by Sansa Rayne
“I’m not judging, but…”
“I said I didn’t,” I huff.
“Alright, alright.”
Heart leaping in my chest, I open the first image. In low lighting, a model kneels on a grimy cement floor. Head down, she stares into her lap; her arms rise high over her head, bound at the wrists by thick chains that disappear into darkness at the image’s frame. Dressed in a dark, lacy teddy, her skin looks impossibly pale.
The next picture has a woman naked, on all fours. Connected to a thin collar around her neck, a leash extends along the ground toward the camera. Her ass sticks out in the air enough to see its gentle curve.
In the third image, a model stands up straight, hands covering her chest as tight rope wraps around her entire body. She looks off to the side, appearing disinterested by her situation.
“Oh, God,” Steph gasps. “That’s a… a mannequin.”
“What?”
Zooming in, I realize she’s right. I can make out the thin partitions between the torsos and limbs.
“That’s fucking weird,” says Steph.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
Weird… but hot as hell.
As I move through the photo album, each successive image elicits a new thrill. After a dozen, the next picture appears to be the same as the first one, but after a second I realize it’s not. It shows the same mannequin on its knees, but the colors have shifted: the mannequin’s surface has taken on several shades of blue, except for the lips, which glow orange.
“What is that, paint?” Steph asks.
I load another picture: the same model, still blue, including her lips. However, on the ground in front of her are a pair of footprints. The next picture keeps the footprints and adds an upside-down handprint on her breast.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
All of the remaining photos present the same kind of scenes: the mannequin on all fours has prints all over her ass, as if it had been spanked severely. Lip prints show up all over the roped mannequin, making a line from its ankles to its own lips.
“Sibel, what is this for?”
An audience of one.
But does he mean me, or him?
“I think it’s an invitation,” I say, still hardly believing it myself.
Has Pierce figured me out? Could he somehow tell that I’ve been unable to stop thinking about him and his work? As I flip through the pictures for a second and third time, I hear him breathe in my ear, Checkmate, Sibel.
Mentally flattening my king against the chessboard, I turn to Steph and ask for Pierce’s number.
Congratulations, I’m impressed.
The message comes from an unknown number, but I can guess who it is.
Thanks. I had a good muse, I send back.
I grin, watching the dots dance as Sibel types a reply, stopping and starting again. I can picture her squirming in protest and fluster, trying to find the right words.
If you want to fuck, meet with me tonight and we can talk about it.
Wow.
Now it’s her turn to watch as I try to strike the correct tone, especially in response to her directness. I almost crack a joke about discussing the terms of her surrender, but erase it.
I know a good place. What time?
—
Though I’ve gotten used to the bodily smells and sticky surfaces at The Gulag, I’m reminded of what a shithole it is when I enter the Blood Moon Lounge. Gorgeous leather recliners, cocktails mixed by skilled bartenders, soft jazz played by a live pianist on a stage — I have to wonder if they’d still let me in if they’d asked who I am. Fortunately, they just care that I’ve met the dress code — a dark, tailor-made suit and a tie — and that I buy a drink as soon as I sit at the bar.
Handsome and quiet, the bartender mixes my martini with exaggerated focus; I get caught up watching, but not so much that I don’t spot Sibel approaching. Every head in the room turns, and it’s not because they recognize her.
I react immediately, nearly jumping from the bar stool. Her heart-stopping burgundy maxi dress wraps tightly around her hips, the center slit revealing endlessly long, gorgeous legs. Matching heels add to her already above-average height, bringing her eyes level with mine. I’m dying to fully take in the sight of her breasts, but keep my attention where it belongs.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
She smiles, pursing lips as red as her dress. “Thanks. It’s nice hearing that from people used to seeing me with my clothes off.”
“I was serious.”
“Me too.”
I can’t help sneaking a quick peek at her ass as she settles onto the stool next to mine.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks Sibel coolly, either unfazed by her beauty or hiding it well.
“A glass of rosé, please.”
We smile at each other, waiting a moment as the bartender pours her a generous glass.
Tapping the marble surface of the bar, I laugh a little. “So, you were saying over the phone…”
She tells me to wait with an outstretched index finger and takes a lingering sip of her wine.
Fair enough.
“Ground rules,” she says when finished.
“Sure.”
She holds up her index finger. “One: we are not working together. I am not appearing in your videos.”
“No problem,” I reply immediately. Until she mentioned it, I hadn’t even considered shooting her for the site.
“Two: we are not entering into a relationship either. This is about art and sex.”
Whether or not he was eavesdropping intentionally, the bartender flinches. He looks away when he realizes I’m staring at him.
“Fine,” I say, a sour taste on my tongue.
She takes another sip of her wine, holding the stem in a tight fist. “Three: we’re not telling people about this. I don’t want to see us together in the tabloids.”
“Totally understand.” Considering her position, that’s more than reasonable. “Any more?”
Sibel stares into her drink, thinking. “No. Yes. Last one: if I say this is over, it’s over. I don’t want any arguments.”
“Yeah, all right. But, Sibel?”
“What?” she grunts, tensing in her seat.
“I can live with these rules, but that last one… It makes me think you’re expecting this to go badly. Is this going to be some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy? I don’t want to start something if it’s always going to be sitting on the edge of a blade.”
For a second my body tightens as if I’ve just grabbed a live wire. I should be thankful Sibel’s even here. Her last rule should not upset me, but it does. My mouth goes dry, expecting her to grab her little black purse and leave, like last time.
Instead, she nods. “Relax, Pierce. I’m here, aren’t I? Whatever this is, or will be, I’m not going to throw it away without a good reason. I think these rules are fair.”
“They are.”
“Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Good. So then, tell me: what brought you Galleria Carnale that night?”
Tasting my martini, I smile. “You may not believe this, but I wanted to see some art. I wasn’t expecting what you were… your…”
“My exhibition. So it was your first time there?” she asks.
“First time at any art show. I thought it might inspire me to create something with some real value.”
“Oh, it did,” Sibel replies.
She drinks from her glass, leaving an imprint of her gorgeous lips along the rim. I have to force myself to turn my attention back to her eyes. “So you tell me: what was with the mannequins, and all the cameras?”
“I like having an audience,” she mumbles, shrugging.
“Then you must have loved every second of the show as much as we did.”
“More. In fact, I’ll be shocked if you can get me off better than that.”
The bartender fumb
les his martini shaker, and I turn to give him a dirty look, but Sibel laughs. “This is why I don’t do interviews in public.”
“People must be curious about you,” I say. “You must get interview requests a lot.”
“I do, but most of them want to know about my past, instead of my art. There’s minimal author bio on my website for a reason.”
I’m tempted to ask the obvious question: Why? Instead, I say, “But isn’t knowing about the artist key to understanding the art?”
“Sometimes, sure. But I’d like to think my work stands for itself.” She sighs. “Maybe my problem is I want to be seen by the masses, not just the arts scene.”
“Except your medium limits who can see your work, and where it can be shown, doesn’t it? What is it about sex that it’s become your way of expressing yourself?”
Sipping her wine, Sibel grins. “That’s quite a question, coming from a pornographer.”
“I mean it.”
“Well…” She lays a shoulder against the bar and leans into her hand. “For one thing, I love it. Sometimes too much, in my case. But it’s super important to most people, right? Most people don’t give a shit about painting or sculpture. Some people don’t care about dancing or writing. There’s even a few who don’t like music. Sex, though — nearly everybody cares about it.”
“Okay, sure — it ties us all together. But is that why you chose it?”
“No, it isn’t. Sex has just defined my life and my art, so it was an obvious choice. But what makes it perfect for me as a medium, is its diversity. There’s so much about sex to explore, both individually and as a culture. I feel like these days we’re opening up about sex like never before, learning to be tolerant of other people’s interests and lifestyles. Yet, there’s still a lot of debate and misunderstanding. I feel like this is an area where I can contribute, while doing something I love.”
“Wow,” I say, after a second. “Yeah, that really fits with what you did at the gallery. You’ve really found your path, haven’t you?”
Sibel smirks, then finishes her wine with another long drink. “Pay our tab, Pierce,” she says. “I’m ready to go.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. “You don’t want to stay and have another drink?”
“This isn’t a date,” she reminds me. “You’ve convinced me you’re serious about our arrangement. I’m leaving this bar now, so either take me somewhere or don’t.”
The bartender swings by to collect my credit card. I don’t wait for him to bring it back. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.
—
We catch a cab to the warehouse where I shot the mannequin photos. I debate taking her home, but Chase is there. I shove thoughts of him into the back of my mind; I’ll worry about him later.
The driver asks if we’re sure before letting us out in front of the abandoned warehouse. Lavender shades of dusk cast a gloom on its crumbling facade. “It’s fine,” I tell him. It might look like a good place to get stabbed, but I own this property, and nobody gets in without me knowing.
Sibel stares at the boarded up windows and graffiti with excited trepidation.
“None of the cameras are outside, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It wasn’t,” she says. “The cameras… are they hooked up for streaming?”
I slip a crowded key ring from my pocket and find the key for this building. “No. It’s all closed-circuit. Why?”
She clicks her tongue as I open the padlock on the door. “Just… something to think about.”
Grinning, I hold out my hand for her to take. She gently places her palm on mine, expecting me to lead her inside. Instead, I twist her arm, forcing her to turn, then slap a handcuff around her wrist.
“What the fuck?” she snarls. “Was that in your pocket the whole time?”
I draw her other arm behind her back and snap it into the other cuff, then let her go. “I came ready, Sibel. What did you expect, after your little invitation?”
She struggles against the cuffs, but her lips part and she pants. Hardened nipples poke through her dress. “You presumed a lot,” she snarls.
“I prepared a lot,” I counter, producing a small, black collar from the same pocket. She tries to step back as I close the gap between us, but she doesn’t try hard. Wrapping the collar around her neck, I buckle and tighten it just snug enough for her to not forget it’s there. I center the collar’s D-ring below her chin, then attach a long, thin leash. “Let’s go,” I say, giving the leash a slight tug.
Jerking forward, Sibel glares at me; her heels report quick and loud against the sidewalk as she tries to keep up.
I lock the door behind us as soon as we’re in; a camcorder rests on a counter by what used to be a small reception desk. As it boots up, I twist the adjustable viewfinder to face away from me, and point the camera at Sibel. Immediately her eyes turn to the digital screen, taking in her appearance. Her cheeks flush as she twists her neck around the collar, then angles her arms so she can see her cuffed hands.
“This is just the beginning,” I tell her, interrupting her reverie with another pull on the leash.
She groans softly, then follows my lead into the facility. She stops to stare at one of the mannequins I’ve left on display. This one sits on a bench, its legs spread wide and arms crossed high behind its back. I added the rope that forms a tight harness around its chest and arms; the cords connecting its ankles to O-rings attached to the floor; and the blindfold that hides the sultry anticipation painted into its eyes. Hiding them brings out distress in its small, thin lips, an effect that works well with the environment.
“How did you come up with… all this?” Sibel asks.
“Some parts I knew I wanted,” I say, running a finger along the tight jute crisscrossing the mannequin’s chest. “Others just kinda fell into place.”
“I see.”
I pull her along, forcing her to follow. Her eyes quickly return to herself on the camcorder’s screen.
“Tell me what you thought when you saw them — what you’re feeling now.”
She swallows at something. “Scared.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Shaking her head, she looks down at the leash.
I give it a pull. “Answer me.”
Sneering, Sibel twists against her handcuffs. “What do you think? I’m afraid that maybe this is a mistake.” She gestures at the camcorder, and continues, “That this video you’re making is going to be on the Internet in a few hours.”
“That will never happen,” I say, shutting off the device and setting it down. “I promise.”
She grins. “I’ll fucking sue your ass if it does.”
Like a fisherman reeling in a catch, I draw on her leash steadily until her face is inches from mine, then kiss her. The tension in her body melts as I pull her against me and taste the wine on her lips. Palming her ass as our tongues meet, I feel my cock stiffen like a steel rod.
From my pocket, I fish out my handcuff keys and work them to free Sibel’s wrists. As soon as I do, her arms wrap around me. She throws her head back as she feels my erection against her, so I nibble at her exposed neck. Unbothered by the worries she had before, Sibel giggles softly as my lips lay a meandering trail of kisses back to hers.
For a second I realize that we hadn’t discussed kissing. Fucking, yes, but not kissing. Am I being an idiot for recognizing a distinction, or is she not as resistant to romance as she claims?
After a while, I break from our kiss and let her go. I turn the camcorder back on and circle around Sibel, checking the angle on the recorder. Satisfied she’s centered in the frame, I command, “Take off the dress.”
Watching from behind the camera, I take in her lithe body in the low light. She slides out of the dress with deliberate, sensual movements. She steps out from the fallen garment puddled at her feet, and puts her arms behind her back. The leash still dangles in front of her; she’s naked, except for the collar.
“No panties?” I ask, spying he
r lovely, shaved pussy.
“I prepared too,” she admits.
I laugh, savoring the site of her body, even though I’ve seen it before so many times in her performances. This must have been how she felt when we arrived, having seen my videos but never having experienced them. Seeing her in person, she’s far more beautiful.
Taking the leash into my hands, I lower myself into a crouch. “Get down.”
“What?”
I pull her leash. “Get on all fours. Now.”
A defiant scowl arches her lips, but she obeys. Despite the look on her face, I can see her toes curling, and the line of fluid trailing down her thigh. I pick up the camcorder and pace around her, never letting go of the leash, and eventually stop behind her. From a tool chest resting nearby, I grab a flogger with long, black and white lashes. Sibel tenses, hearing the whoosh of my practice swings, then yelps as I smack it across her ass.
“Oh, God,” she mutters, rocking on her knees.
“You enjoyed that,” I say. It’s an observation, not a question. I swing again, this time with my backhand, and strike the same spot. She mewls as the pain grows.
“I guess,” she answers.
“She guesses,” I say, chuckling. Then I swat her bottom three times in short succession. Sibel howls, but her pussy glistens. “Your mouth can lie, but your body can’t.”
Her only reply is a moan. I swing again, another three times, each one landing on a fresh spot. Angry, red welts are rising, and I’d like nothing more than to work her cute, little ass until it all glows pink. From the way her juices drip, it’s pretty clear she’d like it too.
“Move,” I order, adding more force to each swing to make myself clear. She starts to get up, but I plant my feet, leash gripped tightly. “I said ‘move,’ not ‘stand.’ Get down.”
Grumbling, she does as told.
After another smack, I add, “I want to hear you say ’Yes, sir’ after I give you an order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she replies, not hiding the contempt in her voice.
“Try that again,” I say, rapping her ass hard.
“Yes, sir,” she repeats, this time more demurely. Wincing from the pain, she increases her pace, heading down the hall toward our destination. When she sees it, she stops. I should punish her for that, but I’m too excited to bother. I step in front of her to see a look of wonder on her face, like she’s just stepped through the gates to Heaven.