Blue always liked the light in my bedroom. He told me it had a clarity that flattered everything it touched.
On that cloudless September day, light flooded the room, illuminating the rumpled sheets, the polished wood floors, and my flushed and naked form, sitting on a painted wrought iron dressing table chair. My hands and feet were bound behind me with silk cords I kept for such occasions.
Hair upswept, smudged mascara ghosting around my eyes, shoulders pulled back and thighs spread by the restraints, I was an offering to a god with one foot in Victoriana and one in pornography. I swore I could feel Blue’s precious light as it whispered over the slick folds of my exposed sex.
I’d taken Blue to an an art show in the bohemian section of town the night before. A girl I know, a girl who funded her art career the same way I feathered my nest, was debuting a performance piece she called Restraint. In a replica of Victorian dress, down to the corsetry and elaborate updo, she sat, bound as I now was and unflinching in a Victorian arm chair. Her skirt had been pulled up to reveal her stockinged and kid-booted ankles and folded into the cleft between her legs.
Honestly, I haven’t the faintest interest in performance art, but she is the closest thing to a friend I have in the trade.
Blue and I drank Gin Slings all night, poking fun at unfathomable art in hushed whispers. He made peanut butter sandwiches at two a.m.
When I woke, he had his tripod set up with the picture window to his back and my dressing table chair positioned in the center of the room. My silk restraints lay invitingly over the seat. Blue sat at the end of the bed, watching the light travel on the floor with a critical eye.
“Can you pile up your hair like that?” He spoke without turning.
I knew him too well to ask. I’d seen the mad twinkle in his eye at the sight of Lorelei in her costume provocant.
“No corsets before coffee,” I muttered into the pillow.
He stretched out alongside me to slide a hand along my bare leg. “Who said anything about corsets?”