Chapter 2

I was sitting halfway back, off to the side, when the painting came up. It was relatively late in the auction, and most people were done with their bidding. Not wanting to take any chances, I had volunteered to attend the auction myself, coming up with a flimsy pretext to justify my unnecessary presence. No one had thought anything of it.

This time I let my gaze linger on the other, dark-haired woman, reclining on the hard wooden bench, her left hand lazily holding the chain that depended from the slave girl's collar, her right hand stoking the master's pleasure. What was she, I wondered. Was she also a slave, but a more privileged one, one entitled to clothing at least? Or was she a concubine, one who enjoyed participating in the abuse and training of captured beauties? Her face suggested serenity and experience, not the innocent helplessness of the nude girl kneeling on the floor.

I lifted my marker quickly, indicating a bid of 16,000.

My eyes paused also on the slippers to the left of the master's feet, so neatly placed there. Had the slave girl delicately removed them from his feet with her teeth just a moment before? Had she been commanded to worship them with her lips and tongue, before being granted the privilege of paying homage to his body directly?

I lifted my marker again. The bid was up to 21,000.

And how had the man undressed? Had he torn down his clothes in his haste to have the girl offered before him, or had she also been compelled to gently disrobe him with her teeth, unveiling his manhood in the process?

"Sold," came the auctioneer's voice. I blinked my eyes to clear them. The price had been no higher than I had expected, meaning that no one could find the purchase remarkable. Soon the painting would be delivered to my gallery. I realized I was pressing my thighs together underneath my skirt. My palms were sweating. Luckily there were no more paintings that I needed to bid on. I waved to Myron as I rose and slipped out the back of the auditorium.

In the cab, I called the gallery and said I would be taking the rest of the day off because I didn't feel well, which was at least close to the truth. Because of the rush hour traffic, it was beginning to get dark when I finally arrived at my apartment building in Gramercy Park. I knew Robert would be working late, which meant I would be left to my own devices for the entire evening.

I stood in front of my full-length bedroom mirror as I took off my clothes, first taking care to close the curtains tightly. I saw the naked woman in the mirror straighten her body, drawing in her stomach and lifting her breasts as if for inspection. At an unseen command, she lowered herself to her knees, the palms of her hands sliding down onto her soft thighs. Eyes closed, she felt a booted foot thrust her knees apart, opening her body vulnerably. I watched in shock as she wantonly tossed her head back, letting her brown hair fall behind her shoulders so as not to obscure her rounded, lifted breasts. Her lips parted invitingly.

I compared the girl in the mirror to the one in the painting fixed in my mind's eye. Perhaps the girl in the painting was a bit thinner, her hair a few inches longer, but I thought the girl in the mirror might measure up acceptably. The girl in the mirror shifted to her right, sliding her right foot under her left ankle, and crossed her wrists behind her back, arching her back as she tilted her head forward. A few strands of hair drifted back in front of her shoulder and grazed the side of her breast. I gazed at her out of the corner of my eye. Yes, she might do, I thought. A man might find her worthy of taking, and keeping, to do with as he pleased. All she needed now were a collar on her neck, ropes about her wrists, shackles on her ankles, and a master to serve.

I squirmed on my knees, feeling the warmth build up between my legs. I moaned softly, but kept my hands crossed behind my back, confined by the bonds of my imagination. I had long known of my submissive tendencies, but had limited myself to a few light-hearted bondage sessions with my boyfriends - surely nothing too far from the norm. I had always been too concerned with my career, and the pleasures available to a young woman with a decent salary in Manhattan, to be tempted to pursue those tendencies further. However, seeing the painting - otherwise so unremarkable and devoid of real historical interest - had somehow triggered and inflamed those desires, to the point where I could almost feel the taste of my servitude in my mouth.

I wondered what the girl in the painting would be forced to do next. Unbidden, the girl in the mirror bent forward, lowering her forehead to the carpeted floor, lifting her bottom up in the air, completely exposed from behind. Turning my head to the side, I saw her body heaving as she felt her imaginary tormentors casually making use of her offered body. With a whimper, she squirmed down onto her stomach, her breasts pressed against the floor, her legs widely spread behind her, her wrists still held captive by invisible cords. As I watched, scandalized, she pressed her belly down further into the carpet, moaning as she rubbed herself against its thick pile, pinned in place by invisible masters, forced to cry out her submission to them.

Dazed, I unclasped my hands and crawled up to lie on my bed, my breast heaving. I had not known that girl existed inside me. My torrent of emotions drowned by fatigue, I fell asleep.



The crisp morning air was still drifting into the room from the large window, not yet warmed by the bright sun. I cautiously peered out and down to the street below, frightened of what I might see but irresistibly drawn nevertheless.

Below, the city streets were a jumble of frantic activity. Heavily booted soldiers, their black hair flowing out from under their helmets, tramped over the unpaved streets, weapons drawn, seeking out stragglers from the defending forces. Wounded men lay slumped against the stone walls, their mouths open in gasps or screams. Single women fled through the streets on bare feet, seeking shelter in an open doorway. Strangely, the entire scene was completely quiet, as if an invisible curtain separated me from the world below.

Suddenly I gasped in surprise. Two fair-skinned young women rounded a corner and headed down the street below my window, stumbling as they hurried. Their clothes hung on them in tatters, clearly revealing the softness of their breasts and the lines of their hips. Their hands bound behind their backs, they were unable to close their garments about them to hide themselves from the soldiers' leering gazes. Their necks were confined in rope collars, by which they were yoked together. Most frighteningly, they were being driven down the street by a moustached, dark-skinned man with a flowing scarf on his head, cracking a whip over their heads and occasionally across their scantily protected backs.

I wanted to shrink back from the window, but some unseen force kept me there, my eyes glued to the scene below me. Now they were just below my window. I could see tears in the eyes of the girl on the left, her face familiar to me from one of the many social occasions we had enjoyed in peacetime. Still locked in place, I was unable to hide when her tormentor lifted his gaze to my window, a cruel smile growing on his lips as his eyes locked with mine. I saw him issue commands to his men, but still no sound reached my ears. As I watched, he tied the two women to a post by their collars, and slowly walked through the entranceway to my building, following the two soldiers he had sent ahead.

Only then was I able to tear myself away from the window, but I could only make it as far as the door to my bedroom, afraid to open it and see what lay in wait for me. I clutched my nightgown to my body, feeling the flimsiness of the one veil that might protect me from these intruders. I could feel my heart beating in panic, could hear the ragged breaths escaping my lips as I stared at the door.

Suddenly the eerie silence was broken by sharp pounding against the door. Terrified, I shrank back against the far wall. The pounding increased as the door began to weaken .



I blinked my eyes. Someone was knocking on the door of the apartment next to mine. My clock read 6:55 AM - still another 5 minutes to sleep before I had to get up to go to the gym. I closed my eyes, wondering if I would slip back into that exotic, frightening dream. But I only heard the sounds of delivery trucks on the city streets below.

Five minutes later, I got up, started my coffee maker, and turned on the water in the shower.