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She found herself auditing an eclectic assortment of erotic art. The one directly before her chair was a photograph blown up to life-size and framed in black. A woman was folded over the soft high back of a couch. Taken from a rear angle, the photo focused on her from waist to feet, showing her wearing frilly high-cut panties, garters, stockings and heels. Her calves had been crossed and tied, her arms bound behind her.
Her face was in shadow, the whole photo artistically done in black and white, every detail of her submission starkly outlined except for one tiny touch of pink. The line of ruffles that went across the widest portion of her backside. Cry Mercy was the name of the photo.
Not a cry for mercy from punishment Marguerite knew. For the punishment, for the release that came with it.
The piece to the left was a photograph focusing on a man's erect cock. With his body displayed only from mid-thigh to well-defined abdomen, the man rested his hand on the base of the cock, a loose curl, his fingers massaging his testicles. It was easy to imagine him caught in a frozen moment of stroking himself for an avidly watching lover. She was absorbed by the hand, the long fingers, and made herself pull her attention from it.
Next came something familiar, the fresco of the three Graces, the Hellenic Period rendering, the two outside Graces facing forward, the middle one with her back to the viewer. The smooth bodies, small perfect breasts and heart-shaped buttocks, the partial torsos linked by their arms in sensual innocence, simply what they were.
"Describe what you're seeing to me as if I've never seen it. Tell me what you think about it. "
She cleared her throat as her gaze shifted again. "It's a pen and ink drawing, in color. In the forest. It looks like a David Delamare. A man has been attacked by a woman with. . . wings and fangs. Like a harpy, only beautiful, with raven dark hair falling over her shoulders. She's crouched over his groin, her wings folded back, teeth bared. You can see where she's scratched his chest with her talons. He's bleeding.
Naked, his garments and armor stripped. . . as if he's a knight. . . scattered in piles in the clearing where she's torn it haphazardly all off him. She's just started to lower herself onto his erection and though you can tell she's forced him to this moment, something has happened. He's gotten one hand loose to reach up to her face. "
"Even though she could tear him to shreds, he now desires her more than fears her," Tyler suggested.
"Yes. But it's more than the fact he desires her. The way he's touching her face. . . he's offering. . . more. "
"And what's she doing?"
"She's. . . looking down at him. You can tell it's. . . she's not sure. She didn't expect her savagery to be met with desire. With love. You can't tell if the next moment is going to be one of blood or passion. "
"The interesting thing is that's an adaptation from a medieval religious engraving.
It was intended as a rendering of an agent of the Devil trying to tempt and destroy the soul of a poor sinner but the artist took it and provid
ed a different interpretation. Do you like it?"
"Yes," she said after a moment. "What are you looking at?" You, he wanted to tell her. There were two angled mirrors that allowed him a clear view of her profile without her being able to see him. Her shifts in gaze, her expression as she studied the artwork, intrigued him. He wished he'd thought to open her blouse before he'd restrained her so he could see the small curves rising up over the top of her bra and know if her nipples were puckering into hard points. Her fingers were twitching against his, suggesting agitation, possible arousal. Or just the fact she didn't like his proximity, he reflected wryly.
"First, tell me if you like the one of the man's cock. And why or why not. "
"I like it. The detail. The stillness. A moment of reality you don't usually get to study at your leisure before the view changes. "
"Well, unless you have Viagra. "
"That's not what I meant. " There was a smile in her voice, though. It pleased him to know he could touch her sense of humor. "The hairs on his legs, the line of muscle in his thighs, the curve of ass, the planes of his abdomen. His hands. . . "
"You like his hands. " He caught the slight inflection and pounced on it.
Her fingers flexed in his and he heard a quiet swallow. Testing, he began to move his index finger on a slow glide up the center of her palm. "Why?"
"Tyler. " She stilled further at the caressing touch. "Are you. . . It feels like you're seducing me. Trying to seduce me," she amended.
"Does it? You sound surprised. "
"It doesn't seem necessary. "
"That's because you don't have to seduce or flirt with men, Mistress Marguerite. " He leaned his head back on her shoulder, turning to brush her cheek, smile up into her confused eyes. "You are a seduction. A man looks at you and not even a siren's voice would tear him away from your side, or keep him from seeing to your desires. But the rest of us poor Doms. . . " His thumb drifted to her wrist, stroked that erogenous zone.
He felt her shoulder shudder where it was pressed under his. "We must endure the torment of flirtation. The tedious, monotonous arts of active seduction. " Despite her best struggle, he saw that tightening of her facial muscles he was beginning to recognize as her version of a smile, the resistance to one.
"Tyler, I really don't like you. "
"I'm glad you told me," he said gravely, wishing he was free to turn around and kiss a smile onto her mouth, a real one. He had a suspicion that those blue eyes could sparkle like diamonds when she was truly happy. He lifted his head, returning them to their back-to-back position where she thought he couldn't see her. "Tell me about his hands. "
"They're. . . capable. You'd think the cock would be the focal point of the picture but because they've brought his hand into it, underscored its functionality by showing it stroking and stimulating him, you begin to think of the other things his hand could do if. . . "
