My Pretend Sex Slave 02

Lisa was naked. Tied up. Rope around her wrists. Tied to a hook in the low ceiling. She wasn't dangling, just stuck. She had her back to me. I saw tanned skin, compressed shoulder blades, dimples on her back, her nice ass, short legs.

Standing next to her was Jett, dressed up for the art show, in a dark form fitting dress that went up to her neck and down past her wrists. Her auburn hair was teased up. Lipstick a dark crimson. Her white leather was jacket resting on Lisa's bed.

Both girls turned to me. Lisa was beaming. Her eyes, her face, her body all said the same thing. "Where'd you find this girl? Can you believe this shit?"

I could not believe this shit.

"What's going on?"

"Jett is better at this pretend sex slavery thing than you are," Lisa said.

"I can see that," I said.

"You were running late," Jett said, "and we were bored, and you know how Lisa is when she's bored..."

I sighed. All true things. Whatever catastrophe I had feared, well, this wasn't it. I should have been relieved.

"We're late," I said. "We need to get to the gallery."

I took a step toward Lisa. We needed to untie her. The knots looked familiar. It wouldn't take long.

"Whats at the gallery?" Lisa asked. It is hard to explain the happiness in her voice, in her body language. It was sunshine beaming out of her pores, like her truest pleasure in life was to be tied up and naked in front of people just trying to go about their lives.

"I have an art show," Jett said.

I needed to get Lisa off the hook. I walked up to her, reaching my hands around the top of her ass, ignoring the pleasant curves of her body, her nipples on my chest, the floral scent of her hair. I pulled her against me and lifted. The girls didn't even notice.

"So cool," Lisa said. "Can I come?"

No. My brain shouted.

"Sure," Jett said.

Fuck.

--

The gallery was small. I had the feeling the university sponsored it somehow. Jett's art occupied 90% of the walls. It felt like a big deal. Jett needed to mingle, to sell, to practice her salesmanship as much as her art. This left time for Lisa and I to wander unsupervised.

It was easy to lose track of Lisa's real personality. In private, she was provocative, downright annoying in her brazen sexuality. In public, she was shy, nervous. Always out of place. T-shirt and chunky boots in a couture room. The occasional lesbian would strike up a conversation, and Lisa would just turn to me, lost.

So the two of us wandered the show together. I'm not an artist, and my vocabulary here may be limited. If Jett had a consistent theme or style, it was contrast. Black and white, sharp edges, then an interruption of soft color. Paintings of metallic shapes, almost like barbed wire, interrupted and dominated by vibrant green photographs. Chiaroscuro machines smashed to bits by reds or golds or greens of nature.

I looked for my picture and didn't find it. Maybe next time.

I did find photos of Jett embedded in the show. It was never obviously her. The face would be obscured or turned away, but I knew that body, and it was often nude.

I lingered near a group crowded around a specific piece. It was big, probably six feet wide. There were dozens of figures occupying a section of the piece, all of them Jett, all of them naked. The photos must have been old. In each figure her face was obscured, but you could see evidence of time stamps. Her hair up or down. Shorter or longer. Dyed black in places, auburn in others. Obvious pubic hair in some, not obvious in others.

There was a kind of motif running from left to right. Variations of Jett, in an organic barbed wire morass, struggling against it, almost like a Hieronymus Bosch or H.R. Giger painting but the horror dialed down from a 10 to a 3 (thank god). In the piece, the dozens of girls transitioned in to one, in to my Jett, tattoos and all. My Jett was surrounded by nature, photos and paint, like the poppy field scene in Wizard of Oz. It seemed a kind of story, about the internalization of pain leading to peace.

It occurred to me that someone must have taken these pictures. Probably a male someone.

I tried not to dwell on this topic, on Jett's history or the fact that she was naked on canvas. Although her face was obscured, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that the thin girl in the painting was very likely the artist, and that this artist was cute and daring and looked fucking stunning while naked. I looked around. There was an 80 / 20 mix of girls to guys. It seemed like her art played best to the lesbian crowd. Even so how, many of the guys (and girls?) were here just to get access to Jett, to bide their time until they could fuck her too?

"Your girlfriend may have issues," Lisa said.

"That's really something coming from you," I said.

"I just call 'em as I see 'em," Lisa said. "Maybe you have a type."

I watched Jett from across the room. She looked great. White leather jacket over form fitting dress. She had a Morticia Adams meets Akira-biker-gang vibe. Her dark dress hugged her ass. I could watch eyes follow her ass as she walked.

Jett was entertaining a crowd. Smiling and laughing. Occasionally a touch on an arm. I made a choice not to be jealous. It wasn't the first time I had to make that choice tonight.

"I don't think she'd be afraid to spank me," Lisa said. "In fact, maybe I should tie her up."

Fuck. Force Lisa to keep her clothes on, and she would find other ways to torment me.

The crowd around Jett was thinning. I caught her eye. She motioned for a drink. I grabbed one and found her.

"Your art is amazing," Lisa said. She beat me to it.

"Yeah," I said. "I don't know how you can do this."

I felt stupid, ordinary, generic. Jett's big eyes and nervous energy told a story. She needed a recharge, needed her boyfriend to give her extra energy, confidence, and strength. I needed to pick up my game.

"What came first," Lisa asked. "The tattoo or the painting?"

Jett sipped punch out of a cheap plastic cup.

"I forgot you've seen it," Jett said.

"Oh I've seen more than just your tattoo," Lisa said.

"Well that makes us even then," Jett said.

"You'll have to do a lot more before we're even," Lisa said.

I'm pretty sure Lisa just asked Jett to fuck her, or have me fuck her while Jett watched? It meant nothing. This was just what she did.

"I think the painting came first, or at least the idea of it," Jett said, "but I couldn't finish it until the tattoo was complete."

"Did it hurt?" Lisa asked. She didn't have any tattoos herself. I had complete confidence in that assessment.

"Tremendously, especially on my ribs," Jett said.

"Why did you do it?" Lisa asked. It was the question I also wanted answered.

Jett studied my roommate for a moment.

"I finally understood that beauty requires pain," Jett said. "But it's one thing to know it, and something completely different to live it. I had to try living it."

My heart was racing, I didn't know why.

"Would you do it again, the pain?" Lisa asked.

"Only if I could create something beautiful," Jett said.

--

We were in the backseat of my car heading home. Jett was on top of me, sitting on my lap, almost like cowgirl, but we weren't having sex. Yet.

Lisa was driving. Jett needed all of my attention. Her dress was hiked up past her thighs. There were still articles of clothing separating us, but not many.

"Tell me you liked it," Jett said.

I wanted to kiss her neck, but she was riding too high. I ran my hands down her back, settling around her slim waist.

"I loved it," I said.

She leaned down and kissed me. I bucked in to her, needing to be inside of her.

Jett pulled back. "Not yet," her eyes said.

"What about the others. The other people. Did they like it?"

"They loved it. They loved you," I said. Not jealous. Happy. At this moment it felt like the whole world wanted to be with Jett, but she was here with me.

She smiled, kissed me again, but this one was almost chaste. Jett seemed lost for a moment, like she was processing something.

I'll never know what was going through her head, but I can guess. In writing class, we sometimes read our projects out loud. It was a struggle putting so much of myself on the page, not holding back, wanting it to be good. Reading it out loud was terrifying, like being naked but worse, putting your perspective and desires in front of strangers to be judged. Would they see intent as well as execution, style as well as substance? Did I have something worth saying, worth reading?

Jett had just done this but at a much higher intensity, orders of magnitude different. Writing was a hobby for me. Art was her life. She put every bit of herself out there tonight, including her naked body.

It had gone well. It was obvious, but she needed to hear it. Needed to feel it. Needed thoughtful insight, emotion, respect, awe. Needed to know her art made me feel something. She needed her art to mean more than her lips or her legs or my cock.

"Jett," I said.

She stared down at me. There was a break in our lust.

"You did something tonight, something special," I said. "How many people reveal their true self, beauty and pain, offering up everything to strangers. Scrutinized, discussed. You just dueled with St. Peter or Anubis or pick your faith and pick your judgment. Other people have to die to experience what you just did."

She was enraptured by my words, more than the spanking story and the lust that went with it. I continued.

"I can't imagine what you are feeling, but I'm glad to be included, to see your art. See you. I want every part of you, especially your talent. Maybe I'm jealous other people get to see it too, but I'll get over it. You're worth it."

She just stared down at me.

Jett started to speak. Then stopped. I thought I saw tears welling up. She nodded twice, then collapsed into my body.

The overt sexual feeling, the passionate kiss and the cowgirl, was over. She wrapped herself in my arms. Even in a car, her petite frame was easy to manage. I held her. The sexual tension was broken, but I was fine. This was somehow better.

There are times when I question why Jett is with me, but not tonight.

Even Lisa knew not to ruin it. I caught her eye in the mirror. She understood. Sometimes you just need to be held and feel safe, to recover. It wasn't so different than the time Lisa had cried in my arms.

Lisa said nothing, just drove.