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One monthpassed.
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’sOlympia. Her hand shook with equal parts nervousness and excitement as she openedthepage.
The Slave Marketby Jean-LéonGérôme,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 almostoverwhelming.
So she was to be his slave girl in the marketplace tomorrownight.
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 moreideas.
He seemed to have enough ideas ofhisown.
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 theclock.
Itwastime.
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 hermouth.
"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.Shewas.
They weren’talone.
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 wasunmasked.
"Is there a problem with the girl?” one of the men called out, the one in the red mask. His tone wasimperious.
"Not at all,” Malcolm said. "I’vegother.”
"Let’s see her then,” the man in the black mask said. He sounded bored, impatient. "We haven’t got allnight.”
Who were these men? She couldn’t ask because Malcolm had ordered her into silence and his hand still covered hermouth.
"Coming,” Malcolm said. "You won’t bedisappointed.”
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 priceforyou.”
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 hewouldn’t.
Ordidshe?
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 floorinstead.
"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 platformbehindher.
"Let’s have a look,” the man in the gold mask said and the other masked men nodded their heads inagreement.
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 hershoes.
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 tothehook.
There was noescape.
Mona wiggled her hands and the men chuckled at the sight of herstruggles.
"Here we are, gentlemen,” Malcolm said. "Tonight’s best lot. Take your time. Bid high. She’sworthit.”
