Blind Obsession

by Ella Frank

  He stood in water, hip deep, as rain hit the back of his neck where his wet shirt clung to him. All he felt was numb.

  “Wake up,” he pleaded. “Come on. It’s time to wake up.”

  Eyes of gray opened. Eyes that held his soul focused as a small smile touched lips of red.

  ***

  As I follow Phillipe one step at a time down the dark stone stairwell, I can’t help but wonder at my sanity. I can feel my hand as it trembles in his.

  Again, I ask, “What’s down here, Phillipe?”

  He stops halfway down the stairs and turns to look back at me. “I told you.”

  I want to scream at him, I know Chantel is not down there. So, what the fuck are you talking about? Instead, I remain quiet and continue following him.

  When we reach the landing, I can feel him turn to face me in the dark.

  “Wait here,” he instructs.

  I stand exactly where he has left me, not knowing what I might run into if I happen to move.

  It’s cold down here, I think as I look around, trying to make out what I can. Obviously, we have gone downstairs, which in turn means we are underground. As quickly as that thought enters my head, it is chased by the fear of something horrific happening to me, that I stupidly pushed aside earlier.

  I’m about to say his name when suddenly the room is illuminated.

  My eyes squint as they adjust to the change, and as they do, a wide, empty space comes into focus. Immediately, I’m aware of several large white boards. Each cut into rectangular lengths, they are mounted all around the walls at different heights. Blank canvases?

  “Acoustic room, Gemma.” His explanation drifts across the expansive room.

  After that announcement, silence follows as my brain catches up.

  “This was her music room,” he adds.

  I let my eyes look up to the ceiling, and I see the strange placement of white boards placed there. The room is bare. There is nothing down here, just the panels on the wall and a shelf holding a sound system with what looks like CDs. The thick carpet beneath my feet, which I assume is also for sound absorption, paired with the boards on the walls make the room look odd. As I step farther into the space, I feel as though she is calling out to me, almost as if the echo of her is here in the room, bouncing off of the walls.

  Before I knew what was down here, I feared him. Now that I know what’s down here, I fear myself.

  Bringing my eyes back to his, I ask, “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why did you try and frighten me?”

  That’s when he moves. He is in front of me before I can say another word. Gripping my naked shoulders in his palms, his green eyes roam all over my face.

  “Don’t you see, Gemma?” His voice is strained, stressing the importance of his words. “You let them scare you.”

  I try to understand what he is telling me. Them. There’s that word again.

  “Who is them?” I ask this time, determined to get an answer.

  His eyes narrow as he drops his hands from me. “Everyone else,” he mumbles as he turns away from me.

  I watch him as he moves across the bright white space. As Phillipe disappears through a door on the other side, I’m left wondering if I am supposed to follow.

  Making my way across firm carpet, I reach the small door where he has exited.

  Stepping through the entryway, I notice right away that this room is different. It’s just as large. I assume that these rooms use to be the wine cellars. Phillipe must have converted a different space for that though. As I move farther into the room, stepping onto hardwood floor, my eyes are drawn to the paintings hanging up on the far brick wall.

  There, directly in front of me, are what I can only assume are the originals from Phillipe’s series. The six pieces he painted of Chantel are displayed at the opposite end of the dimly lit room. Each one is larger than life, and each one is illuminated with a picture light.

  They are resplendent, and I am enraptured.

  ***

  Phillipe watches Gemma from the far right corner of the space. He has purposefully left the room in shadows, so he could gauge her reaction unnoticed, wanting to witness the moment she first looks upon the collection.

  He knows that seeing it in person for the first time is always a shock to the system. Many have described it as breathtaking, and now, it is revered as haunting.

  To him though, it will always be beauty.

  Six portraits, each thirty-six inches by twenty-four, line the far brick wall in silent repose. Each one is lit by a picture light secured above the frame, and each of them holds him ensnared whenever he comes down to look upon them.

  Right now, however, Phillipe finds himself intrigued by a petite blonde shrouded in a white towel. She hasn’t seen him since she stepped into the room. As she makes her way closer to the paintings, he can sense her fascination with what is before her.

  “It hurts to look at her, doesn’t it?” he asks, watching as she turns to look at him over her shoulder.

  He pushes himself away from the wall and makes his way toward her. Gemma keeps her wary eyes locked to his as he moves closer. When he finally stops beside her, shoulder to shoulder, he looks down to where she has turned her head to peer at him.

  “She would play her violin in the room next door, and I would come down here to sketch,” he explains.

  Gemma turns her head back to stare at the paintings on the wall. “These are simply magnificent, Phillipe,” she whispers in awe. She takes a step closer before looking at him over her shoulder. “May I?”

  Phillipe nods once and remains where he is. He tries to remind himself that there is no reason he should feel guilty about being bound by one woman who is becoming entranced by another.

  ***

  “Guilty?” her voice seeped into his mind. “What are you guilty of?”

  “Everything,” he confessed as he stroked a hand down her cheek.

  “Do you see the lights over there?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes, blocking out what she was telling him.

  “You don’t see lights over there, Chantel. You can’t see anything,” he told her gently.

  “Just like you can’t be guilty,” she whispered.

  He watched her wet lips part on a soft sigh.

  “Don’t let them make a villain out of you. Don’t let them break you.”

  Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her wet ones, knowing what she was trying to tell him, but the truth was the lights were there.

  He raised his mouth from hers and looked into her sightless eyes. “You can’t break a man that’s already broken.”

  ***

  I can’t believe that I am standing in a room with the original six pieces from The Blind Vision Collection. I move as close as I dare, and I turn to look over my shoulder at the artist—a man so complicated that I am starting to realize I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.

  He’s watching me as I look at her, and I find that I like it. His eyes glance over my naked shoulders, and he frowns before quietly turning to walk away.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, Gemma. Take your time,” he informs me as he exits out into the music room.

  Left alone with Chantel, I turn back to face the paintings. I move over in front of Armor, the same image I have been posing for. It’s easy to see that Phillipe was fascinated with her by the way he made the light fall upon her, creating shadows along each sensuous curve of her body.

  Each stroke was executed with such care and love that I feel as if I am witnessing it being painted. He’s captured the luminescence of her skin with such perfection that I can’t help but move closer. Once again drawn to her in a way I’ve yet to understand or make sense of, I stroke my fingers down her arm.

  From the slope of her breasts down to her tight hard nipples, her skin almost glows, making her appear ethereal in nature, but it’s also the darkness he’s captured in the pose that’s so eloquent in its meaning. It’s as though you can’t tell where she ends
and the shadows begin. You can only see what he has decided to show you.

  She appears strong and brave as she holds the one thing that makes her formidable in her own right, and that’s the Stradivarius.

  I don’t realize how caught up in the painting I’ve become until I hear a thud behind me. Snatching my hand back as if I were just burned, I turn to see that Phillipe is back, and he’s carrying a wooden chair. He places it right behind a small plush rug, the only covering on the wooden floors.

  “What do you think?” he asks, moving to sit.

  I find I have no words for him. How do you tell someone that his creations are the most painful and beautiful objects you have ever looked upon?

  Instead of talking, I stand motionless in my towel and wait for him to do something, anything.

  “Come here, Gemma,” he commands quietly.

  I don’t know what I’m feeling at this moment. As I look at him sitting there in the low lights with his slightly spread jean-clad legs and his dark hair brushing the collar of his sweater, I find myself moving toward him. I want to touch him, and I want him to touch me.

  Slowly, I walk to where he is sitting, facing Armor. I stop before him as his eyes move up the white towel, over my breasts, and finally rest on my face.

  Once again, he raises his hand, and in a gesture that is now familiar, he crooks his finger. “Come closer, Gemma.”

  Like a dream in the night, I find I have no choice.

  ***

  As Gemma stands before him, Phillipe can see her behind Gemma, and that’s all it takes for his desire to magnify.

  Raising his eyes to Gemma, who is now staring down at him, he brings his legs together. Softly, he invites, “Sit with me.”

  He watches as she lets her eyes fall to his lap, and then she glances back to his face. He places his hand on his thigh. Coaxing suggestively, he says, “Turn around, Gemma, and sit here on my lap. Tell me what you see.”

  He isn’t sure if she will do as he asks. She licks her lips and pivots on her heel. He lets out a deep breath as she sits down on his lap, her towel-covered ass firmly seated on his thighs. Raising his hands, he places them on her waist and pulls her back against him until her sweet curves are molded to his front.

  Lowering his chin to her shoulder, he looks at Armor. He repeats his original request, “Tell me what you see when you look at her.”

  He feels her take in a breath of air, before she releases it softly before wriggling a little closer.

  He reaches across her waist with his left hand. “Sit still, Gemma, and tell me what you see.”

  “I see Chantel,” she finally replies.

  “Yes, so do I. What else do you see?”

  “I see her violin. I see Diva.”

  At the mention of the violin’s name as though it is an actual person, Phillipe feels a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He takes the side of the towel in his fingers and pulls it away, leaving her body on full display.

  She moves automatically, trying to cover herself, but he drops the towel’s edge and shifts his arm back to hold her in place.

  “Shhh, don’t hide. There’s no one here.”

  “You’re here,” she points out.

  Phillipe chuckles sinfully before he gently bites her naked shoulder. “Yes, but I’ve been looking at your beautiful breasts for the past few hours, Gemma. So, what’s the problem?” he queries. “Is it her?”

  Breathing a little harder, she asks, “Who?”

  Phillipe lifts his head and licks her earlobe. “Her.”

  ***

  I close my eyes, trying to remind myself that she is not really in the room with us.

  “No, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” he questions.

  His teeth nip my lobe. I can feel my pussy clench every time he licks and flicks the soft skin of my ear.

  “Yes. Why would I care that the paintings are here?” I ask, trying to convince myself as well as him.

  He shifts his arm that’s wrapped around my waist, and his hot palm slides down to my bare thigh. Slowly, his hand slides between my legs, and I watch, mesmerized, as he gently tugs on one of my thighs. Like a puppet on a string, my legs part until they are splayed wide on both sides of his.

  As I lean my back against his front, resting my head against his shoulder, he slides that same hand up my thigh until his fingers finally graze my soaked core.

  “Oh, Gemma, you are very, very wet. Look.”

  He inhales deeply and raises his fingers, so I can see them glistening from just one touch between my thighs.

  “So, what is it that has you so excited, Miss Harris?”

  I moan at the formality he adds to my name, reminding me how inappropriate this kind of relationship is with him. Returning his strong fingers to the warmth between my legs, he rubs against my swollen clit.

  “Is it me?” he murmurs.

  I push my hips up to him. I know he isn’t going to stop there.

  When he pushes the tips of his fingers inside of me, he asks the forbidden, “Is it her?”

  I clamp my bottom lip between my teeth and moan loudly.

  “Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.” His conclusion slides over me.

  His other hand comes around me, and I watch as his palm cups my right breast. He squeezes and caresses it while his other fingers slowly push deeper into my aching body. As I’m leaning back against him, spreading my legs wider, I am completely aroused by the sight of the most erotic scene I have ever been a part of.

  “Look at her, Gemma,” he instructs.

  I’m having a hard time tearing my eyes away from his hands while they play over my needy body.

  “Now, tell me what you feel. What do you feel when you look at her?”

  I close my eyes, trying to find some sort of anchor to hold me steady, as he tells me, “Wake up, Gemma. Open your eyes.”

  My heavy eyelids open, and I find myself now staring at the image of Chantel in Armor.

  His seductive voice asks again, “How do you feel?”

  “Hot,” I answer softly.

  “I can’t hear you, Gemma. Louder,” he tells me while his fingers rub over my hard nipple.

  “Hot. It makes me feel hot,” I repeat louder. I arch out my chest, chasing his fingers as they move over my skin.

  “What else?”

  Looking at the painting hanging in front of us, I let my eyes run over her. I confess, “Needy. She makes me feel needy.”

  He groans in my ear as his fingers once again push deep between my wet folds. “You’re so fucking turned on. I think she makes you wet. Doesn’t she?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for his firm fingers to retreat, so they’ll give me that delicious high when they slide back into my greedy demanding body.

  His hand stills as he asks quietly, “What happened yesterday, Gemma?”

  Stiffening in his arms, I feel my thighs tighten. I try to get a grip to pull myself away, but there’s nothing I can do. His fingers are sliding between my hot swollen lips while the other hand is pulling and twisting my nipple.

  “Stop,” I say, panting.

  “No.”

  God help me, my slick cunt clenches in response to his refusal.

  “Tell me,” he demands, like a dog with a bone.

  Between gritted teeth, I answer, “No.”

  His long fingers brush my clit gently. “Are you ashamed?”

  Shaking my head, I arch my hips, my entire body begging for release.

  “Did it have something to do with her?” he persists.

  I cry out when he tightly pinches my nipple.

  “Did it?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I bring one of my hands up to my neglected breast and start to pull and twist the straining peak.

  “Yes, Gemma,” he urges with a deep groan. “Touch yourself. Feel me touch you, and look at us while your body sings. It is singing, Gemma. It’s weeping and crying all over my fingers.”

  Flexing up my hips
, I finally feel his long fingers push deep into my tight, wet core, and I cry out, pinching my nipple hard.

  “Oh yes Gemma, fuck my fingers. God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

  This time, he seems far away. As I turn my head against his shoulder, I see his eyes on the painting in front of us. I know I should be upset that he is looking at her while his fingers are thrusting inside of me, but it turns me on even more. Knowing that he is touching me while fantasizing about her makes my body quiver and clench uncontrollably.

  I finally give him what he wants. “Her,” I confess, my breath brushing over his cheek.

  He turns his head, so his eyes are once again locked with mine. As I look from his eyes to his lips, I feel his hand flex between my thighs while his fingers slide out only to push back in hard.

  “What about her?” he asks, his eyes dilating.

  I can feel his cock pushing insistently against my ass, and I grind against it as I move my hips to meet each thrust of his fingers. Almost cruelly, he pinches my nipple, and I still my hips, biting my bottom lip to control the scream I feel building.

  “What about her, Gemma?” he demands.

  I decide now is as good a time as any to confess my sins and have them washed away. “I had a fantasy.”

  Our eyes never waver as he slowly pulls his long fingers from me. Forcefully, he pushes them back inside, making me groan, but I stay focused on him.

  “What kind of fantasy, Gemma?” he questions, his voice gruff. His mouth is stretched tight in a grimace.

  I close my eyes, remembering the thought of her, while I tweak my nipple. “She was touching me.”

  Before anything else can leave my mouth, he removes his hands, gently pushing me away, and I stumble to move. I’m terrified I’ve gone too far, but before I know it, he’s pulling me down to the rug on the floor. I feel the plush material against my back as he throws the towel, which has been our only barrier, behind us.

  Looking up, I cautiously study him while he sits back on his knees. As he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, he looks above me to the paintings hanging all around us on the wall. I raise my legs up and slowly spread them in invitation. When his eyes finally come back to me, he can see everything that I’m offering. Pushing down the denim, I notice he’s naked beneath, and I feel my pussy clench at the sight of his thick, veiny cock when it’s finally freed.