by Anna Chillon
“Niccolò Aragona,” he explained. “He's my client and a friend.”
I devoured those paintings with my eyes that seemed to give a face to the protagonists of all the fantasy novels I lived on, and expressed my fantasies through. After completing the tour of the room, Vincent pushed me to continue in the direction of an open corridor that led to a more intimate area of the exhibition. There I discovered that the exhibition space was a long serpentine corridor, interspersed with some wider spaces dedicated to individual themes of fantastic or mythological literature. All enriched by sketch studies or drawings on paper.
Vincent followed a step behind me, letting me lead and bounce from side to side like a pinball. I was too ecstatic to pay attention to him, but he was only interested in me, he watched my reactions like an avid spectator.
As we progressed, the walls became darker and the lights dimmed, with only spotlights pointed at the artworks. The paintings became more and more dark and sordid, to the point that I started to feel embarrassed.
The guests became so few that, proceeding, we ended up just Vincent and I in silence disturbed only by the quiet talking of a couple in the darkest area of the show, the one dedicated to the most recent collection.
I looked across to those last paintings, ending on the nearest one. I turned to stone.
“Have you run out of swear words?” Vincent asked.
I swallowed looking at the embrace between a big black scaly demon and a chained nymph, a tiny pale little thing. He’d scratched her side with his claws drawing blood: it was incredibly real.
“Talk to me, Giada,” my companion asked.
I had no words.
The murmur broke off, the woman kissed her companion on his cheeks and passed behind us as she moved away.
“Vincent!” The man, came to meet us on his own, holding a half-full cocktail glass in his hand. “I'm glad you made it.”
“I couldn’t miss it.”
“And this little charm?” He opened his eyes wide, topped with spiky eyelashes, stopping at one step from us.
“Niccolò, Giada. Giada, Niccolò.” We were introduced.
I peeled my eyes from the walls to notice that Niccolò was very nice looking. He was wearing torn, dark faded jeans, as an artist could, and he had a black jacket open over a matching T-shirt with a low neck. His mass of dark hair was undisciplined even with gel, and he had a silver serpent climbing up his left ear. It was, however, his rebellious and slightly amused expression that make him captivating in a dangerous way.
We shook hands.
“I... they’re so cool,” I exclaimed with a sigh. “Stuff to make your tongue hang out.”
He gave me an x-ray stare from head to toe, stretching out to give me his hand. Curious, gave Vincent an understanding smile, and was answered with a tiny nod, impossible for me to interpret.
“And tell me, do you have a favourite?” he asked.
I did. My mother would have defined the picture to my right pornographic, I found it staggering. Suddenly I identified with it, I felt small, in the dark, surrounded by an ambiguous atmosphere. I peeked at both men from below and was extremely aware of how easily they could have trapped me if they wanted to.
I felt a violent shiver in my chest and hugged my shoulders tight hating my bodies’ excessive reactivity.
It's the show, I told myself, this is the effect it has.
“We’ve arranged them purposefully in this order, so that children can see at least the first part of the show,” the artist explained. He put his glass down on the floor and extracted a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one, even though we were in a public place.
“You used this model on several paintings,” Vincent remarked, pointing to the same picture. I thought he’d been distracted throughout our tour and instead he’d noticed details that had escaped me.
“That girl particularly inspires me.” He took a long pull on his cigarette, exhaled, and then passed the cigarette to Vincent. A very common Philip Morris.
“Is it a real girl?” I was surprised.
“Of course. Looking at photographs of her helped me to get the detail really precise. Come closer, take a better look.”
I stepped forward and found myself face to face with that picture, the greatest of the paintings there, so much so that the devil also overwhelmed me. It must have been worrying to find yourself the protagonist of such a scene.
The logical deduction I found was that Niccolò was the much younger girl’s lover and that, in one way or another, the two men behind me understood each other.
What went on inside the head someone who painted something like this? ...And who bought it to put at the head of his fantasies?
“It’s similar to the one you have above your bed...” I commented to myself, as the smell of cigarette smoke invaded my nostrils. I thought the subject was the same, but the painter's hand had changed.
“Oh, the one in Vincent's room? It was hard to separate myself from that painting,” Niccolò said. “It was with me for so long, since my subjects were still more dreamlike than realistic, but this man left me no choice.” He improved the angle of the spotlight on the canvas. “Depraved brute,” he joked.
But Vincent didn’t laugh. Although I’d never in my life seen him smoking, he took a deep pull on the cigarette and gave it back.
“Did you go up to my room?” He asked sharply.
Did l tell say it out loud? Shit. “Ehm... yes.”
“While I was showering?” I caught the beginning of anger. “I had expressly forbidden you to enter my room.”
There was a moment of atrocious silence and the air between us was loaded with tension. Fuck.
“I know you didn’t want me to, but I was bored!” I blurted in my defence. “I just took a peek. Why couldn’t I see...” I pointed to the picture, “...this? Eh? Why?”
“Because I wanted it to be a surprise, I wanted you to see the show first. But you preferred to disobey me.” His measured tone scared me.
“Well, I saw it, what a drama.” I rubbed one of my wrists bracelets. “What do you want to do now, become that monster?”
The look I received in response was more than exhaustive.
“Oops.” Niccolò picked his glass back up, getting more and more amused. “I'm afraid you're in trouble, chick.” I don’t think I'm wrong in saying that you like to be.
Feeling the weight of all four of their eyes, I lowered my gaze, while Vincent's hard gaze was fixed on me. “You’re totally incapable of obeying orders simply to please me aren’t you?”
It sounded offensive.
“Of course I’m not,” I whimpered.
“Really? Show me then. Kneel and ask for forgiveness.”
“What? Here?” I hesitated, my eyes popping out.
“Yes. Here. Now” he stepped stubbornly aside to give me room to kneel between their two figures, more foreboding than they were a moment before.
The exit, beyond their imposing bodies, seemed too far away, and the impression I’d had in the beginning of being trapped became tangible.
Two against one, I thought, is unfair. Even one against one would be unfair in my case.
I drew a breath. “But I...”
“Whatever you want to say you can say it on your knees, if it’s so important,” Vincent was uncompromising.
Niccolò didn’t interfere with words, but he did with his attitude; he didn’t spare me humiliation in any way and was anxious to watch.
I was lost, confused about what was actually happening, about what Vincent was expecting of me. I begged him with my eyes, but received only a mute order, full of expectation. Do it, he said.
Their eyes remained hard, their coercive strength invisible, and yet so fierce that they provoked me with a hot longing that weakened my resistance. They corroded and the consequence was that I felt my insides give way. I was just vaguely aware of my legs bending to the ground.
I was at their feet.
Once again I had forgo
tten how to say “no.”
With my knees on the rough tile floor, I lifted my chin and watched them towering over me in a way that knotted my bowels, leaving me swallowing air and saliva.
“So?” Vincent urged me. It was easy and tempting to bring me to the dark places of his being, all he had to do was want it.
Even avoiding their faces, I felt their thoughts linger on me, I imagined their indecency, the sense of horror. My fists clenched at my hips, clinging to the fabric of my skirt. I swallowed trying find my voice. “Sorry, I didn’t think it was so important to you.”
I felt an ache from the sense of humiliation, abandonment, and danger. I leaned forward slightly curving my shoulders.
As if he read my mind, Vincent reached out and put the back of his hand on my cheek. He grabbed it with arrogance, clinging tightly, holding his hand against my face and slowly lowering his fingers. My lips trembled against his knuckles. I was captivated by an indecipherable emotion that stunned me and burned my stomach.
Someone appeared at the corner of the coil of paintings, saw the scene, realized that he was one too many and turned around.
“There’s a room where I put all my stuff at the end of the corridor. If you want, you can talk about it there.” Niccolò motioned with his head to Vincent to go, winking. “No one will disturb you,” he added compliantly.
I was clutched under the armpits, Vincent lifted me to my feet, my small hand disappeared in his huge fist. He pulled lightly when I couldn’t decide to whether to move, disturbed by the eloquent grin of his friend who seemed to know better than me what I was in for.
Vincent led me to the room, turned the floor lamp on that was next to the door, pushed me to go in and closed the door with excessive force. The space was limited, little more than a place to do paperwork, with minimal furniture.
As soon as I turned to ask for an explanation, he raised his hand to stop me, putting pressure on my shoulders. “Ask for my forgiveness now and try to be convincing.”
He pushed me down so hard in landed hard on my knees. I struggled to keep my back straight.
“I'm sorry... I didn’t want to make you so angry. Forgive me...” I faltered, watching him undoing his trousers.
In a few moments what I’d just imagined and feared before, he got his cock out in front of me, more rigid and harder than I’d ever seen, making me lean my head back.
Vincent stopped me, gripping my hair behind my neck, holding me firmly as he flapped it into my face, on my cheek. “Disobedient little girl” he chided me, stroking it against my lips.
He said it with anger, but I didn’t feel belittled, nor did it bother me, I actually liked it. I liked the strong hand that forced me into that position and the rough gesture, almost vulgar, with which he stroked his penis in my face.
I opened my mouth and just managed to lick it with my tongue before he pulled it back, closing it inside his trousers in record time.
Yeah that was mortifying.
I dragged myself to my feet with my face flushed, breathing heavily, looking for an explanation on his face, but he put my hand on my stomach, pushing me back. I almost fell over before my buttocks collided with the desk. I grabbed the edges to hold myself up.
“If I touch your panties will I find them wet?” He clutched my hair, pulling it down, so I had to put my palms on the desk to stop him from making me lie down.
“Open your legs and show me.” He tugged my skirt up to the waist, with rough movements. “Tell me that I'm a monster and then provoke me, look around my house, look for me... open your legs I said.”
I separated my feet, another tug lowered my pants to my knees. I moaned, shaking as he put his fingertips on my pussy with light pressure and he found it as damp as my eyes.
“I look for you because I want you,” I exhaled.
Two fingers came slipping smoothly into me, but I felt terribly rude. I felt weak and let my back touch the surface of the desk, onto the scattered papers.
“I knew you would like the show. Tonight I would’ve taken you home, showed you the picture, getting you more and more excited and fucked you on my bed. That's what I wanted to do, but making plans with you is impossible.” His disappointed tone hurt me.
“It’s difficult with you too,” I panted, trying to hold back the tears from the rough way he was touching me. “Slow down or I’ll scream.”
“And you think It’ll help to call Niccolò here, now, while you’re like this? I don’t think he would do anything to help you, actually he would be very inspired.” He pulled my top down revealing my breasts and looking at them ravenously. As I feared, he leant over and took a nipple between his lips. He sucked. “These have been provoking me all night.” He nibbled tenderly, playing with his tongue.
At that point, he no longer needed to hold me onto that desk. If that was my punishment, in future I could become very, very disobedient. Finding me compliant, he took off my panties, placing his hips between my knees.
He put his index in my mouth. “Suck it.”
I tasted slightly salty, I felt my abdomen contract and found it extremely sensual.
“Not like that. Cover it well with saliva, I want to see it wet. All over.”
I did it warily, with my lips open, using my tongue, and when I took it out it was shiny with saliva.
“That’s OK,” he approved.
His thumb massaged the entrance of my vagina and when it slipped into the crack, the wet index pushed simultaneously on my smaller orifice.
I tried to get away immediately.
With his free hand Vincent took hold of my wrists knowing that they would be tender from that afternoon. “Come on, sugar, it's nothing.”
Hell it is!
He turned his finger. “You’re afraid of the unknown, maybe I’m hurting you?”
Suddenly I was tense and sulky. “I don’t like it,” I complained.
“Because you have to relax. Don’t be obstinate, I won’t go any further.”
I started dragging myself back in an attempt to escape him, then he raised my leg and used his big voice. “Stop it now! I don’t have ropes here.”
In protest, I crossed my arms around my head and hid my face in my elbows. He continued to explore that too intimate spot with two thirds of his index, playing, inside and out, and circling. Delicate, but insistent.
“Do you have to?” I whispered.
“No, but I really want to, so resign yourself. It’s useless to tighten up.”
I breathed in and exhaled deeply. “I hate you.”
“Oh yeah?” He said with a tinkling laugh.
“A lot.”
I was hoping he’d get tired, but it didn’t happen.
My breathing got quicker, I started thinking about kicking him off and swearing at him when a wave of pleasure came unexpectedly. It wasn’t like being stimulated at the front, with increasing intensity. There at the back a moment before it was uncomfortable and a moment later a hot flush gave me cold sweats. It was totalizing, I had to stretch my arms and grab the edge of the desk to hold myself still. I instinctively moved closer to him looking for more; I dropped a sandal and pointed the heel on my desk.
“See? This little arse wants a lot of attention. It’s not right for me to ignore it,” Vincent said, continuing to stimulate the ring. “It deserves lots of spanking, but deserves something else too.”
I was in great trouble, I didn’t know if I wanted him to go ahead. I only understood him when he pulled me down and stood me up with a smack on the buttock.
“Sort yourself out,” he said, putting my panties in his pocket. “I’ll take you home.”
“Now?” I mumbled. “No. I can’t wait.”
“Did you think I’d forgotten about your intrusion into my room? You didn’t know how to wait: you’ll learn how to do it now.”
He was being serious. “You really are a monster.”
He didn’t care what I was thinking or wanted, he let me out of that study in a worse condition than I was whe
n I went in. Upset, red in the face, wobbly legs, still run over by thrill of the excitement and all topsy turvy.
Niccolò left some guests to come and say goodbye to us. I didn’t pay attention to what they said, I felt in a trance, put in the corner of his intuitive gaze.
“You seem to be a bit upset, honey” surged a thoughtless dose of mischief. “I hope I haven’t been the cause of discord,” he said in a way that made you think the exact opposite.
“She's just learning that you can’t always get what you want immediately.” Vincent put his fingers on my elbow and slid them down until he was holding my hand. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”
“Seriously? You made my evening more interesting.”
And you, ours, I thought with sarcasm.
My eyes wandered one last time on the paintings. “I'm going to dream about them tonight.” The comment slipped out of my mouth too sincerely.
Niccolò laughed. “I'll take that as a compliment.”
Too dazed, I missed their last jokes, I just caught Niccolò’s cheeky smile that didn’t abandon us until we were out of the show and across the street.
In the car I refused to look at Vincent. I sat with my face glued to the window, my hands fought with the desire to disobey him and demonstrate my resentment.
“You're evil,” I complained at one point, crying.
My tears fell silently, I don’t think he noticed until I spoke.
“What for?” He asked expressionless, changing gear.
“You know why,” I hugged myself, grabbing my elbows.
He took my chin and made me turn to face him. He stopped looking at the road, driving blindly.
“Help me understand: am I evil because I don’t just stop the car and jump in-between your legs?”
“Exactly.” What did you think, after treating me that way, keeping me super horny and a bit scared? That you could put me out like a battery powered doll? My hormones were already sky high on their own, but he was torturing me like this.
“Are you really crying because I didn’t fuck you tonight?”
“Yes!” I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. “You made me believe the whole time, you brought me to exasperation and then nothing. You don’t want me.”