The Gallery

She stayed to watch for a while, trying to look from all angles, unconsciously biting her bottom lip as she drank in his physicality. Her cynicism seemed a distant memory as she let her imagination run - thinking about his big arms wrapping around her and pulling her in for a deep, passionate kiss before letting his strong hands roam freely around her body. She blushed a little and had to stop before she got too worked up. She wandered over to the small touchscreen device that stood on a small pillar in front of his glass box.

"Place your bid," it said simply, in block letters. Below that, the outline of a fingerprint. She shrugged and pressed her finger onto the outline. After a brief pause, the screen changed to "Bid accepted" and then faded to black. Tasha frowned slightly, feeling like she'd maybe missed something. Could she be outbid? She felt her heart sink slightly at the possibility, but reassured herself that this was the "mutual physical attraction" criteria. Which raised more questions than it answered. How did the guys make their selections?

And then it dawned on her. When they were done here, there was going to be a role reversal where the women became the artwork. Where *she* became the artwork - objectified and degraded. Having reached a point where she'd lost count of her drinks, she cared significantly less than she otherwise would, but still felt very self-conscious as her brain flooded her with every single one of her body image insecurities. She tried, literally, to shake them off, loosening her shoulders and flapping her hands at the wrist - but she decided distraction was the better course of action and moved into the next room.

Which was a bust. She tried not to judge, but they just weren't her type, so she kept moving through, noting a few glassy eyed women who were clearly more enamoured than she was. That left... twenty? Sixteen? It seemed about halfway, so she settled on sixteen. Or make that fifteen. One of the cages (cages?) in this room was empty. Maybe the occupant got cold feet? And what did that mean? That one of the ladies missed out because her gentleman called in sick? That sucked, but her sympathy didn't extend as far as sharing, Tasha thought with a giggle.

Were these couches here before? Didn't matter, she thought, taking a seat. Tasha needed to take a moment - she was starting to feel very scattered. She was a bit light headed and... (predatory)? It didn't quite describe what she felt, but Tasha felt that no existing word would. Surging up within her she had a feeling of great power, like the fate of these men was in her hands. She could stamp her approval and they would be hers; anyone else could be thrown to the wolves. And likewise, she was ready to stand before them, in resplendent grey jumpsuit, as herself, ready to be scrutinised and analysed. The thought that even one of these men would gaze on her with pure adulation made her ache with a primal, desperate longing.

Deep breaths, she thought, surveying the three occupied cubes. One in particular intrigued her. He was tall, with darker than olive skin and arms full of tattoos - normally a bit of a turn off, but these seemed to be part of his very being, rather than a future regret. He was young, slender and graceful, yet masculine. He didn't quite excite the same urges as the man she'd already come to think of as hers, but she found herself completely unable to shake the feeling that she'd really love to get to know this guy. So she rose from the couch to wander over and place her bid, possibly pushing ahead of another patron wanting to do the same. Her rival just gave her a big, knowing smile and swished in afterward to place her own.

"He's really something, huh?" she whispered dreamily before gliding off in the opposite direction.

It was the first time Tasha had interacted with any of the other women, she realised to her own surprise. But she was not alone in that. The rooms were almost entirely devoid of chatter as the women courteously moved around one another without ever really shifting their focus from the 'artwork'. The thought of which spurred Tasha on to the next batch of contenders.

There was some kind of handsome older gentleman theme going on in this room. She quickly culled the silver fox and the balding, pot-bellied guy from contention. She took a bit longer scrutinising the next - he was one of those guys whose approach to baldness was to go clean shaven, possibly out of spite toward his thinning hair. She stopped to consider if she could be with someone who didn't have hair to run her fingers through, eventually deciding no. The last guy was a bit more promising, with a full head of dark hair, greying very slightly around the temples and for reasons known only to himself, a big smile beaming out from beneath his headset. It was a nice, disarming smile - infectious even. She moved in to take a closer look.

He was fairly average physically, maybe a bit shorter than Tasha in heels, maybe taller if she were in flats - but he had the obligatory broad shoulders, and strong hairy arms, without being overly toned. He looked fit for his age, which was probably mid-forties. It helped that he was very much cut from the same mould as the celebs she'd crushed on hard during her teenage years. It helped *a lot*. The more she thought about it, the harder it was to say no. So she placed another bid.

As she passed through the penultimate room, giving little attention to its rather bland occupants, the PA system chimed again.

"Attention patrons. The 'no touching' rule has been waived. Please feel free to interact with the artwork," droned the announcer pleasantly. "Repeat. The 'no touching' rule has been waived. Please feel free to interact with the artwork."

With an almost imperceptible electrical hum, the glass cubes retracted slowly into the ceiling. Echoing throughout were the murmurs, coos and giggles of the women. The men seemed to be oblivious that their barrier was now gone. Stepping into the final room, or first, depending on perspective, Tasha glanced around at the final four exhibits. Among them was the seemingly chiseled adonis she'd noticed as she first came in, and just as before, he was drawing a small crowd. Four or five women were gravitating slowly but purposefully toward him, raising their hands to tentatively touch.

As they began to brush their fingers against his jumpsuit and skin, he seemed to welcome the touch, shifting his ludicrously well defined figure to push back against each of the reaching hands. The women responded in kind, seeing his movements as approval or consent to progress further and the touches became less tentative, more deliberate. They fell into a rhythm, almost dancing, floating around him, grabbing and stroking his biceps, six-pack, thighs, arse, shoulders. Even fully clothed, the scene was incredibly erotic and Tasha grew steadily more aroused, unable to break her stare. *What was in the champagne?*

The artwork was rising to the occasion, too. Even without being aroused, the clinging fabric of the jumpsuit didn't hide much. With a growing erection straining against it, it may as well have not been there at all. It was difficult to see past the hands that stroked and encircled his manhood, but Tasha was a little underwhelmed at the sight - she was hardly an expert, but this was definitely in below average territory. Not that it seemed to bother the ladies whose ministrations were increasing in intensity. The muscular man was beginning to moan, and began barking orders through gritted teeth. Grab it, stroke it, suck it. Sluts, whores, bitches.

It instantly broke the spell for Tasha, whose arousal faded quickly, replaced immediately with some kind of pity - that these women were forfeiting their power and dominance, becoming the prey. She continued to watch, somewhat detached, hoping that they would bring him right to the brink, only to tease him mercilessly - but instead his voice rose in a ragged, shouted groan as he grabbed the fabric of his jumpsuit with both hands and tore the crotch out of it as he came, hard - grabbing his dick and shooting his load in as many directions as he could manage. A tanned, platinum blonde moved to take him into her mouth, but Tasha had seen enough, and she headed in the opposite direction - toward the guys she'd bid on.

She really needed a drink and a bit of time to process the debauchery she'd just witnessed, but she suddenly felt fearful of what she might find happening to the men she'd put her mark against. She found a waitress with more champagne and strode with purpose toward the closest of her bids - the distinguished older man. To her relief she found him unmolested, and resisted the urge herself, feeling like she would just interrupt whatever happy thoughts he was having. It became apparent that what she'd witnessed in the first room was an anomaly. Elsewhere, the patrons were making appraising touches - confirming the firmness of abs, or girth of biceps - and for the most part, the men responded with surprise or even annoyance. The PA chimed once more.

"Attention patrons. The Gallery will be closing in five minutes," it announced tonelessly. "Repeat. The Gallery will be closing in five minutes."

Tasha felt the brief wave of anxiety that comes with time pressure, and sped off toward her next bid, the dark and slim man with arm-loads of tatts. He was receiving some fleeting attention from women as they wandered past, but instead of feeling jealous, Tasha brimmed with a confidence that wasn't quite her own. She paused for long enough to stroke his arms, tracing the interweaving lines of his tribal tattoos with her fingernails. He shivered and laughed a little, and Tasha moved on, smiling and feeling mischievous. Enough to give one of the random men she happened to walk past a pretty solid jab on the buttock with her finger.

She had decided, however, to dedicate the majority of the remaining time to the first of her bids - the man she'd had the strongest visceral response to. Finding him unattended, she moved in close to him, very pleased to have him to herself. She reached up first to stroke his arm, from the shoulder all the way down his biceps and forearms. Initially, he pulled away from her touch with a mild startle. Tasha could feel his muscles tensing beneath her and she found herself biting her bottom lip again as she imagined running her fingernails down the tensing muscles of his back as he thrust into her. She gasped slightly at the thought - it was almost overwhelmingly euphoric and she began to slowly stroke her left palm up her thigh, across her waist and up to her breast, gripping it firmly and wanting to pinch her own nipple, lamenting the padding of her bra. *There was definitely something in the champagne.* She was snapped out of her almost unbearable longing as the PA beeped again.

"Attention patrons. The Gallery is now closed. Please make your way to the exit," it said, the monotone feeling grating and intrusive this time. "Repeat. The Gallery is now closed. Please make your way to the exit."

Tasha groaned, giving voice to her frustrations. But she probably had at least a minute before someone started hustling her out of the room, so she turned her attentions back to her man, who had relaxed beneath her touch. She admired his latent strength, wanting to run her hands over every part of him, but with a mischievous grin, decided to get him wound up as much as she could before she was shuffled out.

So she placed both of her hands gently around his neck and slid them downward at a teasingly slow pace. She could not resist tweaking his nipples as she caressed his barrel chest. He took a sharp breath, but seemed to be enjoying it. Her hands continued downward, across his abdomen where again she could feel his muscles tensing, drawing tighter the lower she moved. She could hear his arousal in his breathing, and teasingly stopped her inevitable caress just above his crotch. With a smile, she detoured, gliding her hands around his hips to grab the soft, round buttocks that seemed nearly comical in contrast to the harder, squared lines that made up the rest of his physique.

Tasha deliberately pulled herself in closer, her head resting on his chest where she could hear his heart racing and his slightly ragged breathing. She slid her hands up his buttocks to his lower back, where she imagined her ankles, locked together and pulling him into her. She could now feel his cock growing and twitching against her breasts, and had to step back to assess.

He sighed slightly as she pulled away. Tasha again felt waves of almost stupefying ecstasy as she continued to indulge her desires and fantasies. Before her was one of the bigger cocks she'd seen. Actually - the biggest, if you didn't count the arm-like appendages that only seemed to exist in porn. It was simultaneously exciting and intimidating, and the surprise of it was probably the only thing keeping her from losing her mind and attacking him then and there. Feeling the pressure of time once more, she gave him one last tease - a single finger that she traced from the base of his member slowly down to the head before giving it a quick swirl and tearing herself away before she got kicked out.

With a sigh, Tasha melded into the small crowd that was filing toward a door marked as the exit. Being part of something as mundane as a queue was helping her state of high arousal abate, slowly. As she made her way into the next room, she spotted a familiar face. Melanie was waiting to one side for her with a knowing smile.

"Hi Tasha," she greeted. "Was it everything you hoped it would be?"

"Oh my fucking god," breathed Tasha, releasing some of the tension pent up inside her. "What was that? Is it always like this? Holy fucking shit, that was intense!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself!" beamed Melanie. "I was worried you'd dismiss it out of hand, because it really does seem like a crass, degrading and awful thing to subject people to at first. Of course, now that you've clearly let your guard down, you can see that there's far more to it. I'm going to assume you've figured out what's next?"

"I think so," replied Tasha. "Ladies night in the glass boxes?"

"Exactly right," Melanie confirmed. "So we'll have a few minutes for everyone to cool off, calm down and have a drink before we get you suited up. How are you feeling about becoming living art?"

"Good, I think," said Tasha, feeling slight trepidation. "Half turned on at the thought, half terrified, I guess."

"You'll be fine," reassured Melanie. "You'll be completely oblivious for the most part - and we give the gentlemen less time to browse, so you won't be out there for too long."

"And the touching?" Tasha inquired, again with conflicting feelings of desperately wanting to be touched and caressed, but fearful of feeling violated.

"Entirely at your discretion," explained Melanie. "If you experience any touch you're uncomfortable with, shake your head, and your personal security guard will act. You'd be surprised how rarely that actually happens though. More often than not, the patrons are more cautious with their touching than you'd want them to be. If you want to infer consent, put your hand over theirs as they touch you, and guide them."

"Okay," Tasha nodded, "Makes sense."

"And then afterwards, as I'm sure you've intuited," continued Melanie, "you'll get a chance to meet with any of the guys you've bid on who make a reciprocal bid. But more on that later, we have to get you dressed."

Melanie ushered Tasha off to one of the side doors, into a pleasant little dressing room with racks of grey and black jumpsuits. Melanie pulled one off its hanger, handing it to Tasha.

"Try this one," she indicated. "I'd be very surprised if it doesn't fit. You can put your clothes into one of the dress bags, just bring it out when you're done and I'll stow it for you."

Melanie left, closing the door behind her, and Tasha reached over to flip the lock. She stepped out of her heels, unzipped and pulled her dress up and over her head, putting it on a hanger. She stepped into the jumpsuit, pulling it up her legs and twisting her arms behind her into the sleeves. She zipped up and checked herself out in one of the mirrors. It was pretty damn comfortable. She'd expected it to be like body stocking, made of tubes that didn't contour to a human body - but on the contrary it was very well fitted and supportive - giving her boobs and butt a bit of a lift. But it didn't quite work with her bra and undies - the outlines of which were clearly visible under the clinging fabric.

She sighed, peeling everything off to stand naked in front the mirror, and tried to turn off her self-criticism and own her body image. She closed her eyes and imagined anonymous hands groping and caressing her, appreciating every curve, wanting more. She gently dragged the palms of her hands from her hips, up her waist and to her breasts. With her figure, she'd never be a fashion model, she thought to herself. But fuck it, she could be a pin-up and that was way hotter.

Tasha quickly pulled the jumpsuit on, loving the way it felt on her skin. It did nothing at all to conceal her nudity - if anything, it seemed to accentuate her normally hidden body parts. She shrugged, and opened the door with her dress bag in hand. Melanie greeted her with a smile and relieved her of the bag, swapping it for a more casual cocktail than the first one of the night.

"Apologies in advance if there's more of me on show than you care to see," joked Tasha at the realisation that she'd completely forgotten there was a whole world outside of the carnal microcosm her mind (and body) presently existed in. "Something in these drinks is making me a far sluttier person than I would otherwise be."

"You look amazing!" laughed Melanie. "And don't mistake sexual confidence, assertiveness and just maybe, a previously unexplored exhibitionist streak for anything other than what it is. The alcohol helps, but it's really only a starting point. It's really about being in a safe, but relentlessly sensual environment where you can indulge your urges without shame, and explore pure physical attraction."

"I feel," Tasha pondered, "like you're one of those racist early Disney caricatures telling me the power to fly was in me all along."

"Well, yeah." replied Melanie. "But you don't truly believe it yet, which means our work is not yet done. Finish that drink, because it's time for you to be a masterpiece."

With a final swig, Tasha obliged, setting her empty glass down and walking with Melanie back into The Gallery. This time it was very dimly lit, with only strips of lighting at the base of each wall creating barely enough ambient light to find their way around. Melanie seemed unperturbed, so Tasha stuck close to her until they reached a podium that she assumed was to be hers. Melanie picked up the headset that sat on the podium, and held it out at head height.

"Pop this on your head and we'll get you off to Dreamland," she instructed. Tasha nodded and pulled the headset down over her eyes and ears. It took around five minutes to adjust the fit and calibrate the vision, but once done, it was kind of amazing. She felt completely immersed in some kind of abstract space, and barely felt Melanie's reassuring squeeze of her hand as the hostess departed.

The headset was disorienting, but not an an unpleasant way. It was like falling asleep, where the conscious and unconscious mind both wrestled for control in a fit of vivid nonsense. Time stopped being a thing, and after what seemed like only seconds, Tasha startled as something brushed past her leg. Her first thought was of seaweed, washing past her as she floated in the ocean, but that wasn't...