When Lindsay opened the door and led Shannon inside, they were at once swallowed up by a pounding electronic base, darkness, and black lights. Next to the entrance to the exhibit was a sign, painted with white paint so that it glowed under the lights.
The sign read: Jacob Hunter, “What we do in the dark”.
This should be interesting.
Anton and Annette had attended a private party at his private gallery on his own property the previous year which had featured Saskia as the centerpiece. The word was that it had been painfully erotic and pretty much everyone in attendance had slunk off to fuck behind columns or in the garden beside statuary or behind rose bushes.
It had been a frenzied affair.
Shannon seemed to relax as she realized the lighting situation. She pulled away from Lindsay, no longer needing his broad body to protect her from whispers and stares. He admired her for a moment, and pressed a kiss against the center of her back. The scars really weren't noticeable here.
“Let's go inside,” he whispered. He took her hand and led her through a small cluster of people sipping champagne and delicately eating hors d'oeuvres. They laughed in that tinkling fake way people do at art galleries, as if they were pretending this was a normal art exhibit.
It was an act, of course. Lindsay was certain every fucking person to receive an invitation to the exclusive private opening was a certified freak.
Shannon let out a gasp as they cleared the group and the art installation came into full view. His little pet had seen a lot and done a lot, but Niche was in a class all his own. It was such an appropriate name that Lindsay wondered if it was yet another alias, yet another layer he placed over his real identity.
Along the back wall were various naked men and women bound in glow-in-the dark ropes in extremely compromising positions, exposing them to the gazes of the entranced audience. The rope work was in the Shibari style and was so ornate and intricate, that it was as if each bound man or woman was the equivalent of the wall you hang a piece of art on rather than the art itself.
The men and women were each blindfolded, their blindfolds glowing under the black-lights matching the same neon pink or green or yellow or blue of the ropes which bound them. There were black placards with bold white lettering glowing in the dark between each piece. Instead of the standard art gallery instruction to not touch the art, the signs read: “Please touch the art. It likes to be touched.”
As if to give proof to this little memo, one of the pieces of art, a blonde woman with a pixie cut, let out a loud moan as a well-dressed man slipped a finger inside her pussy. She had large breasts, painstakingly bound in artistic erotic bondage. They moved even inside her bonds as she shuddered against the stranger's hand.
There was a sharp tinkling sound—a spoon tapping against a champagne flute—and then a spotlight found its way to a corner of the room where Niche stood, smiling.
“Welcome, everyone. As you all know, I am Jacob Hunter.”
There was a laugh from the group because of course they all knew him. It was invitation-only.
“But what you may not know,” he continued, “is that every piece on exhibit is for sale. They will be on display during specific show hours until the end of the month, but after that, you may take your purchase home with you. The public is unaware of the sale, of course. It is open only to you, my special guests. All art is signed. When you inspect the art, you will find J. H. branded into the right hip on the back of each piece. All art is clean and has been vigorously tested for any defects.”
Murmurs went up from the group because this was audacious, even for Niche.
“You may enter your bids in the silent auction next to each piece. Winners will be notified tomorrow afternoon. We accept all payments in the form of wire transfer. Thank you, enjoy your evening.” The spotlight went off.
Shannon turned, giving Lindsay a look that mirrored his thoughts exactly. Obviously every participant here was willing, if the pleasurable moans and whimpers and begging “Please, yes, more” were solid indicators. Where had Niche found people willing to not only be part of this exhibit but to be branded and sold to the highest bidder?
Fascinating.
“Wait here a moment, kitten,” Lindsay said.
He left her to go inspect the art. The men held no interest for the house, but the women might. Niche may have more money than he was able to count and no true need for more, but he also hadn't sent his invitations out as a charitable act or as a form of exhibitionism. He wanted buyers. Being an art broker would be a new experience if Lindsay won one or more of these girls.
Niche must have assumed Lindsay's interest would be aroused by this. Niche assumed right.
On the one hand, Lindsay wanted to know just where the man had found these willing sluts, so he could find more fresh meat for his own enterprise. But for now he considered the possibility that he might be able to purchase a few of the women, send them to the house for training, and turn a profit.
The artist's signature would raise their resale value. Jacob Hunter had only been recognized in the art scene for a year, but already his risque kinky art installations were causing a stir. He was already getting invitations to show his art all over the world. Word was that his own pet featured in many of the installations, but she was never for sale. Saskia was part of the artist's private collection, and there she would remain.
Lindsay's gaze drifted over to the woman in question. Niche whispered something in her ear, and even though Lindsay couldn't see it under the black lights, her shy demeanor indicated she may have blushed at whatever he'd just said. That Niche's pet could still be made to blush was impressive in itself.
Lindsay turned his attention back to the bound women lining the wall. He found three he particularly liked. He touched them, tested their responsiveness, and then entered a bid for each one.
Shannon watched as Lindsay seemed to be inspecting the bound women against the wall. When he touched them, he clearly wasn't doing it for his own pleasure, and probably not for theirs either. Despite the sexual nature of the touch, it was still more similar to the way one might touch and inspect an animal they were considering buying rather than anything really sexy.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he wrote something down on several white slips of paper and slipped them into the clear glass bowls next to three different women. He wanted them for the house.
“I don't believe we've met.”
Shannon spun at the voice she'd just heard booming across the room. The man held out a hand and said “Jacob Hunter. And you are?”
“S-Shannon Foster. I'm with him,” she gestured to Lindsay as if he were her ticket to prove she belonged here.
“I see. So you're a stowaway to my private party.” He looked her over as if he were accessing or determining something. Then he took a step back as if taking her in. Finally after several long agonizing seconds of this perusal, he said, “You have such tragic beauty. Those eyes. I wish I could paint you.”
Before she could reply, Lindsay was beside her, his hand pressed against her lower back. She wasn't sure if the action was meant to steady her, make her feel safe, or make his ownership claim clear to the other man.
Hunter turned his attention to Lindsay. “I knew you'd be interested in some of my girls,” he said. “I've got a sense about these things.”