I awake into a reality that pushes the absurdity of my situation back into my mind, back into my body.  In other words,  I have a hangover.  Dry mouth, achy eyes, and the worst headache.  Slowly I become aware of the hardness of the couch pressing uncomfortably against my back, the staleness of the air, an unpleasant taste in my mouth.  An overpowering hunger makes my stomach hurt, as if I haven't eaten in days.  If this is 1889, it's been a long time since I scarfed down those pommes frites at the flea market. 

Not so fast.

It's drafty in here.  

I dare to peek down at--

--my belly button?  I'm an inny, but whose flat stomach is that along with the tuft of red hair between my legs staring back at me?

 Ohmigod, I'm naked.     

I'm simultaneously shocked and turned on.  This is the second time I meet an artist and I end up nude.  What gives?  The last thing I remember was standing on the Pont Neuf looking out over the Seine and taking a drink of a pungent liqueur from a flask.  Absinthe.

I vaguely remember taking the drink, then falling into a deep sleep, though I was conscious of Paul Borquet carrying me into what I suppose was a carriage and holding me close to him as we bumped over the cobblestone streets.  I remember curling into that special space against his shoulder, his arm around me, my cheek leaning against his broad chest, and listening to his heartbeat.  I also remember him copping a feel…and my nipples hardening.  Mmm. 

Talk about a welcome mirage in my romance desert.

Between glances around his small studio in Montmartre--I suppose that's where I am--I take a deep breath and lay my head back, content to stare at the ceiling until my hunky dream guy shows up. 

Mirrors.  Everywhere above me.  In my reclining position on the divan, I can see a girl's nude body reflected full-length in the mirrored ceiling over my head like a digital pic on a giant computer screen. 

Run that picture by me again.  Yeah, that chick.  The Playboy centerfold staring back at me from the mirrored ceiling.  Gorgeous body.  Tiny, nipped-in waist, full breasts, slim hips, sexy shoulders.  Who is the bunny with the bod to die for?   

Can it be me? 

I close my eyes, believing when I open them again the girl will disappear; if she doesn’t and the beautiful girl is me, well, this is my fantasy, isn't it? 

Avoiding making any silly wager with myself, opening one eye at a time, I stick out my tongue.  So does the girl in the mirrored ceiling.  I draw in my breath.  It is me.  Interesting. 

Still not believing, I blink several times, turning my head from right to left, each time catching tantalizing glimpses of my nude body in the mirror that makes me utter tiny sighs of disbelief followed by admiration, then again disbelief.  I stare fixedly at the glass ceiling, amazed by my own vivid imagination and so very pleased with this free and independent spirit that has come to inhabit my mind and my body.

Thank you, Min, you naughty boy.

I watch the girl in the mirror on the ceiling draw her legs up, cross her ankles, press her thighs into the divan so her knees point in the opposite direction.  I've never seen myself from this position and it's quite interesting.  I have no idea what to make of it.  I can't see my pussy up close and personal, but what I can see makes me appreciate the guy's point of view when he heads south for a nibble.    

A little tremor goes through me.  I hope Paul Borquet also enjoys the view.

I lift my body up slowly, trying to feel if there's any sensation in my arms, my legs.  A tingling makes me aware of my limbs, although a supreme heaviness keeps pulling me down, as if wet sand traverses through my veins.  What's wrong?  I can't sit up, something is pulling on my wrists, making them numb.  I pull again.  What's holding me down? 

I lean my head back and with a hopeless sigh escaping loudly from my lips, I collapse back on the divan.  My God, I'm tied to the couch, my wrists bound by silken cords.  This fantasy has taken a wrong turn.  I'm in a danger zone.  Helpless.  Paul Borquet can do anything he wants to me and I can't stop him.  Anything.  Lock a collar around my neck, secure my wrists in handcuffs, cover my head in a leather hood that cuts out every ray of light and nearly every sound.  The only thing I'll have left is physical sensation. 

What's to restrain him from shackling me to his bedposts or rings in the ceiling?  Next, I'll hear the hiss of the whip cutting through the air and draping across my shoulders or my bare butt.  Or the kiss of his cane.  Pain coursing through my body as thin red welts lift on my flesh.  No, thank you.  I'm outta here--

--but maybe I'm not. 

What if he just wants to turn me on?  Bondage, as in erotic and only if the right man is pulling my strings, may be kinky but I've always wanted to try it.  If Paul Borquet wants a willing pupil for his night games, I might be interested.  Fear is not something I'm unfamiliar with, not after what I've been through, but I'm just as sure something mystical lurks here, flooding my mind with thoughts of dark passages, ghostly bones, and black magic à la Hollywood hunk.  Why not?  Silk restrains my wrists.  Silk cradles my buttocks.  Warm air blows over me from an open window.  I don't feel threatened.  Bondage may appeal to my Darth side, but only if we're talking about chick comforts.  No cold cell or dungeon for this slave wannabe.  I want to feed my hunger in style. 

Bring it on.

A web of pleasure begins to weave itself in my belly and between my legs as I think about his tongue flicking back and forth across my clitoris, while his pinching fingers send exquisite sensations though my nipples and breasts.  And I have to lie here and enjoy it.

Poor baby.

Waiting for you-know-who to make his entrance, I'm content to lie perfectly still on the divan, staring up at the high ceiling, a suspended candle in a glass jar swaying back and forth on a rope above my head.  Lower and lower it seems, its blue‑yellow flame taunting me.  I wiggle my butt, now glowing white hot in anticipation, the seeds of arousal I've planted in my mind sprouting into blossoms of pleasure and screaming for release. 

But wait, I'm not the first woman the artist has brought here.  I see a pile of feminine clothing, including scraps of red and yellow silk, a black stocking, a lace-ruffled petticoat, crisp and white, and a brown-checked taffeta dress sitting in a heap near the divan.  A persistent jealousy settles in me then.  Lies heavy in my stomach.  A new thought disturbs my fantasy.  What if this Paul Borquet intends to make me compliant, make me wet, not with his lips but with the kiss of a woman?  How will I react if he brings in a female like that blonde in the market and she straddles my shoulders, lowering her pussy over me?  What will I do?  What if her tongue opens my pussy and slides effortlessly over the swollen bud of my clitoris?  Will my body betray me and my hips move in rhythm to her sucking? 

I don't know the answers to these questions, never thought about it before.  I never experienced the touch of another woman in my world.  But this isn't my world, this is Paris in 1889.

Get ready for some action, kiddo.

Sniffing the air like an alleycat poking her nose in somebody else's kitty litter, I smell strong liquor and the residue of‑‑do I dare say it?‑‑sex. 

Pungent.  Like pollen.  Fresh pollen.  Monsieur Borquet is a very busy man.

"Ah, ma belle has awakened, ready to torment my soul with her beautiful eyes.  Dazzling green eyes, n'est‑ce pas?" 

I jerk my head forward but the lighting is poor.  I can't see who spoke, but I can hear him.  A low, raucous laugh oozing sexuality, the words slurred by alcohol.  I twist my neck, squinting my eyes, knowing before my gaze settles on the man who it is.   

Paul Borquet.

Brimming with the exuberance of drink, tottering with unsteadiness from the lack of sleep, he is nonetheless a handsome sight with his long, black hair swirling around his face and over his shoulders, his shirt open to the waist and soiled with paint splashes.  I see him pulling the string around the waist of his pants and tying it tightly.  He must have come back from relieving himself.  I wish for a daring moment he didn't draw the sting of his trousers so tightly. 

The hungry look in his eyes shakes my sanity and makes me tremble.  Reluctantly, I close my legs as a strange curiosity pricks my skin.  I watch his face and see his expression deepen, his eyes half-closing with desire, his cock swelling up under his pants.  Does he intend to fuck me?  Why else would he tie me to the divan?  Back in my old corporate life, I'd say the man was into stocks and bondage.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.  Don't show him you may be willing to play his game.

"To paint you, ma chérie," he says, laughing, then drinking from a flask.  A long, satisfying drink, spilling onto his shirt.  

Paint me?  What kind of b.s. is that? I want to yell out.  I'm primed, pumped up, and ready for a good time and all he wants to do is paint?

The audacity of the man.

He turns his back to me, takes another drink, then goes behind his easel and begins pushing paint from a tube and mixing it on crackly brown paper.

I push out my breasts in a defiance that surprises him, though he says nothing.  I'm steaming, fit to be untied so I can kick him in his tight pants.  I'm so aroused by my own daydreams, all I have to do is rub my butt against the silk to experience acute spirals of delight forming in my belly.  Though the silken cords aren't bound tightly, only a magician could get out of the intricate knots.  I pull on them as if to prove my point.  The artist looks up quickly, a flashing in his eyes with a warning that says if I disturb him again I'll pay for it. 

Goody.  Goody.

With that lascivious act I teased you about earlier?  

Has to be.

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