Red Passion in Black & White

The gallery was filled to the brim; hordes of art lovers buzzed and discussed this latest exhibition by Mary-Ann Reed, a 50-year old black New Yorker, whose paintings had set the art-world on fire 10 years ago, and gone on from there to establish herself as a contemporary voice to be reckoned with. She had begun with realistic depictions of everyday life from all parts of the US (having travelled extensively), but in a impressionistic style. In later years, however, she had started to focus on faces and bodies, black faces and bodies in a dramatic light, almost flemish in its contrasty nature. And always, in the background, white women in various poses of submission, there was a whole separate world living out its mysteries in the shades, half-naked bodies, showing both uncertainty and ecstasy, being part of a very specific socio-sexual landscape forming around them.

Reed was much beloved by the black community, and had shown up at the now well-known Club Obedience, a club she had almost foreseen in one of her earlier paintings, 'The Change,' depicting a white woman being subtly submissive to two black men in a smoky den, like some Dickensian pub of the 1800s, the erotic undercurrent too obvious to deny.

Dennis Rutherford, the well known art critic, was walking around the exhibition, impressed and not a little excited by what was on display here. Some critics had dismissed Reed as a pornographer, but they were in a minority, and also predominantly white. This was art depicting a specific world, one in which white women had to accept a new political, sexual and social role, and this was depicted in a style both modern and classic, the aesthetic, erotic and political combined in bold brushstrokes.

Dennis was especially captivated by the latest painting, a huge 4x4 yards tableaux depicting a corrida, in which a muscular black youth, all naked and erect, killed a bull while white women looked on from the shadows, clearly aroused by what they saw. It was an image of tremendous sensuality and eroticism, and Dennis could easily imagine the matador going to bed with all the women in the background, dominating them for shared pleasures, demanding absolute obedience.

A white woman, mid-30s by the look of it, with long blonde hair stood before it, admiring its sensuality. She was very attractive, the sort of woman who, it felt like, often sought dominance, and he, the sophisticated art-critic, immediately obeyed an ancient impulse, before which we are all powerless.

"Nice brushstrokes."

He almost bit his tongue. What a dumb way to strike up a conversation.

She looked at him and smiled, making her face even more gorgeous. Soft eyes shone with insights beyond her years, a generous mouth promised great pleasures and her straight nose and sharply curved nostrils giving her face an almost regal quality.

A strong white woman, to be tamed.

"Yes, she replied, voice deeper than he had anticipated, "but technique is nothing of you have nothing to say." Her eyes returned to the painting. "This painting has lots to say. About human relationships. Changing sexual politics. And ethnic power-games."

He thought she emphasized that last word, but it might have been his overheated imagination. He had become utterly fascinated by this white woman, and he was no longer just an art-critic, doing a job for a magazine for which he worked, but a 50-year old mature black man, who had known many women through the years, and was, like so many others, eagerly exploring the new erotic landscape forming around them.

"Yes, she captures the zeitgeist well. I like the use of the bullfight as a metaphor for this."

"I think it is more than a metaphor, Reed really loves the corrida."

She looked at him, her nostrils flaring. Damn, it made her alluring. He felt the anticipation in her, there was no mistaking it.

"You like the bullfight, too?" He already knew the answer.

"I respect it, deeply. I love how it elevates humankind, and emphasize the value of humans above all else. It is also highly erotic. And this.."

She indicated the painting with a sideways nod.

".. this captures the sexuality of the new social order perfectly."

She was silent for a few seconds, and then rose to the occasion.

"I could easily be one of those women. As a matter of fact, I have been."

She looked at him. She offered him her hand.

"Name is Linda."

Now it was his time to rise the occasion.

"Dennis. Wanna join me for a drink after I'm done here?"

"I'd be honored, Sir."

*

Linda and Dennis spent the next two hours at a bar, sharing stories. She ate up everything he had to teach her, and all their talk was about art, Reed, relationships, what was going on in society, his work and responsibility as an art-critic, and the corrida. They both loved it, and when she admitted to feeling arousal while watching it, he felt compelled to admit to similar feelings. Once he and an anonymous woman had gone to bed immediately after having witnessed one, just because the spectacle had so aroused them.

The love-making had been spectacular.

She had been white, by the way, about Linda's age, maybe slightly younger, and very, very submissive.

Linda's eyes deepened, became moist, and she was clearly in the grip of strong feelings. As was he. Dennis knew better than to be too obvious, but he talked to her as if he was her Master, and she often replied with "Sir," whispery and submissively. They both knew what was coming, and it was as natural as the coming dusk.

"I live nearby," he said, trying to sound casual. "Wanna visit? We can break open some wine, and talk about.. art."

Yeah, right!

"Again, I'd be honored. Sir."

Her nostrils were flaring, so sensuously, so erotically, so unabashedly inviting.

He imagined her warm white skin against his black body, waiting.

*

His apartment was modern, aesthetically pleasing and quite masculine. She felt at home in it, and walked around, admiring his choices of art reproductions. He even had the Mona Lisa in the living room, which she found amusing ("good heavens, you must be a man of great means, Sir!") to which he replied by laughingly pulling her towards him, kissing her, both hands strongly holding her wrists.

No more talk, no more evasive manoeuvres.

"You have no idea, bitch."

Then he slapped her! She cried out and gasped. His grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, to emphasize authority over her body. He felt his member throb with excitement, it was indescribably arousing to see this attractive woman so totally in his command, her face a mask of heated arousal.

She had been waiting for this.

"On your knees, white girl!"

His words came calmly, but with absolute authority. She had no alternative but to obey. Anything else would be met with severe punishments.

"I said on your knees, bitch. And show respect."

She looked up at him as she kneeled, nostrils flaring wildly. A wave of pleasure went through his body, the sense of power intoxicating, his grip around her hair firm.

"From now on you obey my every command. Is that clear? And don't dare question my experience."

"Yes, Sir. No, Sir."

Her words came in gasps, nipples erect, preparing for his hands and teeth.

"Now, undress. Slowly. And look at me while you do it."

"I promise."

A slap.

"What did you just omit?"

"I apologize, Sir. No disrespect intended. Just slipped my mind. Sir."

Wave after wave of intense pleasure came crashing down on them.

Eyes still locked with his, Linda slowly lost her clothes and soon a gorgeous body, kneeled before him. She glowed in the muted light, with the long, flowing blonde hair locked in his grip, as if made to experience submissiveness.

He let go her hair and undressed himself. For a man of 50 he was in fantastic shape, body a deep, muscular brown; it knew its way around the female form, and white women had long been its main focus, as they all secretly begged to be dominated. He had known this from the time he lost his virginity at 15, with a woman twice his age. She, too, had desired to be dominated.

Linda's breathing quickened. The controlled slap that followed was a command in itself.

She bent forward and exposed herself to him, fully open and ready. A forceful slap on her right buttock followed, then, grip firm around her waist, he penetrated, fully in control. She was tight, so he had be aggressive in his thrusting, making her body rock back and forth. He kept slapping her bottom, ever harder, as she rocked back and forth, grunting and moaning. He almost wished there had been another man there, so they could take their dominance to a higher level, making her body arch to the maximum point. There was nothing more lovely than that, a white attractive body in an absolute state of powerlessness.

Oh, that has happened more times than he could count, and sometimes black women had looked on. There was true triumph in those moments.

He pulled her hair with one hand and stroked her clit with the other. It didn't take long before she came in a long, drawn out scream of ecstasy.

Finally he turned her over, body drenched in sweat, making her even more attractive, and penetrated again, now holding her wrists, pinning her down; still aggressive he began to thrust again, making sure to make his shaft touch her clitoris, so his sexual experience became obvious to her, thus further increasing her respect. And arousal.

Respect and arousal were one!

A slap.

"Call me sir, bitch."

"Sir!" she gasped, nostrils flaring.

"Again."

"Sir!"

They both came, simultaneously, and she arched her back, almost as if another man or woman was over her face, forcing her to be even more submissive.

It was glorious to feel such intense pleasure.

Finally he allowed her to ride him, both her wrists still locked in one of his hands, while the other had a grip on her hair. He was still in command, and while she came in a final orgasm, he allowed himself to finally erupt, releasing all that sexual aggression in a voluminous spurt.

And, totally spent, they collapsed into each others arms, satisfied beyond anything words could express.

*

The rest of that night was spent exploring more role playing, his favourite being as a matador, and she his faithful admirer and servant. The love-making was less aggressive now, but still on the dominant side. They planned on going to Spain together, and also visit Club Obedience.

Maybe even Mary-Ann Reed would show up.

Somehow it didn't seem all that unlikely anymore.