble. He looked like a model—and probably was one. His wrists were bound at his sides against his thighs in complex criss-crossing rope designs. His legs were spread, his ankles bound in place against round metal loops screwed into the platform which displayed him.
His erection jutted out, free of any bindings. It was... impressive.
Lindsay's mouth was suddenly near her ear, “You need to follow the rules of the gallery. Touch the art, kitten.”
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was usually the bound person in this scenario. It felt so strange to have someone else bound at her mercy. Though perhaps not so much, since Lindsay was directing things and seemed very much in charge right now. She reached out and ran her fingertips lightly over the stranger's cock.
He shuddered in his bonds and arched closer to her.
“This one has been neglected,” Lindsay said, loud enough for the blindfolded man to hear. “I think you need to be a good girl, kneel on the platform, and suck him until he comes.”
The man's breath hitched in his throat.
“See? He likes the idea,” Lindsay said, urging her forward.
Shannon looked around, uncertain. Other people were engaged in similar acts with the art. She leaned closer and licked the firm muscles of his stomach. He responded with a panting gasp.
Shannon pulled her evening gown up so she wouldn't damage the dress and knelt on the platform. The stranger's erection was directly in front of her face now. She dragged her tongue over it, and he groaned in response.
Lindsay began to stroke her bare back in soothing circles. “Good girl, now take him all the way inside. Pleasure him. And when he comes, I expect you to swallow.”
His suggestion made her throb between her legs. It was so fucking wrong, but the man in front of her smelled like vanilla soap and tasted just as clean. She imagined the bound people had been put through some elaborate bathing ritual before tonight's event.
The man's hips rocked against her mouth as she sucked him. She allowed her fingers to skim over his thighs, feeling the goosebumps as they popped out over his skin. Her fingers trailed over his bound and straining hands.
“Martin!” Lindsay said behind her.
Shannon heard the unmistakable voice of the bank president behind her. She tried to keep her focus on the man in front of her, but she couldn't help eavesdropping.
An unfamiliar hand stroked her back. She flinched. She didn't like just anyone to touch her where the scars were. Even if no one could see them in this lighting, they could be felt.
“You brought your pet,” Martin said as if it were entirely normal for him to randomly touch her. Maybe he thought it was acceptable, given the venue and the fact that he'd done them both such a large favor in opening that unconventional bank account. She expected Lindsay to be more territorial or tell him to get his hands off her, but he didn't.
Martin Graysen was an attractive man, and he'd been very nice to her when he'd set up her account, but he hadn't treated her like a whore at the bank. And right now it felt like that was exactly what he was doing, as if she were public property just anyone could touch—and without Lindsay's say-so.
That was the part that rankled the most. Even with the scars, if it were the doctor's idea or order she would have gladly given him what he wanted, much like she was giving the art what it wanted with her mouth. But it wasn't Lindsay's idea. He hadn't given the order.
Martin had just assumed he had the right.
An uncomfortable moment passed, then Martin said, “I'm going to mingle. Good to see you. We should get drinks at the club and catch up.”
“You can call the office and set something up with Shannon,” Lindsay said. His voice was cold.
The hand left her back suddenly and she felt, more than saw, the bank manager drift off into the crowd. Maybe Lindsay had given Martin a look and that was what had caused the bank president to excuse himself as quickly as he'd appeared.
She turned her attention back to pleasing the man in front of her, an activity that seemed surreal at the moment. She'd been excited by the idea, but Martin's arrival and subsequent weird propriety touching had thrown her off her game.
The stranger bucked more wildly against her, panting and moaning, entirely unaware of the power plays that had just taken place. His hands strained against his bonds, and she could feel how badly he wanted to touch her, hold her head in place as he came down her throat. But he couldn't.
A moment later, another strange set of hands touched her back then slid underneath her dress to stroke her breasts. Before she could yelp and pull away, a familiar voice spoke low in her ear.
“Miss me, baby? Because I definitely missed you.”
She relaxed at Damian's voice. One of his hands left her breast and moved around to her front, fighting to get underneath the gown. When he'd managed it, he slipped his hand under her panties and began to stroke between her legs.
“I see fellating strangers in public gets you wet. Noted,” he growled in her ear as the man in front of her came with a final groan of pleasure.
Lindsay held her in place. “Swallow, kitten,” he said, never losing focus of the situation.