Pictures from an Exhibition: Ben

*****

Sheila stared at the canvas. She mashed a bit of flake white into some burned sienna, not really because she wanted the colour — she didn't know what colour she wanted, she didn't know what to do with the piece — but because that's what painters do. A reflexive movement, a tic.

The house was quiet. The girls were out again — the twins (of course) partying, Fiona at a school friend's. Another six months, and Fiona would be gone, to Cambridge. And the twins? Lou was lazy enough to stay until Sheila threw her out, but sooner or later Heather would move in with one of her men. And in any case, the twins were never in except when there was food on the table. And often enough not even then.

Shelia mashed some veridian into her muddy colour, and stared at her canvas. She had been an artist. She had been good. But... painting is about confidence. Painting is about believing you can. And she didn't. It was five years since her last one-woman show. Two years since she'd exhibited at all. Grahame kept on at her about a new show, and it was kind of him, but...

The gallery was a good enough job. Grahame was an OK employer, and she really liked — she really admired — Annabelle. And she did it OK, and it kept her around artists. But was this all? Was this all there was going to be? Fading into a provincial gallery manager for another twenty years, and then a pension?

Sheila stared at the canvas.

*****

6: Body Stock

Ben Openshaw, Black stained oak and pine with leather upholstery

The classic medieval stocks, in which arms, neck and sometimes legs are immobilised in semi-circles cut out of the abutting edges of two planks, is an extremely effective form of restraint with little or no erotic potential. This item develops the concept.

Only the waist of the subject is held, and the lower jaw is substantially broadened to provide support for the abdomen. No other restraints are necessary: the subject is of course free to kick, but this has not been found to be a serious problem in use.

The subject may be positioned in the stocks either face down or face up; however, unless the user is several inches taller than the subject, a subject in the face down position may be able to reach the floor with her feet when at convenient height for penetration.

*****

"OK, Sheila, where are we up to with the sex show?"

They were gathered around a table in the back room of the gallery; Grahame and his wife Annabelle — neat, poised, calm, always wholesome-looking — Sheila, and Mary, a student who assisted around the place and just now was taking minutes.

"Contemporary Erotic Art?" said Sheila. "We're on track with the exhibits, but I'm not confident about the hanging, and I'm especially not confident about the opening. We... I mean... If we hang it and light it to make an impact, a lot of people on our usual invite list won't like it; and if we pitch it to raise no eyebrows, it won't sell."

"Fuck that, Sheila," said Grahame. "We need to raise more than eyebrows. We need to get this gallery talked about, otherwise we might as well close it. Can you fix the invite list?"

"I've already started work on a draft; there are about twenty people I think we definitely need to cut, and there are another thirty or so I'm worried about. On the other hand Rhodri's suggested a list of people we haven't invited before."

Grahame looked meaningfully at Annabelle. Annabelle nodded. "There are a few names I could probably add."

"I think we'll be all right, anyway," said Sheila. "Opening nights are often a bit too crowded. The other thing that's worrying me is the furniture."

"Ben's stuff?" asked Grahame.

"Yes, in Gallery Three. I told you about his idea of drapes and projectors..."

Grahame nodded.

"I haven't seen the photographs yet. I mean, our photographer has been up to take the catalogue pictures, that's OK, but I haven't seen the pictures he wants to project..."

"What's the problem?"

"If they're too raunchy," said Annabelle, "we look like a porn house."

"Yes..."

"But?" asked Grahame.

"Well, I am worried about them being too raunchy," said Sheila. "But I'm also worried about them not being raunchy enough. The pieces themselves... aren't very explicit. Until you experience them."

Annabelle looked at Sheila, startled. Sheila blushed furiously, and fiddled with her papers. Grahame looked amused.

"I'll talk to Ben," he said. "I'm sure we can manage something for opening night."

*****

Laura plonked a large bowl of bean salad onto the table, with a thump. "Come on, you lot, sit down. Tea's up." She stirred pesto vigorously into a pan of pasta, and started doling out spoonfuls onto plates.

"Is there any garlic bread?" asked Fiona, sitting down.

"There's plenty of oil and carbs in the pasta," said Laura. "You don't want to get spotty, do you?"

"I'll starve!"

"Eat more beans, then," said Heather, helping herself without ceremony. "Pass that jug of water, Mum."

"Lou, Heather, what are you doing a week on Friday?"

"Busy," said Heather, briefly, her mouth full.

"College stuff," said Laura, no more informatively.

"But in the evening," said Sheila. "I just need someone to hand out wine. The gallery will pay you..."

"Oh, is this your sex show opening, Mother?" asked Fiona.

"Contemporary Erotic Art..."

"Can't," said Laura. "Busy."

"But I thought term ended this week?"

"It does," Heather said. "This is a project for Obi Wan."

"You haven't asked me," said Fiona.

There was a silence. All three girls looked at their mother, expectantly. She looked from one to the other. She took a sip of water.

"Trixie, could you do it? Please?"

"I'm sorry, Mother, I can't. I've already agreed to help the twins."

*****

"I've seen Ben," said Grahame. "We'll do a special show on opening night. We'll make a surprise of it; we won't open Gallery three until eight thirty, and we'll close it sharp at nine."

"Why, Grahame? Isn't the point to allow people time to look at the work?"

"Well, if we make a fuss of it, no-one will leave 'till eight thirty. And what Ben's planning — it will get us bloody talked about."

"So what's the plan?"

Grahame grinned. "A surprise. Those that ask no questions, will be told no lies."

*****

7: Perch, semi-rotary action

Ben Openshaw, Black stained oak with stainless steel fittings, leather upholstery and restraints.

This item represents an early stage in the development of the perch. The perch is relatively low, and the front of the bicycle-saddle shaped seat serves no real purpose. The foot rests make it possible for the subject to get off the perch by herself if her wrists are not restrained.

Depressing the foot pedal a full stroke causes the phallus to rotate clockwise 720 degrees against a counter-weight; releasing the pedal causes an anti-clockwise rotation.

*****

"Sheila, where are those bloody caterers? The nibbles aren't here."

"They're late, as usual. Have you got a spare bulb for that spot that's gone in Gallery Two?"

"Oh, not another of the buggers gone? Where? Do we need it?"

"On the A Gender 'Bust' piece."

"Excellent! That will improve things."

"Grahame!" Sheila laughed, unwillingly. "Aren't there spare bulbs through in the back store?"

"You can't go in there!"

Sheila looked over her shoulder at him, surprised.

"Why not?"

"Ben's getting his show ready in there."

"But..?"

"Don't ask."

"I don't have time. You go and get the bulb, I'll sort out the wine. The guests will be here in five minutes."

*****

8: Perch, reciprocating action

Ben Openshaw, Black stained oak with leather upholstery and restraints.

Perch (8) develops from perch (7) by eroding the seat to a short padded bar supporting the pelvis with the wrist restraints attached immediately behind this. The ankle braces help the subject retain a comfortable position on the perch without providing footholds by which she can lift herself off the phallus. The action is reciprocating, directly linked to the foot pedal, with the length of stroke adjustable up to a maximum of twenty-five centimetres.

*****

The stream of people through the doors had begun to thin. Sheila looked at Annabelle. "Not a bad turn-out! How are we for wine?"

Annabelle looked under the counter. "Still plenty... we might run out of glasses, though."

"Should I go and wash some?"

"Heavens, no, Sheila. You've put so much work into this, this should be your big night. Enjoy it. I'll get Mary to do it."

"Thank you. It is... beginning to feel like a success, isn't it?"

Annabelle just held up the sale clipboard, which already showed a sprinkling of red dots. They exchanged grins. Another flurry of people came in, and they were busy for a moment handing out wine.

"Have you had a chance to see Ben's show yet?"

"Not yet," said Sheila. "I've been so busy."

"You really ought before it closes. I'll get Grahame to do a turn on the door, hang on."

Annabelle glided away into the crowd. Sheila watched her go, slightly enviously. Annabelle, she felt, was always so poised, so gracious, so cool. A man came up to buy one of the paintings; she took his details, and a deposit, and put another red spot on the sheet. She picked up the matching spot, and looked around.

Annabelle was back; and with her, Grahame, Ben, Rhodri, Fiona Fraser, and the girl from the Red, Red Rose painting. Sheila handed over the desk to Annabelle, and went to put the dot on the painting. She returned into the middle of a conversation.

"I didn't know you did ingenues, Rhodri," said a loud young woman in an over-tight red dress. "Is she a good fuck?"

The rose girl flushed.

"Yes," said Rhodri, surprisingly protective, "she is, actually."

"Don't you feel it's a little desperate," said the red dress, "bartering paintings for sex?"

"It wasn't barter," said the rose girl, firmly, slightly defiant. "The painting didn't happen until afterwards. And... it isn't my painting anyway. It's Rhodri's. And I'm glad he wants to keep it."

"Erotic art is a very intimate thing," Ben said, gently. "You work with your subject. You have to understand your subject's responses."

"Are you saying you fuck your subjects too?"

"To make a piece, one has to understand how it will be used. To make a piece for someone specific, one has to understand what they need from it, how they will use it."

"But," said red dress, "do you fuck them?"

Ben looked down at her, cool and direct. Again Sheila felt his power, his authority. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. After a moment the woman in the red dress turned, and moved away.

*****

"She's taller than me," said Annabelle, softly. "When I'm on it, I'm on tippy-toes."

Gallery three was dim, its white walls and big windows hidden behind black drapes. In that dimness, the white silk banners divided up the space into a semi translucent maze. It was quiet — shuffling feet, murmuring voices. No-one talking aloud.

Here, just inside the door, a spotlight shone down on the bar; and, bent over it, on a young woman wearing opaque white stockings, her bare arse exposed to them. Her exposed skin was covered in white make-up, her hair — her pubic hair — dyed bright, vivid blue. Protruding from her vagina and her anus were the handle ends of two vivid blue transparent dildos.

"That's yours," said Sheila, in an under voice, staring at the figure, at the cuffed wrists and ankles. "Ben made that for you." She looked up suddenly at Annabelle. She started to say something. She swallowed it, and gulped.

Annabelle looked at her, warm, amused. Sheila gulped again, and blinked, and turned away. To be confronted with another white figure bound, exposed, on the ventral stool, penetrated by another bright blue dildo.

God, thought Sheila. Thank heavens the girls didn't come... Thank heavens they were all safely up at the art college, doing whatever it was they were doing. She thought of Trixie seeing this. She gulped, her breathing oddly shallow.

The rocking chair, the 'innocent' one. Where the other girls had been still, this girl was moving, rocking, her whole face hidden behind a plain white mask. She'd been rocking a long time; there wasn't anything urgent in her movement, but between her legs the seat was shiny with her juices. Between legs that were spread just enough to show the smooth, bleached wood of the — the what? Probe? Phallus? Cock? — sliding smoothly in and out of her puffy sex, below a sparse crest of hair, disturbingly blue against the white of her skin.

Sheila's mouth was dry. Thank heavens!

*****

The girl's feet were level with Sheila's eyes. But those eyes were drawn inexorably upwards to the heart of the mechanism, the tiny excuse for a seat; and on it, penetrated in vagina and anus, the girl's sex lewdly exposed. Her arms, bound to the back of the seat, arched her body back, making her small breasts more prominent, hiding her face. Her smell — the smell of her sex — permeated the air.

Annabelle put a foot tentatively on the pedal, and pressed. The cord was pulled down, and high up beneath the perch the spindles rotated, twisting up through the seat and into...

The girl moaned softly, her head lolling back between her shoulders, her masked face hidden, her blue hair waterfalling down her back. Annabelle released the pedal, let the spindles unwind back, pressed again.

Sheila dragged her eye down from the rotating spindle, down the cord to the pedal, and back up Annabelle's leg and body to her face. Annabelle was looking up, into the light, fascinated, intent. Around them, voices murmured.

"Should you do that?"

"She isn't objecting," said Annabelle, pressing down again.

"I don't think they're supposed to talk."

"She would if she objected," said Annabelle. "Here, you try. It's..." Annabelle gulped. "It works."

Annabelle moved aside, and Sheila put a foot on the pedal. It took a surprising amount of strength. Above her on the perch, the girl moaned. Sheila could see that the spindle was ridged and carved, that as it rotated one way and the other it moved and swirled the delicate inner lips. Her own body responded in sympathy to the one above her, her anus squirming to that twisting rod.

She pulled her eyes down again and stared into Annabelle's, shocked, not breaking rhythm on the pedal, hearing the moans above build. She looked up again. She looked down, her eyes dazed. She was breathing through her mouth, in sync with the girl's gasps, in sync with her foot on the pedal.

*****

9: Tall perch, dual penetration, semi-rotary action

Ben Openshaw, Black-stained oak with stainless steel fittings.

This perch was conceived with this exhibition in mind and is more theatrical than practical. The extreme height enhances and dramatises the helplessness of the subject, while at the same time limiting the view of the person operating the pedal. Rungs are provided to allow the subject to climb up to the perch, and the handgrip bar behind the support bar helps the subject to balance during the process of inserting the twin phalli. Once the subject is in position the top rung can be removed, making it impossible for the subject to dismount even if not otherwise restrained. The ankle braces and support bar on this perch are further attenuated than those of the previous one, improving the aesthetic of the piece without significantly affecting subject comfort.

The mechanism is similar to perch (7), except that the twin phalli are geared to rotate against each other, both on the down stroke and the up stroke of the pedal. In development I was concerned that it might prove necessary to make the separation between the bases adjustable, but the subjects who have so far tried this perch have found it both acceptably comfortable and highly effective.

A footnote: I had intended to exhibit this item as one of a pair with a twin reciprocating perch of similar height, but was unable to find a subject willing to help with the development.

*****

Sheila felt hungover, her eyes gritty, her mouth dry. She turned over heavily, glanced blearily at the clock; the sheets tangled round her legs. Half past ten! Oh, God, she had to be back at the gallery by eleven. As she flipped the duvet back, her vibrator fell onto the floor. She picked it up. It felt disgusting in her hands, cold and hard and still a little sticky.

She opened her bedroom door, and listened. Silence. Either all still asleep, or all already gone. They hadn't been home when she'd got in... she'd been grateful. She didn't want to talk to them about... and thank God they hadn't been there. She shrugged into her dressing gown.

The twins' door was open, the room empty, discarded clothes littering the floor. Fiona's door was closed. Sheila knocked, and opened it. The room, tidy, bare.

Sheila clawed hair out of her eyes, went into the bathroom, set the shower running. While she waited for it to heat she turned to clean her teeth. An empty bottle of make-up remover lay in the basin, a bag which had held cotton-wool pads on the counter. Beginning to feel sick, Sheila crouched and looked in the bin. It was stuffed — overflowing — with cotton wool balls, thick with white grease-paint. She straightened up slowly, catching her horrified face in the mirror. She stepped into the shower. A discarded sachet squelched under her foot, and blue dye spurted out.