Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance

by Sansa Rayne

  Seeing me fight my bonds causes Pierce to lurch against me, and then he groans sonorously as the train hurtles by. He pulls out quickly, spurting his seed across my face. I gasp, stoked by his load’s warmth as it gets in my hair and trickles down my nose and cheeks.

  Moving quickly, he takes out his phone and begins taking pictures.

  Trembling, trying to catch my breath, I glance at myself in the monitors. An image of unbridled depravity, I can’t watch it for more than a couple seconds without shuddering. Pierce gives me a variety of directions on where to look, how to act and what expressions to make. As we work, I realize just how much effort he put into this project.

  After a few minutes, he steps around me and removes my handcuffs. He pockets them and continues taking pictures.

  “Strip,” he says, continuing to shoot.

  I don’t take my eyes off him as I pull down the dress. Once naked, he continues to take dozens and dozens of photos, and directs me to get on my hands and knees; to cover my chest and sex as though in fear; and to look up in the air despairingly. I make every pose he requests, and when he’s done, I strike a few of my own. He snaps countless shots of me curled into a ball on the mattress, or lying down on my chest as a train passes. He obliges my request to make a few rips in my dress so I can pose in it again, with and without the cuffs.

  Tears spring from my eyes during the shoot, as I imagine myself the victim of some madman’s perverse fantasy. Who would do such a thing to someone? Is it because they’re a total psychopath, wholly without sympathy or compassion — or because they themselves suffered? If I inhabit the victim, can I understand the monster? Exploring this question entices my fascination, and for hours, I try to delve into that mindset.

  And when we’ve exhausted all our ideas for the shoot, I slip off the dress and get back on the mattress. I look into Pierce’s eyes as he lowers himself down next to me, and kisses me.

  I was right to trust my instincts; this has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. By myself, I never would have attempted anything this crazy, and it has definitely satisfied my desire to defy the law. At least, for now.

  We kiss passionately, as if we could devour one another, and then Pierce turns me over so he can fulfill a few more of my fantasies. On all fours, I howl as he spanks my ass with his hands, and then his belt. My voice echoes through the abandoned station, and I have to wonder if it’s carrying through the tunnels. I don’t care if anyone can hear me; I’m lost in the ecstasy of agony as the man I think I love swats my bottom until it glows purple in the bluish light of the station.

  And when I’ve had enough punishment, he drives his cock into my drenched pussy and fucks me like a demon, and all I can do is wail and scream at one train after another.

  “What do you think of this one?” a middle-aged man in a bespoke suit asks a much younger redhead shuffling at his side. They pause, staring at the piece in front of them.

  “Sexy,” her coquettish voice squeaks against the din of the crowd. “Like, in a nasty way.”

  “Doesn’t it make you think of the passage of time, and that we spend our lives moving so quickly, we miss the best parts?”

  She shrugs. “I guess.”

  They move on to the next photograph, which hangs from a peach-colored wall a few feet away. Soon, another pair of patrons approaches the picture, analyzing it for the artist’s intent. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared in my entire life.

  Even though I’ve been to the gallery once before, I still feel totally out of my element. Everyone speaks the way I imagine tenured college professors do during a lecture; I’ve never heard the word “metaphor” spoken aloud so many times in one night. Waiters and waitresses weave through the crowd with trays of appetizers that look like something off the cover of a culinary magazine. The price tags attached to the exhibits make me dizzy. What’s worse, this time I’m not free to just stand around and watch. I have to be ready to converse… about art.

  How the fuck did that happen?

  Sooner or later, one of the guests is going to look at me and try to strike up a conversation, and then my cover will be blown. They’ll know I’m an interloper, and that all I did was take a bunch of hot nude pictures of my girlfriend and pass it off as art. They’re all so smart. How could they not tell?

  How does Sibel do this?

  I laugh to myself, realizing that of course I’m a wreck: it’s my first time. Still, I can’t remember when I last felt this nervous, and I’m not even the one getting most of the attention. As usual, that’s Sibel.

  She’s is clearly well-known at Galleria Carnale, but this is the first time she’s monopolized the entire building. Sixty photos from down in the subway have been chosen for the exhibition, called “Dirty Sexy Tragic.”

  “Tragic” for short. As Sibel tells everyone in an introductory video at the entrance, “Many of us have a darkness in our heart — some kind of pain we try to leave behind. But no matter how hard we try, we end up going back to it, if only for a few seconds. We abandon it, but it’s still there — and if we look, we might see the trauma lurking in the shadows, beneath the surface. If we see it, maybe we respond to it, or at the very least acknowledge it. Perhaps we’d take from it what beauty there is to be seen in tragedy, and remember what light there is to be found in darkness.”

  Couldn’t have said it better myself.

  In the shot closest to me, she’s lying flat on her back, draping her arms across the mattress. In the background, a subway train is a bright streak of white and green. She faces the camera, looking lost and alone. It’s a good one, I admit — one of her poses.

  If Sibel’s worried about the legal implications of these photos, she doesn’t show it. Half of the images on display make her look like a crime victim, a survivor of an unspeakable atrocity, but no one acts surprised or perturbed. Each photo features a card underneath with an explanation of her thought process, giving everyone insight into her vision.

  Or, our vision, as she makes sure to tell everyone — though I almost wish she’d take sole credit.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Sibel asks, sidling up to me. “You look tense.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, meaning it. Seeing her sets me right. “How about you?”

  She smirks. “A little uncomfortable.”

  “Only a little?”

  Underneath the stunning silver gown she wears, there’s a thick, black plug in her bottom. Every step she takes, she feels it.

  “Thanks, by the way,” she says, surreptitiously rubbing her bottom. “Because this wasn’t stressful enough already.”

  “Don’t remind me, pet,” I tease. “Unless you want me to sport an erection in front of the entire gallery.”

  “Look around,” she snorts. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  I laugh. She’s right. This is Galleria Carnale, after all.

  “And that’s not what I meant anyway,” Sibel adds. “I’m uncomfortable because this is the first time I’ve been given a solo exhibition here. It’s a little scary.”

  “You’re doing great,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. I kiss her forehead and inhale her perfume. “You’ve probably sold half the series.”

  “Thanks. I’m just not used to… I mean, normally I’d be performing right now, not mingling, you know?”

  I nod, then lick my lips. “Would you be more comfortable if I ripped that dress off?”

  She laughs. “Maybe!”

  “Excuse me,” comes a voice from behind us. We turn to see a couple, a man and woman dressed in matching black-and-white striped shirts.

  “Sorry to intrude. Could we borrow Ms. Isaacs?” the man asks, adjusting his red neck scarf.

  “Sure thing,” I say, giving Sibel a quick peck on the cheek.

  She smiles at me, then follows the couple away. I grin as I hear her gasp; her step falters for a moment, as she feel the intrusion in her rear.

  I don’t know the pair she’s speaking with, but judging from the camera hanging from a
strap around the woman’s shoulder, I’d say they’re more photographers. Modeling agencies, artists and others have been introducing themselves to her all night. It’s a wonder she can keep them all straight.

  Of course, having Steph around has helped. She’s been taking appointments, tracking the sales and handling questions about the photoshoot.

  Sorry, the location will remain undisclosed.

  No, the City of New York and MTA did not endorse the exhibition.

  “Yes, the photos were shot by Pierce Williams, but no, they are not working together in an official capacity,” she answers for what must be at least the ninth time tonight. When I turn to look, I see a woman staring back at me. Dressed in blue jeans, a denim jacket and a pink beanie, she’s holding out her phone to record her conversation with Steph. I’m guessing she’s a reporter.

  “Thank you,” she says to Steph, already turning toward me.

  Oh, here we go.

  “Mr. Williams!” she says. “My name is Delia Ames. I have an art blog, Ames on the City. Can I speak with you?”

  Sibel warned me this would happen — she may be the subject of the show, but I did take the pictures, and the scene was my idea. “Sure,” I say, straightening my tie.

  “Great, thanks. So, if you and Ms. Isaacs aren’t working together, how did this shoot come about?”

  I take a deep breath.

  Okay, just like you practiced.

  “The shoot was a joint collaboration between Sibel and myself,” I recite. “It was a great experience, and I hope she will ask me to work with her again in the future.”

  Delia smiles politely, though I’ve skirted her question.

  “So this exhibit was her idea?” she asks.

  “Like I said, it was a shared project.”

  “She didn’t come to you with a proposal for it?”

  Fuck, she’s not giving this up, is she?

  “This is something we worked out together,” I say, giving my voice a little edge.

  Delia shrinks back a little as my eyes bore into hers, but she nods. “Then the two of you already knew each other? Is that right?”

  “It is. We’ve been acquainted for a few months,” I explain.

  “Acquainted?”

  Like a genie summoned from a bottle, Sibel arrives at my side. “We’re dating,” she answers, cutting in.

  “Really?” replies Delia, arching a thin eyebrow. “How did that happen?”

  I smirk, reminded of the album of bound mannequins. “She inspired me to pursue my own artistic expression.”

  Sibel takes my hand. “He turned out to be very creative.”

  Losing her friendly demeanor, Delia turns to Sibel. “How do you feel about your boyfriend’s website? Do you condone the content he peddles?”

  Sibel stiffens, but doesn’t let go of my hand.

  Peddles. It’s such a loaded word, and it raises my hackles every time I hear it.

  “Excuse me, Delia. My company was founded on the belief that people with an aberrant sexuality need a safe outlet for their desires. I may be a ‘peddler’ of erotic material, but my business exists because it is impossible for people to deny their true urges; as a society, we have to find healthy ways to address and satisfy them. Repression causes more harm than good.”

  “But what about your-”

  “As for my work with Ms. Isaacs,” I continue. “I was thrilled to create something that was undeniably sexy, but in ways that might make some people uncomfortable. It’s my hope that ‘Dirty Sexy Tragic’ will help raise awareness toward how we handle the issue of deviant sexuality, both in terms of offering acceptance where appropriate and protection when necessary.”

  Delia waits for me to finish, then points her phone back at Sibel. “Do you agree with this, Ms. Isaacs?”

  She glances at me for a moment, then nods. “I do, yes.”

  “Thank you for your time,” says Delia. She shuts off her phone and lets it slip into her purse.

  “You’re welcome,” Sibel replies.

  We turn away from the blogger, and when I see we’re actually alone, I reach for Sibel’s bottom and give it a squeeze. She moans, shaking her ass against my hand, feeling the plug lodged up her tight hole.

  “Feeling okay, pet?”

  She looks up at me and grins. “I’m fine. Just fucking horny. I’ve spent half the night looking at my naked pictures and thinking about us being there. And it doesn’t help that usually during these shows I’m performing. I need to fucking come.”

  I laugh. “You poor thing. Want to find somewhere private and fix that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She points toward a door on the other side of the room, and we make our move, weaving our way through the audience.

  We don’t make it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention!” a loud, female voice shouts over the noise.

  What now?

  “Oh god,” says Sibel.

  The woman speaking waits for the crowd to quiet and for the lights to dim. She wears a chic, black pantsuit that matches her straight, raven locks. With a spotlight trained on her pale face, she almost looks like her head and upper body are suspended in midair.

  “What is it? Who is that?”

  Sibel’s voice comes out in a high squeak. “Joplin Bright! She owns the gallery! I think this means…”

  “Thank you, everyone,” the woman says, cutting through the lingering bits of conversation. “It’s my pleasure and honor to announce that all of the pieces from ‘Dirty Sexy Tragic’ have now been sold. Congratulations, Sibel! Where are you?”

  Sibel lifts onto her toes to kiss me on the cheek. “Be right back.”

  I give her rear a pat as she goes, excusing herself as she pushes past people.

  “Here!” she calls out when she gets close to Joplin and falls under the spotlight. The crowd breaks out into applause, prompting Sibel to clutch her hands in front of her chest and bow, nodding and mouthing her thanks to everyone.

  “Sibel has a special announcement,” Joplin says, once the roar dies down a little. “Sibel?”

  “That’s right. First, I want to thank all of you for purchasing these pieces. It means a lot to me and Pierce, but also to hundreds of people you’ll probably never meet. That’s because the proceeds from ‘Tragic’ will be donated to a variety of shelters for women, children and the homeless throughout the city-”

  Whatever Sibel says next gets lost in an eruption of applause, including my own. The announcement comes as a total surprise to everyone, including me. Cheering her on with everyone else, I feel so proud of Sibel, for a second I can barely breathe.

  She has to wait for more than a minute for the gallery to quiet. “Thank you to everyone who made a purchase. For anyone who did not but who would still like to make a charitable donation, please see Mrs. Bright before you leave. And I wanted to thank her for hosting this exhibition, and Pierce Williams for his work, and my friend Steph, for all her help tonight and throughout the last few years. Thank you, everyone.”

  The crowd offers a final round of adulation for Sibel, who nods to them as she makes her way back to me.

  “Okay,” she says. “Where were we?”

  I sling my arm around her shoulder and pull her in for a kiss. Without any trace of hesitation, she returns my embrace, moaning as she shuts her eyes. She doesn’t care who knows we’re dating, or what they have to say about it.

  “You ready to go?” I ask, turning her around so I can paw at her plugged ass.

  Biting her lip, she nods.

  I don’t waste another second; I take her by the hand and haul us out the door.

  Pierce doesn’t want to make out with a cab driver watching in the rear-view mirror, but I can’t wait any longer. While he watches, I quietly finger myself, probing my hooked digit into my drenched opening.

  “You’re being very naughty, pet,” Pierce whispers in my ear.

  “You can punish me later,” I say, then gasp as a wave of pleasure
makes me shiver.

  “I intend to.”

  When the cab finally reaches the warehouse, Pierce passes a pair of twenties to the driver, hoping to distract him from how heavy I’m breathing and blushing. I don’t even realize it when we’ve arrived, or that he’s waiting.

  “Earth to Sibel, let’s go!”

  Opening my eyes, I whimper and straighten my dress. I smile as he takes my hand to help me out of the car, and then lean against him as we head for the building. He lets us in, and as soon as the door is shut behind us, he pins me against the door with his godlike body and kisses me. Our breaths taste faintly of the champagne we drank at the gallery, and my hard, sensitive nipples ache against the fabric of my dress.

  “You did a great thing tonight,” he murmurs in my ear. “You should get a nice reward.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, shaking in his grip. He reaches a hand into my dress, fingers tickling my thighs until he finds the base of my buttplug. He pulls gently, drawing it out a little bit — not all the way, but enough to make my head buzz and my pussy ache.

  “You know your artsy friends aren’t so bad,” he says, letting the plug sink back in. “I’d love to do that again sometime.”

  “Me too,” I mumble, stifling a scream as he pulls hard on the plug, nearly dislodging it.

  “We’ll have to do another photo shoot.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Just please, I need to come now,” I beg. It would be so easy to make myself orgasm, but Pierce wouldn’t want me to. “Please!”

  “Don’t worry, pet,” Pierce says as he slides the plug out for good. “We’re not going to stop until the sun comes up.”

  I moan in pleasure as the toy departs. Then I open my eyes-

  -just as Chase says, “Well, that sounds like fun.”

  Screaming, I instinctively turn to the door and twist the knob. It takes a minute for my fear to pass, and for the haze to clear enough that I hear Pierce telling me it’s okay.

  When I recover, Chase is still laughing. He’s not holding any sort of weapon, and he’s wearing a bathrobe, so I feel certain he’s not a threat, but that doesn’t make what he did any less obscene.