Nicola Jane - Follow Your Fantasy - Deeper

It only just occurs to you as you press the button for 11 that Giselle has given you a floor number but no room. You'll have to work it out when you get there. Maybe she's got a Do Disturb sign on the door. You wonder what kind of room service you're about to provide.

'In a good mood?' Giselle's voice suddenly asks from above your head. It sounds as if she's in the lift with you and you glance around before you can stop yourself.

'Over he-e-re.' Her voice bounces, sing-songy and patronising, off the metal walls. A panel next to the lift buttons lights up and, for a moment, you think you're looking at yourself but then you realise it's Giselle from the waist up, sitting in front of someone's torso. She's wearing only a sheer red bra that moulds to her breasts and shades her nipples into rosebuds.

'Told you,' she says over her shoulder.

Told who what? But then, it's clear who as a man places a hand on her arm and works his way down her stomach and off camera. The background becomes clear and the wall of the man's chest defines itself with the darker indentations of chest muscles and a line of collar bone. You find yourself wondering how far down his hand has gone and what it's doing.

'How happy are you to be here?' she asks. 'Anton's dying to know.'

The arm moves up and back again and her eyes close briefly in pleasure or pain, you're not sure. As you're thinking what kind of answer to give that won’t sound like you think you're arriving for afternoon tea, the lift bumps to a stop and the panel goes red. You wait for a second, expecting the doors to open automatically but nothing happens. You forget about answering and start looking for a door open button.

There isn't one.

A surge of adrenalin hits your stomach. Whatever answer you could have come up with dies on your lips at the knowledge you're stuck in this small space. Your stomach lurches and you fight to calm the instinctive panic. Someone will call the lift from another floor eventually. Even so, you whip your head round to look for an escape panel or an emergency phone to alert the anonymous reception desk downstairs that you're stuck.

'Relax,' says Giselle, in her all-knowing tone. 'We've got you, haven't we Anton?'

Anton doesn't say anything, or nothing you can hear anyway. But his hand seems to be moving with purpose off-screen.

'You could at least wave or smile or say hello or something,' she mocks again. So they can see and not just hear you. But how?

And then a male voice adds, 'I'm waiting for the "or something".'

You raise your hand to push your hair off your clammy neck, uncertain what she wants you to say.

'Awww, nearly a wave,' says Giselle and your hand freezes in place.

You keep searching the ceiling and walls for a camera but see nothing. There aren’t even any air vents or anything where they could be hidden. You frown at Giselle's image as she arches her back, pushing her breasts out towards the camera she must be sitting in front of. Then you realise the panel itself is like a large iPad with a tiny camera above the screen. They're watching you watching them watch you.

'How much do you want to be in here with us?' Anton asks.

Much more than you want to be in here, that's for sure.

'I really-' you start.

'Show don't t-e-e-ell,' mocks Giselle.

Do it. Get invited up, have a threesome.

Do nothing. The client, Anton, asks you to deliver a jewellery package to Leon. Go to the theatre, have a sexual encounter with Leon and ice-cubes. He disappears.

5

You don't hesitate. 'Yes.'

'My studio's upstairs.'

'That's handy,' you say.

He shrugs and leads you to the back of the bar. 'Who says artists can't be practical?'

He opens a door leading to a narrow staircase and ducks his head under the frame to disappear upwards. You follow, nerves tingling with anticipation as you imagine you're entering a fairytale tower.

The studio is small, mostly taken up by a red velvet cushion heap in the corner and a paint covered table, holding pots, palettes and brushes. An empty easel stands in front of the table but a camera on a tripod has been set up in front of the cushions.

'You do photography as well?'

'I work with both and merge them.' He's already rearranging the cushions, moving some up and others to the sides as he looks back at you as if measuring you for a fitting.

Of course! That explains the very real quality amongst the unreality of his work.

'Do you need the heating on?' he asks as you continue to stand there.

'Oh, right!' You're supposed to get undressed. He turns his back while he goes to the camera and fiddles with it, removing a lens and screwing in another. You hesitate, and wonder if you're being too reckless. You don't even know this guy. But the idea of being painted and immortalised the way the girls in paintings throughout the centuries have been is too powerful and you slip out of your dress and panties.

'Should I…?'

'Make yourself comfortable. I'll help you in just a second,' he says, popping through another door for a second and returning with a bottle of amber liquid and a couple of brushes. 'Sable.' He waves them at you.

You clamber onto the cushions, which are more stable than they look and lay back. 'How do you want me to pose?'

At the moment, you're laying on your side, half curled up with your back to the wall and your arms in front of your breasts.

'It'll come to you, don't think about it.' He comes and sits on the edge of the pile and opens the bottle. A sweet but light smell wafts out and he dips a medium-sized brush into it, lifting it out and shaking droplets back into the bottle, releasing more of the fragrance.

'Just put your arms back for now and tell me your favourite fairy story.'

You think for a few moments, watching the oil as it drip, drip, drips. The studio isn't a tower like any tale you remember but the feeling of being above reality pervades. Towers makes you think of the painting of the girl with long hair…Rapunzel…what's that other one with R…?

'Rumpelstiltskin!'

Julian's eyes catch yours. 'Interesting!'

'I'm not sure it's my favourite but there's something about it all the same.'

'Tell me about it.' He brings the brush up and brings it towards you, to the soft tip against one nipple.

Your mind instantly empties of the half-forgotten story as the brush twirls over your nipple, puckering it even though it touches you with the faintest of grazes.

'I can't remember it now. A dwarf and-' You break off to gasp as the brush leaves and returns laden with more oil. '-a spinning wheel-'

He moves the brush to your other nipple and runs it back and forth across the tip, training his bright eyes on yours and making it even harder to recall the story you've not read since you were a child.

'And something about hair…and…gold.'

'Close your eyes and it'll all come back to you.'

You do, attempting to conjure up images in your mind that are something other than his eyes and your own nipples, hardening as they take on the shine of the oil. It's impossible.

'Wasn't there a King somewhere? Who rescued her?'

'Definitely not!' Julian says, trailing a painted line down the side of your breast. He shifts in his seat and the next brush stroke is broader as it circles from the nipple outwards and outwards in a spiral. 'The King enslaved her, and so did Rumpelstiltskin in a different way. Who would you be slave to? The King with his riches and cruelty? Or the fairy dwarf with his magic power to turn straw into gold?'

'Rumpelstiltskin helps her! I remember!'

'Yes and no. Do you remember what he takes from her in exchange for his help?' The brush moves downwards over your stomach, teasing a path downwards, slipping over your skin, tickling as it goes.