The Chronicles Of Power

Lucy stepped cautiously into the dining room and stopped in the doorway. Nothing looked the way it had before. All the furniture had been removed. Large white sheets covered the walls, and the curtains had been taken down to let the afternoon sun flood through the tall windows. The light was almost blinding. Ropes, wooden crates, and odd-looking structures were scattered throughout the room. In the center stood a large wooden cross, leaning against the wall.

High on a ladder, Stephen was fastening heavy-duty hooks into the ceiling beams while Ivan stood below, holding it steady. Ma’am moved restlessly around the room. She tugged at ropes, shifted objects by a few inches, glanced at the clock, and called out new instructions before the old ones had even been carried out. The entire room seemed to move to her rhythm.

The moment she spotted Lucy, her face lit up. “At last, you’re here. Now all we’re missing is that useless photographer.” She cast another irritated glance at the clock.

A photographer? Lucy looked around once more. What exactly was going to be photographed? And why had Ma’am sent for her?

At that moment, the door opened. A well-dressed man in a dark blazer stepped inside with a large camera bag slung over his shoulder. Two professional cameras hung around his neck, gently knocking together as he walked.

Ma’am’s face broke into a broad smile. “Oh, Bruce! You’re here already. How wonderful!”

She crossed the room, exchanged kisses on the cheek with him, and immediately took him by the hand. “This is Bruce Murdoch,” she said, turning to the others. “One of the world’s foremost fine art photographers.”

Bruce instinctively straightened his back. “Now he and I are going to create art.”

Then Ma’am turned to Lucy. “Lucy. Take off your clothes.”

Lucy still had no idea what was happening. But she obeyed. As always.

Bruce watched her, growing more puzzled with every passing second. He had assumed the naked man would be the model for the day. Instead, it was this… this creature. It was unlike any photo shoot he had ever been part of. He met Ma’am’s eyes. She smiled calmly and gave him an encouraging nod. All he could do was get to work.

Stephen had climbed down from the ladder. Following Ma’am’s instructions, he and Ivan began arranging the scene with quiet efficiency. They tied Lucy’s hands behind her back and draped ropes across her body in patterns that Ma’am kept adjusting with small, precise movements of her hands. “A little higher.” “No, not like that.” “There.” “Perfect.”

Lucy was lowered to her knees. Click. Click. Click. Bruce moved slowly around her, the camera shutter firing in short bursts.

Then her position was changed. Her body was bent backward, and her arms were secured to her feet until she formed a graceful arch. Ma’am stepped back and studied the composition for a long moment. “Yes.” Click. Click. Click.

Stephen and Ivan carried out the next instruction. They attached clothespins to her body, repositioned them, removed a few, and started over until Ma’am finally nodded in satisfaction. Click. Click. Click.

After that, she was secured to the large wooden frame, and weights were attached to her nipples. Click. Click. Click.

Ma’am circled her slowly, head tilted to one side, adjusting the smallest details. She moved an arm a few inches, tugged at the weights, and let her gaze shift back and forth between Lucy and Bruce. Lucy noticed her own anxiety gradually beginning to fade. Stephen and Ivan worked with quiet concentration, carrying out every instruction with meticulous care. Ma’am chuckled to herself, clapped her hands with delight, and every so often let out a satisfied “Yes!” whenever the image came together.

Bruce, meanwhile, had changed. The uncertainty he had shown when he first entered the room had slowly given way to complete focus, and eventually to quiet delight. He had stopped thinking about what he was photographing. Now he saw only the subject, a subject loved by the camera.

Lucy was moved from one pose to the next. Sometimes she was given a red ball to hold in her mouth, sometimes a length of rope. Click. Click. Click.

Whenever Ma’am spotted something that could be improved, an arm was shifted slightly, a rope tightened just a little more, or an angle subtly adjusted. Bruce moved silently around her, searching for the light, changing perspectives, and letting the camera work almost without pause. Click. Click. Click.

After a while, she was hoisted upside down with her legs spread apart. Lucy’s head began to spin. Click. Click. Click.

At first she had felt stiff and painfully self-conscious, but little by little she began to understand what Ma’am wanted. She learned to follow the brief instructions, to hold each pose a little longer, and to let her body become part of the composition. With every new photograph, her confidence grew. She felt seen. Special. It was an experience she could never have imagined. And, to her own surprise, she realized she liked it.

At last, Ma’am clapped her hands in delight. “Now,” she said. “The finale.”

Stephen and Ivan immediately set to work. Lucy’s hands were tied behind her back once more. Her thighs were bound tightly to her ankles, leaving her crouched like a frog with her knees spread apart. Ropes ran beneath her arms and up through pulleys overhead. Slowly, she was lifted clear of the floor, suspended several feet above the parquet.

A heavy pole was positioned upright beneath her. She was lowered onto it until she felt it enter her. Stephen and Ivan set the ladders back in place and climbed them, one on each side. They gently tilted her head back until she was staring straight up at the ceiling. A matching pole was raised into position, braced against the ceiling, with the other end placed in her mouth.

She heard Ma’am walking slowly around her as the ladders were taken away. For a long time, she studied the composition. Lucy could see nothing but the white ceiling, yet she heard Ma’am say, “Magnificent.” She clapped her hands. “Absolutely wonderful!”

Bruce needed no further encouragement. Click. Click. Click. The shutter fired in rapid bursts as he moved around beneath her, capturing the scene from every angle. Click. Click. Click.

Lucy hung perfectly still. Her weight rested beneath her arms, and before long she began to feel the strain. With every passing minute, holding the position became a little harder. Below her, Ma’am and Bruce continued circling the room, speaking quietly and occasionally stopping to admire the images on the camera’s display. A soft chime suddenly rang out. Tamara stood in the doorway holding a small, discreet handbell. Refreshments were ready.

“Come along, Bruce,” Ma’am said with a satisfied smile. “I think we’ve earned it. A little champagne.” Then she turned to Stephen and Ivan. “And you two as well. You’ve both been so helpful in bringing our creation to life.”

Footsteps echoed across the floor. Then everything fell silent. Lucy was alone.

At first, she barely noticed the passage of time. Gradually, though, the position began to take its toll. The strain on her arms increased, her muscles grew tired, and a bead of sweat slowly traced its way down the side of her neck. How long were they planning to leave her hanging there? The only sounds were the faint murmur of voices from the next room and the distant clink of glasses.

Then she heard something much closer. Someone had entered the room. Lucy tried to turn her head, but it was impossible. She was fixed in place and couldn’t see who it was. Footsteps approached without stopping. Whoever it was walked slowly around her once, then a second time. Lucy could feel their gaze moving over her, studying the work from different angles. Suddenly, someone reached up and lightly brushed their fingertips across one of her feet. It tickled. Then silence returned.

A scraping sound broke the stillness. A ladder was dragged across the floor. Lucy heard it being set in place before someone began climbing, one step at a time. The wood creaked softly beneath their weight. The climbing stopped. Whoever it was now stood level with her hips. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then she heard a low, steady buzzing. A wand vibrator was pressed gently against her.

Dear God. It touched her clitoris, and there was nothing she could do. The vibrations spread through her entire body. The ropes rubbed against her skin. The poles pressed against her. But it felt good. It felt heavenly.

Just as she was about to climax, the vibrator was taken away. Ten seconds later, it returned. The same pattern repeated itself. The fifth time it came back, she found herself trying to beg for release. All that escaped her were a few short, muffled sounds, but that was enough. She climaxed in a long, pulsing wave, feeling as though the poles had driven even deeper into her.

She remained suspended where she was. Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, sweat glistening on her skin in the bright afternoon light. A few droplets broke free and fell to the parquet floor below. She tried to regain control, but her body continued to tremble. She had no idea how much time had passed. The only sounds were her own breathing and the faint creak of the ropes as she swayed almost imperceptibly.

Then the door opened. Voices once again filled the room. Footsteps approached from several directions, someone laughed quietly, glasses were set down, and Bruce said something Lucy didn’t catch. Then silence.

Lucy was drenched in sweat. Her cheeks were flushed, strands of hair clung to her forehead, and the pole in her mouth had left saliva running down her neck and across her chest. The ropes still held her motionless, biting even deeper into her skin, while her body continued to tremble faintly as she slowly fought to steady her breathing. “Now,” she heard Ma’am say, “now it’s perfect.”

Click. Click. Click.

Some time later, it was time for the opening reception in the great hall. A long line of people had gathered in the small salon. Artists, models, and cultural figures mingled with wealthy collectors, gallery owners, journalists, and other guests Lucy couldn’t quite place. She had even overheard someone whisper that a prince was expected to attend. There had to be close to eighty people in the room.

Lucy couldn’t understand how they had all gotten there, much less why they wanted to come. For the past few days, she had barely left the kitchen. Together with her three colleagues, she had prepared canapés, baked pastries, sliced fruit, arranged cheeses, and polished trays of champagne flutes. The entire house had been cleaned over and over again. The floors gleamed, the crystal chandeliers sparkled, and not a speck of dust remained. Everything had to be perfect.

Even before the exhibition officially opened, Ma’am moved effortlessly through the crowd. She greeted people with kisses on the cheek, shook hands, laughed, and exchanged a few words with almost everyone in the room. She seemed to know every single guest.

Sir stood a short distance away, talking with three broad-shouldered men in expensive suits. Their conversation appeared to revolve around business, yet their eyes kept drifting toward Tamara whenever she passed carrying a serving tray. Their gazes lingered.

As usual, Ivan attracted attention. He moved calmly among the guests carrying a silver tray laden with champagne flutes, his large cock swaying naturally with every step. Conversations faltered as he passed. Some guests smiled discreetly, others openly followed him with their eyes. Cameras appeared, and Lucy noticed several people whispering to one another before quietly returning to their conversations.

Lucy herself tried to stay in the background. The closer the opening drew, the more nervous she became.

The photo shoot had been strange. Exciting. Frightening. But this was something else entirely. In just a few moments, everyone in the room would see the photographs. Images in which she herself was the central subject, captured in the most unfamiliar and extraordinary poses she could ever have imagined.

She had never seen the finished results. Not a single photograph. She had no idea what Ma’am and Bruce had actually created. That uncertainty unsettled her more than anything else.

Then Ma’am clapped her hands. The murmur of conversation faded at once. She stepped into the center of the room, smiled at her guests, and raised her champagne glass. “My friends,” she began. “Welcome.”

She gave a brief speech, and before long the subject turned to herself. She spoke about her eye, about her ability to notice what others overlooked. She described art as something almost sacred, something only a select few could truly understand. “Art doesn’t have to be beautiful,” she said. “It doesn’t even have to be pleasing. Beauty can emerge just as easily from the uncomfortable, the strange, or even the ugly and grotesque. It’s about seeing what others miss.”

Lucy stood a few yards behind the guests. She knew exactly whom—and what—Ma’am was talking about. Ma’am concluded by turning toward the photographer. She thanked Bruce Murdoch for his skill and called him a genius, an artist who had brought her vision to life. Bruce gave a slight bow as applause filled the hall. Lucy wasn’t mentioned. Not a single word.

Then the large doors were opened. The crowd streamed inside. Lucy was already waiting with a silver tray of canapés. Exactly as the schedule prescribed, she counted forty-seven seconds before following the guests into the gallery.

The walls were lined with large black-and-white photographs. They hung with generous spacing between them, allowing each image room to breathe. Spotlights overhead drew out the deep contrasts and rich shadows, while the white walls made the photographs seem almost weightless.

Lucy came to a stop. It was her. Everywhere. Nearly life-size, she found herself staring back from wall after wall. She recognized every pose, every arrangement, every moment from that long day in the dining room. And yet everything looked different. Bruce had captured something she had never seen in herself. The body was the same, but through his lens it had become part of something larger. Lines, light, and shadow transformed the photographs into something strange, almost unreal.

A quiet murmur rose ahead of her. Someone stopped in front of one photograph. Then another. “Incredible…” “Look at the composition.” “The lighting…” “Could that be a real person?” The hushed remarks quickly multiplied. More people gathered before the photographs, pointing, discussing them, and nodding appreciatively. The murmur swelled, filled with curiosity and quiet excitement as it drifted toward the high ceiling.

Lucy took a few cautious steps farther into the gallery. Then she saw it. At the far end of the room, hanging on the feature wall, was the final photograph.

It was enormous. Nearly twice life-size. It stretched from floor to ceiling, dominating the entire gallery. In an instant, every other photograph seemed to shrink beside it.

Lucy found herself staring at her own image. She hung suspended high above the floor, her hands bound behind her back, her legs drawn up like a frog’s. Sweat glistened on her skin, while moisture trailed from both her mouth and between her legs. A pole rose from the floor through the center of the composition, while another extended from her mouth toward the ceiling. The illusion was complete. She looked as though she had been impaled.

Lucy stood there for a long moment, studying the image. Bruce had hidden nothing. Every detail was there. Her prominent bones. The thin, almost bluish skin. The dark body hair that seemed to cover nearly her entire body. Her large nipples. Her long, dark labia.

It was Lucy. Exactly as she was. Nothing had been softened. Nothing concealed.

A small group of men and women stood before the photograph, deep in discussion. An older man with a full gray beard held a pipe in one hand, using it like a pointer as he eagerly drew attention to details in the composition. The others nodded, disagreed, and pointed to different parts of the image in turn.

Lucy continued through the gallery with her silver tray, serving canapés, smiling politely, and moving quietly among the clusters of guests. No one seemed to make the connection. No one saw the waitress. Everyone saw the photographs. She watched people stop before the images, lean in for a closer look, discuss them, and drift on to the next work without giving her more than a passing glance. It was almost as though she had become invisible.

On the opposite side of the gallery, she spotted Ma’am. She was deep in conversation with a man in a dark suit whose distinctive glasses gave him a slightly comical appearance. As she spoke, he listened with rapt attention. Then, almost casually, she gestured toward Lucy. The man followed her gaze. A moment later, he excused himself, left the group, and made his way purposefully through the crowd.

“Lucy!” He smiled broadly as he reached her. “My dear Lucy.” Stopping in front of her, he held out his hand. “Smith. My name is Arthur Smith.”

Lucy was still balancing the serving tray in her right hand. Uncertainly, she offered him her left instead. For a brief moment, the exchange became awkward before they both laughed and finally managed a handshake. “I’m sorry,” Lucy murmured.

“Not at all.” Smith looked at her with undisguised enthusiasm. “I own a modeling agency with offices in both London and Paris. We mainly work on artistic projects, though we also do fashion shoots and runway work.”

He gestured toward the photographs surrounding them. “And you…” He smiled. “You’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

Lucy blinked. Before she could respond, he continued. “The new generation of models isn’t about everyone looking the same anymore. It’s about personality. Character. Someone people remember. That’s what clients are looking for.”

He took out his phone. “I took the liberty of photographing a few of the pieces earlier this evening and sending them to a couple of clients.” He chuckled. “They absolutely loved them.”

Lucy stood motionless. The words barely seemed real. Smith continued, every bit as animated as before. “Mrs. Joanna told me you have about four months left on your contract here.”

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he took out a business card and held it out to her. “When it’s over, I want you to call me.”

Lucy accepted the card carefully. It felt surprisingly heavy in her hand. “We could do wonderful things together.”

He smiled once more, wished her a pleasant evening, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Lucy remained where she was for a few moments. She looked down at the card before carefully slipping it into her pocket. It was hard to believe the conversation had really happened. Not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined anything like it.

The cabin in the woods. The solitude. Those dreams would have to wait another year or two. She adjusted the serving tray, took a deep breath, and continued moving among the guests with her canapés as the murmur of the exhibition closed in around her once more.