He moved through the palace—at first, light footed in his human form—silently playing our usual version of hide-and-seek. But I had no intention of hiding, not for long anyway. Because I wanted to be found. In fact, I craved it so bad that every cell of my being ached in anticipation.

The air smelled of candle smoke from the only source of light in the otherwise darkened rooms. The flicker of the orange flames bounced off the crystal chandeliers hanging from nearly every ceiling under frescoes of gods and cherubs peeking over fluffy clouds.

My cheeks burned at the thought of these innocent beings getting a glimpse of what was about to transpire, but the feeling of shame was fleeting. My hunger was too great to care for long about anyone or anything other than my pursuer.

As I cut across the marbled great hall, I drew my fingertips over the cast iron banister. It was a relic of the past, installed by my ancestors as a symbol of both their lasting wealth and power, reminding me that I was the one in control and yet . . .. Perhaps I didn't want to be.

Tonight, my power lay in submission. It was my choice and more importantly, it was my desire.

The cold floor stung my bare feet and I hastened, tip-toeing up the winding staircase. I knew they'd follow and as I crossed the landing at the top, I could hear a low, animalistic grunt down below.

Taking a deep breath, I could now smell his earthy aroma without even having to turn, and a shiver of anticipation ran through me. I wet my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue, then first looked left and then right to choose my path. Deciding on the East wing, I bolted down the corridor, knowing that he would follow.

I was right. Within seconds, the sound of now heavy, animalistic footsteps bounded up the stairs. There were two sets of steps now instead of just one, indicating that the transformation had fully occurred.

We'd played these games before, but never here. This was my parents' domain and they'd never allow me to act with such wild abandon here. But tonight was different. They had been called away, and taking advantage of the opportunity, I had immediately sent the servants home.

I am of age and this is my home, too. And as I pass under portraits of long-dead lords and ladies, I no longer feel embarrassed. I am proud. I am dignified. I am eager.

The door to my suite of rooms is now on my right, but I hesitate to turn the knob. This is my sanctuary, the place I go to just to feel normal. There is a calmness inherent in the gilded furniture, a respite given by the silk sheets. If I go in now, that atmosphere will be sullied and I will no longer be able to think of anything else when I look at my domain than what I hope—nay, expect—will happen tonight.

My pursuer has slowed. His steps are more reserved, but His guttural breaths are now pronounced. He is also hungry, like me. For me.

I, too, can barely breathe, but my breathlessness is from excitement. There is also a pulsing in my core that can no longer be ignored as it grows hotter and wetter with each passing minute. I must end this pursuit soon or otherwise risk exploding.

The next set of doors belong to my parents and while I momentarily consider the added thrill of using their chambers for my games, I ultimately decide against it.

There is just one more place in this wing that could be suitable for my purposes, but for as long as I've known, it has always been locked.

Taylor felt dirty. No, it was worse than that. She was on the verge of disgust. And not just because she'd been reading werewolf smut on YONDER. Well, not directly anyway.

She closed the app and put her phone on the counter.

It had been almost two months since she first caught wind of the KINK exhibit and ever since then, she'd been surrounded by all things sex. The topic had permeated her professional life and slowly began to seep over into her personal one, too.

The way she was now unconsciously analyzing strangers, trying to figure out their secret perversions or how she had begun to catch herself randomly fantasizing about her own, going as far as paying for online fic that was probably written by sixteen year olds.

It was gross.

She wished she could wipe her mind of everything related to the s-word, but that would probably take a lot of therapy. And weed.

Taking another drag of her marijuana filled vape as she sat on her closed toilet, Taylor drew her knees up to her chest. On the other side of the bathroom door, Mike was humming the latest Imagine Dragons banger, psyching himself up for what he thought was going to be a fun romp with his wife.

What else would he think after finding a stray box of . . . uhm, pleasure paraphernalia that Taylor forgot to take into the museum after her reluctant shopping trip?

At first, she found it humorous, albeit a little embarrassing. But since she started even dreaming about all of . . . THAT?! Not only did she need a cold shower and brain bleach, but a full on demonic exorcism probably couldn't have hurt, either!

Taylor took another deep puff from the vape, held it in for as long as she could and then exhaled.

"How are you doing in there?"

Mike's inquiry made her jump up from her seat and she coughed.

"I'm fine. Be out in a sec," she yelled, instinctively waving her hand in front of her face to get rid of the smoke although there wasn't any. After spraying a bit of lavender air freshener around to cover the very real skunky smell, Taylor looked into the mirror.

What is wrong with you? she thought to herself as she stared at her reflection, eyes rimmed with fatigue, hair messy from apathy, and expression full of disappointment.

"Hey, I know you said that you had to take all of this stuff into work, but I'm kind of digging this spanky thing," said Mike before the tell-tale sound of leather against skin rang out. "Ouch. Never mind. You can take that one."

He was so cute. Dammit. Taylor wanted him to make love to her. She craved the comfort of his ripped arms wrapped around her body. But not tonight. Not when her mind was all over the place.

Stashing the vape behind her nail polish in the bottom-most drawer, she splashed a bit of water on her face and sniffled. A migraine wasn't going to be out of character for her and by the way her head was beginning to throb, she probably wouldn't even be faking it for much longer.

The display cabinet in the center of the East Room definitely needed a higher-wattage bulb.

After entering the note in her iPad, Venus continued her review of the nearly complete exhibit.

The display of bondage gear on the far wall was all wrong, too. The eyes naturally traveled from top left to bottom right, yet the ball-gag for the mouth was furthest on the bottom. That wouldn't do. She'd need to make sure one of her curatorial assistants would fix the placement tomorrow.

Hopefully it wouldn't be all in vain.

Venus sighed, and moved on. Months of work for dozens of people hung on the line on the House Appropriations' Committee's next vote. If they sided with that asshole Congressman from Virginia, she'd have hundreds of thousands of dollars pulled back from the museum, and they couldn't afford that. Not in this damn economy.

But even then, there was a small glimmer of hope. A tall drink of water-shaped Estonian, that is.

The curator subconsciously licked her lips at the thought of Kristo Hinrikus fawning over her at dinner the other night. He'd all but asked her to say the word and he'd not only fuck her, but also give her the funding needed to keep the exhibit open, no matter what.

And how did she react? She got on her high horse and played the morality card, which was all fine and good, but it also left her without a safety net. And likely Kristo's BDE. 'Cause Venus just knew that he had to have that.

Speaking of which . . . Venus stopped in front of another display case, this one centered around the concept of courtesans. It was an addition suggested by Andrew Pace, the historian she personally brought on to consult on the exhibit, but it was a vital inclusion. Sex workers played a significant part in the history of eroticism and the "high class" prostitutes who catered to wealthy clientele had their own unique role in that.

The irony of her own situation with Kristo didn't escape her.

Was she really considering joining the ranks of Veronica Franco–the real life sixteenth century Venetian poet who doled out sexual favors to support her feminist philanthropy–whose portrait by Tintoretto stared back at her? Or was she more like the fictitious character of Satine from the 2001 musical film Moulin Rouge shown on the movie poster of Nicole Kidman kissing Ewan McGregor, who inadvertently falls in love with a poor writer after mistaking him for a rich Duke?

Typing "none" in her notes about changes needed for the display, Venus sighed.

At this point, she was neither. She'd all but rejected Kristo and there was no going back from that if–in the end–money was involved. And right now, it looked like that was a real possibility.

On the other hand, if by some miracle the museum got to keep the federal grant, then she still had a chance. Only if the Viking still wanted her, that is. Maybe his kink was using his wealth and power to get what he wanted, even in the bedroom. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

But was that so bad? There definitely had to be a thrill in wielding control over someone who yearned for pleasure only you could give them. And what if that control came with a literal price tag? If everything was out in the open and that choice was between two consenting adults, then she saw no harm in that.

Perhaps it was because she'd had sex on her mind for months now as an occupational hazard of organizing the current theme. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. A repressed fantasy of being a willing play thing for a man who was stronger than her, larger than her, richer than her, more powerful in every way than her.

Venus now bit her lip, wishing that it was Kristo Hinrikus who had his mouth locked onto hers. That it was he who held her in his arms and pressed her body against the wall, forcefully taking her to the brink of ecstasy next to the fruits of her work.

"Dr. Coleman?"

The unexpected question out of the previous silence made Venus jump. Realizing that she'd been chewing the top of her stylus, she removed the plastic pen from her mouth and turned to see her boss approach.

So much for daydreaming. It was time to get back to reality.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

DATE: March 27, 2023

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: CW exposé

Hey Benny!

Attached is the final (?) draft of the article. Please take one more look asap and let me know if there is anything that you may still disagree with. At this point, we can't make too many changes unless its something that'll get us sued.

If you're good to go, please reply with a quick confirmation. The story will drop in the morning print and there'll be a major push notification to all online subscribers by 7am. I'm guessing national news will pick it up almost immediately, so get ready for that. Anonymity will only go so far and those closest to you can always figure things out. We're also taking down a pretty big fish and there's no telling how his supporters will react. Good luck with the exhibit though. I'll try to check it out after the opening.

And it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. Thanks for teh scoop on this, man! I'll buy you a beer after I get my Pulitzer.

Best,

Lamar C.

Political Editor

Washington Post

Encrypted Signal Ph: 202-222-5862

ONC rolling word count: 17,892