Moral Philosophy - part 1
An evening of high art and spanking machines
Right in front of my eyes, a woman is bent over in front of a fucking machine. She is hovering in mid-air, as if suspended by a mysterious unseen force, captive inside a giant plate glass cube. Her fashionable dress has been lifted, her silky underwear tugged down to her knees.
As I stare, further details flood into my disbelieving mind. I realise she’s lying prone on a transparent beam, held aloft by translucent struts that raise her above the heads of the surrounding crowd. The structure that bears her weight is barely visible, so she appears to float, defying gravity, her expensive-looking high heels dangling helplessly above the floor.
The massive glass box has an internal structure, made of sturdy wooden beams, which run from the floor towards the upper pane that forms its lid, dividing its interior into two unequal parts. Embedded into the upright timber struts are what appear to be medieval stocks, through which the occupant’s outstretched arms and head are protruding. Her face is not illuminated, any embarrassment shrouded by darkness.
A thick phallus is poised between her legs, slick with a sheen of lube that glints under the spotlights rigged in the high ceiling. Behind the dildo is a strange-looking arrangement of motors, bronze cranks, and polished pistons. The whole arrangement looks ludicrously over-engineered, like a steampunk contraption. The machinery dominates the interior space, giving the impression the occupant was being consumed by a mechanical monster.
An eerie red downward arrow is projected onto the side of the glass wall, and inside the cube there is movement. The box is soundproof, so I hear nothing, but within the baroque device, I can see its components began to whirr and its gears rotating.
Only then do I realise that this contraption is also a spanking machine. Beside each of her hips is a brass wheel, with a thin leather strap attached to each rim that hang in the air just behind her bare buttocks. Now, in a flash, their true nature is revealed. The wheels are rotary whips, they spin rapidly - completing a revolution in a blink of an eye - whacking both leather straps against her bottom, leaving two thin pink lines where they landed.
I don’t hear the whack of impact, or any shriek from her mouth, but I can see her writhe upon her translucent bench, her feet kicking in the air, her arms struggling in the pillory, her shiny satin panties slipping further down her legs.
The gears slow, the giant gadget grinds to a halt, until everything is still again. And around me, I hear gasps.
I am in Berlin, visiting an edgy art gallery that’s just popped up into existence in a previously derelict office building. Workers once diligently strived here, until a recent recession decided their labour was no longer valuable enough. Now the desks and cubicle partitions are gone, vanished just like the potted plants and the colourful jaunty prints that once tried to civilise this brutalist space, leaving behind a cavernous empty expanse, fringed by the stark grey bareness of austere concrete walls.
This mausoleum of contemporary capitalism feels like an appropriate site for a new piece of high-concept performance art, of the kind that has already earned its creator a cult following.
The artist works under the moniker RFC1945, but other than her stated preference for feminine pronouns, virtually nothing is known about her. She has not allowed her face to be photographed, and no one knows who she really is. Some have speculated that her nom de plume is derived from her initials, or a reference to the transformational year when fascism was defeated and mankind first unleashed the fury of atomic fire.
Other fans suggest she took her name from the document that defined the talking protocol of the world wide web, the iconoclastic invention that allowed billions across the globe to communicate freely for the first time. To me, that makes more sense, as technology and the free exchange of ideas are common tropes in her work. Not that the mainstream art world appreciates her. They consider her gauche, crude, and pornographic to the point of perversion. But as with so much that is taboo, the opprobrium of the many only strengthens her fans’ appreciation. Her art is often sensual, always confrontational and challenging, never predictable or dull.
Her last public appearance had been entitled “Au Seuil”, and was staged in a dilapidated old warehouse in Paris. Its name, roughly translated as Threshold, had given little indication of what to expect.
When it commenced, I found myself watching a catwalk fashion show for governesses. Her collection had been a set of eloquent period-inspired and historically authentic gowns and dresses that radiated strictness and authority. What she’d curated were not parodies, but exquisitely designed and meticulously sewn works of fashion art, with elegant long hems and fine, tight satin materials, deliberately crafted to accentuate the sexual power of their wearers’ gorgeous physiques.
The catwalk itself was unlike any I’d ever seen. Not a raised stage, but a room within a room - or, more accurately, a wide walnut-panelled corridor. We, the audience, stood in obedient silence pressed against the wooden walls, illuminated by flickering gaslight. We watched as a procession of models entered through a door at one end, and glided slowly and serenely down the hallway to an ominous door, hidden in shadows at the far end.
The models passed close enough for me to hear their clothes rustle, and sniff their perfumes. Even their scent seemed old-fashioned, florid rather than fashionable, the pungent simplicity of rose water, lavender, and cinnamon.
On closer inspection I could see each governess carried some kind of disciplinary implement, all kinds of canes, leather paddles, hairbrushes, and little whips. Trailing just behind them, and being led firmly by the hand, was another model, some male, some female. Each of those being led was dressed in equally eye-catching vintage garments, from nightgowns to summer dresses, from pinafores to cute little sailor outfits.
I remember standing transfixed as this strange procession passed by, two at a time, as if I’d become a mute witness to an Edwardian disciplinary ritual. When the governess and her charge reached the end of the corridor, she’d rap on the heavy door, each knock being amplified and distributed by unseen speakers that made my tummy judder. The door would creak open, revealing a void of black emptiness beyond, and she would tug her charge’s wrist and step into the darkness.
And that would be the last we’d see of them. As they approached the threshold, the figures would suddenly disappear, utterly, as if sucked into an abyss. Not gradually fading from view as they stepped through the doorway, but completely vanishing within the blink of an eye.
Perhaps the whole piece was a head fake, its pretentious fashion show setting, with all its titillating suggestions of well-smacked bottoms, concealing a deeper truth: how time erases us all eventually. Whatever the intention, the effect was both weirdly erotic and highly unsettling. Memories of those final footsteps into oblivion haunted my dreams for weeks.
Naturally, the critics hated it, deriding it as just a glorified stage trick, a corny pastiche of haute couture, or a trite commentary on the Rise of Populism. How we were all being led by the wrist by those who promised to be strict with us, and especially strict with those who weren’t like us. Maybe that was the perilous threshold we were all really being dragged towards.
When I’d read the critics’ reviews I wondered if my own kink made me interpret it differently. I had felt a compelling force in that corridor, a sense of progression that was simultaneously both unnerving and arousing. I knew the power of being led by the wrist, the tension of being obedient yet hesitant. The anxiety about what lay behind closed doors, and the conflicting eagerness to experience it. The eroticism of jumping heart-first into the unknown.
The artist’s latest installation, and what I’m here to see tonight, is entitled “Moral Philosophy”. Our invitations were delivered without any further explanation.
When I’d arrived, I’d worked my way through the small crowd that has gathered for its unveiling. I craned my head upwards as I scrutinised her new enigma, marinating in the curiosity of those around me as they too attempted to decipher it.
When I first saw the installation it did not have an occupant. I’d walked around what appeared to be an oversized plate glass cube, four metres on each side, with no door, and no obvious means of entry. A transparent top pane covering the box like a lid, making it completely sealed and soundproof.
Inside the cube is a clear beam, positioned so that it hovers at the very centre of the space, supported by transparent struts and lit in such a way that they’re almost invisible. The interior is effectively divided in two by the sturdy struts of some wooden stocks. They look grimy and weather-beaten, like they’d been resting half-forgotten in a corner of market square in some quaint rural village, only to be rescued, repaired, and repurposed.
Behind the beam, and occupying a large portion of the remaining interior, is an intimidating contraption of gears, cranks and pistons. It looks antiquated rather than modern, its parts polished brass rather than laser-cut aluminium, a muscular assembly of archaic mechanisms without an insulated wire in sight. I might be attending the autopsy of a clockwork giant, or staring at the mighty hulking heart of an ocean liner, vectors of motion frozen into shards of bronze, united by the rasping maws of gears.
Jutting out from the contraption, around the same height as the beam, is a horizontal metal pole, onto which a large dildo had been mounted. It looks incongruously out of place, a fleshy silicone phallus, complete with faux veins and bulbous glans, melded with industrial apparatus that wouldn’t look out of place in an exhibition of Victorian pumping machinery.
Conversations began to bubble up around me, as everyone debated what we could see. Some mocked the conspicuous clunkiness, their sly insinuation being that artists never really got technology. I argued back, stating my view that the scale and convoluted-ness of the engine was deliberate. I had seen far simpler fucking machines, barely more than a ratchet and an electric motor, but there seemed to be a message hidden here amid its chunky over-engineering and byzantine complexity.
Did this mechanism actually work? Or was it as dead as those preserved in industrial heritage museums. What would happen if it rumbled into life? I tried to rotate the components in my imagination, starting with those nearest the stocks, like the two wheels mounted on either side on spindle poles, with the stiff leather straps that dangled from the contraption like two panting tongues. They immediately intrigued me, as they suggested the purpose of the machine was more than just to thrust.
I drifted amid the crowd as the audience milled around the strange cube, listening in as they asked themselves: So, what does it all mean? What are we really here to see?
I began to hear the first sighs and harrumphs of frustrated minds. The unmistakable sound of disdain. I’ve attended enough events like this to know those who can not easily comprehend the puzzle will often snidely scoff: Is this really art?
About ten minutes later, as the mutterings of frustration grew, something startling suddenly happened. The interior lighting of the installation was abruptly extinguished, its sheer glass walls becoming an impenetrable black.
Now we were standing around what appeared to be a giant obsidian cube. It felt like an artefact from a pagan rite - or an ancient alien monolith, a sublime revelation towering over a grunting throng of sweaty apes.
We waited in reverent hush, only exchanging whispers. And when the cube is finally illuminated again, we can see there is a person inside.
Collectively the crowd stares at the cube’s new occupant. It is impossible to ignore that her dress has been deliberately lifted, and her underwear has been tugged down to her knees.
Around me, voices begin to murmur, like a breeze rippling through a field of wheat. Heads bob and sway and rustle, as neighbours whisper new observations and interpretations. This is a wide hall, so there's plenty of space to mill around, and groups are forming, coalescing as individuals overcome our natural suspiciousness of strangers.
I’ve often wondered what would happen if genial personalities were as conspicuous as pretty faces or glamorous outfits. How would social dynamics of crowds change if strangers instinctively gravitated towards the cutest personality in the room?
I notice a woman a few footsteps away, wearing a bright red beret and standing alone. She has drifted away from the small groups that have formed nearby. Her body language is awkward, the posture of someone painfully embarrassed to be here. Admittedly we are standing beside a giant glass box, watching a stranger with her bottom bared, who happens to be locked in pillory and bent over in front of a fucking machine. That must be a violation of at least several social norms.
I sidle slowly beside her, so as not to startle her.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” she replies, somewhat nervously.
I shield my mouth with my hand, as if I’m trying to conceal a secret from watching lip readers.
“I’m looking to form a gang of introverts, wanna join?”
She laughs instinctively, and I can sense her stance relaxing slightly. I offer her a fist to bump, which she accepts with a playful flourish. No turning back, she’s a gang member now.
“I don’t usually spend my evenings watching folks tied up in oversized sex machines…” I offer.
“No! I don’t either!”
My inner Sherlock is already scrabbling for clues, little titbits that might seed our conversation, and save it from the awful doom of awkward silence. My new chum speaks with an anglicised German accent, she hasn’t dressed up for this premiere, her clothes are slouchy, informal and comfortable. Her beret is a enticingly vivid scarlet, the wool seems felted with age, as if it’s a much loved accoutrement. I feel slightly relieved, having now secured a fallback question, I can always ask for the story behind her headwear if our nascent conversation flounders. With my safety line attached, I resolve to try a bolder question first.
“What do you suppose it all means?”
“I’ve no idea! It’s so intimidating! Like a weird industrial relic...”
I nod in agreement, berating myself for not having prepared a better answer of my own.
Fortunately our stalling conversation is rescued when something baffling is projected onto the glass side of the cube, it appears to be a sequence of enigmatic letters and numerals. The giant ghostly green figures seem to float in the air, glowing in front of my eyes.
S&P 5,968
“What does that mean?” I ask, but Red Beret can only shrug apologetically.
The overhead lights flicker out, leaving the cube as the only source of light. I look around, surveying my neighbouring silhouettes, expressions indistinguishable in this ghoulish green glow. Dozens of wide eyes glint back, everyone staring at the giant cube, as if awaiting some revelation from a higher power.
As we watch, the loitering numbers abruptly change, and an arrow symbol appears alongside them, pointing upwards. I can see movement inside the cube now, the clunky gears and cranks glinting under the spotlights as they begin to move. The piston attached to the dildo is pushing forwards, thrusting between the legs of the faceless recipient. It pushes deep, and then begins to withdraw, until only the tip of the dildo remains within her. Her legs dance, then dangle limply above the floor, quivering slightly. Around me, I can hear a hubbub of gasps and stifled giggles. Beside me, Red Beret is silent, her eyes wide open, completely captivated.
Nothing further happens for about ten seconds, and then the mysterious green number changes again, still accompanied by the upward arrow. The piston pushes forward once more, and the dildo vanishes inside the recipient, emerging moments later, coated with a lewd glistening sheen.
For the next few minutes, the lady in the cube is fucked several times. Each time the green number is different, but its significance appears cryptic. I notice she’s not struggling against her restraints, if anything she seems to have surrendered to the experience, I trust she is enjoying it.
Then something different happens. The number changes colour, glowing red, like the glow of seedy neon brothel. The accompanying arrow symbol is now pointing downwards.
Different parts of the contraption are moving now, that’s when I realise the wheels beside her hips are rotary whips. They spin in a blur of motion, whacking both leather straps against her bottom, leaving two thin pink lines where they land.
I hear nothing from within the soundproof box, the massive machine remains implausibly silent. I can see the occupant, head shrouded, writhing upon her translucent bench. Her feet kick in the air, her upper arms writhe within the stocks. The only consequence of her futile struggles is that her swanky underwear slips further down her legs.
My attention flicks between the crowd and the cube. The majority seem to be watching in enthralled silence, waiting to see what will happen next. Whereas others are beginning to walk around the cube, some might be searching for clues towards a deeper understanding, but I bet most are just seeking a more titillating view.
Is this art? What does it all mean?
Each time the number changes, the babble of conversation diminishes, as dozens of individuals merge into a single collective consciousness to witness its consequences. Only once the whips smack, or the dildo thrusts, does the chatter resume again. I hear those around me attempting to interpret and deconstruct the piece, eager to demonstrate they can see it with a superior mind, using the language of high art rather than crass pornography.
I start to wonder if the artist is wandering amongst us, eavesdropping on these highbrow postulations, no doubt smiling at the success of her disguised social psychology experiment. Proof that faced with explicit sexuality in a public setting, most would prefer to explain it away or intellectualise it, rather than admit how much the spectacle turned them on.
It reminds me of the crowd watching The Emperor's New Clothes, everyone desperate to seem too sophisticated to be seduced by its overt obscenity. No one wanting to look vulgar and uncouth by admitting the eroticism of the spectacle turned them on. I bet those nearby are just as aroused as me. I can already feel I’ve made my panties wet.
Does arousal possess an invisible attractive force? Several passing individuals have joined Red Beret and I, mingling into our nascent little group.
There’s Business Casual Lady, neatly dressed in a plain white T-shirt beneath a slim-fitting navy jacket, and wearing a pair of matching slacks. When I glance sideways, I can see her regarding the cube with coy fascination.
Beside her is Tech Bro, a tall guy with a bushy beard, in a tight grey beanie and a startup conference T-shirt. He seems quite opinionated about what he’s watching, as if he’d read the installation’s technical documentation before arriving, and so already understands what it’s all about—perfectly.
On my other side there’s John Lennon Guy, a slightly older dude wearing red teashade sunglasses and a T-shirt with the slogan “Busy Making Other Plans”. He’s accompanied by Pink Cardigan Punk Girl, who also looks like she’s on her way to a gig, though it wouldn’t surprise me if she was playing it. She seems to have a stage presence, and an innate sense of style that can transform an everyday fluffy jumper into something effortlessly cool.
We are talking amongst ourselves, to everyone and no-one in particular.
“S&P stands for Standard and Poor's,” asserts Tech Bro confidently, “It’s a New York stock index. It tracks how well shares are performing.”
“So when the numbers are green, the market’s going up?”
“Yeah.”
The mechanism whirrs, pushing the dildo in and out again.
“So when the market goes up, the dildo fucks her. And when it falls, the whips spank her?”
Ah, that might explain a lot. No work of art truly exists in isolation, completely disconnected from the outside world. This could be a device for seeing distant events, happening on the far side of a vast ocean.
“Neo-liberal economics conditions us to believe a rising stock market is positive, rewarding us with a good fucking.”
“I’d never thought of the turning wheel of capitalism like that before.”
“They do say you can’t beat the market.”
Indeed, who’d have thought the market might end up beating you.
“Wouldn’t a better name have been The Stocks Market?”
This terrible pun seemed to anger the market gods, or it coincided with a minor correction of value, whatever the reason, for the next few minutes the whips duly lash the captive’s bottom.
“Corporal punishment is itself a form of conditioning.”
“We can see what is going on, but not hear it. Is that an analogy of modern markets?”
“Noticed the one inside has an intervention button? But she’s not pressing it.”
I look upwards to investigate Business Casual’s observation. She is indeed correct, on the darkened side of the partition there’s a dull red glow, emitted from a large push-button, of the kind you see beside escalators. It’s just about bright enough to see the silhouette of the occupant’s hand nearby, she could easily press it if she wanted to.
“I suppose we’ve known about the inequalities of capitalism for hundreds of years, yet we continue to tolerate it,” I tentatively offer my observation to the conversation, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like sanctimonious student agitprop.
“Perhaps there are more people who are satisfied than who suffer?”
I nod in acknowledgement to Business Casual’s Utilitarian response.
“Just enough pleasure to balance the pain.”
“The lady seems so insignificant next to that giant machine.”
As if to demonstrate its potency, the massive mechanism whirrs once more, pushing deep inside its helpless occupant. It appears the market has rediscovered its optimism.
“The machine looks so antique, do you think that’s deliberate?”
“Market capitalism is centuries old too, its basic principles haven’t changed since the 17th century.”
“What’s the significance of the name?”
“Didn’t the study of economics used to be known as moral philosophy? The ethics of dividing the spoils of our labours?”
“Yes, and society continues to choose to divide the spoils unequally. Poverty is a political choice. We collectively choose to protect our privileges.”
“For to him who has, more will be given. And from he who has not, even that will be taken away.”
“Amen.”
“Is that inequality alluded to by the proportions of the cube’s interior? There’s a small portion, unseen, cloaked in shadow. And that’s where the occupant is kept.”
This sequence of deep ethical questions induces a period of contemplative silence, which fortunately our punky pink pal skilfully punctures.
“Is it just me, or is the prospect of being put in the stocks strangely arousing?”
“Yes! Being spanked in the stocks is pretty hot!”
I look round at Red Beret, surprised to hear such a candid admission from one seemingly so meek. There is an awkward silence, I recognise her moment of maximum vulnerability, and know I can't leave her hanging, so I fill the gap with a tame confession of my own by way of solidarity.
“Yeah! I love imagining myself as a helpless maiden in a medieval square!”
She repays my contribution with a grateful smile.
Our bold intervention seems to cross a threshold, giving the others permission to say what they really think, approval that what we’re looking at isn’t just intellectually engaging, but physically arousing too.
“She wants it. And she wants us to watch it. So fucking cool, man.”
“When we get home,” John Lennon tells his partner, “I’m going to give you either a good deep fucking, or a good hard spanking.”
“Oh! Which is it to be?” Punky Pink replies with a coy smile.
“A toss of a coin will decide, my dear,” he teases.
His comment makes me shiver. I love how that promise will keep her in a superposition of possibilities for the remainder of the evening. Not knowing if she’ll be going to bed with her bottom stinging, or her cunt satisfied. How I long for someone to make that same threat to me.
Suddenly, the cube goes completely dark.
The ambient hubbub is immediately quelled, as we all stare at the huge ominous artefact apprehensively. A murmur grows, as it becomes apparent this isn’t a momentary state of affairs.
Something catches my eye at the top of the dark space, it looks like a silver feather, drifting slowly downwards from the cube’s glass ceiling. My guess is it’s a hint to wait, to be patient, as the feather floats gradually towards the floor.
Minutes pass, as we chat amongst ourselves, sharing our predictions as to what might happen next. I’m strangely mesmerised by the plight of the tiny silver feather, tumbling through the cube’s dark expanse, as if buffeted by invisible zephyrs. It seems so real, yet weirdly uncanny, floating slower than any object I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s an illusion, the result of a holographic laser projection. Yet how much of what we see can we ever really trust?
As the feather nears the floor, I realise I’m holding my breath. Then, in a flash, the dark cube is illuminated again. The lady occupant has vanished, and in her place, there’s now a man inside. He appears quite formally dressed, a white shirt and tailored suit trousers, which have been pulled half-way down his thighs.
How did that happen? I see confused expressions all around, the cube had been surrounded by a watchful crowd on all four sides, yet no one seemed to have seen the cube open anywhere.
My attention returns to the man inside. I’ve noticed the dildo on the machine has been replaced, a realistic-looking flesh-coloured phallus now points between his buttocks, its bulbous head hidden, likely already intruding inside. I look lower, and notice his genitals aren’t dangling between his legs, his shaved scrotum is taut, and his penis is already stiff beneath his body.
I wonder if there are many models, and how long this performance will continue. Until we’re all aroused sufficiently perhaps? Maybe the room will slowly empty, as one by one, one partner tugs their lover’s wrist, and they turn and begin to walk home, their footsteps light with eager anticipation.
But what of those like me, who arrived here alone? I find myself looking downwards, with a twinge of regret at my unheld hand.
Much as I enjoy watching the will of the market roughly pegging the gentleman in the cube, I realise with everyone’s attention occupied, now would be an ideal opportunity to sneak away, and attend to another, much more urgent matter.
I nudge Red Beret, and whisper that I’m going to visit the bathroom. She smiles sweetly, telling me she’ll stay right here. We part with impish fist-bumps.
On the way out of the main hall, I notice a small group standing in the corner of the room, staring at a small framed picture. I discreetly peer around their shoulders, and see they seem to be looking at a sketch. Several long curling lines coming together to synthesise a naked human figure, seen from the back, too abstract to have any gender. The only shading anywhere in the picture is between the curved lines that look like buttocks. These grey smears could be shadows, or suggest the glow of spanked cheeks.
So much of the space within the frame is empty, but the curvy charcoal lines are reminiscent enough of familiar shapes to carry its meaning. It could be someone just risen from bed, or about to get into it. It could be a self-portrait by the artist, or a sketch of their muse, or just a study of the beauty of the human body. Or it could be a lover with a spanked bottom.
I snort, stifling a laugh, when I realise this could very well be the artist’s private little joke. That in a room dominated by an ostentatious spanking machine, there would inevitably be some people standing in the corner, looking at a sketch of someone in the corner, thinking about what the artist had done.
I’m in high-spirits as I continue walking, following the signs until I reach the ladies’ bathroom. It is reasonably clean, but has the shabby neglected patina common to all tired old commercial buildings. Mirrors are cracked, tiles are missing, and exposed screws and nails are ringed with little circles of rust. Faint round tidemarks of limescale stain the vinyl floor, memorials to long-evaporated puddles.
Looking down the row of toilet cubicles, I notice only one door is ajar at the far end. It’s the one in the corner, so I hurry across to claim it. As I duck inside, and close the flimsy door behind me, I notice that this cubicle is empty, there is no toilet bowl or cistern. But no matter. I didn’t come here to pee.
I slide the latch to lock the cubicle door, and lean back against the bare wall opposite. I urgently unbutton my skinny jeans, creating enough space for my hand to slip down inside my panties. I could feel myself getting disgracefully wet as I watched the lady in the cube being methodically whipped and fucked. I wonder how many others in this bathroom are relieving their own ache. In truth, I can’t hear much peeing.
My mind begins to defocus and drift into fantasising. I find myself wondering why municipal fucking machines aren’t a thing. They could be little booths like public toilets, with a membership card to unlock access and keep the weirdos out.
Inside, they wouldn’t need to be complicated, just a little thrusting mechanism, onto which a visitor could fit their own dildo. One could put in earphones, and listen to a lover’s voice telling you just how much they want to fuck you. Or a stranger’s voice scolding you for being such a naughty girl by visiting a public wanking booth. An stern insistent voice, reminding you again and again as you played, of just how much you deserved such a good hard spanking when you got home.
My fingers enter deeper, mimicking the dildo of the wanking machine I’m imagining myself riding, with the slow but progressively quickening tempo I’ve chosen. I want to be filled, and feel my tightness being stretched. I’m dimly aware of a sucking squelching sound, though in my woozy state I can’t be sure I’m the one making it, or if it's coming from the cubicle next door.
I push back against the wall, suppressing moans as I push my fingers even deeper. Suddenly, I feel something shift behind me, as if I’ve broken through the decrepit wall in my frenzy of lust.
I guiltily withdraw my sticky fingers, and tentatively examine the mess I’ve made. Now I see the wall on which I’d been leaning was hinged, and has swung open like a secret door. Heartbeat racing, I peer into the void beyond.
Continue reading the concluding part here…
@spankingtheatre 2024
I loved this. Extra points for getting 'superposition' into an erotic story. Now for part two, which I really hope is going where I think it is...
What an amazingly well crafted story! Loved the details in the descriptions of the surroundings and the how the setting of the art show has opened up some quite erotic moments!!