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| Site contents Copyright © 2005-2015 Bridget Midway All Rights Reserved |
"Public Domain"
Chapter 1
She stared at the photograph, trying hard to feel it, get the meaning, understand. Empathize.
Standing alone in the exhibit room, walls covered in pictures taken by people she’d never heard of,
names she’d never seen, she shifted her slight weight, though not out of a need to gain a comfortable
footing. The caramel-colored hardwood floors squeaked under her feet. In the silence of the room, the
odd noise seemed appropriate.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Although it was mid-July and sweltering in Virginia, the air
conditioner chilled her to the bone. She’d wanted to bring a sweater but it would have been too
burdensome to carry and keep.
Taking careful steps toward a particularly striking nude bust of a woman captured in a photo, she
wanted to reach out and touch it, stroke her fingers down the woman’s curves and across her
abdomen. How would it feel to her, to have a hand caressing her body, touching her intimately in
public? A slight tingle skipped down her spin and spread over her buttocks, raising her body
temperature higher.
She peered over one shoulder to see if a guard stood close by, waiting to stop her plan. Her sweaty
palm slid down the front of her flowered skirt. Slow, easy footfalls over the crackling floor snagged her
attention.
By the time she turned her gaze toward the sound, a man stood there next to her, shoulder-to-
shoulder. Not the guard, he wore a crisp, white button-up shirt and khaki pants starched to the nth
degree. She wondered what corporate job he was playing hooky from to enjoy a Wednesday
afternoon of art.
But then again, maybe he thought the same of her. Did he wonder why she chose to spend the
afternoon in a stodgy, old museum instead of enjoying the outdoors? Or maybe he wondered
something else. Maybe he wanted to know why a man hadn’t been at her side already, holding her
hand or wrapping his arm around her waist like a possession. She smirked at the thought.
She took in a deep breath, capturing his heady, citrus scent. More than with the picture, she longed to
run her finger though his black, slightly shaggy hair. The tiny curls to give him an almost boyish look.
Almost. His large hands and broad shoulders showed that he was all man.
She licked her tongue over dry lips. He chose that moment to turn to her with a smile as wide as the
Atlantic plastered on his face.
“Were you going to touch the photograph?” he asked.
His voice matched his towering height. It was deep as though it emanated from the soles of his feet
and had an arduous journey through his sinewy body before projecting from his mouth.
“Were you going to tell if I did?” she asked.
She pushed her braids off of her shoulder and chewed on her lower lip.
“Ah, a woman who answers a question by asking one.” He clasped his hands behind his back and
sauntered around her. “I like that,” he whispered close to her ear.
She shivered as the fine hairs over her flesh stood on end. “Your wife must like it too.”
He halted his movement when he reached his destination on her other side. With his arms folded, he
asked, “Why do you think I’m married?” His chocolate-colored eyes transformed into a darker shade.
“It’s summer. I noticed the tan line around your finger.”
He left his arms in the same position, not moving them to verify her claim. “A woman who answers
questions with a question, notices tan lines on ring fingers and is alone in a museum.” He shook his
head. “You must be full of stories, uh…” He extended his right hand.
She thought for a while, glanced at the photograph of the nude torso and said as she shook his hand,
“Emmanuelle. “
He glanced at the photograph. Emmanuelle noticed his gaze dropped briefly before he returned his
attention to her.
“So is that who you are today? Emmanuel Radnitsky?”
She pulled her hand away from his grasp. “No, I’m just Emmanuelle.”
“Well, Just Emmanuelle, you can call me---” he paused before answering, “Helmut.”
That answer got a smile from her. “Like Lang?”
He grinned, showing off his teeth. She noticed his front tooth looked slightly discolored from the rest of
his gleaming white ones. Her hand reached up to touch it like she wanted to with the picture but she
refrained, reeling in her hand and crossing her arms over her chest again.
“You know he went by the name Man Ray,” Helmut said.
She furrowed her eyebrows. Her thoughts still swirled around his tooth and the mystery behind it.
“Who?” she asked.
“Emmanuel Radnitsky.”
She nodded. So he knew a little about art. Impressive. He must have done his homework or maybe
Helmut actually studied in school instead of cutting classes and wanting to live life. People paid for
having that kind of lifestyle.
“So, why photographs? You have a whole building full of art and artifacts.” His shoulder connected
with hers again, sending wave after wave of electric sensations surging through her body and stopping
at the pleasure center of her throbbing clit.
Her nipples harden and tighten against her lace bra. Her stomach bunched as though in anticipation.
“You can’t lie with a picture.” She stared at the next photograph in the series. “A painter can interpret
the scene any way he wants. A photographer captures a moment.” She glanced at Helmut. “Once
you have it, you can’t change it.”
“Anything can be altered. You interpret your own truth when it suits you.” He leaned down next to her
ear. “How long are we going to play this game? I need you.”
Emmanuelle nudged him with her elbow. “No. Not yet. You promised. You said that this time we’d
play as long as I wanted. I’m not ready to go back yet. Please.”
A guard strolled into the room, the floor squeaking with each of his steps. Emmanuelle took notice of
how he eyed them. Heat rose to her chest, traveling up her neck and face.
He had no right to stare at them like they were actors putting on a play. Or maybe he stared in shame
knowing what they’d done, what they wanted to do.
It had all started so innocently, this little game that they had been playing. Had it already been six
months? Every time she stared into his dark chocolate eyes, she felt like she’d known him for an
eternity and more. Perfection like him shouldn’t be walking among the unwashed masses like her. He
needed to be immortalized, admired.
When the guard walked out of the room, Helmut spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t have much time
today.”
Her eyes asked the question she couldn’t pose verbally. Wednesday was their special day. How
could he have made other plans? Her heart sank.
What the hell had she expected? Like he’d called it, this was a game. But with any game there had to
be rules. Maybe she needed to enforce some. And what? Lose him when he no longer wanted her?
All he said was, “Sorry.”
She squeezed here eyes shut, determined not to let a tear fall in front of him. He hadn’t even left yet
and she already missed him.
“These are the risks we encounter when we...”
She held up her hand. “Please. Don’t.”
Taking her hand, he held it in both of his. With his newly acquired tan, his skin looked almost as dark
as hers. He kissed her knuckles. The warmth of his lips erupted a molten flow from between her legs.
Every pore of her body pulsed for him as though his touch, his kiss, awakened new cells. This man
was not a stranger, not to her or her body. He read her like a Gray’s Anatomy textbook from cover to
cover.
Her vagina ached for him. If he knew how much she needed him, craved him in her life, he wouldn’t
rush their time together. He would stay. Like the photographs, he would stay.
She rested her forehead on his chest, nuzzling her face under his neck like a cat wanting attention.
Even her moans came out like purrs, unintentionally. The warmth of his arm around her shoulder
comforted her in the breezy museum. Frigid air whisked up her skirt and transformed her relaxed
countenance into a quivering mass. He held her tighter. She hadn’t meant to come off so vulnerable
but the security she felt in his arms proved too delicious to release.
Not wanting to let him go, not just yet, she slid her arms around his waist. His height allowed him to
rest his chin on top of her head as he rocked her back and forth. The slight swaying made her body
hum.
Emmanuelle pressed her chest into his. The added friction against her nipples from her bra and his
hard body helped to ease her desire but not by much. After turning her head, she planting little kisses
on his bare chest exposed by the vee of his shirt.
The kisses must have awakened his suppressed need. A low rumbled growled in his chest and rose
to his throat where it stuck and continued rolling. The sound released a current from between her legs.
Between his touch, sounds, scent and the sight of the nude photographs surrounding them, she felt
powerless to do anything else but to take this man, here and now.
She wanted them to both be naked, stripped of all of their hang-ups. Her fantasy involved bracing her
hands against the wall, facing one of those photographs or maybe a portrait of a nude man or woman
or couple, while he takes her from behind, fucking her senseless and into pure bliss. He could do it.
With those hands, those eyes and that mouth, he had the tools to make her a satisfied woman and
make her forget, most importantly, that she was not even in his league.
Helmut must have recognized her desire. After asking for her to wait in her spot, he darted off to
another room. Her mind raced with ideas of what he could be doing. Was he planning something
special? Or did he just leave her high and dry in the middle of the museum?
Guessing on his whereabouts did little to slow her racing pulse. The anticipation made her heart
pound and forced her to remain in her spot.
Helmut returned moments later. He held her hands and guided her to a bench that sat in the center of
the floor.
In the silence of the room, no squeaking floors and no guards, he stared at her like she’d stared at the
photographs before he arrived. His large hand smoothed down the side of her face leaving in its wake
a trail of newly awakened senses. A finger dipped down and skimmed over her chin then down her
neck.
An alarm sounded throughout the museum. The piercing noise made Emmanuelle jump but Helmut
remained still
Copyright © 2005 by Bridget Midway. All rights reserved.
She stared at the photograph, trying hard to feel it, get the meaning, understand. Empathize.
Standing alone in the exhibit room, walls covered in pictures taken by people she’d never heard of,
names she’d never seen, she shifted her slight weight, though not out of a need to gain a comfortable
footing. The caramel-colored hardwood floors squeaked under her feet. In the silence of the room, the
odd noise seemed appropriate.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Although it was mid-July and sweltering in Virginia, the air
conditioner chilled her to the bone. She’d wanted to bring a sweater but it would have been too
burdensome to carry and keep.
Taking careful steps toward a particularly striking nude bust of a woman captured in a photo, she
wanted to reach out and touch it, stroke her fingers down the woman’s curves and across her
abdomen. How would it feel to her, to have a hand caressing her body, touching her intimately in
public? A slight tingle skipped down her spin and spread over her buttocks, raising her body
temperature higher.
She peered over one shoulder to see if a guard stood close by, waiting to stop her plan. Her sweaty
palm slid down the front of her flowered skirt. Slow, easy footfalls over the crackling floor snagged her
attention.
By the time she turned her gaze toward the sound, a man stood there next to her, shoulder-to-
shoulder. Not the guard, he wore a crisp, white button-up shirt and khaki pants starched to the nth
degree. She wondered what corporate job he was playing hooky from to enjoy a Wednesday
afternoon of art.
But then again, maybe he thought the same of her. Did he wonder why she chose to spend the
afternoon in a stodgy, old museum instead of enjoying the outdoors? Or maybe he wondered
something else. Maybe he wanted to know why a man hadn’t been at her side already, holding her
hand or wrapping his arm around her waist like a possession. She smirked at the thought.
She took in a deep breath, capturing his heady, citrus scent. More than with the picture, she longed to
run her finger though his black, slightly shaggy hair. The tiny curls to give him an almost boyish look.
Almost. His large hands and broad shoulders showed that he was all man.
She licked her tongue over dry lips. He chose that moment to turn to her with a smile as wide as the
Atlantic plastered on his face.
“Were you going to touch the photograph?” he asked.
His voice matched his towering height. It was deep as though it emanated from the soles of his feet
and had an arduous journey through his sinewy body before projecting from his mouth.
“Were you going to tell if I did?” she asked.
She pushed her braids off of her shoulder and chewed on her lower lip.
“Ah, a woman who answers a question by asking one.” He clasped his hands behind his back and
sauntered around her. “I like that,” he whispered close to her ear.
She shivered as the fine hairs over her flesh stood on end. “Your wife must like it too.”
He halted his movement when he reached his destination on her other side. With his arms folded, he
asked, “Why do you think I’m married?” His chocolate-colored eyes transformed into a darker shade.
“It’s summer. I noticed the tan line around your finger.”
He left his arms in the same position, not moving them to verify her claim. “A woman who answers
questions with a question, notices tan lines on ring fingers and is alone in a museum.” He shook his
head. “You must be full of stories, uh…” He extended his right hand.
She thought for a while, glanced at the photograph of the nude torso and said as she shook his hand,
“Emmanuelle. “
He glanced at the photograph. Emmanuelle noticed his gaze dropped briefly before he returned his
attention to her.
“So is that who you are today? Emmanuel Radnitsky?”
She pulled her hand away from his grasp. “No, I’m just Emmanuelle.”
“Well, Just Emmanuelle, you can call me---” he paused before answering, “Helmut.”
That answer got a smile from her. “Like Lang?”
He grinned, showing off his teeth. She noticed his front tooth looked slightly discolored from the rest of
his gleaming white ones. Her hand reached up to touch it like she wanted to with the picture but she
refrained, reeling in her hand and crossing her arms over her chest again.
“You know he went by the name Man Ray,” Helmut said.
She furrowed her eyebrows. Her thoughts still swirled around his tooth and the mystery behind it.
“Who?” she asked.
“Emmanuel Radnitsky.”
She nodded. So he knew a little about art. Impressive. He must have done his homework or maybe
Helmut actually studied in school instead of cutting classes and wanting to live life. People paid for
having that kind of lifestyle.
“So, why photographs? You have a whole building full of art and artifacts.” His shoulder connected
with hers again, sending wave after wave of electric sensations surging through her body and stopping
at the pleasure center of her throbbing clit.
Her nipples harden and tighten against her lace bra. Her stomach bunched as though in anticipation.
“You can’t lie with a picture.” She stared at the next photograph in the series. “A painter can interpret
the scene any way he wants. A photographer captures a moment.” She glanced at Helmut. “Once
you have it, you can’t change it.”
“Anything can be altered. You interpret your own truth when it suits you.” He leaned down next to her
ear. “How long are we going to play this game? I need you.”
Emmanuelle nudged him with her elbow. “No. Not yet. You promised. You said that this time we’d
play as long as I wanted. I’m not ready to go back yet. Please.”
A guard strolled into the room, the floor squeaking with each of his steps. Emmanuelle took notice of
how he eyed them. Heat rose to her chest, traveling up her neck and face.
He had no right to stare at them like they were actors putting on a play. Or maybe he stared in shame
knowing what they’d done, what they wanted to do.
It had all started so innocently, this little game that they had been playing. Had it already been six
months? Every time she stared into his dark chocolate eyes, she felt like she’d known him for an
eternity and more. Perfection like him shouldn’t be walking among the unwashed masses like her. He
needed to be immortalized, admired.
When the guard walked out of the room, Helmut spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t have much time
today.”
Her eyes asked the question she couldn’t pose verbally. Wednesday was their special day. How
could he have made other plans? Her heart sank.
What the hell had she expected? Like he’d called it, this was a game. But with any game there had to
be rules. Maybe she needed to enforce some. And what? Lose him when he no longer wanted her?
All he said was, “Sorry.”
She squeezed here eyes shut, determined not to let a tear fall in front of him. He hadn’t even left yet
and she already missed him.
“These are the risks we encounter when we...”
She held up her hand. “Please. Don’t.”
Taking her hand, he held it in both of his. With his newly acquired tan, his skin looked almost as dark
as hers. He kissed her knuckles. The warmth of his lips erupted a molten flow from between her legs.
Every pore of her body pulsed for him as though his touch, his kiss, awakened new cells. This man
was not a stranger, not to her or her body. He read her like a Gray’s Anatomy textbook from cover to
cover.
Her vagina ached for him. If he knew how much she needed him, craved him in her life, he wouldn’t
rush their time together. He would stay. Like the photographs, he would stay.
She rested her forehead on his chest, nuzzling her face under his neck like a cat wanting attention.
Even her moans came out like purrs, unintentionally. The warmth of his arm around her shoulder
comforted her in the breezy museum. Frigid air whisked up her skirt and transformed her relaxed
countenance into a quivering mass. He held her tighter. She hadn’t meant to come off so vulnerable
but the security she felt in his arms proved too delicious to release.
Not wanting to let him go, not just yet, she slid her arms around his waist. His height allowed him to
rest his chin on top of her head as he rocked her back and forth. The slight swaying made her body
hum.
Emmanuelle pressed her chest into his. The added friction against her nipples from her bra and his
hard body helped to ease her desire but not by much. After turning her head, she planting little kisses
on his bare chest exposed by the vee of his shirt.
The kisses must have awakened his suppressed need. A low rumbled growled in his chest and rose
to his throat where it stuck and continued rolling. The sound released a current from between her legs.
Between his touch, sounds, scent and the sight of the nude photographs surrounding them, she felt
powerless to do anything else but to take this man, here and now.
She wanted them to both be naked, stripped of all of their hang-ups. Her fantasy involved bracing her
hands against the wall, facing one of those photographs or maybe a portrait of a nude man or woman
or couple, while he takes her from behind, fucking her senseless and into pure bliss. He could do it.
With those hands, those eyes and that mouth, he had the tools to make her a satisfied woman and
make her forget, most importantly, that she was not even in his league.
Helmut must have recognized her desire. After asking for her to wait in her spot, he darted off to
another room. Her mind raced with ideas of what he could be doing. Was he planning something
special? Or did he just leave her high and dry in the middle of the museum?
Guessing on his whereabouts did little to slow her racing pulse. The anticipation made her heart
pound and forced her to remain in her spot.
Helmut returned moments later. He held her hands and guided her to a bench that sat in the center of
the floor.
In the silence of the room, no squeaking floors and no guards, he stared at her like she’d stared at the
photographs before he arrived. His large hand smoothed down the side of her face leaving in its wake
a trail of newly awakened senses. A finger dipped down and skimmed over her chin then down her
neck.
An alarm sounded throughout the museum. The piercing noise made Emmanuelle jump but Helmut
remained still
Copyright © 2005 by Bridget Midway. All rights reserved.