Class 5B

Back in New York, it was so hard to conduct business when the needs of her body kept distracting her mind. She fought her way through it, though, canceling the termination of her lease. She liked this apartment far too much to leave. Its location was ideal, and her bedroom was already absorbing the scents of several lovers — she'd have to be crazy to walk away when her personal environment was just coming together.

And she couldn't wait to tell Giuseppe that she was staying. She'd already decided that she wanted to bring Jacques, his fellow doorman, into the fun and games, too. They could take turns with her, or maybe they'd even agree to do her together. She couldn't even imagine how exciting it would be to suck on one dick while another was hammering deep inside of her molten tunnel.

Thinking about handling two cocks at once got to her. She called William at his office and home, but couldn't reach him. So she lay down on her bed, stroking gigantic her clit with the phone positioned mere centimeters from her furious finger action, groaning William's name, the sounds recorded onto his answering machine. He would enjoy coming home to a message like that, it would brighten his day.

She wondered whether she should leave messages like that for all of her lovers. And she wondered how it could feel as though her tiny little pleasure center was bigger than the fingers stroking it.

The phone rang. She pounced on it with her other hand, hoping that William had already heard her moans on his phone, that he was ready to play with her, and let her drink his savory cum again.

"William? Oh, Ruben! Oh... Have you... found out anything yet?"

He was laughing. "Your artist friend is a specialist, Catherine. As is the entire gallery in question."

"A special... specialist... Oh... What do you mmmmooohhh, Goddd... W... what do you mean?"

"Catherine? Are you okay?"

"Yes... Just... just go on." It was hard, so very hard, but she slowed down the wiggling, wriggling action of her fingers, so she could stay with the conversation.

"Okay. It's like this: The entire art market has become more and more fragmented over the years. There were always divisions in expertise — galleries for contemporary art, galleries for old master paintings, galleries for conceptual art, galleries for feminist works, gall..."

"Ruben!"

"Okay, okay. All I'm trying to say is that the economic model has changed to the point that new kinds of niche galleries are popping up, catering to very narrow or specific tastes. Your M.C. Fuller Gallery is one of them."

Tastes. She was into specific tastes. She wished that Giuseppe or Jacques would knock on her door to help her with her finger action. She wanted to taste their cum and compare their flavors.

"Catherine? Are you there?"

"Y... yes. Tastes. You were talking about special tastes. Oh God, what tastes... does the M.C. Fuller Gallery fill?"

"It's all in the name, Catherine. You wondered who M.C. Fuller is?"

"Yes!" Whoever they were, she hoped they were gorgeous, and that she could blow them or eat them.

"There is no M.C. Fuller, Catherine. The M.C. stands for mind-control. It's a play on words."

Fuck. No Miles Carpenter Fuller to blow. No Melinda Charisma Fuller to drink.

"Catherine? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard. Mind-control. Mind-control? You mean... What do you mean? What does mind-control have to do with art?"

"Beats me. Perhaps they sell paintings of Freud or Franz Mesmer dangling watches in front of little prepubescent girls. My guess is that they have a small stable of artists who take requests from clients with a taste for hypnotism. It's a fetish gallery, Catherine. An upscale gallery with a prurient edge. Think of it as the intersection between hypnotism, fine art and sex."

"Oh! Oh fuck! Oh my God..."

"Catherine? What's the matter?"

They were crashing together, her pussy's needs and the need to think straight. She felt so close to having an exquisite orgasm, and yet something else was happening, something that she needed to pay attention to. Hypnotism, art and sex. Mind-control. Mind-control. Holy fuck, holy fucking shit! Mind-control!

"Ruben... Oh God, Ruben!"

"What? What?"

"Ruben, none of that could be real, could it?"

"Hypnotism, you mean? I don't know. I'm an art curator, not a therapist. Why?"

It couldn't be true, it couldn't be true! But the wheels were turning, wheels that had been stuck in a sex-obsessed mode ever since... Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Ever since she'd begun the drawing class. Led by a teacher who sold works at a mind-control gallery, a teacher with an unusually compelling voice. Led by a painter who painted... What? What were his paintings like? Holly and Katia posed for some of them, but what were they like? She fucking had to know!

It was torture, but she ground her finger-fucking to a dead halt, panting for breath, trying to unearth the sane part of herself. It was there, it was still there. Her pussy ached, screaming for her to continue the stroking, but her thoughts were there, too. It might not be too late.

Armed with Ruben's insights, she called the gallery as soon as she thought she could speak without hyperventilating. A woman's voice on the line, French or French-Canadian accent, welcoming yet also giving nothing away. Catherine asked whether they had any Pierce West paintings for her to view, and she was met with a series of questions: How did she learn of his work? Had she ever seen his paintings? Did she know Pierce personally? Was she aware that it could be several years before she might have the chance to buy one of his works?

She was being fucking interviewed, to see whether she was worthy of a peek at his paintings! She stayed cool, though, and must have given the right answers, because the woman, Tasha, said she would arrange a viewing for Catherine at two in the afternoon.

She picked at a ham and Brie crepe a block from the gallery, waiting, every nerve in her body screaming with anticipation. She was a wreck, second-guessing every thought, every impulse, almost every breath. She could look back at everything she had done or felt since first meeting Pierce, and see how he might have influenced her behavior. He had made her feel these things with his compelling voice, his special voice. The heightened impulses of her body, her sexual whims, her uncontrollable desires and sudden attraction to women... God, even these sexy clothes, even her buzzing clitoris, feeling so massive and alive down there, blissfully torturing her...

She closed her eyes and told herself that the buzzing was not real, that her clitoris was normal-sized and felt normal-sized. She told herself that this persistent, never-achieved wish to be completely filled was artificial, but no amount of concentration or determination could wipe the sensations away. My God, how powerful was a man like Pierce West? Where had he learned to do these things, and how deeply had he gotten inside of her? Was she still in control of anything, anything at all?

The book in her hand, "Hypnotism, Fact and Fiction", claimed that she could not be made to do anything unless the core of her being wanted her to do it. The other students in the class had apparently received positive effects from Pierce's suggestions, as though their better natures and their truest desires had been reinforced. She should feel reassured, but thinking that she might have wanted all of this to happen made her nervous. Did she really have a completely hedonistic side to herself? Had some part of her always wanted be a cum-slurping machine, and bi-sexual?

She should probably have a lawyer accompany her to the gallery, or have called the police to investigate the entire operation the moment she knew. Why was she going there alone, without somehow protecting herself? Because she was afraid that if she interfered, she might not get to study the paintings She had to see those paintings, she just had to. But why? How could she know that Pierce wasn't making her want to see his paintings this badly? How could she know that he hadn't given her the idea to look into the gallery in the first place? How could she hope to tell the difference between her own thoughts and desires, and the ones he must have placed into her somehow?

Oh God, even her decision to ditch Charles! Because Charles' fucking cum didn't taste right. Could there even be a more artificial reason to break off an engagement? But fuck it, she didn't love Charles, she just didn't. And she really was determined to call off the relationship, she'd rather die than spend the rest of her life with that man. These were her feelings, her wishes... Unless it was all Pierce, working through her, fucking with her, manipulating her. Wouldn't she be able to tell that something as basic as love or lack of love was her own? She groaned, feeling... caught, and squeezed between hopes that these were her choices and desires, and the fear that all of this was Pierce, and the things he wanted her to desire.

Could anyone help her? Controlling minds to such a degree was far-fetched, so far-fetched that the police would never believe her story if she went to them. And what was his motive, they would ask. Did he take your money, or force himself upon your person? Why do this to her, other than to rob her or seduce her? She would have to answer that no, her money was intact, and no, she hadn't fucked him, even though she was dying to.

She was still dying to fuck Pierce, even now. But she would have fucked him days ago if that had been his intention. She would have blown his dick for hours, or opened her anxious pussy to him countless times. Force himself upon her person? He had tortured her by not forcing himself upon her, and inside of her!

His paintings, she needed to see his paintings. She could easily imagine what Ruben had mentioned, Norman Rockwell-ish paintings of psychiatrists with gold watches or pinwheels, seducing little girls with pigtails and wide-eyes. She could see pin-up paintings with some kind of hypnotic twist, some sexy girl — Holly, perhaps —her huge tits visible in a sheer negligee, staring blankly at a spiral pattern.

But what were they, really? She had to fucking know, and it was time. She left money on her table and exited the café, every step bringing her closer, closer to... What? The truth. She needed the truth, desperately, and the truth was in his paintings, somehow she knew that.

Tasha greeted her with professional warmth, taking her coat. If the gallery owner was shocked by the daring brevity of Catherine's skirt, or all the cleavage showing in the scooping neckline of her top, she didn't show it. Tasha was in her mid-forties, excellent bones, very smartly dressed in a grey tailored jacket with matching knee-length skirt. She led Catherine into a small office adorned with a smattering of small paintings on the walls, paintings that weren't too far from what Catherine had imagined in her head. Lots of cute girls in skimpy clothing falling under the spell of some controlling physician or magician.

"Hypno-cheesecake window dressing," Tasha commented, noting Catherine's wandering eyes. "This is what most people expect to see, of course. We sell quite a few of these simple fetish paintings, but they're mostly a public face, the gallery's community persona, so to speak. It could cause problems if too many people knew how far our artists' talents go. Only special clients are allowed access the real gems that we have to offer."

Catherine's pussy screamed with joy under her short skirt. She was a special client!

Her nipples felt like they might explode through her top as she leaned over Tasha's desk to sign a release form, stating that she had willingly agreed to view Pierce West's paintings. And then she was led into a darkened room, the lights so low that she could barely see her heels clicking down below on the hardwood floor.

"Sit here," Tasha soothed, guiding her to some sort of oval divan. "We have three of these viewing rooms in the gallery, and I'll see to it that you are undisturbed here. I've taken everything out of this room with the exception of four of Pierce West's paintings, all upon this south wall. All of these paintings are already under contract, but... you aren't here to buy a piece, are you Catherine?"

"No. At least... I just need to see them."

"I understand, perfectly. Well then, I've set you up with a bottle of Barolo in the corner, and there is a remote on this console that controls the lights. You can even choose to play several kinds of music, if you'd like. I'll leave you now. Take all the time you need to... digest the paintings. Just knock on the door we came through when you're done."

And then she was alone in the near-darkness. Alone, all of her senses tingling. She had been to a good number of New York galleries before, vast brightly lit spaces with cold, somewhat snobbish staff. But here... solitude, music, wine. This situation was more than unusual. It was unique.

And a little bit spooky. They knew the kind of wine she liked. A coincidence? No, no coincidence. And when Tasha said that she perfectly understood the reasons for Catherine's visit... What did she mean? Did Tasha know her reasons for being here in a way that she didn't even know herself?

She tried out the dial on the console, careful to keep her eyes on the floor. She wasn't ready to see them, not yet. She kept the light low, and rose to pour a glass of wine, always averting her eyes from the rectangles calling out to her on that one wall. They were large paintings, she could see that much without really looking. It was almost as though they were whispering to her in some way, telling her that their scale was the least of the differences between these paintings and the hypnotism illustrations out there in the office.

She was procrastinating. She was afraid. Because she knew, somehow, that she might never be the same after seeing these paintings. Intuition? A glimpse into her own future? Or Pierce, these feelings inserted into the fabric of her being by his magical voice?

There was no way to know.

And she had to stop stalling, and look.

A thought arose, sending every cell in her brain and body into a panic — what if the paintings were of her? Oh God, oh God, what if she had been Pierce West's unknowing mind-slave for months? Inconceivable, she would remember! Wouldn't she?

She screamed up at the ceiling, the sound reverberating off the walls. Fuck this, fuck the fear, fuck the dread. Like gathering the courage to jump right over a waterfall, she turned the lights up, and swung her body towards the wall with the colorful rectangles. And lifted her eyes.

The sun hovered just above the horizon on the Jersey side of the Hudson River. Catherine leaned against the park railing, hugging her coat tight to her body. It mattered, the fact that the river flowed both ways here, affected by tides and a multitude of unseen currents.