The Red

  Mona called around to every gallery in town and was given the name and number for Sebastian Leon, a well-respected Degas historian. She took the sketch to him at his apartment on the West Side. When he opened the door to let her in, she was surprised by how young and handsome he was. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, and the energy with which he greeted her and the sketch was that of an eager schoolboy.

  "I couldn’t sit still waiting for you,” Sebastian said as he pulled her into his apartment. It was a small, intimate sort of place, brick walls painted white with colored framed Degas prints and sketches hung everywhere she looked. He led her to his blue velvet sofa, gave her a glass of white wine, and he sat next to her so close their shoulders touched. "I’ve been pacing.”

  He spoke with near childlike enthusiasm. A man who loved art. She liked him already.

  "Here it is,” she said. "I need to know if it’s really his.”

  Sebastian took the sketch from her, which she’d pressed flat into a leather portfolio. He put on white cloth gloves, opened the portfolio and said, "Ahh…” at the sight of it. "Beautiful.” He had curling dark hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears. The curls fell over his forehead as he bent to examine the sketch.

  "Have you seen it before?” she asked, looking more at Sebastian than at the sketch.

  "Other sketches like it, but not this one. It looks like his lines. Just like it,” Sebastian said. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined the signature. He sniffed the paper, explaining that forgeries often had a recognizable smell.

  "What do you think?” she asked when he at last placed the sketch into the portfolio and closed it again reverently, like a monk closing his illuminated Bible.

  "It’s real,” he said with a boyish grin. "It’s absolutely real. I have no doubt.”

  "Wonderful,” she said. "How much?”

  "If it were me—and I wish it was—I’d have it insured for sixty thousand at least.”

  "I will. Thank you.” They clinked their wine glasses in a toast and drank in their happiness.

  "I have to ask,” he said as she set his glass down on the table. "Where does it come from? You have the provenance?”

  "A man gave it to me as a gift.”

  "A man gave it to you? Simply gave it to you?”

  "He’d taken me to bed the night before,” she said, wanting to impress handsome Sebastian, perhaps even shock him. "The next morning he had white roses and that sketch delivered to the gallery.”

  "I don’t know who I envy more,” he said. "You for having the sketch. Or him, for having you.”

  Sebastian didn’t try to take her to bed, but she sensed he wanted to. Professional courtesy kept him chaste, perhaps? She kissed him goodbye on the cheek, and he told her if her lover had any Degas paintings in storage, she should do whatever he asked to get one. No maidenly modesty in the world was worth more than a Degas painting. Mona promised him that she would do anything she could.

  It was a promise she meant to keep.

  It took very little time to have the sketch insured, especially with Sebastian Leon’s imprimatur behind it. And overnight she was worth sixty thousand more dollars, and all for selling her body to Malcolm. She felt no guilt over sleeping with Malcolm in exchange for valuable art. Although she’d been desperately sore after their night together and had worn finger-sized pale blue bruises on her breasts for a week afterwards, she felt no negative aftereffects. She’d even gone to the nearest clinic and had herself tested for every possible venereal disease and after a tense two weeks of waiting received the results—all negative. Nor was she pregnant, which hadn’t concerned her as much since she was on the pill. He was keeping his end of the bargain. Nothing to do but keep hers.

  One month passed.

  She knew it was time for another liaison when she walked into her office the fourth Saturday evening after her first assignation with Malcolm and found a book of art history on her desk that she hadn’t left there. Inside the book was her red velvet choker that Malcolm had taken off her neck while she’d slept. Now it was a bookmark. So this is how he intended to give her instructions on how to wait for him, by showing her a painting? How fitting. How very Malcolm. Last time it had been Manet’s Olympia. Her hand shook with equal parts nervousness and excitement as she opened the page.

  The Slave Market by Jean-Léon Gérôme, 1866.

  Interesting choice. Ostensibly it was a painting that showed the horrors of the Near East slave trade. A young girl was stripped naked by her owner in the open market square while men—prospective buyers—gathered round her and inspected the goods on display. One man even held her by her hair and put his finger in mouth to examine her teeth. Horrible, yes. Oh, but titillating too. She’d always thought of it as a teenage boy’s fantasy of the slave trade—idealized, romanticized, and eroticized. Imperialistic colonial pornography. Yet the naked girl was beautiful with her golden skin, her dark black hair. Unlike Olympia she was passive, accepting the men’s gaze, their touch, their ownership of her without a challenge. She could see why Malcolm would want her in this pose. Would he examine her teeth as well? She’d have to behave herself. The temptation to bite him if he put a finger in her mouth would be almost overwhelming.

  So she was to be his slave girl in the marketplace tomorrow night.

  Very well. She could do that. Sunday after she closed the gallery, she went to her apartment to nap and to shower and to shave. She arranged her hair as best she could to match the girl in the Gérôme painting. She parted it down the middle and tied it with a purple ribbon at the nape of her neck. Wearing her favorite purple summer dress and sandals, she walked back to the gallery. This time she packed empty glass tumblers she could fill with water at the gallery from the bathroom tap. She didn’t want to give Malcolm any more ideas.

  He seemed to have enough ideas of his own.

  It was near midnight when she returned to the gallery. She was eager to see Malcolm again, and even more eager to see what artwork she’d earn from his collection. At least she told herself all she cared about was earning the art, earning money for The Red. That she enjoyed earning the money was beside the point. And yet, her step was quick and she’d spent half the day checking the clock.

  It was time.

  She went to the red door that led to the back room, took a steadying breath, and pushed it open. At once she was seized by rough male hands and dragged into the room. The door slammed behind her and she was pushed against it, her back to it. She tried to scream but a hand covered her mouth.

  "Quiet, girl.”

  The words came from Malcolm, though he did not look as he did when she’d last seen him. He’d grown a short beard and mustache, which made him look older, even slightly sinister. He held a rope in one hand. So it was to be role play? Very well. She’d given him carte blanche. Anything meant anything. She shouldn’t be shocked or afraid. But she was afraid. She was.

  They weren’t alone.

  With Malcolm’s hand over her mouth she glanced around the room wildly in her panic. Four men in suits stood waiting by a wooden box in the center of the room. All four men wore masquerade masks—one black, one gray, one red, one gold. They were cyphers in their masks, anonymous. Only Malcolm was unmasked.

  "Is there a problem with the girl?” one of the men called out, the one in the red mask. His tone was imperious.

  "Not at all,” Malcolm said. "I’ve got her.”

  "Let’s see her then,” the man in the black mask said. He sounded bored, impatient. "We haven’t got all night.”

  Who were these men? She couldn’t ask because Malcolm had ordered her into silence and his hand still covered her mouth.

  "Coming,” Malcolm said. "You won’t be disappointed.”

  He spun her without warning, turning her back to him. He put his mouth at her ear and whispered, "Do not fight me, girl. Put on a good show. I want a high price for you.”

  A good show… He’d told her last time she existed to entertain him. So be it. She
nodded and said nothing, though her heart still raced with terror. Would he let all these men fuck her? No. She knew he wouldn’t.

  Or did she?

  He took her by the arms and pulled her away from the door. He walked behind her, steering her to the center of the room where the four masked men waited. She tried to study their faces but only one lamp was lit, and they were all in shadows. Only the colors of their masks could be clearly seen. She looked at the floor instead.

  "On the box,” Malcolm ordered and she stepped up onto the low wooden platform. Malcolm bent and pulled her shoes from her feet, tossing them into the shadows. He stood and mounted the platform behind her.

  "Let’s have a look,” the man in the gold mask said and the other masked men nodded their heads in agreement.

  Behind her, Malcolm dragged the straps of her purple summer dress down her arms. She wore no bra and she had to force herself not to fight him as he pushed her dress down and let it pool at her feet. In an instant he had a small sharp knife out and he used the blade to cut her panties off her hips and those he tossed into the shadows with her shoes.

  She was naked, completely naked, and standing in front of four strange men. Malcolm produced a rope from his jacket pocket and used it to tie her hands in front of her. Then he reached high and she looked up. He’d hung a metal hook from a ceiling beam. With a swift and easy motion that showed he’d done this sort of thing a thousand times before, Malcolm hoisted her hands over her head and secured the ropes on her wrists to the hook.

  There was no escape.

  Mona wiggled her hands and the men chuckled at the sight of her struggles.

  "Here we are, gentlemen,” Malcolm said. "Tonight’s best lot. Take your time. Bid high. She’s worth it.”

  "I’ll be the judge of that,” the man in the red mask said as he stepped up onto the wooden platform. Malcolm stood behind her, holding her hair in his hand. Mona panted in fear and anticipation. The red-masked man placed his hand on her quivering stomach and stroked her side and hips.

  "Very smooth skin,” he said.

  "The smoothest you’ll find on the market,” Malcolm said.

  The red-masked man took a hard handful of her thigh and gripped it, slapped it. The men watching laughed again.

  "The breasts are particularly fine,” Malcolm said. "As you see.”

  "I see,” the red-masked man said.

  "I don’t,” said another man.

  "Then come see for yourself,” Malcolm ordered.

  The man in the red mask stepped off the platform and the man in the gold mask stepped on. Without hesitation he groped her right breast with a large strong hand. Mona cried out more in shock than pain. With her hands tied so high, her breasts were exposed and she couldn’t cover them in any way. It was stunning to be touched so intimately by a stranger. He lifted the breast as if to weigh it in his palm, then he pulled the nipple, twisting it a little, teasing and testing it.

  "Very nice,” the gold-masked man said, nodding. He shifted to the side and did the same to her left breast. He groped it firmly, squeezed it, lifted and weighed it, before pinching the nipple again, tugging it, and letting it go. "How’s the ass?”

  "See for yourself.” Malcolm turned her so that her back was to the gold-masked man. She felt a hand on her backside, rubbing her from her hip to her upper thigh.

  "A full ass,” the man said, pleased, as he rubbed. "Soft but not too soft.” He slapped it once and Mona gasped, gasped again when he gripped it in both hands and squeezed it, then pinched it. "Young firm flesh. My favorite.”

  "I told you she was worth the money,” Malcolm said.

  It was unbearable, being treated like this, treated like chattel. She burned hot with shame and humiliation. Tears stung her eyes. Her breathing was labored and her arms ached. She wanted to cover herself so badly.

  "We have to see the cunt first,” another man said. "You know that.”

  "Of course,” Malcolm said, laughing. "Of course you have to see the cunt.”

  "Let’s see it then.”

  Mona groaned as Malcolm turned her to face the four men again. Two of them stepped onto the platform, the man in the black mask and the man in the red mask. Each of them took one of her legs in his hands and hoisted her off her feet. They held her thighs open, her feet dangling helplessly in mid-air, her sex open and exposed. The man in the gray mask stepped forward. He didn’t stand on the platform. He was at eye level with her vulva.

  She shivered and moaned as the man in the gray mask extended his hand and lightly touched her pubic lips.

  "Exquisite,” he said. "Well-formed.”

  "Tight too,” Malcolm said. "But she can take anything you want to give her.”

  She saw the hint of a smile on the gray mask’s lips. With his thumb and forefinger, he opened the inner folds of her vulva, revealing the hole, the entrance to her body. He slipped one finger into it.

  "And wet. Very wet,” the man in the gray mask said. It was true. Humiliating but true. For all her shame and fear, she was undeniably aroused as well. The man inserted a second finger into her and spread the two fingers wide in a V. She felt herself opening. It was a violation of the sanctity of her body. Why did she relish it?

  "What have we here…” the man said as he pushed his fingertip into a deep hollow inside her, near the pubic bone. He pushed hard into the hollow, poked the hollow, prodded at it, teased the delicate dancing nerves. "I can feel her pulse right here. Very rapid.”

  "Let me feel it,” the man in the gold mask said. She was empty again but only for a moment, as the gold-masked man put his finger into her and found that same little hollow along the back wall. Her head fell back onto Malcolm’s shoulder as the man in the gold man fingered and fondled her while she hung in the air, spread out and on display. The man in the gold mask examined her clitoris as well, kneeling in front of her and pulling up the tiny hood of flesh to see the organ. It was swollen and she hated herself for that. She hated it all, hated being held, being opened, being examined and displayed…

  Oh, but she loved it too.

  As the man in the gold mask continued to spread out and probe her sex, the man in the black mask turned his attention to her mouth. She struggled against Malcolm’s shoulder as the man pried her lips apart.

  "Don’t bite,” he chided as he stuck a finger into her mouth. She felt it against her teeth. He was counting them, she could tell. But when he was done, he left his finger pressed lightly against her tongue. Now they’d made her mute. A hand that belonged to someone, she didn’t know which man, grasped her breast again and cupped it roughly. A hot mouth latched onto her other nipple and sucked it hard. The fingers worked inside her sex, stroking and rubbing and opening her up wider and wider. She heard the sounds of her own intense wetness. Her labia were pulled and tugged like her nipples, lightly slapped before he, whoever it was this time, pushed his fingers into her again. Three fingers this time, or was it four? She couldn’t tell anymore. She was dripping with need. Five men and their mouths and their hands were all together touching her, fondling her, sucking her and penetrating her mouth and her sex as she writhed and moaned softly, unable to protest or cry out or beg for mercy or—even worse and far more likely—begged them to fuck her. She craved their cocks, all five of them. Before, she’d feared Malcolm would let them fuck her. Now she feared he wouldn’t. But these were mad thoughts. She couldn’t let that happen. She struggled in the iron grasp of the five men, but it did no good, only harm, as the writhing brought her even closer to climax.

  Then they all let her go.

  It happened so fast, she would have fallen to the floor if the rope hadn’t held her wrists. They released her and stepped off the platform as if someone had given a command she hadn’t heard. She shivered, suddenly cold. Only Malcolm still stood close. She wanted to press her body into his, but he had her by the waist, holding her in place.

  "Well, gentlemen, any other requests?” Malcolm asked. "Are we ready to start the bidding yet?”


  She braced herself for the haggling. What were they buying? The right to fuck her? Or was it still part of the game?

  "Bend her over,” one of the men said. "Let’s see all her holes.”

  "If you insist,” Malcolm said.

  "I want to know exactly what I’m getting,” the man in the red mask said. "If it’s no trouble.”

  "I admire a savvy buyer. And no,” Malcolm said. "No trouble at all. I’ll put her on the pedestal.”

  "Very good,” the red-masked man said. The other three men murmured their assent.

  Pedestal? What sort of pedestal? Malcolm dragged her off the wooden platform and into the shadows. The light followed as one of the men lifted the floor candle and carried it over to the far corner of the room where Malcolm was taking her. She saw something there, something waist high and covered with a large velvet cloth. Malcolm pulled off the cloth and dropped it to the floor. It was a black leather stool of sorts, but wide enough for her to kneel upon easily. Jutting up from the center of the seat was a large thick phallus, smooth black leather and terrifyingly long—a foot long at least. She shrank from the sight of it, but Malcolm didn’t allow her to flee. He lifted her off her feet and placed her on the top of the pedestal. He took her hips and angled them so that the tip of the phallus kissed the entrance of her hole.

  "Take it,” he said, an order she couldn’t refuse. Her body wouldn’t let her. She went down onto her hands and knees and sank