Daddy Fucked My Ass At The Art Gallery

My father Arthur built the Mercer Gallery from nothing. The night of his gala opening, I arrived in emerald silk, ready to celebrate his triumph. But he didnt look at the Rothkos or the celebrity guests. He looked at me like I was the only masterpiece in the room. Between champagne toasts and private viewings, we found empty exhibit halls. Dark corners. A velvet bench in the restoration room. By the last guests departure, I had been thoroughly collected.