onto the phallus, sliding her knees apart and taking as much of it into her as she could. As wet as she was, the massive object went into her easily and she rocked on it a little to take even more. She felt the muscles giving way to the phallus, accepting it, engulfing it. Malcolm had her pinned like a moth under glass. Pinned and put on display.
"Gentlemen, have a look,” Malcolm said. "I have oil here if you need it.”
The consummate salesman.
Mona hung her head, hiding her face behind her hair as the first man whose face she couldn’t see in this position came behind her and spread her buttocks apart. He made a pleased sound like he liked what he saw. He touched her with a finger and she gasped and shuddered. The fingertip was wet, covered in some sort of thick oil or lubricant. He slicked it all over the little hole, all around it. She tingled at the unusual sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant being caressed there on that sensitive opening, wasn’t unpleasant when the man slid a single finger into her as far as his finger could go. He held the finger in her, not moving it for a long time. She heard the men talking among themselves, saying things like "Very nice” and "Well done.” Inside her she felt the man moving his finger, not in and out, but around in a circle, opening her ever more and more.
"You have a plug?” the man asked Malcolm.
"Of course,” Malcolm said.
The finger left her but she soon felt something cold against her, cold and smooth like another phallus but far narrower than the one inside her sex. The man wielding it pushed the tip into her, paused, then pushed it in a few inches more as Mona let out a tense hiss between her teeth. Never before had a lover put anything into her ass—not a finger, not a phallus, not a cock. Yet here it was, going in as if it was made for her body. The man slid it in to the hilt and stopped. The base of the plug would let it go no deeper. Soft moans escaped her lips as Mona’s body adjusted itself to being doubly penetrated on the pedestal. She rocked back and forth, fucking herself with the phallus inside her vagina as the four prospective "buyers” walked around her. One stroked her hair, lifted it and sniffed it. Another stood by her face and took her nipples between his fingers and lightly pulled them. His fingers were cold and sent currents of electricity through her breasts and back. Another man played with her clitoris. His fingertip was wet with the oil as he stroked her. The last man rubbed her buttocks, caressing them lightly but over and over again. Sometimes he would pause to touch the plug or the phallus between caresses.
"Now, gentlemen,” Malcolm began, "let’s start the bidding, shall we?”
"I’ll take her for a hundred,” the man in the red mask said. A hundred dollars? A hundred thousand? A hundred days?
"Anyone wish to counter-offer?” Malcolm asked.
"Too rich for my blood,” the man in the gold mask said. He pinched her nipples again and she flinched as her sex contracted around the phallus.
"Mine too, I’m afraid,” said another man. He slapped her thigh lightly as if saying goodbye to prize horseflesh.
"I’d love to take her,” the last man said. "But I promised myself I wouldn’t spend more than eighty.”
"Then I think we have a deal, my good sir,” Malcolm said. The man in the red mask had been the one fondling her clitoris. Through the veil of her hair she saw him and Malcolm shaking hands. They moved out of her eye line, stood behind her. "Shall I take her off the pedestal for you?”
"No,” the man in the red mask said. "Leave her there. I’ll handle it.”
She heard footsteps, the door opening and closing, but she was certain the man in the red mask hadn’t left her because she felt his finger on her clitoris again. And then on her labia split wide by the huge phallus penetrating her.
"Magnificent,” he said. "Worth every penny.”
He took her hips in his hands and pushed her down, forcing her to take more of the phallus. Her head came up and she moaned with need. She could barely see. Everything was red. The blood behind her eyes, the blaze of her desire, the engorged flesh of her sex, all red, red everything everywhere, red as the man’s mask, the man who owned her. He lifted her up and off the pedestal and put her on her feet. He’d opened his black suit pants and his cock was out, erect and glistening with fluid at the engorged red tip. She had to have it inside her. She had to. She reached for it but he caught her hands, pushed her back into the wall and held her wrists over her head. Desperate, she thrust her hips forward to rub against him. Every move she made sent wild tremors through her body. The plug was deep in her ass still and she wanted it there. But she needed his cock inside her too. Needed it more than anything.
He guided the tip to graze her painfully swollen clitoris and she cried out. With one quick pump of his hips, he pushed the tip through the folds of her labia. With one more pump he penetrated her and with a final pump he entered her entirely. She came off her feet as he lifted her with his hips and pinned her again, this time against the wall. Her breasts bounced as his thrusts lifted her and lifted her. She was nearly screaming in her ecstasy, out of her mind with her pleasure. It felt like she had a rod of iron inside her, as thick, as hot, and as hard as anything could be. She didn’t know this man at all but he owned her. He’d bought her body and now he owned her. She was his slave, his possession, chattel, an object, his to do with as he willed. And what he willed was to fuck her against the wall, ram himself deep into her, pound her and pound her until she came with an unholy moan. Her head fell back against the wall and the man in the red mask kissed her neck, sucking the skin there until she felt it break against his teeth. She didn’t care. The pain spiked the pleasure. The plug in her ass and the cock in her pussy magnified the orgasm a hundred times. His thrusts were relentless. The man in the mask rammed her once more, twice more, a third time and then she felt the burning seed explode inside her so deep she could swear she could taste it on her tongue.
Mona went limp, but she was still impaled on the man’s penis, her feet twined around his thighs, her back pressed to the wall. She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed. Who was this man who’d bought her? What would he do with her? What had she given herself over to? It was wrong, all wrong. She shouldn’t be having sex with this stranger, this cypher, this ghost. She put her hands on his chest to push him away.
"Put me down,” she said.
"Not yet.”
"No, now,” she said though he remained inside her, still hard.
"Carte blanche,” the man in the red mask said.
"That’s for Malcolm, not—”
The man took off his mask. It was Malcolm.
"I told you I liked to play games sometimes,” he said with that smile he stole from the devil. "Didn’t I?”
"Malcolm…” She stared at him in shock and in horror, still pinned to the wall. "You had a beard.”
"Did I?” he asked, lifting his eyebrow.
"You did. Was it…It had to be a fake. You fooled me. I was so sure…” The four men were likely friends of his and when they’d haggled behind her back, Malcolm had taken off his false beard and put on the red mask to trick her. And she’d been tricked, thoroughly tricked.
"You saw what I wanted you to see,” he said. "The oldest magician’s trick.”
"Is this a trick too?” She struggled to free herself from the organ that penetrated her and his body that trapped her against the wall.
"Oh no, this is real. This is the only thing that’s real to me,” he said. "Come to bed.”
He pulled out of her and drew her to the waiting bed, where he threw back the covers and put her on her hands and knees on the white sheets. He stripped out of his clothes and joined her on the bed. Mona shivered with eagerness as Malcolm pushed her hair off her back and kissed her spine from the base to the nape of her neck.
"We won’t be needing this anymore,” he said as he gently pulled the plug from her ass. She felt far too empty the moment it was out of her body.
"Malcolm…” She made his name a plea. Malcolm positioned his hips behind her and slowly entered her, fi
lling the emptiness inside her. His shaft was wider than the plug but she wanted it inside her more. Mona leaned forward until her head rested on the pillow. Her ass opened up as she bent low and Malcolm was able to enter her fully. She took it all, every inch, and felt a sense of pride that she could.
"You enjoyed being sold and bought,” he said as he pumped his cock into her. The strokes were long but not hard, and she could take them easily.
"I hated it,” she said.
"You lie. It’s fine. I like liars. Lie all you want, my darling. I know you loved it. Your body tells me what your words don’t.”
"I’m your slave,” she said.
"No. You’re my employee,” he said. "A slave has no choice. But you’re here because you want to be. Aren’t you? Admit it, Mona…admit you love being my whore,” he said as he slid in and out of her ass. No man had ever taken her in that orifice before. Only Malcolm. And only because he’d paid her.
"Never,” she said. "Not in a hundred years.”
"A hundred years? Is that all?”
"You sold me at auction. You’re the devil.”
"I’m not the devil, my darling,” he said, sinking his teeth into the side of her neck again like some kind of rutting beast. "The devil wants your soul. I only want your body.”
He could believe that if wanted, but Mona knew the truth. If he kept fucking her like this, soon enough he would own both.
Nymphs and Satyr
Mona wanted to be angry at Malcolm but it was impossible. Although she’d been frightened by the masked men he’d brought to their liaison and furious he’d tricked her into having sex with a man she thought was a stranger, she couldn’t deny she’d never been more aroused in her life. All those men…all those hands…all those mouths on her body…she couldn’t think of it without growing damp. Often she’d sneak into the back room, lie on the bed, and bring herself to orgasm with her own hands as she recalled that night, the hands holding her legs in the air while a man she didn’t know from Adam plumbed the depths of her body with his fingers. And she could still feel that brutal phallus inside her, pressing against the plug in her ass, the wall of tissue between them quivering and tender. And Malcolm’s cock in her ass, she remembered it with such pleasure her nipples hardened with even the slightest recollection of it. Her body buzzed constantly with low-level ardor. If the month didn’t pass any faster, she might go mad waiting for him.
The month passed slowly. She didn’t go mad.
Instead, she went to an art appraiser to have Malcolm’s payment for her night on the auction block authenticated. He’d left a small pastel drawing of figs on the bed, which the appraiser recognized instantly as the work of nineteenth-century Swiss-French painter Jean-Étienne Liotard. She’d almost been hoping for another Degas so she could see Sebastian Leon again. But could she do such a thing? Date a man while her body was promised and sold to another? She was certain Malcolm wouldn’t mind her taking another lover. He’d even told her he wouldn’t stop her from seeing someone else. Malcolm only required her body one night a month after all. But how would she tell Sebastian about Malcolm? She couldn’t, of course, so she did not call him or find an excuse to see him. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her. After two nights with Malcolm and his perversions, she was pleased to find she still had a conscience.
On the fourth Saturday after her last assignation, she found the book of art on her desk again.
Poor Tou-Tou. She had to lift the sleeping cat off the book. He loved paper, loved to lie on it and bask or sleep. He whimpered a small feline protest when she moved him off the book cover and into her lap, but he settled there quickly and was soon fast asleep, twitching as he dreamed of mice or birds or something in between.
What did Malcolm have planned for them next? She was almost afraid to look.
But only almost.
She opened the book to the page he’d marked—again—with the red velvet choker she’d worn the night she’d played his Olympia. The painting this month was one by another French artist, William-Adolphe Bouguereau. Nymphs and Satyr. Four beautiful, nearly-naked women played on the banks of a halcyon lake. They’d caught a satyr watching them bathe, and now three of the four water nymphs tried to pull the reluctant man-goat into the lake as the fourth nymph waved for the others to join her at the water’s edge.
She knew who the satyr was, that was certain.
Mona spent Sunday turning herself into a nymph. She curled her long red hair and put a white flower behind her ear. She found a sheer white nightgown in the back of her closet. Malcolm would surely want her naked, but he could have the pleasure of undressing her himself.
Near midnight she returned to the gallery and entered through the side delivery door. As soon the heavy industrial door latched behind her, she heard music coming from the back room. Music? How odd. It sounded like pan pipes and chimes, playful music, sprightly and light. The score to a satyr’s conquest? Perhaps. She carefully eased the door of the back room open…
A hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the room.
"Here she is!” a girl’s voice called out. "I found her!”
Mona stumbled into the back room, which had somehow been transformed into a woodland paradise with potted trees and a bubbling stone fountain. The girl who’d grabbed her dropped her hand and joined two other girls, all three in gauzy gowns and long ribbons in their hair dancing about to the music. One girl wore a gauzy gown of yellow, her hair was black and tightly curled and her skin a deep and lovely brown. Another girl wore pink and her hair was white-blonde and her skin as pale as milk glass. Another girl wore a sheer gown of blue and her hair was warm copper and stick-straight and her complexion only a shade lighter.
And she, Mona, was now the fourth girl, with hair of apple red in a gown of white.
Mona was caught up in the dance and the music seemingly came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Two girls took her hands and soon they were skipping in a circle around the red and golden chair that Mona had loved since her childhood. It had become a throne now, Malcolm sitting naked upon it, his head crowned with laurels. It was a laughable scene, so Mona laughed and the girls laughed too. It was joyous laughter, not mocking, not disdainful. Malcolm’s beautiful cock lay half-hard on his lap as he watched his nymphs frolic and dance for him. She hadn’t danced in so long, she knew she must look a fool. But it was too pleasant a scene to stop. Her feet felt bewitched by the pipe music and the girls were all so pretty in their gauzy gowns with their hair ribbons flying and their faces all smiles.
"Come dance with us,” the girl in the yellow gown said, breaking from the spinning circle and pulling on Malcolm’s hand. "Come dance with us, you silly old goat.”
The girl in pink gasped and covered her mouth with her hands at the playful insult.
"Silly old goat?” Malcolm grabbed her hand with his other hand and yanked her into his lap. She squealed in surprise and burst into laughter as Malcolm tickled her stomach with his fingers. Mona and the three other girls stood together, their arms locked, watching.
"She’ll get it now for sure,” the pink girl said, shaking her head.
"She’ll wish she hadn’t said that,” said the girl in blue.
"Or she’ll wish she’d said it twice,” the girl in pink added and they all laughed, even Malcolm.
"She’ll have to be punished,” Malcolm said. "Won’t you, wicked child?”
"I’m not wicked,” the girl in yellow said as she wriggled off his lap. "I’m honest.”
"Honestly wicked.” Malcolm grabbed her arm again and dragged her back into his lap. "Now kiss me to say you’re sorry.”
"I won’t!” The girl in yellow sounded adamant.
"Then I’ll steal the kiss and won’t give it back,” Malcolm said.
"You wouldn’t—” It was all the girl in yellow could say before Malcolm kissed her on the mouth.
The two other nymphs dissolved into girlish laughter at the sight of their friend being kissed by Malcolm. One second the g
irl in yellow was trying to push him away, the next second she had her hands in his hair, trying to pull him closer. Even Mona laughed, though it was her lover who kissed another. She felt no jealousy. This was the game. The satyr must have his nymphs to torment. The nymphs must have their satyr.
At last the girl in yellow managed to flee from the prison of his lap. She rushed back to Mona and threw her arms around her.
"He caught me,” the girl in yellow said. "Don’t let him have me.”
"You’re the one who tried to make him dance with you,” Mona said.
"Oh yes,” the yellow girl said. She stood up straight and proud. "That was my mistake. And he’s still not dancing.”
"But we should dance,” the girl in blue said. "Let’s dance so much he has no choice but to join us.”
It made no sense at all to Mona, but nothing in this room with that man and these silly girls did. Even more, she didn’t care if it made sense or not. She only wanted to dance with the pretty trio, these gauzy golden-eyed nymphs. They pulled ribbons from their hair and spun like dervishes as the music grew louder and faster. The girl in pink with the milk glass skin and pale yellow hair danced around Malcolm’s chair, his throne, and caught her ribbon round his wrist, then used it to drag him to his feet.
"She’s hooked a fish!” the girl in yellow shouted. "A big fish.”
"That’s not a fish, that’s a dolphin,” said the girl in blue. "See how he grins.”
Malcolm leered at the girl in pink who had hooked him. She pulled on the ribbon wrapped round his wrist, but he pulled back—he had his own satyr’s trick. She didn’t let the ribbon go in time, and he caught her and twined the ribbon round her wrists.
"I’m talking my pet for a walk,” he said as he led the girl in