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

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)

... in the snow, to do so barefoot was not something any sane person could describe as viable. Probably, I could have told him off for it, and perhaps I should have. But I kept quiet, until he pressed my first toe to his lips, kissed it softly, and let go. I tucked my knees once more beneath my chin, and he made me resume my tedious recollection. My head was in a haze though, and I kept getting things out of order. I told him about the blossoms and the ivy I’d sketched, and how I’d chanced upon the glasshouse. I told him how I’d wandered the halls that morning, salivating over his collection. “I’m curious,” he drained his snifter, and set it aside, “what did you stare at the longest?” “Longest?” My brow wrinkled, and I braced myself. His so-called curiosities were seldom idle, and it had become clear to me by now that the more innocuous his question seemed, the more predaceous and deliberate its subtext. “… Danaë ,” I breathed. A dark grin fell across his face, and right away I regretted telling him the truth. “Show me.” “What? Right now?” “Finish that first,” he tapped my glass, and rose up from the bed, adjusting his cuffs and collar. “It ought to loosen your tongue a little. I won’t tolerate tight lips tonight, Penny.” I flushed, “You’re mocking me…” He leveled his gaze, “I’m not.” “I’ve been right here all day,” I frowned. “Nothing I could say could possibly interest you.” “It could.” “Well,” I shook my head, “…I still don’t see how.” “And I don’t need you to. All I need,” ...

... he leaned forward, eyes flashing, and forced me flat on my back across the bed, “is for you to listen, and do as you’re told.” I trembled beneath him. The liquor made his breath sweet, and astringent. “Is that utterly, perfectly, and empirically clear, Penny?” I gave a panicked nod, a pair of red flames licking at my cheeks. He kissed each one of them, and bared his teeth at me before retreating. “Good girl. Now hurry up.” I sat up slowly, still shaking as he handed me the dreadful glass. ‘HURRY UP PLEASE, IT’S TIME…’ I shut my eyes, throwing back the last gulp like a foul ecbolic; then let him lead me, half-choking, into the hall. My head began to buzz as we made our way downstairs. Once or twice, to steady me, he snatched hold of my arm just above the elbow. I grinned tipsily, wondering what he would do if I fell. Half of me had a mind to find out. “Tell me why.” His voice was frosty and dry. He stood behind me, his arms loosely wrapped around my waist, and together we gazed at Schiele’s painting. I wanted to answer, but between his whiplash-inducing advances in the bedroom, and the amber poison swirling round in my stomach and skull, I knew that whatever paltry analytical powers remained inside me were best kept to myself. “I don’t know…” I shrugged. “It’s sweet.” “Bourguereau’s girls are sweeter,” he turned me to the left, where Biblis was lying nude near the water. “Courbet’s are more real. Matisse’s more modern.” He piloted my eyes. Epitomes of each one hung all around ...