Plaything: Volume Two Read Online Free Page B

heard a choked sob in Amy’s voice.
    “God, that night haunts me,” the words were wrenched from her in a strangled voice. “It was the most erotic moment of my life. I know it’s fucked up. I know I’m fucked up. Hell, don’t I know how fucked up I am. Just look at where I am.”
    “Tell me everything,” I kept my voice level. “Go back to the very start and tell me how you felt, what you thought.”
    I saw Amy frown and her eyes came open, her gaze soft and almost dream-like.
    “Do you really want to hear this?” she asked.
    I nodded my head and there was a flicker of a humourless smile on my lips. It stayed there for just a second. “You need to tell me what happened,” I prompted. “You have to tell me how you felt. I want to know about your emotions, the sensations, the senses. That’s what I want from you. I don’t want a report. I want you to peel back the layers, Amy. Tell me everything. It’s critical.”
    Her expression became solemn and enigmatic. A shadow of something secret moved behind her eyes. She stared hard at me.
    “Is this really necessary?” she baulked. “It’s not something I’m proud of – the way that man made me feel… the way he treated me… the depths of my own depravity…”
    “Trust me,” I urged in a whisper.
    She took a deep breath and closed her eyes again.
    “Okay,” she said in a long sigh of breath that sounded like surrender. She kept her eyes tightly closed. “I’ll tell you everything – every sordid detail.”
     
    * * *
     
    “It started at an art gallery,” Amy began quietly and there was a tremulous shudder in the tone of her voice. “I was at an exhibition for a friend of mine. She painted abstracts and nudes. It was her first showing in a commercial gallery. I went along to support her.”
    “Do you like art?” I asked, matching the softness of my voice to that of Amy’s.
    She shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “But there was a nude painting on display – it was just a girl – no one I knew, no one I recognized. But the work was remarkable. It was an oil painting of a girl sitting on a chair. She was leaning forward, looking longingly out of a window. The colors in her face and on the curve of her breasts were incredible. It was the major piece of the show, hung on a wall at the back of the gallery. The lighting was all on the canvases so the room was dark.”
    “You mean pitch black?”
    “No. Just darkened. I could see the people around me, but the light spilled in pools on the floor and on the works. We were gathered in the shadows.”
    “Was there many people?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Maybe a hundred. People I didn’t know, drinking wine and chatting in animated little groups.”
    “And yet with all those people around, you were raped?”
    “No,” she said. “But that’s where it began. The gallery was where it all started.”
    “How?”
    She sighed again and seemed to hold her breath for a very long time. The silence felt like a tangible weight that seemed to press down on her so that each breath became an effort. A warm wash of color rose from the pit of her stomach, up across her breasts to bloom hot on her neck and cheeks.
    “I heard a voice behind me,” Amy faltered.
    “A man’s voice.”
    “Yes.”
    “And what did he say?”
    “He brushed up against me and stood very close.”
    “You mean he groped you?”
    “No,” her breath hissed softly in her throat. “It was like a caress, a touch that made me tingle. I felt his breath against my neck, his face close to my ear and the heat from his body against my own. It was like a kiss of skin that was so intimate and so shocking that I felt my legs tremble.”
    I said nothing. I was watching Amy’s face closely, drawn towards her until I was perched on the edge of the bed studying the beautiful play of her features as she spoke.
    Amy filled the silence.
    “I didn’t turn around. I stood frozen with a glass of wine in my hand. I was in a room full of