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The Exhibition

Grand opening. The Museum of Modern Art has once again proven its sure instinct for what will bring the hordes of the City's fine people. The Human in Erotic Art – A Sensual Travel Through Centuries. Or, one might figure, the shrewd museum management has realized that also the posh crowd yearns for good ol' porn. Regardless of which, even this exclusive, invitation-only advance showing has gathered a scrum; the crème de la crème of art critics, the cultural elite, corporate managers and high-ranked politicians as well as a number of odd fellows, who, like me, do not really know the reason for the invitation but out of vanity have donated fortunes to the museum.

Enters. The glimmer and heavy make-up of the classy crowd quickly fades as my senses are overwhelmed by the powerful impact of the masterpieces in front of me. The first impression has nothing to do with the scenes per se but a pandemonium of colours, lines, shadows and the tangible feeling of centuries of painters' hard work and inspiration around me.

The scenes. Beauty through the eyes of genius. Centuries of lust. Women, mostly, but also men pictured from every angle, literally as well as figuratively. Pleasure versus pain. To tell from the silence of the visitors a transcendental, near-religious experience has stunned us all. Scratching feet and rustling clothes are the only sounds that disturb the soft back-ground music and occasional moans and other sounds of lust that provide frames to certain works of art.

The masters. Ancient fertility goddesses tenderly crafted by long forgotten artists. Salacious pottery and frescos from the earliest cultures. Babylonian lust, Hellenistic playfulness, tantric illustrations, Roman perversion providing a delicious blend of depravation and naivety. Art, literature, music. Leonardo da Vinci. Boccaccio. Marquis de Sade. Rodin. Degas and Manet. Toulouse-Lautrec. Picasso. Classic masters accompanying contemporary artists I have never heard of but whose works radiate energy that runs like electricity through my veins. They are all here and their devotion to capturing the essence of lust communicates freely with all my instincts.

This is true; this is right. I am human – my physical reaction is good and sound. Is it my imagination or has the air become scented by musk? Or are the autonomous nervous systems of my fellow visitors and me divulging their appreciation of the exhibition by a generous triggering of endocrine glands?

Today's special feature. An hour (or is it more?) has passed. Lights are softened throughout the museum with the exception of the grand hall where a curtained podium in its centre attracts attention of several spotlights. Curtains are drawn, rolled up against the ceiling and a rotating circular catwalk is revealed. Three gigantic wide-screens above the podium display the sculpture that has now become the centre of everybody's attention.

Sculpture? No it is not a sculpture but a live human being. A woman lies on the catwalk. I walk closer; still watching the screen since I do not want to shoulder my way through the pack in front of me (has the stir become a bit more aggressive?). The naked woman is lying face up; her torso arced over her limbs, which seems to be brutally tied together behind her back. Hogtied. The ties are a work of art themselves. Calves are glued to her thighs by black leather belts buckled around them making her heels press against her behind. Leather cuffs chain her wrists under the small of her back. I elbow my way closer to the stand. The impression of the frail creature before me intensifies. The ties appear even tighter when my vision is not filtered by the television screens but I can see them, almost feel them, at close range. Her head is swung back towards the floor; completing the arc of her torso. Leather thongs secure a red ball in her mouth; a drop of saliva in the corner of her mouth is glistening in the strong lights. Her dark brown hair is spread over the floor beneath her. Even though she is blindfolded, a trick of my mind gives me the distinct feeling that she can look right through me; recognize my arousal, sense my heat.

The artist. Only now do I notice the sign by the podium:

"The Exhibition (2008) Object: Me Subject: You Artist: La Theresa"

The shooting star of contemporary art. "Salvador Dalí superimposed on Andy Warhol". When art headlines reach even me, and they have, they are big news. The greatest news recently is the initiative to the first adult exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art.

So this is the famous La Theresa. The beautiful La Theresa. The bold artist. Well yes, this is bold. And yes, she is beautiful. Her complexion is smooth and carefully tanned and the strained position outlines the contours of long well-balanced muscles. Slender thighs come together in a curly black mound. Athletic arms pulled under her back almost hide the detail piquant: small black curls just barely escaping the arm pits but evident enough to create a stark contrast against all prejudice of female beauty and eroticism. Well-shaped breasts of perhaps a bit shy size, although forming the peak of her constitution, point sharply towards the ceiling as though they were preciously shaped domes of an oriental castle. Yes, they are sharp. Deep purple nipples and contracted areolas appear to have been exposed to severe cold. Or is it the result of arousal? The body is tense and trembles almost invisibly yet invitingly. Yes, it is from excited arousal.

"Please touch!" The big screens start to blink and the capital letters of the exhortation are reflected in the eyes of the dumbfounded audience. People seeking each other's eyes, asking for guidance. Men glancing at their wives. Murmur. Giggles. Then, suddenly, the tempo changes. The movements of the crowd become rapid, clearly aggressive. Hands reach out. Fingers run over the constrained body. The audience becomes one with the exquisite work of art.

* * *

Yes, this is it! I did it! Nobody believed that an adult exhibition at the prestigious Museum of Modern Art would be feasible. But I showed them. Never in the world of history has such a fine collection of art been gathered at one place. And it is all thanks to me. And now I show them the greatest piece of art – me. (Please let them start touching me soon!) That poor director of the museum. How can anyone as archaic become the manager of a modern arts museum? Anyone but me would have been thrown out the minute my suggestion was made. Erotic art? Live art? YOU??? Had to show him. Actually it was fun. He was not quite as poor a lover as one might have expected from someone his age and stature. And he did fancy the whip, the little pig. So cute. Wanted to take care of me. The eschewals and vindications made me laugh. "Having sex must not ruin our professional relationship..." Hah! And my top-of-the-list puke statement: "You know you are almost like a daughter to me..." What the hell are you doing to your daughters? Well, I didn't ask but got what I opted for. The Exhibition. So he pushed the remote emergency signal on me in case something would go wrong. "A security guard will protect you from obtrusive perverts..." Hey, I yearn for the obtrusive pervs. I didn't tell him that either, but took the remote.

The crowd is moving. I can hear it. They still don't understand exactly what the screens are saying. I wonder what he will look like, the first guy that accepts the challenge. I am sure that it will be a guy but damn it if not every single person in the museum has touched me before the half hour is over. That old manager was right in that. Nobody can stay tied like this for too long. I am already stiff. But I am sure that my limbs are not the only thing stiff by now. I can almost feel the rapid breaths of people around me. They should only know. Do they know? Do they realize that I am as excited as anyone else in this room? Probably even more. This is the single most arousing moment of my entire life. Submission and domination united as one. Am I my own Mistress? Tied down to the floor but yet in full control. If only someone would touch me soon.

Yes! Nervous hands caress my thighs. My arms. My hair. Curious fingers exploring me. I am so excited. More hands. Stroking my legs. Touching my belly – it tickles. Grasping my breast. Almost surprising; not the touch but the firmness. Squeezing, caressing, pinching. The sparks protrude through my entire body. Bold hands venture higher on my thighs. Please just a bit further. Please! Yes! Now they know. Know exactly how excited I am. Damn it, I cannot stop trembling. Mmm... they are getting it! Getting braver. How many people can reach me at once? Is even the slightest part of my body untouched right now? Ten pairs of hands? A hundred? Oh my God! They are bringing me over the edge! Give me more! More!

Ouch! Those fingers knew just where to pinch me. It felt like he almost ripped off my nipple. Funny how all hands froze when I jumped. Mmm... yes come back to me! Are the hands the same? They feel a bit different. Yes! Rougher. I dare say someone has found the inside of me. Two fingers of one hand or two fingers from different people? Did someone just pull my hair? Careful with those strong hands around my neck, sailor. Damn this ball gag – I would sure like to talk to these people. But that would ruin the magic. Yes it would. Better this way. But I might ask them to go a bit easier in my cunt. Haven't any of these people ever thought about using the tongue? Ha-ha! Hardly in the Museum of Modern Art. Perhaps with the lights out. Fuck, they pull my nipples hard! Those titties won't grow! I'm sorry, this is as busty as I get. Oh! That was the second slap I got on my thighs. Very close to my pussy this time. I'm sure it was a blue-haired old art critic who gave me back for profanities. Lots of laugh. Who are these people anyway? I can tell that they aren't very gentle. They were, weren't they? But they've changed. They aren't caressing me. They are testing me. Deliberately hurting me? No, it can't be. Yet... Oh my God! That guy has definitely homed in on my clitoris. He's rolling me between his fingers. Rubbing me. Pinching me. Why don't I enjoy this? I usually do? But it hurts. Damn it, it hurts. His fingers feel like sand paper and it is like my skin stick to them; as if my skin peels. What the fuck, I'm dry! What happened? This is wrong. I am the centre of attention of the world. All the people I despise are doing their best to please me. But they aren't are they? They aren't working for pleasure, they are working in spite. Oh God, I can't take this any longer. How much time has passed? Half an hour must have been hours ago. Did that pig manager trick me? Are the original museum visitors even there now? Am I being raped by his sleazy pig friends? Will the remote work or is it just a dummy? Yellow! Red! I see stars... am I going to pass out?

* * *

Feeding frenzy. How can people trigger so easily? How can it be so easy to turn the noblesse of the city into a raging crowd of lewd lunatics? The first careful caresses did so quickly turn into a sadistic experiment. An evil grinned art critic places her hands over the throat of the poor girl. An arrogant chief executive pulls her nipple and wrings it mercilessly. The walking stick of a celebrated television personality is grinded against the sex of the constrained woman.

The subtle trembling of excitement of her body has turned into a violent shiver of fear.

I am disgusted. I am intrigued. I am ashamed of the fact that I am still excited. The adrenalin from dozens of predators arouses me; intoxicates me. The focus is the prey; the satisfaction. I struggle closer, stepping on toes and wrestle people out of my way. The urge to take part in this work of art is overwhelming. It is for a good cause, isn't it? If I chicken out, the exhibition will have failed. I can't take that responsibility. Closer. I can reach her now. She looks so vulnerable. Tainted by the bruises of unheedful fingers and vicious nails. Shaking from a soundless cry muted by her gag; shielded by her blindfold; inhibited by her restraints. I hesitate. Why am I here? One step back – pushed forward again by the ravening mob. I need to get away. But I can't blame the people behind me. They don't keep me here. I am obsessed by the woman before me. The object. I am the subject – my action is imperative. Swallows. Decision. I lift my hand and reach out. She is mine to explore.

"I am sorry Sir, this part of the exhibition is closed now. The rest of the museum will be open for three more hours and drinks will be served on the first floor in half an hour."

Perplexed, I look at the security guard. Where did he come from? Only when he very friendly, yet quite firmly, puts his hand on my arm to guide me away, I realize that my mouth is still open; that saliva trickles down my chin. The lights over the podium are shut down.

I turn away. All but runs through the museum. Out! Fresh air meets me. I close my eyes but the view of the hogtied woman is imprinted in my mind. Please let it be a bad dream.
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