Holding Still

       Rose de Fer

      The room hums with energy, as though the air is electrified. But within all is stillness. Silence and extraordinary stillness.

      We are frozen, my sisters and I, maintaining the poses we have been instructed to hold while the potential buyers move among us, inspecting, assessing, admiring. I am lucky to have been given an easy position, probably because I’m the newest.

      Across the gallery Helene balances on one leg, the other raised and bent slightly in front, as though she is about to step gracefully down from her pedestal. And next to her is Cerys, sitting with her legs stretched out along either side of a polished wooden beam. Both poses look extremely challenging and I’m envious of the balance it must take to maintain them.

      My own pose is simple by comparison. I am kneeling naked, my head bowed, my eyes downcast. The very picture of submission. My hands rest by my sides, palms flat on the platform. My long hair has been coiled and pinned on top of my head so that the buyers can see my face. My expression is one of cultivated serenity, of deep contentment with my humble position.

      Around me the men and women discuss the living statuary, asking questions of our curator and discussing prices. Two men and a woman enthuse over Natasha’s display. She sits before a mirror, her long red hair swept over one shoulder. Like the girl in the Pre-Raphaelite painting she emulates, she is frozen in the act of combing her hair, a wistful expression on her face.

      I listen to their comments as they discuss her price. A friendly argument ensues and one of the men finally names a figure that is too high for his companions. The sale is completed. Out of the corner of my eye I see Natasha rise from her stool and greet the man who is now her owner. They leave the room together and I feel a twinge of sadness knowing I won’t see her again.

      And then I feel the steady gaze of someone’s eyes on me.

      The spicy aroma of a man’s cologne teases my nose as he circles me, quietly studying me. Voices waft across the room like currents of air but my observer is alone. Intrigued by what he sees, he reaches out a hand to caress my hip, my thigh. I remain perfectly still as I have been taught, willing away the gooseflesh that threatens to mar my smooth skin and spoil the illusion.

      ‘Alina,’ he says, reading my name off the little bronze plaque beneath me.

      Seeing the man’s interest in me, the curator approaches. He introduces himself and explains that I am new, that this is only my first exhibition, but that I have shown immense promise and he is sure I would be a worthy addition to any collector’s home.

      The man nods and reaches up to stroke my cheek. He traces a finger down my throat and along the curve of one bare breast. He cups me gently and I feel my nipple stiffen in response to his touch. It’s exactly the kind of reaction collectors want, the kind that surprises one into remembering that we are human after all. He laughs softly.

      ‘She’s very responsive.’ He slides his thumb over the hard little bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. I focus all my concentration on maintaining my position. I must not sigh or gasp or moan. I mustn’t close my eyes or even flutter an eyelash. I am a statue. One of warm flesh and blood rather than alabaster but a statue nonetheless.

      The man draws his hand down along my pale arm to my wrist. Then he presses against the delicate skin to feel my pulse. Doubtless my heart is beating faster now than when he first approached me and his touch makes it beat even faster. He gives another appreciative laugh.

      ‘Yes, very responsive.’

      He has a nice voice, cultured and kind. I like the warmth in his touch, the amusement in his tone as he examines the rest of me, stroking the soles of my upturned feet and running a finger down the line of my spine. My legs are closed but he comments favourably on my smoothly shaved mound. I fight the blush that threatens to stain my cheeks as he asks whether he might part my thighs to see the rest.

      The curator agrees and my admirer gently eases my legs apart. My knees slide easily against the polished surface on which I’m kneeling and soon I feel the caress of cool air against my nether lips. I try to slow my breathing, willing my racing heart to be calm. But when the man draws his fingers up along my inner thigh and sweeps them gently across the slick folds of my sex I feel my pulse jump again. It’s all I can do to keep from closing my eyes at the stimulation.

      ‘Very nice indeed,’ he says. He steps back and looks me over once again. For several moments I feel as though I am suspended over a vast chasm as I wait to hear his verdict. After what seems an eternity, he ends the torment. ‘Yes. I think she would be a lovely addition to my collection.’

      My sex throbs in response but it’s a reaction no one can see. Neither can they see the way I clench the inner muscles to send another little spasm of pleasure through my body. My mind whirls as I try to imagine what my new owner will do with me, how he will display me. I’ve heard of girls made to act as the centrepiece at a lavish feast, others to liven up a garden or the foyer of a grand house. For some reason I have always pictured myself displayed in an alcove, perhaps at the top of a curving staircase. Of course, it’s not up to me to choose.

      The curator stands before me and places a fatherly hand on my shoulder. ‘Alina, it’s time to go. Mr Villiers will take you home now.’

      It’s always difficult to move after holding still for so long. After a while the stillness becomes second nature and I forget I’m able to move at