The Picture: The Stuff of Dreams

Copyright 2003 by the author

Chapter 1

The first thing I noticed was her face - the half-closed eyes and rounded cheeks both pleading and despairing at the same time as she knelt before her foreign tormentor. I wondered what she might be thinking, kneeling so helplessly before him, her shoulders pulled back by the ropes confining her wrists behind her back, her fair ankles imprisoned in golden shackles, her soft breasts so delicately exposed. I wondered if her head were held forcibly in place by the hand clasped in her brown hair and the chain leash attached to her collar, or if she bent forward willingly to serve her master so abjectly and intimately. Might there be a hint of pleasure, of contentment in those pale cheeks?

"What do you think, Heather?" Myron's voice snapped me out of my reverie, reminding me where I was. I was here to appraise paintings, not lose myself in their depths.

I quickly scanned the remainder of the canvas, taking in the Orientalist motifs, the cliched barbarian, the wanton cruelty of the scene. "It's 1850s, French, a rather mediocre example of what passed for pornography back then," I answered, hoping I wasn't blushing. In fact, paintings of this genre - though usually considerably more refined - had been part of what attracted me to art history in the first place. That, and the attractions of spending summers doing research in Paris, of course. "Some of the details are skillfully done, but overall it isn't particularly remarkable."

"So what do you think we can get for it?" asked Myron. He was a mid-level executive at a prominent uptown auction house, which had hired me to appraise a set of paintings they had obtained from an estate liquidation.

"Oh, twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand," I said nonchalantly.

"OK," he said, making a note in his book. He took me by the elbow the way middle-aged men like ushering young women, and led me to the next painting. I snuck a final glance over my shoulder at the nude, bound figure, her master's passion spilling over her red lips and onto her ivory chin, trapped forever in that pose of helpless subservience. I felt a wave of warmth between my thighs and turned my gaze to the next painting.

Although the collection included many more notable paintings - including one that might have been a Manet - it was still that crude image of a slave girl's subjection that stuck in my mind as I took a cab down to my gallery on 57th Street. I closed my eyes and pressed my thighs together as I tried to imagine what that girl might be feeling, her knees pressed against the hard floor as she desperately sought to please her master.

By the time I arrived at the gallery, I had an idea. Mid-19th-century French historical paintings were actually one of our genres. Unlike the downtown galleries, our clients were the old rich and new rich co-op owners of the Upper East Side, people who wanted the opulence of continental nobility in their 4,000 square foot apartments. Naturally, we would be bidding on the collection at the auction the next week. And as the assistant director, it was up to me to determine which pieces we would bid on, and how much we would pay. As I wrote my report, I included the painting that fascinated me on our "A" list, and put down a price that should be sufficient to win it. Although we were bidding on pieces that I had just appraised, I didn't worry about conflicts of interest - this was hardly exceptional in the closely-knit world of fine arts in New York.

I left my report on the director's desk for his final review and headed downtown for my date with Robert, all the while imagining what might happen later that evening. We had been going out for a couple months, and though our relationship had been casually romantic so far, I found myself involuntarily fantasizing about what it might be like to kneel before him, my eyes half-closed, and please him as best I could. I felt my cheeks grow warm and my breathing grow faster. Luckily, the taxi stopped at the restaurant, and I stepped outside into the cool, refreshing air.

I flirted shamelessly with Robert throughout dinner, doing my best to lick my lips and chew my vegetables as sensuously as possible, crossing and uncrossing my legs under my short skirt. I think he knew what I was doing, but he was more than happy to play along. By the time we made it into my apartment, we were all over each other, kissing and fumbling with our clothes, and soon I was naked and on my back on the couch, he poised above me.

"Wait," I said, an idea suddenly coming to my mind. I took his arms and gently guided him down until he was sitting on the couch, as I slipped off the couch onto my knees before him. I took his right hand and placed it in my hair, lifting my wide eyes to him hungrily. Then, letting my eyes flutter closed, I bent my head forward and extended my tongue. I heard him utter a soft moan as I bent to my task. I don't think he noticed when I clasped my hands together behind my back.

"Thank you," he said as we crawled into bed and I snuggled up to him, my brown hair cascading across his shoulder.

"Thank you," I whispered as I began to drift off to sleep.



As if in a trance, I rose from my bed and walked over to the large window. Outside in the night, tiny points of red light flickered in the distance. Somehow I knew they were the campfires of an invading army. The cool breeze blew my thin silk nightgown closely against my body and raised goose pimples on my bare forearms. I shivered. I saw people moving restlessly in the dusty street below, but strangely no sound reached my ears. Larger fires broke out sporadically along the city walls, each time doused by teams of soldiers bearing buckets of water carried from the central well. I felt afraid, terribly afraid. The air became colder and colder. I wrapped my arms tightly around my body. I felt the building begin to shake as a battering ram began its rhythmic assault on the city gate.



I was wide awake. Robert was snoring softly. I rose quietly to close the window and shut out the cool autumn air, and slipped back into bed, pressing my belly and breasts against his firm body. He moaned softly as I caressed his chest with my small hand. I wondered what, if anything, my dream meant, as I fell into a deep sleep.