Page 11 of Room 13: Bred By the Bears

Seeing Miele standing across from us in that sweet blue wrap dress and precious flats, looking so studiously professional it hardened my cock and turned my thoughts into dandelion fluff. She was the designer. The fact shouldn’t surprise me. It was a bullseye of nepotism and handshake favors that kept New Orleans society running. Of course, if she could afford to play at Club Sin, she too was one of theelites, the old money families, or she worked with enough of them she could afford the price of membership.

The past two days were a never ending battle between torture and delight. Playing with Miele did exactly what Obsidian thought it would. Broke through whatever artistic block I’d felt, and inspiration shot from me with Vesuvian force. The creative flow couldn’t be stemmed. It poured from me without effort. It physically hurt to break away from the creative tide to sit here and engage in these vapid meetings that I despised.

After such an intensely satisfying night, the three of us were desperate for a second round. Chantilly probably had us all blocked because we called her so frequently hoping for an update. One that never came. I needed to see Miele again, like I needed air. She’d liberated my creativity, and I needed to continue to fuel that fire while it burned hot.

“Madame Lócheve.” Obsidian stood and kissed her hand. “Pleasure is all ours. You are an incredible talent.”

I didn’t disagree. Something about the compliment coming from Obsidian, combined with the chivalrous front grated me. Not that Obsidian wasn’t always proper and polished. But we knew Miele. Knew the drooping fullness of her breasts. The heart shape of her pussy that framed her swollen clit in such a tantalizing way that you were powerless to do anything but drop to your knees in worship of it.

But rules were rules. Outside of the club, unless given permission, we couldn’t acknowledge we knew each other. Though every ounce of my body wanted to pull her against me, feel her lush body press against mine, and claim her mouth. My lips already had forgotten what it felt like to get lost in the pillowy softness of her lips caressing against mine. My fingers tingled with the need to feel the silk of her ponytail, or the softness of her skin.

“Miele.” I followed Obsidian’s lead, standing and extending my hand. “I’m so excited to work with you.”

Obsidian raised his eyebrow in my direction. Whatever. Sure, I had a reputation of being difficult and surly. Being in her presence excited me. The preening peacock of a hotel manager didn’t need to know I was using the word in the biblical sense. If he looked close enough at my suit pants, he’d know just how true the statement was.

Anyone making a close study of her facial features, like me at that moment, would have seen the panic. Her hazel eyes, that ring of fire that surrounded the gray green iris constricted in tandem with the barely perceptible dip of her smile. I had to hand it to her though. She was clearly well practiced in keeping up appearances. She recovered in an instant. Beamed a smile in our direction and carried on with our business discussion.

“Mr. Trygg, it is so wonderful to finally meet you. I’m a huge fan of your work. The installation you have at the Pendry in Chicago? I was an instant fan. When I learned you were from New Orleans, I told Mr. Le Mer that we needed to bring a local artisan in and knew immediately your work would fit seamlessly with my vision of the space.”

That was the last thing I’d been expecting. She was a fan of my work? The art at the Pembry hadn’t been commissioned pieces. Those were pre-created pieces purchased through an art dealer.

“How much do you know about Mr. Trygg?” Obsidian asked, pouring himself a second cup of tea. For someone who loathed banal chit chat, and the theater of doing business in New Orleans, he certainly was all in. Mr.I’ll pour a second cup of a drink that I loathe. I watched him peruse the dessert tray and pluck an almond pastry from the selections. I took a sip of my coffee—black—and refused the proffered tray of sugary pastries.

Miele took a seat across from us, declining the proffered pastries from Arnaut. Her oversized briefcase, I assumed full of her visions for each space, perched against her seat, the smart, butter color of the leather a perfect contrast to the dark blue of her dress. Suddenly I had a vision for another piece. One that explored fine ropes of twisted metal that looked soft like strands of hair, combined with braided leather in that exact shade of melted butter. While Miele continued with her explanation, I withdrew my favorite Lamy pen from my breast pocket and notebook, roughing out a sketch before I lost it.

“…practically a ghost… No social presence, no pictures of you anywhere on the internet…but so many of your works all over the world. After seeing the sculpture at the Pembry, I had to see more. As I’ve traveled, I’ve made it a point to check you out. Your pieces I mean. Wherever they were.”

“Color me impressed Madame Lócheve. Do you have a favorite?” Obsidian pressed.

Every time he used her formal name, she blushed. A sweet coral-pink right at the apples of her cheeks. It was so different from the flush of pleasure we’d seen painted on those cheeks just a few days ago. But equally as addicting.

“Please, call me Miele.”

I loved the sound of her name across her tongue. Lilting, beautiful Creole French. I wondered, offhand, how deep her roots tied to the area.

“You can call me Ryker. Trygg is my surname. Not the most original nome de plume but it was easy to remember.”

“Well,Ryker.” She blushed that coral pink blush again. This time just for me. Because she was let in on a special secret. She’d been gifted the connection between who I was to the public and who I am. My full name. Ryker Trygg. I got to witness the convergence of her knowledge of who I was at Club Sin, with who I was professionally and the delight it sprouted across her face. I’d been semi-erect just seeing her in that sweet dress of hers, but witnessing her secret pleasure spill across her face as she tried valiantly to contain that knowledge? It was cock-stiffening.

“There is a piece calledWindow.” She adjusted her glasses before smoothing her ponytail. “It is oddly sensual despite it being barely discernable. There’s a hint of longing in it. As if there was someone just beyond the viewer’s comprehension that you could feel the desperation to get them to turn and look. It’s stuck with me ever since I saw it. It’s so subtle and refined in its expression—just a few simple twisted pieces of copper and tungsten, but in that tension you can feelsomething.”

“Obi, there is no need to make the girl sit up and pant in some ridiculous display of ego stroking.”

I cut off the discussion with a brusque wave of my hand. Obsidian loved to hear all the preening, slack jawed, superfluous bullshit people never stopped lobbing in my direction. I didn’t need to hear that shit. I didn’t create art for their adulation. I did it because it kept me awake at night. Made me feel edgy, jittery, unable toquietuntil I helped it become exorcised from my brain.

That people bought it? Great. That they paid heavy coin for it? Even better. I liked nice things. But I’d make my art even if someone never bought another piece from me again. It fed my soul. Creation was the wellspring of my existence.

“We came here to see your vision, not to discuss me.” I motioned toward Miele’s portfolio, “How about you show us your design plans.”

eight

I needed a minute.More than a minute. More than the two days I’d already spent trying to reassemble my body and soul after being with Ryker, Obsidian, and Armel. I don’t think I’d even fully come down from the high.

Those three men lingered in my thoughts. Invaded every moment of my day with their dirty words, their wet, hot mouths, and every tawdry detail of the things we’d done. I struggled to process it all.

“As of today,”Ryker had told me as he helped me down the stairs as we left Club Sin,“there’s no more shaving. Not your cunt, not your taint, not that tiny little asshole. Your thighs and your mound too. It all belongs to us, and we expect it hairy the next time we see you. Whether or not you want to keep shaving your legs and armpits is up to you. We know women like to do womanly things to make them feel smooth and smell pretty. But that hairy fucking cunt is ours. To dirty, to mark up, and shove our cum into. Any time we see it. Every time we see you. I want to yank those panties down, smash my face into the hairy pussy of yours, and still smell us marked all over you. Are we clear?”

The words had been said with such possession. Each one practically tattooed the wordsmineall over me in invisible ink. And I nodded at him. Agreed to abide by his rules. Without question or second thought. In fact his orders had played on never ending repeat for two fucking days, and every time I thought about his heat-filled assertions, my uterusclenched. Like it was bereft at the loss of him and his friends cocks and cum and begged me to be filled again.

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