BECOMING

Violet R. Jones

She wore nothing but the blindfold, tape, and ropes. The muscles in her arms and legs ached. The ropes that bound her arms over her head were just a little too short to let her feet rest fully on the floor, so Elizabeth had to stand on her tiptoes like a ballet dancer on point. She tried to stay calm and make her breath come slowly, but it wasn’t easy. The heavy tape over her mouth was slightly damp near her lips, but still fully in place.

Mistress had blindfolded Elizabeth before they left home, but Elizabeth still knew where she was. She recognized the scent of dust, floor polish, and canvas. She thought she could even smell the oils. Before she met Mistress, Elizabeth had practically lived here for two months. The museum was the whole reason Elizabeth had left behind her university, her friends, and her family, and moved to Paris. She had stayed in a student hostel, spent her money on cheap food and expensive charcoals, and spent her days copying the works of the great masters into her sketchpad. Back then, she thought that if she was dedicated enough some great mystery of art would reveal itself to her. Then Elizabeth met Mistress, and found something else to be devoted to.

The memory came back to her all at once. The sketchbook was snatched out of her hands. Elizabeth stood up and started to protest. She found herself staring into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. The woman who Elizabeth would come to call Mistress had an amused smile on her red-painted lips as she said, “How are you going to make art if all you do is copy the work of others?”

Elizabeth had never been in the museum and not been able to see the art. She could feel the largeness, the emptiness of the room. The total darkness behind the blindfold made her feel cut off, trapped in her own head. At the same time, her other senses felt awake in ways they seldom were. She heard the click of air-conditioning as it came on. The fine hairs on her naked body raised as the room chilled. Her nipples hardened.

Elizabeth thought about the picture she would make with her long hair spilling down her back and stopping just above the curve of her ass. Posed as she was, her butt and breasts were thrust out to their best advantage. Restrained, she would look inviting. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be touched. Elizabeth had had enough of being alone.

Something in the air changed. Elizabeth heard footsteps—more than one set of footsteps—on the tile floor outside the room where she was being held. Elizabeth lifted her head, alert to the change. She twisted in the ropes, feeling sudden apprehension and at the same time trying to figure out the best way she could show herself to her impending audience. It only made the binds bite into her wrists. The pain was familiar. It reminded Elizabeth what Mistress had taught her, and Elizabeth relaxed. The pain ebbed. Elizabeth heard a crack as the heavy wooden doors were pushed open. Elizabeth heard a pleased sigh and a murmur of voices. She felt herself begin to blush. They spoke French. In spite of living in Paris for almost a year now, she still only had a basic understanding of the language, but she could decipher just enough.

The room was warmer with the people in it. She could feel their eyes on her. She could hear their voices coming from all around her. Elizabeth was wet. She ached. She wanted to see them. She wanted them to do more than look. She pressed her thighs together. The ropes were almost a blessing. Elizabeth wasn’t sure that she could keep from touching herself, and Mistress would be unhappy if she did that without permission.

The first touch was to the small of her back. The fingers were like bone—a thin old woman’s fingers. They glided down Elizabeth’s back to the curve of her butt. The still strong hand grabbed a fistful of Elizabeth’s flesh and kneaded it. She was so grateful for the touch, she moaned loudly into the gag. Elizabeth rocked her hips. There was nothing for her to rock against but air.

A quivering voice sighed, “Belle.”

Elizabeth felt an arm wrap tightly around her hips. A strong arm—a man’s arm, she could tell by the scent of him. Then she felt a large hot mouth fasten on to her breast. It was almost too hot after the coolness of the room. The man began to suck. It was perfect and not nearly enough at the same time.

A quick argument erupted at her side. Elizabeth’s thoughts were so scattered that she would not have been able to follow the conversation even if she understood the words. The argument was brief and after the silence that followed, more hands were on her. There were fingers caressing her, spreading her, rubbing over her clit, sliding into her cunt and her ass. There were thin fingers, fat fingers, and bony fingers. Elizabeth could not be sure how many people were touching her. She couldn’t stop herself from rocking into the fingers playing with her. She forgot there was a reason to try.

Elizabeth’s feet were pulled out from underneath her. Voices erupted like a cacophony of irritated birds. The world spun and strong hands were pulling her legs apart and something much thicker than fingers was filling her. Fucking her. Everything was…more. The scent of his sweat. The murmurs of the crowd. The cock pounding inside her. Elizabeth moaned into the gag.

He finished before Elizabeth could. She slipped from his hold. Elizabeth didn’t notice the way he had been holding her up until the pain in her arms returned. Someone knelt between her legs and someone’s tongue traced along her thigh.

With all the people touching her, the one she didn’t feel was her Mistress. She knew it. She knew her Mistress’s touch. Elizabeth wanted… …

...but it didn’t matter what she wanted. She was there for her Mistress’s pleasure. As the stranger’s tongue ran up her thigh and into the folds of her inner lips, Elizabeth had to believe that this was what her Mistress wanted. Everything seemed easier after that. It was not so much that her arms stopped aching. The pain just stopped mattering.

Elizabeth felt her Mistress’s body press against her. She felt her Mistress’s breath tickle the small hairs on the back of Elizabeth’s neck. “Finally, you’re ready.”

The blindfold was removed. Elizabeth found herself looking into an antique mirror. Hazy as her vision was, she could still see that what was reflected back at her was beautiful and wild and more of a masterpiece than anything hanging on the walls. Elizabeth had become the work of art she had always wanted to create.