by Ella Ford
I shuffled back in the seat, suddenly deeply aware of my nakedness, how exposed and vulnerable I felt. I crossed my legs and lifted my head to speak, though I’m not sure what I was going to say. Regardless, my words were cut short before they left my mouth as The Artist lifted her hand to silence me.
“Do you see now?” she asked with a quizzical tone, as though asking a student if she understood a complex calculus problem.
I sighed and thought for a second, replaying the events of the last hour in my mind. I could scarcely believe how I’d acted, how the scene had affected me. Yet I couldn’t deny the compulsion, couldn’t deny how much the bound girls had resonated with me. The notion of being so helpless, so out of control, restrained for pleasure and unable to resist the will of another. The thought had ricocheted around in my mind, building momentum, occupying every consideration until it was my sole focus. As I peered up at the older woman, melting under her close scrutiny, I began to picture myself in that position, my own naked body posed and controlled. The prospect thrilled me more than I could have ever imagined.
“Yes. I see,” I replied with a whisper.
The Artist smiled and stood, stepping across to where I sat. I gazed up at her, unsure what was going to happen, unsure what she wanted me to do next. Then she plucked a business card from her pocket and held it out to me in her slender fingers.
“Come to my studio tomorrow,” she said with a sultry purr, “I have a very special project in mind for you.”
And then she left, striding out of the room with a gust of expensive perfume and the scent of her arousal, leaving me sitting with my skirt around my waist, cold night air pricking at my naked, wet pussy.
She still has my panties! I remembered with a sudden gasp.
Chapter 3: A Very Special Project
The Artist’s studio was downtown, not far from the warehouse I’d been to the night before. A slightly less seedy part of town, to be sure, but still far from the usual haunts of artists and creatives.
As I stepped out of the taxi, I wondered, not for the first time that day, what on earth I was doing. Every action I took surprised me, every tiny capitulation seemed increasingly out of character. I was heading into a situation that I had no idea about, no control over, with a woman who was an enigmatic mystery to me. I wondered what Sam would think if she knew.
Distantly, I considered texting my friend, letting her know where I was, but then I thought better of it. Sam had left the exhibition when I finally staggered out of the tiny office, leaving me to find my own way home. I was a little mad at her, wondering how she could have deserted me like that without even a single phone call. But she had no idea I’d come back with The Artist, she had no clue that I’d been snared in the older woman’s perplexing web. As far as my friend was concerned, I’d made my way home when I fled from Sophie’s naked body.
I glanced up at the tall building before me, a stacked collection of workspaces that looked cold and deserted, and I found myself contemplating turning around, abandoning this rash, impulsive notion. This wasn’t me, it wasn’t my world. I was the very definition of vanilla, I enjoyed sex but I was less than adventurous. How could I possibly walk into a situation that was the opposite of all that I knew?
But I stepped forward all the same, my high heeled boots splashing through shallow puddles on the sidewalk. Reaching the entrance, I located the buzzer that corresponded with the address on The Artist’s business card. The engraved plaque beside the brass button gave nothing away about the woman’s identity, bearing only the phrase “Art Studio” in a simple font.
I lifted my hand and paused above the button, trying to control the tiny tremble in my finger, fighting a strong urge to turn around, hail a taxi and return to the mundane monotony of my boring life, forgetting this stupid flight of fancy.
I pressed the button.
The intercom clicked into life almost immediately and The Artist’s voice drifted out of the brass panel, sounding tiny and distant but still dripping with confident authority.
“Come up, I’ll buzz you in,” she said. Seconds later, the door buzzed and clicked as it unlocked. Numbly, I gripped the handle and pulled it open, stepping through with a curious sense of dislocation. I felt as though I was watching myself from afar, as if through a surveillance camera, following my robotic motions as I entered the lobby, found the stairs and slowly climbed up to the third floor where The Artist awaited me. Time slowed to a crawl, my senses seemed to heighten, taking in my surroundings with a kind of hyper-awareness that I’d never experienced before. The musty smell of the stairwell, the flaking texture of the painted walls, the soft squeak of my soles on the linoleum floor, the faint buzz of unseen voices behind the closed doors around me. But all of this faded into the background against the deafening roar of my excitement, a curious mix of trepidation and anticipation, fear of the unknown provoking new sensations in my reinvented sexual awareness.
I reached the third floor and stepped onto the wide landing, drifting over to the nondescript metal door that was the only exit. I lifted my hand to knock, but before I could complete the motion, a series of clanking sounds indicated someone on the other side. The door swung inwards, creaking against the vast metal hinges that held it to the wall. I peered into the dimly lit space, a wide, high expanse with thick blackout curtains shading the room from the late afternoon sun. A breeze of perfumed air drifted out, a sickly sweet aroma of incense or scented candles.
“I wondered if you would come or not,” said a familiar voice. The Artist stepped out of the thick shadows behind the door and stood in the entrance with her hands on her hips, gazing at me with that piercing, icy stare. She was dressed in the casual, slouchy style of a traditional artist, a loose fitting smock with tight leggings and flat sandals. Her short hair was partly covered with a flowery scarf and she wore large, hipster glasses. She seemed, at least superficially, perfectly normal. Just another artisanal creative in a city that was bursting at the seams with them.
But if you looked a little deeper, there was something else, another dimension to the personality that stood before me. A smouldering, sensual energy, a fire that burned behind her eyes as she slowly appraised me, her gaze roaming up and down my body.
“Come, come, let us begin,” she said, her thick accent sounding heavy with anticipation.
Gingerly, I stepped into the studio, glancing around the walls, drinking in every detail of the place as the large metal door creaked shut behind me. Her studio was a single room, wide and tall with red brick walls and exposed rafters. Large picture windows covered the far wall, but were obscured by thick, dark drapes, allowing only thin shafts of dusty orange light to enter. Around the perimeter of the space, arranged on the walls like a woodworkers tools, were endless coiled lengths of ropes. Thin rope, thick rope, long rope, hemp rope - the tools of The Artist’s trade. I felt a stab of fear as I studied the implements of her craft, wondering which of the selection she’d apply to my body, if that was indeed her plan.
I glanced upwards to the ceiling, noticing an intricate system of pulleys and ropes pinned back into the corner and attached above us. A series of hooks and clips held long lengths of thick rope, creating elaborate harnesses that seemed designed to suspend something above the ground. Something, or someone, I thought to myself, remembering the girl Sophie and her tight bondage, the way her body swung lazily in the air, her helpless moans as she drifted around.
The thought sparked something inside me, a sudden lurch of fear and dread. Mild panic rose from my stomach, shooting ice tendrils into my mind. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be that exposed, that helpless. This whole mad notion had begun as a sexy adventure of self-discovery, but the reality of The Artist’s workshop brought my fate home to me with the slamming force of a twenty tonne truck.
I turned on my heel, spinning around to face the door, intending to hurry out, flee from this place and never look back. Never tell anyone of this strange lapse of rationality.
The Artist was sta
nding behind me, blocking my path to the door. Her features were lit by the light of a low level lamp, emphasizing the deep hollows of her gaunt face. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips full and pouting. She looked sensual and vampish, a perfect apex predator with only one prey in mind.
“Is something wrong?” she purred.
“I want to go,” I said, mustering up all the courage I could to utter the simple desire.
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
I sighed and blinked. Was I?
“Y-yes,” I spoke, stammering my reply.
She leaned her head to the side, and gazed at me. I sensed that she was waiting for me to do something, but I wasn’t sure what. Then she stepped to the side and motioned towards the door.
“Very well,” she said, utterly devoid of emotion. I had expected her to plead with me. To persuade me. Even to threaten me, but there was none of that. She simply stepped aside and let me pass.
Fearing a trap or a trick or something, I walked to the door, unable to believe that this intimidating, controlling woman was letting me go. I reached the entrance and lifted my hand to turn the handle, then she spoke…
“Before you leave, there’s something I want you to see.” She clapped her hands together twice, causing a sharp crack to echo around the wide space.
I glanced behind me, realizing too late that this was part of her plan all along. On the far side of the room, a figure emerged from behind a velvet curtain that covered a shadowy alcove. The Artist gazed at the new arrival with a self-satisfied look of triumph, glancing back at me to gauge my reaction.
A naked girl stepped across the room, allowing the curtain to flap back in place behind her. She was bound with a chest harness, much like the twins at the exhibition; arms crossed behind her back, wrists tied together, breasts highlighted by parallel cords of rope above and below her chest. Her steps were short and measured, partly because her ankles were bound together with chained manacles, but mostly because her head was covered with a satin bag, preventing her from seeing where she was going. She stopped in the middle of the room, her quick breaths plainly audible beneath the silky bag, head turning this way and that as she tried to make out any details.
The Artist stepped over to where she stood, moving behind her and touching her hands to the girl’s bare arms. The girl shuddered and moaned, half shock, half exhilaration. In my mind, I knew that I was being played, a part of a game that I didn’t know the rules to. The anonymous girl with the satin bag on her head was my offering, my counterpart, the completion of my symmetry, and The Artist was counting on the prospect being too much for me to resist.
I knew that I should turn away from the unfolding scene, that I should open the door, take the stairs two at a time, and run out into the street as I’d ran out into the street the night before. Only this time, I should keep on running, back to my life, back to my simple existence. But I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t look away from the girl’s body. Her modest breasts, round like apples, topped with pert brown nipples. Her thin waist and wide hips, womanly and alluring. The narrow strip of her pussy hair, a trimmed patch of light blonde hair, tapering off to nothing at the top of the narrow, pink slit that disappeared between her legs. Her thighs, her ankles, her bare feet with toes painted an enticingly dark crimson.
“Take off your clothes,” whispered the artist, brushing her fingertips up and down the anonymous girl’s arms. “It’s time to create…” she added with an exotic flourish of her accent.
I wanted to resist, I’m sure of that, but I couldn’t. All I could think about was the girl’s body against mine, held together in whatever sordid arrangement The Artist dreamed up for us. The mutual quest for release, the shared climax. It was intoxicating and paradoxical, to have so much control, freedom, liberty but to choose the alternative. I had the ability to walk out of there and then and never think of this again, but I didn’t. With my last act of control, I chose to surrender that control. I took my hand off the door handle and took a step back into the room, allowing my purse to drop to the floor.
With each step towards The Artist and the naked girl, I lost another piece of clothing. My jacket, my blouse, my skirt, my boots, my bra, my panties. All the while, she studied me, cold and calculating, an icy appraisal of proportions, of aesthetics. It was a sexual stare, but it was artistic as well, a strong sense that she was contemplating how to pose my body, how to arrange my limbs to counterpoint the slender limbs of the anonymous girl before me.
Then I reached the pair, stopping a foot from the girl, able to discern the pores on her skin, the soft rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed quickly in the satin bag.
“Excellent,” said The Artist, hurrying across the room to a table by the wall. “But not quite there yet. Symmetry. Symmetry,” she muttered to herself, words drowning in her thickening accent, a hint of excitement plain in every phrase that she spoke.
She returned to my side and gripped my chin, turning my head to face her. Then she reached up and placed a soft satin blindfold across my eyes, plunging me into darkness. I gasped and flinched backwards, but only a fraction of a step. I fought against my panic and allowed her to reach behind me, tying the wide, silky band behind my head, above my ponytail. Her proximity was overwhelming. The gentle brush of her fingers, the waft of scented air as she leaned in to me. I felt small and helpless beside her, and utterly invigorated by her controlling presence.
“And now you my dear,” she said, moving away from me, “let’s get that nasty bag off you shall we?”
The girl moaned her approval but didn’t speak. For the first time, I wondered who she was. Why The Artist had shielded me from her identity with the elaborate charade of the black bag? But the thought was ended abruptly as I felt her grip my arm and carefully walk me across the room in a direction that I couldn’t discern. Distantly, I tried to remember the layout of the space, tried to ascertain where I was going, what she was going to do to us, but it was no good. I’d surrendered my awareness when I surrendered my autonomy. I was no more capable of predicting The Artist’s next move than a lump of clay would have been able to second guess a sculptor.
With a start, I felt my hips strike a soft object and I reached out instinctively. Beside me, the naked girl did the same, gasping as we came to a stop. I swept my arms and pawed the surface without thinking, feeling padded leather, warm and smooth. I dimly remembered seeing a raised bench, like a clinical couch, a burgundy rectangle about waist height, its purpose unknown.
The Artist swatted my bottom, tapping me with a rough swipe that caused a sharp crack in the wide space. “Up,” she said, an insistent note of authority appearing in her voice.
I moved without thinking, resting my weight on the bench and hopping up until I was perched on the edge, then swung my legs around.
“Kneel,” she said and I responded again, like a trained puppy, lifting myself to my knees, curling my feet under my bottom. “Face each other,” she commanded once more and I realized that the girl had joined me on the bench. As I turned my body to face her, I became aware of the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the sheer presence of another woman beside me. I could feel her breath on my face, fast and fresh, a faint suggestion of mint and desire. I took comfort in her closeness, felt a kinship with this strange girl that I’d never met.
The next hour was a blur, a constant precession of new sensations and novel feelings. The sense of being close to the naked girl; the first touch of my fingertips against the flesh of her bottom; the momentary lurch of panic as The Artist wrapped my wrists in tight rope, securing my hands behind the girl’s back. I became aware of every point of contact between our bodies. Our thighs, our breasts, the maddening brush of her nipples against mine, the softness of her hair against my cheek, the intimate way she rested her head against my shoulder. I didn’t know her, but I loved her, in ways that I’d never loved another human being before.
Then The Artist was done, her work complete. I sensed her step away from
us, two naked bodies bound together with rope and desire. And she sighed.
For the first time, I felt a moment of panic, a distant sense of being left alone and helpless. The girl felt the same and began to tug at the ropes that bound us. It wouldn’t be the last time this happened in the hours that followed.
The Artist seemed to sense our unease and giggled, a manic, haunting laugh that was born of amusement and arousal. Then all went silent and the room became still, the only sounds caused by our heavy sighs and the subtle brush of skin on skin.
The next time she spoke, hours had passed: “Kiss for me,” a single command and a welcome relief. But it wouldn’t be the last time she spoke that day and what she said would shock me to my core.
---
The girl continued to writhe against me, desperate, futile attempts to find release on my body. Her mouth roused me from my thoughts, interrupting the distant recollection of my strange capitulation. I kissed her back, feeling her lips lock onto mine and her tongue push its way into my mouth.
I wished that I could see her, wished that I knew who she was, what her own story was. It felt so strange to be deprived of the sense of sight, to operate on the evidence of my other senses - the slick softness of her skin beneath my fingertips; the warmth of her breath on my neck, my cheek, in my ear; her intoxicating aroma, so hungry, so rich, perfume and sweat and pure sex. I wanted to come for her, I wanted her to come for me, I wanted to feel her body erupt with glorious release, to see her face contorted with the agony of pleasure. But all of that was denied to us by The Artist’s whims, forced to seek out scant morsels of sensation on each other’s bodies.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp tug on my hair and my head was pulled backwards away from the girl’s hungry mouth. I gasped and the girl did likewise, trying in vain to find each other again and continue the tantalizing dance of our tongues.