Atelier Dreams

"Pet?"

"Yes, Mistress?" My sub-senses were tingling—she had something in mind. The predatory grin on her face gave that much away.

She hauled me onto her lap, and began whispering into my ear. "I'm always telling you how beautiful you are, aren't I?"

"You are, Mistress. You're too kind to me, because you're much more wonderful and beautiful than me." Her hand slipped down the front of my baggy Stiff Little Fingers t-shirt and began groping my bra-less breast.

"Mm. How about if other people could see how lovely you were?"

"I—um. Mistress, I don't care about anyone's opinions except yours."

That got a genuine, guileless laugh out of her, which she quickly disguised by taking a mouthful of toast and jam. "Quite right," she said with her mouth full. The roaming hand on my front squeezed a little more intently. "What if people saw you as you really are? No lab coat or clever answers to hide behind, just a dirty, beautiful slut on display?"

I squirmed, but she held me with an iron grip around my waist. "I'd be ashamed, Mistress." Where was she going? I didn't know what game we were playing. I swallowed. "I am a terrible slut, and I'm so lucky that I have a sweet and thoughtful Mistress who looks after my needs."

"You flatterer." She licked my cheek; I wriggled harder on her lap. "Look at this." I was presented with a page from the back of her magazine, full of adverts and notices—the part that, in less erudite publications, would be full of numbers to call if you wanted a 'sensual massage' or 'exotic companions'. I scanned it quickly, not making any connections between what she was saying and the newsprint. "Here," she indicated with her thumb.

I found it: a small box tucked away in a corner of the page.

Inaugural exhibition at Bloomsbury Studio Spaces – Theme: contemporary erotic art – Items for display sought – Up-and-coming artists welcome – Enquire via emails to ...

It clicked. The painting of me—the painting of me naked and touching myself. For the couple of months since it had been painted, it had been hanging in the special bedroom (the one with manacles fitted on the walls) and I had rather forgotten about it; a memento of a fun afternoon spent with Mistress, and not much more.

A chill ran through my stomach at the thought of it, spreading out across my whole body. My body, nude. On display. People looking at it. At me through it. People knowing I masturbated. People realising not only that, but that someone had been able to catch me in the act and paint it. That sort of thing—the revelation, then knowing that people know—was up there as one of my worst fears. I quaked at the thought.

Mistress must have felt me shiver. She wrapped me up with both arms in a warm hug and kissed the base of my neck. "Now, you don't have to, my little pet," she whispered in my ear. My pulse was racing—but not just from terror. I had to admit that the idea had a certain appeal. The cold flush began to warm up a little bit. "We could keep it to ourselves, just the two of us..."

"Mistress? I, um." She kept kissing me. "If you think it's a good idea, we should do it."

She'd be grinning; I was sure of it. Even though I couldn't see her, I could hear it in her voice and I knew how she thought. "Of course."

For the exhibition's opening evening—early in autumn—I was dressed in bohème-parisienne fashion, with a short flowery skirt and a blouse with understated frills, topped off with a jaunty beret. I was trying to look as relaxed and insouciant myself as my clothes were, no matter what I was feeling inside or how much of a mistake I thought I was making, either with my outfit or agreeing to the enterprise in the first place.

The exhibition had a lot of works on display in a not-very-big space. The painting wasn't in a particularly prominent place: 'I' was touching myself off in a side room, between the room's corner and a very rounded succubus meeting a similarly well-endowed satyr. Mistress was hanging around and chatting to the other artists, critics, early-bird guests and anyone else milling about. She was absolutely unruffled, as always. I was worried that my forced smile was going to freeze and stick like that for the rest of my life, and every couple of minutes I would have a pang of serious doubt about the exhibition and want to ask Mistress to take me home and cuddle me for the rest of the night.

Except, each time someone glanced at the painting, my heart skipped a beat. Officially, I was a guest of the artist; there was no mention of my modelling credentials, and I wasn't all that recognisable from the painting: for a start, I had clothes on, and my most distinctive feature—my hair—was covered up. But, occasionally, someone would look at it, then they would see me, and I could see them doing a double take and asking themselves the question. That sent an entirely different pang through me: a jolt that turned my forced grin into a genuine winning smile, just for them, telling them that, yes, they weren't deceiving themselves, that it was me there on the canvas being lewd. They'd blink, perhaps laugh, and then carry on their way. I was electric for minutes afterwards each time.

Mistress appeared at my side. "Coffee, pet?"

I nodded. This was surprisingly tiring work and we'd been at it for an hour already. "Yes, please. Let's."

I followed Mistress out of the exhibition space through the staff door, but she didn't lead me straight out of the building. Instead, she trapped me against the wall of the back room with a hot kiss and her body pressed tightly to mine as she physically asked—demanded—that we do something, right there and then.

How could I resist her? Truth was, I couldn't. She was my wonderful Mistress, master of me in every way. And, truth was, I didn't want to resist too hard. It was sexy, seeing people see my naked body. Vulnerable, fragile, on display, there to be used—that was what they saw, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I needed her to ravish me now at least as much as she needed to do the ravishing.

I kissed Mistress back, more fiercely than I thought I was capable of. My hands pulled her in to me tighter; one slid down her body and squeezed her backside lewdly through her jeans. She broke away and growled at me—ever the predator—and took both my wrists and pinned them above my head. Her leg pushed in between mine, then she brought her thigh up, forcing my skirt to ride up and expose me.

"Oh, you minx," she murmured when she glanced down and saw my lack of knickers and the pink lips of my pussy. "Filthy, dirty, unbelievable little tart." I was roughly spun around, away from the wall, and bent over a packing crate. Mistress tucked my skirt's back up underneath its waistband, crudely exposing me; if anyone had happened to wander in having seen her painting, they'd have a certain déjà vu at the scene in front of them.

Her hand found my most sensitive part. An hour of nerves and secret thrills had already warmed me up; I rubbed my hips right back against her hand, which earnt me a firm smack on my bum. "You bolshie little thing," she breathed. I didn't see any reason to stop, though I did have to suppress a yelp when Mistress slid a finger inside me—not that I wasn't wet enough, but Mistress's touch was special and always excited me.

"Mistress, don't be too... Please be careful, or everyone will hear," I whimpered.

"You don't want them knowing you're getting the fucking you need, you mean?" She eased another finger inside, then another, and leant her weight forwards onto me through her other arm. Pine, I thought. The crate she was pressing me down against had that distinctive smell. Will people smell the sex on me? I couldn't bring myself to care. Wherever her hands went, her touch was setting me on fire. It was all I could do to keep quiet and try to avoid making anyone investigate the odd sounds coming from behind the door. "You're happy with them seeing you mid-wank, but not mid-fuck, that's it?"

She was deft and sure, as always. Inside me were all four of her fingers, curling and rubbing me terribly wonderfully. I crossed my arms and sank my fingernails into my forearms while the massif of pleasure that she was making me climb up grew larger and larger—Mistress's continental upthrusting fingers—my nails digging harder and harder into my skin.

She pushed me right to the peak, and then I was over and my body wasn't under my control any more—instead it was following deeper, more primal laws of nature; all that mattered was that she was having her way with me, and I was more than gladly letting her. I trembled and shook and managed to strangle loud moans down into little squeaks. Mistress leant on me more heavily, stopping my hips' bucking from breaking me free from her control, and kept going while I fell through ecstasy; she only gradually slowed and then withdrew when my gasps turned to panting as I tried to regain my breath and return to human form from the puddle she'd reduced me to. She leant further forwards and sat her chin on my shoulder, and had me lick my sticky wetness from the hand she'd used to pleasure me.

"You've been wandering around like that all day." I nodded, and she kissed me warmly. She snorted and shook her head. "You..." Trailing off and giving up on chiding me, she just laughed and kissed me another time. I still didn't feel entirely solid; if she started warming me up again, I was scared I might have another phase transition and return to puddlehood and not be able to walk.

Once we'd both straightened out our clothes and our breathing had returned to normal, we went around the corner to a fashionable little coffee shop where we could pay well over the odds for things we could make at home. I was a bit wobbly on my legs, but I managed it well enough and only had to lean on Mistress a few times for support.

She had a coffee, being her usual grown-up self; a hot chocolate for me, continuing my refusal to acknowledge that I was an adult. I was extra-careful to keep my legs closed as I sat down, to avoid providing a view directly up my skirt—though the thought of flashing someone—anyone—didn't stray too far from my mind.

Her phone went—"Yeah? ... Okay, that's great. ... No, I'm just round the corner, in the coffee place. I'll be right there." She turned to me, perfectly calculated blankness on her face. "Drink up. And, guess what?"

I took a big gulp of my hot chocolate while my mind whirred and turned over. Is this another one of her surprises for me? Carefully—meekly—I met her eye and shook my head. "I don't know. Tell me, please?"

She was bursting to tell, but she was even keener to keep me in suspense, so she finished her coffee and stretched first. "They've got a buyer interested in the piece." The way she said it, it was as if it was nothing at all and not the first time she'd had a chance at a sale in months.

The picture of me, hanging on a stranger's wall. Being commented on by guests at a dinner party. Tittering and coquettish glances. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. I tried to take another sip of my drink but my muscles were paralysed. "That's... that's great." I tried to sound confident and happy but it really was terrifying.

I sat perfectly still and stared hard at the far edge of the table, counting the knots and whorls in it and trying not to think about the painting. She looked up and fixed me with her green eyes. "Pet?" She frowned and leant in, propping her elbows right where I had my eyes—I didn't flinch or move my focus—and repeated the word, but this time not as a request. "Pet." Putting her hand underneath my chin, she lifted up my face and forced me to meet her gaze. I blinked a few times as her intensity hit me full bore, but I was utterly transfixed and couldn't escape it. "You know you're my little gem, my most precious treasure, don't you? I could keep you all to myself, locked up in my treasury and not sharing you with anyone else, like the greedy queen I am. I'd be just as happy. We can keep the painting if you want to."

Instead of worrying about the painting, now I was fretting over this public display of affection-cum-dominance; with the new thing to panic over, I was suddenly freed of all apprehension about the sale. A successful displacement reaction. It was going to be fine. The painting wasn't me; it was just a bit of smut in an unusual medium, nothing more. You could have found worse things in newsagents. You could have definitely found worse things on the internet. Are the other customers staring at us? Will the manager come out and tell us to leave? What if he calls my parents and tells them everything, and then they tell all the rest of the family? Everyone will know. When she hears I'm gay, my nan will have a stroke and die and it'll all be my fault, and everyone will know.

I shook my head, took a deep breath and tried to dispel the thoughts—no-one was paying us any attention, I told myself; I was a grown woman, not a teenager, and no-one was going to ring my parents up. Every relative who wasn't wilfully ignoring it already knew about my sexuality. I needed to calm down. I had nothing to worry about, I told myself—and I even half-believed it. "No. No, I don't mind. Let's sell it, if someone's buying." It didn't entirely restore internal serenity, but it did make a dent in my ridiculous apocalypse fantasies.

"C'mon then, pet, let's get back there with our best salesman faces on."

We wandered out of the coffee place. I was stumbling slightly; I couldn't see the uneven paving stones while looking ahead.

Mistress stopped, turned, sighed, extended her arms. "Here, pet."

I shook my head but I didn't have a choice. She advanced on me. I shrunk back. It wasn't enough—I was wrapped up and hugged close.

She was warm and smelt like home and safety. I snuffled against her; I wasn't exactly crying but my breath was coming in shuddering shocks as I tried to stabilise my respiratory rate and calm the tachypnea. She murmured into my ear, "There, there, now. It's alright, pet. I'm here."

She stole my hat and plonked it on her own head, then messed up my hair, just like I hated. My objection was mumbled and nonsensical; I was shushed and she swayed me back and forth.

We stood like that, her cuddling me, for a good five minutes—maybe more. Snug against her neck, I felt her pulse against my forehead—ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk—going at an easy, calm rate; mine must've been up in the low hundreds, I could feel it in my gut and the heel of my palm, but it was coming down.

"Better?"

I nodded. She let go. I took her hand and squeezed—"Thanks," I said.

She shrugged her shoulders like it was nothing. Perfect nonchalance. "What sort of a queen would I be if I let my favourite subject get herself worked up into such a state, would I now?" The stupid beret looked better on her than it had on me.

The first thing I did on Sunday morning was to find an open café (not an easy task in itself) and have myself a proper fry-up for breakfast: sausages, bacon, fried bread, beans, hash browns, eggs, a fried tomato—the works. It was a rare sort of treat for me. She didn't forbid me eating meat, but I wasn't going to bother to prepare separate meals for the two of us—doing the cooking once was enough of a bother. I had a drink, too—she had forbidden me that.

I'd over-done it a bit: I couldn't finish the last rasher of bacon or the bread and the tomato was sitting forlorn and unloved, but I didn't really care. I knew I was being spiteful towards her and her vegetarianism, but I felt like being mean, petty and revelling in it.

I still didn't know how I felt about her over-all. My brain was slowly trudging through all the considerations, but this was an innately emotive task. I wouldn't be able to find any short-cut tricks to calculate it, or to reason precisely about what I should do; all I could do was to keep chugging away and hope that it'd all become clear.

Despite starting late in the morning, I made it to the top of two fells. I knew I'd be paying for it come Monday morning—my quads had already voiced complaints—but I could, so I did.

That night, I dreamt that I was on top of the highest peak again and I could see to the edge of the world. The cloud cover was low enough to touch; I reached up and I pulled myself up on to it, and waved goodbye to everything down below as the platform started to rise upwards. I didn't know where I was going, except that I could never walk on the earth again.

A dark shape swept down on me and lifted me up into the sky. As the sharp talons gouged my flesh and I watched the world vanishing from below me, I wondered why any creature would do this to me when I'd never even seen it before, let alone done it harm. I was entirely serene about my prospects—I knew I was done for—but I still felt angry about being singled out, suddenly and decisively What logic or justice could there be here? All I had ever wanted to do was to sing my song to the world. I looked up at the bird's eyes, but I saw only deadness in them. But the hawk, I concluded, must hunt mice simply because it was a hawk; I didn't need to fully understand its mode of thinking to appreciate that.

The sun was going down. It had long ago dipped beneath summit of the fell and put the tent into shadow, but I could still see the eastern sky decked out in pinks fading quickly to purples. I took another sip of the red, straight out of the neck of the bottle. While I was lugging the camping kit and sleeping bag and everything else uphill from the car—I swear, the rucksack was bigger than me—with every bit of me still sore from pushing too hard yesterday, I was feeling properly stupid for adding the bottle's extra weight. It didn't seem such a bad idea after I'd opened it. Not too much before bed tonight, I told myself.

Nothing seemed quite so bad any more. (Another drink of the wine.) The alcohol was taking the edge off everything. It was just... I didn't know. I kept getting distracted by thoughts of her. Couldn't keep her out of my head, really. But, even as far as she went, I wasn't getting too worked up. I'd work something out. Life would go on, no matter which way I went. (Drink.) I was so glad I hadn't done anything drastic. What had I even been thinking? Nothing, probably.

I hadn't been feeling so mellow when I'd opened the wine, but I couldn't even imagine feeling like that now. It wasn't possible to have such a roiling mess of hate and love at the same time, surely. (Another drink.) I mean, even if I didn't know what I should be doing, I definitely shouldn't be getting so mental about it and everything.

Ringing her suddenly seemed like a genius idea. I could tell her that everything was going to be alright; we'd make up like adults, and even if we didn't get back together we could stay friends. I would need a place to stay until I could find a flat, too. I rummaged around in my bag for my phone, and spent five minutes puzzling over why I couldn't find her in my contacts and the possibility of aliens hacking my phone before I remembered I'd deleted it.

No matter, I thought. I could just enter her number manually. It couldn't be that hard to remember. Let's see... Oh-seven. Good start; two down and nine to go. What was next? A drink of wine served as an aide-mémoire. It was a number, oh to nine.

I furrowed my brow and tried to think, and had some more wine at the same time. It might have been a nine next. Maybe. I went with that. Then a six?