“In the red thread of devotion”
It was not the first time that Clara had taken part in such an event, but this time it was different. It wasn’t an exhibition, but a performance – and Clara wasn’t just a part of it, she was the center of attention. The red thread, thin as silk, lay around her neck like a piece of jewelry, the carefully tied bow a symbol of her readiness. No other fabric covered her skin, which shimmered matt in the soft light, while drops of water sparkled on it like liquid jewels.
Time held its breath as the curtain opened. Clara’s bare feet stepped softly on the soft fabric of the floor, which was cool and inviting. In front of her were the men – artists and spectators who had come solely to see her. Their gazes were like invisible fingers, exploring every line of her naked body, absorbing every movement.
Clara slowly lowered herself to the floor with the suppleness of a big cat. She lay on her back, her legs slightly open, her arms relaxed. The red thread stood out brightly against her bare skin – a contrast that emphasized her vulnerability and revealed her power at the same time. She was the embodiment of devotion, the invitation to something that hovered in the air, still unsaid but inevitable.
The men stepped closer. Their steps were quiet, almost reverent, but the tension in their gazes was unmistakable. One of them, the photographer, settled down next to her. His camera circled her, searching for every reflection on her shimmering skin, as if they were secrets he wanted to capture. The painter approached, his gaze so intense that Clara felt the tingle before his hands even touched the brush.
Then the first touch fell – a warm hand on her thigh, light, almost like a whisper. It was not a random gesture, but a deliberate action, a test of her readiness. Clara opened her eyes, her gaze meeting that of the man who sought her reaction. She held his gaze, a silent message: Yes, more.
The bow of the red thread was loosened, slowly, the silk slid over her skin ….
