Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2) - Sex Stories

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)

... us. He spun me back once more, “Why her? “Because she isn’t ugly,” I blushed, “He always turned his women ugly.” He drew me closer, “So?” “So… it means she’s special,” I glanced up at him. “He could have painted her all sordid and distorted like the rest. But he didn’t. Look,” I wriggled out of his arms, and pointed to the girl’s demure and half-hidden face, “She’s blushing. Schiele’s ladies never blush.” I turned to the canvas. “I…don’t think you really know what you’ve got here. This piece is priceless.” “I own it, Penny,” he stepped closer, recapturing me. “I assure you, it isn’t priceless.” “Well,” I murmured, folding my fingers against his chest, “It still doesn’t seem right—you keeping her here, all to yourself.” “No?” he cocked his head, “and what would you have me do with her?” I shook my head. He was right. The drink had loosened my lips. It made me bold. “…Give her away?” I dropped my eyes, “To the Musée des Beaux Arts, maybe? She ought to be out somewhere everyone can enjoy her.” He smirked coolly, “Is that what you would do, Penny?” I bit my lip, and nodded. He bent closer, and leveled his gaze. “So take her.” I squinted at him, certain I’d misheard “Um… come again?” “Go on,” he nodded, “Take her. Give her away to the museum.” “I-I can’t,” I stuttered. “She doesn’t belong to me.” “No. She belongs to me,” his voice dropped. “And if she’s still hanging here tomorrow morning, I’m going to throw her on the fire.” My entire chest constricted. I glared, and he glared ...

... right back at me. “…You wouldn’t.” He said nothing, but his eyes were answer enough for me. My teeth chattered, and my veins iced over as he broke away to check his watch. “Allez mon petit chat cambrioleur,” he took me by the wrist, and led me away down the hall with him. “Dinner is waiting.” I don’t remember what we ate. It was something rare, savory and rustic, I suppose, with antique wine and large, serrated knives. That tended to be the trend at Lacoste. But I recall that when we came in, the food was on the table, and the candles already lit. Jules was nowhere to be seen. Dmitri drew the doors shut, and dropped the needle onto the gramophone. I flushed as Billie Holiday’s voice began to croon the first few bars of ‘Mean to Me’. It could have been a coincidence, but that same song was on the radio the first night he brought me back to Lacoste. I sighed. It seemed like half lifetime ago. Already, almost everything did. He pulled out my chair, and I sank into it like an automaton. I felt so strange; like I was watching myself in a silent film, acting out the tightly scripted role he’d written for me. My real self was seated elsewhere, on a red velvet cushion most likely, perhaps, in the flickering ghost-light of some empty cinema. That girl was perched on the edge of her seat, eyes wide as she watched it all unfold. But the Penny at his table endured dinner like one half-hypnotized. She was pliable and obedient; essentially silent until spoken to—a perfect picture of feminine ...