Kimberley's Night at the Museum

When I finished my art history degree a few years ago, it took me a while to find a job -- as you can imagine, there aren’t too many opportunities out there for someone with four years of an arts degree. Finally, though, I would up as an assistant curator in the Near East section of a major museum in the city where I live. And not modern Near East art, either, but ancient Near East art and culture.

This wasn’t exactly my favorite era, to say the least -- I mean, I studied modern art, and ancient Near East art is about as far away from that as you can get. The museum’s collection was mostly textiles and decorative objects, but what made them most different was … well, I guess you could say their sensuality. The ancient Persians seemed to be very fond of things like curves, at least in ceramics -- you wouldn’t find a straight edge in any of the various boxes, vases, and chests that made up the collection in the museum. There was also a fairly small collection of clothing and costumes from the period.

And as a modern woman there was something very offensive about it to me. A few of these items had been discovered in a harem where slaves were kept -- sex slaves, apparently, judging from the clothing and paraphernalia that had been recovered from the archaeological site. These, of course, made up the highlights of the collection. Off to the side in the main room, though, was a unique find that had the curators puzzled. In a large display case was a costume that couldn’t help but remind you of My Dream of Jeannie.

It was obviously a harem outfit, in two pieces: the top, a purple velvet bustier that reached down to belly level, and the bottom a pair of purple pants, a kind of velvet bikini-bottom and two billowy, sheer legs that were gathered by elastic at the ankles. There was also a pair of high-heeled silver sandals, a thin silver band that wrapped around the toes and held onto the feet by ankle-straps. Around the waist of the pants was a thin golden chain that looked weaker than it probably was.

My work took me past this outfit several times a day -- as I say, I was offended by the background of the costume, but maybe even more offended that it seemed to be very close to my own size. Maybe not so curious, I guess. But what was curious was contained in a small display case containing four objects that had been found at the same site as the costume -- a shapely, curved bottle with a very long and thin neck, a stopper for the bottle made of the same gold and silver material, and two solid gold bracelets, rings of gold that wrapped around the wrists. So far, nobody -- not the archaeologists who found them, not the historians or curators at the museum where I worked -- were able to figure out the exact relationship between all these things. They were all clearly related -- their design and the materials out of which they’d been made proved that -- but that relationship remained a mystery.

But I was busy and I didn’t really have time to worry about all this. My main concern was in making a good impression, so I came in early, stayed late, and well-liked enough. Look, I’m no real charmer. I’m only about five-foot-four and very much a petite, smallish A-cup breasts almost boyish, and my hair -- well, I’ve never been able to do much with it, a straight chestnut-brown hair that I tried to sex up with bangs and that fell only to my shoulders. So small, and thin. But I was able to fade into the background somewhat. People didn’t really seem to notice whether I was there or not. On the other hand, I’m something of a loner, so it didn’t really bother me.

Neither did late nights. We were preparing a new exhibition of ninth-century cutlery which probably fascinates you as much as it fascinates me, but it fell to my desk to catalogue each of the some four-hundred pieces that would be appearing in the exhibition. Tedious, but like I said, I wanted to make an impression, so stayed until eleven or twelve o’clock many nights to finish the task. And I completed it very late one night, near midnight, when everyone else had left the museum and only a few guards, sparsely spread throughout the five floors of the building, remained.

So I threw on my backpack, turned off the lights in the office, and started for home. As usual, the harem costume caught my attention again as I passed through the gallery -- but, as was not usual, something odd attracted me to it on this night. I don’t know, maybe it was because I was so much a wallflower and the costume itself seemed so sexy. But I stopped in my tracks as I crossed the floor and found myself tentatively drawn to it.

The display cases were elevated by a few steps from the main floor. I walked up the steps and circled slowly around both cases. The costume, yes, it looked like it might be a good fit, and the bracelets too. I think that obviously I thought I needed a little variety or excitement in my life, even if it was only for a moment. And what the hell -- who would know?

As part of the curatorial staff I was entrusted with the keys to the display cases, so I walked around to the back of the harem costume, knelt down, and unlocked the glass door to the case. It swung open, and there it was -- I could touch it. And I did, feeling the soft velvet underneath my fingertips and wondering just how it might feel against my skin. I glanced around me and listened carefully to see if I could hear any guards’ footsteps; I was alone, and it was silent.

Quickly I slipped my backpack off and slid it to the corner; just as quickly I slipped off my sneakers, my baggy jeans, my plain cotton panties and my plain cotton shirt. Removing the top from the display case, I slipped my arms through the armholes and drew the front of the corset-like velvet together -- a little tight, but once I’d slipped the hooks through the holes that held it closed, it gave me a bit more in front than I usually had. And I also had to admit, the feeling of the soft velvet against my breasts and my back was unusually exciting. The pants were next. I sat down on the top step and slid my legs down the long sheer length of the garment, easing my feet through the elastic at the bottom of the legs, and standing up drew the bikini up to my hips, encasing my ass, my hips, my all in a similarly slightly tight velvet. The shoes were the last -- I wrapped the anklestraps around my legs and buckled the straps, a little tight too, closed. The gold chain was the last to go on -- I wrapped it around my waist and linked it closed in the front. It hung securely, but a little loosely, around my hips. I noticed, too, that on either side of the chain were shorter lengths of the same chain that hung down, tipped by small locking clasps that opened and closed with some difficulty.

The one thing lacking in ancient Persia, apparently, was mirrors, so there was no way to see myself, much as I wanted to. But I could feel myself -- and I did. I ran my hands over my breasts, enwrapt in velvet now, and my bare belly; over my small ass, my hips, and down the sheer billowing satin that now enwrapt my legs. And I began to feel, very deeply, but what it was about the sensuality of the Near East that was so pleasurable. I unlocked the smaller display case and, leaving the odd bottle, took the two golden bracelets and clicked them closed over my wrists. I couldn’t stifle a giggle, a little laugh, as I imagined how I looked -- a harem slave from thousands of years ago; even my dark bangs and hair seemed right, the tips of my hair brushing against my velvet-clad shoulders now.

And I couldn’t help myself -- I was in the harem of a sultan, and he’d asked me to dance. I carefully walked down the few steps from the display case to the main floor and, balancing carefully on those silver three-inch heels, did a clumsy little dance, not exactly a belly dance but sinuous, sensuous. I extended my arms out to one side, then to the other, and then drew them over my head.

And then something happened. The bracelets brushed against each other with a little click and all of a sudden I felt carried away, lifted high above the floor and scarcely a body any more, more a curling stream of smoke of vapor. I felt lifted up then, head first, down again -- down through a tight narrow tunnel.

When I opened my eyes I was amazed. I was no longer in the gallery, but in a small round room. I was seated on a soft, cushioned floor; around me, in a circle, were several floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reached up, fluting at the top to a small, tight round opening. I suppose it was about eight feet around, eight feet high -- the inside of a sphere. I could see a little light from the gallery through the top of the opening, but the inside of the sphere was well-lit too.

A mirrored sphere at that, so there were my mirrors. And, reclining on the floor, I could finally see myself -- a young sensual harem dancer. I saw that the outfit did indeed fit me precisely -- and how white, how white was my skin against the purple velvet, against my dark bangs. But what the hell had happened? I was terrified, so I tried it again -- I brought my two arms over my head and clinked the bracelets together. And again I found myself carried away like a stream of smoke, up through the opening in the ceiling.

And out to the floor of the gallery again. Well, one thing was for sure -- I’d solved the mystery. Apparently the costume, the bracelets, the bottle -- these were all artifacts originally belonging to some harem slave or genie; combined in the right way, there was magic to it. But a safe magic, I found -- one click to enter the bottle, another to get out. A little less terrified now, I brought my arms again above my head, clinked the bracelets together, and in a moment was back inside the bottle.

I took my time now; the detail of the soft floor, the velvet material that reached up towards the opening. And me. I indulged my fantasy for a while, then, shifting my arm, my hand brushed against something set in the floor -- two golden chains, not unlike those that hung from my belt, ending in small golden cuffs similar to my bracelets. Obviously these cuffs weren’t supposed to go around my wrists.

I hesitated for a moment. What time was it, anyway? I knew the guards would probably never notice anything; it had been nearly midnight when I started, after all, and they were more likely sleeping at their desks than patrolling the museum corridors. So why not at least try it?

I slipped one of the golden cuffs around my right ankle, my fingers brushing against my heel, and with only a little pressure clicked it closed securely (I didn’t worry about getting out of it -- the gold chain that held it to the floor was thin enough for me to yank it clean when I was finished). Then I closed the second cuff around my left ankle. I tried to spread my legs as far as I could -- which wasn’t far, chained to the floor now quite close together, but wide enough for comfort. I also now discovered that there were very small notches on the bracelets that would fit precisely into the gold chains around my belt, and with some difficulty I managed to secure my wrists to those chains as well, locking the belt to the bracelets.

I looked up at the mirrors that surrounded me now -- truly, I guess, a sex slave waiting for the sultan, luxuriating on the cushioned floor of her prison. And, in my position, obviously waiting and waiting, for whatever sultan there had been had died thousands of years ago. But I was used to relying on my own devices, and bound there now I felt quite, quite excited at the idea of being a slave -- under the utter control of somebody else, locked into my outlet and my bonds. The chains around my belt were just long enough for me to slip my hand down into the front of the velvet pants, slowly, tentatively, and down to where I was especially sensuous …

***

I must have fell asleep briefly, exhausted from what must have been the most astonishing series of orgasms I’d ever experienced. And the mirror told me that I was exhausted -- still inviting, flushed, but exhausted. And because I had no idea of how long I’d been asleep, I thought, well, there are always other late nights to work.

So I started to raise my arms above my head -- then felt them caught. I pulled and pulled, but felt nothing more than the chain from my belt straining against the chains from my wrists. It was impossible to stretch my arms over my head and bring the bracelets together again. I tugged at the ankle cuffs too, pulling them as hard as I could. As thin as those gold chains were, though, they were not weak -- they were strong and held me fast to the floor, as the bracelets held my wrists fast to my belt.

Now was the time to panic. I struggled to become free -- to release myself from the bonds which I’d willingly trapped myself in. But the chains held. Maybe, with some time, I might have a little more strength and could try again. So I gave myself a little time.

I glanced upward at the opening in the ceiling -- my escape route, one way or the other. With one difference: the light was gone. Somehow, someone had put the stopper on the bottle.

Where was I now? I trembled -- and felt my hand reaching towards my belly again …

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03.10.15