Prologue
Sonnabend Gallery, New York, 1972
Words, how they thrill and enchant, as comforting as a caress, as cutting as a knife, as varied an assortment of tools and torments as can be imagined. Ginny would eventually become acquainted with those which might be used to describe her--tease or torment--and as she added to her vocabulary there would be others--voyeur or exhibitionist--but in the first instance what struck her was the power they could have over people, this dawning closely followed by a second thought, that what a delightful thing it must be to make an exhibition of oneself.
The exhibition she had in mind was approached by a gentle incline, a shallow wooden ramp protruding into the gallery, scuffed and scarred by the heels which had passed over it, the tread of the elegant, the elite, the cognoscenti. Beneath this ramp, unseen by the visitors, a naked man masturbated while his eyes followed the sound of the people who walked above, putting into words whatever fantasies he might have about them, whatever thoughts might occur to him, speaking into a microphone so that his words echoed about the gallery. Perhaps his breathing was labored, hoarse, his words crackling as he brought his lips too close to the microphone, or sometimes his voice might rise in timbre as what he excused as art became something a little less sacred, excited, prompting people to wonder if it was them he dreamt of, if it was them he spoke of.
"I see slender legs as pale as worn marble disappearing beneath a green silk sheath of a dress ... the dull red glow of a thatch of pubic hair, like burnished metal shining in the darkness ... firm thighs which I would like to grip me ... buttocks straining against a dress which is a size too small ... the smoky animal smell as knickers of white cotton compress a woman's labia..."
Were these the thoughts he gave voice to, as he pictured the people passing above him? Or might he simply have said that they were fools and dolts, sluts and slatterns, every single one of them?
Ginny could not know, only surmise, for she had been born years too late to visit that show at the Sonnebend Gallery. When she eventually learned of it, though, and considered how it gave a new slant on the phrase 'making an exhibition of oneself", it changed her life. And her life needed changing, for until then there had been little joy in it.
)
These Women Took No Prisoners--When It Came to Love and Sex! A band of renigade women artists tie up men and make them the subjects of their art as well as their lusts. Some men resist--at first--but they all discover that submitting to women can be heaven instead of hell--with the right woman! A novel of fem doms and male subs!
