On Display at the Art Show

The room thrummed with low music and low heat. Somewhere between a gallery and a chapel. Every guest arrived dressed in black, every drink poured on the rocks, and every rule printed in gold on the wall by the bar.

She touches no one. You touch only with permission. If she nods, proceed. If she shakes her head, you stop. No words. No names. No second chances.

She stood on the marble platform in nothing but pearls and body oil, her thighs glistening. A red velvet chair sat beside her, untouched.

Every five minutes, she changed position. One foot on the stool. Elbow to knee. Spine arched across the arm of the chair. Always exposed. Never inviting.

The man who approached looked polished for the space. Dark tailored coat. Wrist tattoo just barely visible beneath his sleeve. He held no drink. He moved like someone who already knew what it felt like to be watched.

He stopped a few inches from her.

Mira met his eyes.

Held them.

Then slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

He slipped one hand along the curve of her hip. No rush. No bravado. His thumb grazed the crease between her thigh and her cunt, just enough to sharpen her breath.

She parted her legs an inch wider. Let her fingers move between them.

Her other hand cupped her breast, thumb teasing the nipple until it hardened under the light.

He stayed beside her, silent.

Hard now, but untouched.

The watching crowd had stilled. The music hummed through the floorboards. A woman in the corner traced her collarbone with the back of three fingers…

Mira’s breath deepened. Her hips rolled against her own hand. The man beside her said nothing, did nothing more than rest his palm on her thigh.