Someone with a circular glasses started dissecting a white canvas with a single red dot. He stood three feet from it like it might bite. Said something about "isolation in a postmodern lens." Blah blah. For a second I swore he might start crying.
"He is been talking about that red dot for like twenty minutes," I said.
Zoey turned and smiled like she had heard it before. "Some reviewer said it represents womanhood. Or bleeding autonomy. Something performative."
"I read Pullock said it was a mistake. A literal paint drop."
She blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah. Dripped off his brush when he sneezed. Never meant to stay."
Zoey stared at the red dot. "So the whole thing is a lie?"
I shrugged. "Most art is. Either they are lying to you, or you are lying to yourself for pretending to get it."
A couple walked by, both dressed like their families owned ski resorts. The girl had a wine glass in one hand and superiority in the other. The guy wore a scarf indoors. Both paused in front of another painting, just a blank canvas with the word "why?" scribbled in the bottom corner.
"This is genius," scarf boy said.
"It speaks to the void," the girl agreed.
Zoey leaned closer. "You think they are dating or just mutual victims of inherited wealth?"
"They probably made out once during an art class, called it awakening, and now they spend trust fund money on wine and pretentiousness."
We passed a sculpture next. It looked like a traffic cone dry-humped a bicycle and then someone added glitter. There was a sign that said "Do Not Touch," which immediately made me want to push it over.
"Is this art?" I asked.
Zoey tilted her head. "It is performance commentary."
"On what?"
"On how dumb people are willing to pay for garbage if you call it commentary."
"Bold of them to label it commentary instead of confession."
We kept moving. Another gallery space opened to the left, dimmer, more crowded. Some rich kid in a velvet suit was explaining a video installation to a girl who looked two sips away from letting him explain himself into her panties.
"This is about the death of traditional masculinity," he said.
The screen was showing a man eating spaghetti in reverse.
Zoey gave me a look.
I held up a finger. "Don't ruin this. I need to hear where this goes."
Velvet guy continued, "See how the sauce returns to the bowl? It is reclaiming his essence."
The girl nodded, completely gone.
"So is this your crowd?" I asked Zoey, sipping expensive wine.
"God no," she said. "I make art. They just photograph their own noses and call it pain."
Her section was decent. She only had a couple of pieces, but her mother insisted on hanging them on the wall like they were secret heirlooms. Nothing looked like a masterpiece. Nothing screamed original. But they also were not postmodern shit. And when I say shit, I mean the kind of "art" where someone shits on a canvas, lights a cigarette with their butthole, and calls it a protest against tradition and authoritarianism.
Her paintings had color. Form. Maybe a little too much black, but at least no one was bleeding on the floor and calling it emotional release.
Zoey watched me, waiting for my face to twist into something insulting. I gave her a half nod instead.
"Yours aren't shit," I said.
She blinked. "That is high praise coming from you."
I shrugged, "I am not some art reviewer or gatekeeper that throws shit at people trying to break into the industry. First, because I respect myself too much to call myself that. Second, I cannot sit in front of a blank canvas, talk about impressions and inspiration and all that vague crap, and pretend I am impressed. I just can't. So no, my words don't mean much in this space, but if you want my opinion? I liked yours more than any of the crap we saw tonight."
She took my hand. "Thank you," she whispered, tugging me past the last row of canvases toward a roped-off area near the back. A few steps later, we hit a buffet table lined with what I assumed rich people called "hors d'oeuvres" and what I called "expensive disappointment." Mini skewers, tiny sandwiches, cheese cubes stabbed like they had wronged someone. Classy snacks. Useless against hunger. But edible.
Zoey handed me a napkin and pointed at the tray with chocolate-covered figs.
"I grabbed two and popped one into my mouth.
We stood at the edge of the room where fewer people hovered. "I hate art shows," Zoey said suddenly, picking up a cube of cheese and not eating it. "I like the work. I just hate this… crowd. Like, if I hear one more trust fund twink say the word 'deconstruction,' I will deconstruct his kneecaps."
"Want me to paint wall with their blood and call it installation?"
She gave me a sideways look. "That was weirdly specific."
"Hypothetical," I said, chewing on a crostini.
Auction started. Images began flashing onto the giant screen at the front of the gallery. Paintings first. Then sculptures. Then what I guessed were digital files pretending to be meaningful. One piece was just a video of a man screaming in slow motion while standing naked in the snow. It sold for twelve grand.
"For fuck's sake," I muttered under my breath, watching the numbers climb. "Such blatant tax evasion."
[System]: Mmm~ nothing says financial foreplay like laundering money through a JPEG of someone's trauma.
Zoey leaned in, her lips brushing close to my ear. "That one just sold for fifteen thousand. It was made by a TikTok influencer with a glue gun."
"Art, huh?" I replied. "Back in my day, we called that a mental breakdown and asked if they needed therapy, not applause."
Next came a sculpture. Twisted metal and chains wrapped around a mannequin torso. The gallery host called it "a commentary on feminine entrapment and societal gaze." The price climbed to thirty-two grands before the host even finished the sentence.
Zoey leaned against the wall. "That piece is hollow inside. Literally. I helped set it up. It is built around a cardboard box."
I stared. "So it is fake and overpriced."
She nodded. "Like most of this room."
A bidding war broke out over a black-and-white photo of a spoon resting on a window sill. Some woman with a bun and desperation in her laugh kept raising the paddle while a guy in leather gloves sipped red wine and matched her every time. Eventually, he let her win at forty grand. She looked triumphant.
I leaned into Zoey's ear. "I got the most valuable art piece in my pocket."
She rolled her eyes. "Is that what you call your dick now?"
I chuckled. "I was talking about the pink pussy you sent, but sure, I am divinely crafted."
Zoey grinned, sharp and smug. "As in micro penis, like those Roman sculptures?"
I grabbed her hand and slid it to my crotch, pressing it right against the flaccid outline in my pants. Her fingers twitched.
"Tell me if it is small."
Her mouth parted just slightly. No words. Just that brief flick of tongue against lip that said she felt something she was not expecting.
[System]: Mmm~ that is soft, sugar. Wait until she feels you angry. That thing wakes up like a hungry beast.
Zoey pulled her hand back, but not quick. Not ashamed either. Just let her palm drag against the shape through the fabric. "That is not soft," she said.
"Then maybe you are better than art," I said. "Because I was looking at your painting and thinking about bending you over the buffet table."
She bit her bottom lip, hard. "Say that louder. Maybe we get banned."
"Don't tempt me. I got nothing to lose but patience."
We stood too close now. "You want to sneak off?" She asked, voice casual like we were about to grab a soda, not defile a modern art gallery.
"You have somewhere private in this temple of lies?"
She turned slightly, chin lifting toward a side hallway. "Storage room. Locked. I have the key."
"Of course you do."
"Are you coming?"
"If you keep talking like that, yes."
Zoey turned without another word, walking ahead like she was not dragging me behind her by the dick. We cut past the crowd, passed the installation of broken mirrors and crying mannequins. A red EXIT sign glowed at the far end. Zoey pulled a silver key from her cleavage, because of course she hid it there. She twisted it in the lock of a plain door.
She opened it and slipped inside.
I followed.
The door clicked shut.
No lights. Just a thin strip of LED bleeding from the baseboards. Enough to see shapes. Walls lined with blank canvases and rolled-up posters.
Zoey pushed me back until I hit the edge of a crate. She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me down.
"Still think my art is pink and innocent?" she whispered.
"I think your pussy could inspire religions."
She kissed me. No preamble. Lips hard, fast, tongue already inside like she was picking a lock. Her fingers tugged the buttons on my shirt. One popped. Then two.
"You really dressed up for me?" she asked between kisses.
"I dress up for danger. You just happen to be both."
Her skirt slid up when she straddled my thigh. I grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her harder. My hands found the chain around her waist, tugged it free. She gasped.
She lifted her leg, pressed her knee between mine, and ground herself against my thigh. I could feel the heat through the fabric.
She kissed me again. This time slower. Tongue deep. Hands tangled in my hair.
I turned us over, bent her to the crate, and put my head between her cheeks.
The skirt was already halfway up. No underwear. Of course. Her ass arched back, hands bracing on the crate like she knew exactly what she wanted me to do next. I didn't even waste a second. My fingers spread her apart, my breath landing hot across her slick slit. Her pussy looked obscene in this lighting. Wet, pink, and framed like an art piece that could bankrupt trust funds.
I dove in.
She gasped, loud, hips jolting forward. I dragged my tongue along her lips, slow, teasing, before flicking her clit in a tight circle. She bucked again, hands slapping the side of the crate. Her thighs trembled. That skirt was bunched at her waist, chains clinking with every move.
"You taste like trouble," I murmured, licking her again.
Zoey moaned. It echoed off the blank canvases like the whole storage room had opinions.
I slid two fingers inside her while sucking on her clit, curling them up, pressing into that spot that made her twitch. Her legs shook harder. She tried to muffle the next moan by biting her own arm, but it still came out.
"Fucking hell," she hissed. "You are good at that."
[System]: Mmm~ taste test confirms. That is certified gallery-grade pussy. Moisture levels off the chart. Pink on pink. You got her leaking like overpriced oil paint, baby.
I pulled my fingers out, slapped her pussy once. Not hard. Just enough to make it sting and drip. She whimpered. I slid them back in and started pumping faster. Her body writhed. Her back arched so far she might snap in half.
Her voice was low and ragged. "Don't... Don't stop."
"Then you better not cum yet," I said, pulling my fingers out again and replacing them with my tongue. She cried out. Her hands scrabbled for grip on the wood, nails dragging like she wanted to leave marks.
I didn't stop until she was grinding against my face, panting, legs shaking like a baby deer in a wind tunnel.
"Peter, fuck," she moaned.
I pulled back, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked down at her.
"Not so fast." She straightened, spun, and sank to her knees.
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You can read up to Chapter 85...
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