Andromeda

Chapter 1: Elise and Rostand

With mounting dread I ascend the stairs to Rostand’s studio. A chill wind rises, swirling about my bare thighs, seeking to conquer the places my lover cannot. What will it be today? What will he demand of me? It will be the same, I fear. It always is.

How have I come to this place of dismay I wonder, not for the first time. The worn carpet hums a silent condemnation beneath my feet. I want to turn and run, to escape my own weakness while I still can. But, once more it’s too late.

The brass knob turns easily in my palm, an accessory to my act of shame. What ruse will preface our encounter this day? A portrait? A landscape to frame my downfall? Does it matter? It’s only foreplay.

Rostand is, as always, sitting impatiently by the hearth, palate in hand as though to emphasize how late I am, for in truth the clock has eluded me this afternoon. My hesitancy has cost me, and now I am destined to pay the price.

“Disrobe,” he demands curtly, as though I were too foolish to remember the ritual. “And lay upon the bed.”

I move toward the dusty Chinese panel, behind which I hope to secure some fragment of modesty, but as always he denies me even this illusion of decency.

“No, here,” he directs, composing the moment like a scarlet masterpiece. “…by my feet. Begin with your blouse.”

Tentatively, my fingers fumble with the tortoise shell fasteners that guard my full breasts and taut nipples. Already I can feel the ache within, the unfulfilled hunger that calls me ever into this room, into this place where all control is lost.

A muffled plop, and my threadbare finery drops to my feet. Rostand pauses, waiting for me to continue, then nudges me with his foot as if to say “giddyup”.

I know the routine well, and my heart sinks as I realize once again that nothing has changed, that nothing ever will.

Now the full skirt that had failed to hold back the chill breeze joins its counterpart on the dusty carpet.

“Rostand, perhaps today…” I begin, but his look quickly silences me. I am not here to speak. And so I continue.

My undergarments fall away, and as my pale flesh becomes exposed to his gaze I once more feel his eyes ravaging me. What does he see when he examines me thusly? A woman? A lover? A soulless receptacle for his lust?

Does he look at his wife in this manner? No matter. It is not a place I wish to go. Not today. Not ever.

Finally, I am disrobed, my thighs pressed closely together as if to defend my last and most vulnerable stronghold. He likes this. It makes my conquest all the sweeter.

I cross now to the bed, the rumpled and stained canvas of uncounted dalliances, and settle my pink and trembling body atop the vile sheeting. He will be cruel today. His eyes have told me as much. I am but an insignificant sketch, something to be used, then discarded as life and true passion find vibrancy before him through more worthy venues.

Silently he asses my still form, positioning me in his mind, attempting to find the pose which will destroy my composure the most this day.

“Lay back,” He orders. “And spread your legs.”

Stifling my shame, I hasten to comply, his hand fisting around his long wooden brush handle like a weapon. Will he use the chair today, I wonder, cringing, or will he ensconce himself behind his easel until his muse prompts him to act?

“To the edge,” he directs, his voice deepening as the scene unfolds. “And open yourself with your fingers.”

A flush reddens my cheeks, warring with the curling auburn of my tresses in discordant disharmony. But I comply. I always comply.

Now I hear the rumble of his leather chair as he drags it across the floor, placing it like some dead animal between my feet. Then shifting his full body, he takes his place, a spectator, a voyeur at present.

I am wet, he notes crudely. My undoing flows from my exposed modesty in traitorous defiance. But, apparently it does little to slake his displeasure with my tardiness, and taking his brush in hand he immerses it deeply within my molten, womanly well, then proceeds to paint the area I have been ordered to display.

I shudder, my mind screaming its need into the silence of the room. Let him care, it pleads. Just once, let this be more than a portrait in debauchery. Let me be the muse that lights his soul.

But it is not to be.

Satisfied at last with my humiliation, I hear him settle heavily into his seat, his eyes assessing his composition.

“Stroke yourself.” He demands, taking sketchpad in hand. “Don’t stop until I allow it.”

My eyes moisten. I am not to fill the role of muse. Not this day, not any day. I am the vile liquid in which he cleanses his brush, nothing more. I am a receptacle.

Slowly I begin to stroke the pink, dewy flesh of my inner petals, caressing my turgid nub for his amusement. Will he allow me to complete the act this time, I hope beyond reason, beyond experience. Will I be allowed at least that dim, surrogate satisfaction?

A snake curls within my womb, Eve’s downfall and mine, the curse of she who has devoured The Apple far too many times. I squirm uneasily before my lover, holding back the inevitable until he allows my passage.

But I find it not forthcoming.

Instead, he toys with his own release, stroking his growing member as though my fingers were his own, the inevitability of my destruction within his grasp.

I tremble once more, my deliverance but a brush stroke away, but he stays my hand in perverse delight. Then, spreading my thighs he impales me, thrusting deep into my yearning maw with dark disregard.

A receptacle…nothing more.

Grunting, he plunders, taking what he will, and leaving me empty of all but the heated flesh he so vigorously wields. Another philistine lunge, his thick weapon swelling as it prepares to discharge its unaccompanied volley.

I close my eyes, feeling the heat rising within me once more, a desperate response to my hunger. I near the edge…so close…so close…

And then he withdraws, taking with him even the meager warmth upon which I had hung my hopes, and crushes his slick member between my breasts.

He will not spread his seed within me, not take a chance that it might take root and flourish in the fertile fields I have allowed him to plow. This act will not align either of us with eternity. It is only a barren moment in passing, and I am nothing but a spectator.

Urgently he ruts, the friction building as his time nears. His visage becomes tortured in its extreme, his teeth holding back the bestial growls that accompany his unnatural preferences.

Finally, with a groan, he empties himself within my wombless valley, his slick triumph trickling into the furrows of my throat, splattering onto my unkissed lips.

Once more I hear him settle into his chair, heavier now in spite of his recent offloading. Then, wiping his softening member with a stained paint rag, he raises his gaze to my teary visage.

“Clean yourself up, woman. Then leave me. I have things of importance to complete today.”

I swallow my pride, replacing it with barren acceptance. I have been dismissed once more. “Important” things are in the offing this day. A used receptacle has no place here.

And so I gather my clothing, secreting myself at last behind the Chinese screen as Rostand gazes into the dusty street below. Will he watch me as I make my way into the noonday sun I wonder? But I know the answer even before the question is properly entertained.

He won’t. I’ve been dismissed, and I tell myself it’s for the last time.

Are lies still lies when they are told only in the empty void of one’s own heart?

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Chapter 2: Elise and Etienne

Once more I sit at a table for two, alone at the Café du Monde as I sip the rich, dark brew. Why do I align myself with such men, I wonder? Why do I allow their abuse, their cavalier disregard, only to be tossed aside when their purpose is finished and my soul lies quivering on their canvasses?

I will not return to Rostand’s studio…I will not, I promise myself. I am not his muse, I am his whore, and nothing noble can possibly come from our union.

And so I gaze at the vibrant portrait before me, envious of the canvas nature has offered in lieu of the darkness I bury inside. And then I see him.

He sits in seclusion within the shadowed confines of the café, but his eyes glow with an intensity not even the gloom of this sidewalk purveyor of rich, dark brew can hide…and watches.

I can feel his eyes penetrating my solitude. Who is he? What does he want?

Uneasily I finish my coffee, then gather my reticule to depart from his influence, but immediately he rises to stop me.

“Wait,” he says, more a command than a request. “I know you. Your name is Elise, no? We met at a soirée in Rostand’s studio, many months ago. He said you were modeling for him. Have you completed your commission? Are you available?”

Rapidly I try to place him, but his face remains only a vague impression. Rostand had paraded me before many men during my tenure with him. This “artist” must be one of them. Does he also require the services of a whore?

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, but you have mistaken me for someone else. I know of no Rostand. Please, let me pass.

But still he stands, blocking the bright freedom I so desire from my sight, from my mind until I finally concede defeat and settle myself once more onto the small, striped café chair from which I had risen.

He’s quiet now. He’s gotten what he wants and can afford to gloat. Finally he reaches his finely chiseled fingers across the tiny table and lifts my chin for his inspection.

“You have good bones, Mademoiselle. I can see why Rostand wanted you. But your eyes, surely a pedestrian dauber like he must have missed the mystique they hold. I ask you again…are you available?”

I should say no. I should remove myself immediately and return to my father’s chateau in Nice, but I know I will not.

“I-I have finished with Rostand,” I stutter, his piercing black eyes finding my weakness. His fingers smell of linseed and turpentine, and once more I am undone. “I am…available,” I sigh in defeat. “What is it you wish of me?”

He settles himself back into his chair, as if assessing the degree to which he wishes to enlighten me, then blurts “Are you familiar with the tale of Perseus and Andromeda,” he asks, his voice already certain of my ignorance. “Do you know the ancient myth?”

Silently I nod, unsure of my footing with this man.

“Good!” he smiles in pleasant surprise, “Then I won’t have to waste your time with the telling of tales. It is that image, the hopelessness of Andromeda, chained to the rock that I wish to capture. It is a commission from a wealthy client, and may perhaps establish us both in our respective positions. You will be paid handsomely. Are you willing?”

Once more I am reluctant, and I see the impatience flash through his eyes. Andromeda, a classic, perhaps a bit of immortality in the making. This man has much to offer, this…

“May I ask your name, Monsieur?” I ask quietly.

He pauses, as if wishing to give nothing away, but then blurts out “Etienne de Lyon, Elise. Have we struck a bargain?”

Now it’s my turn at reticence. Finally I nod, my fate sealed once more with the diminutive dip of my brow.

“Bon,” he murmurs, as though he knew I was his for the asking. Scribble your address on this napkin, and I will collect you in my carriage at dawn. You must pack for a long journey, I’m afraid, for we will be residing in a cottage along the coast until the sketching is completed.”

“We will leave Paris?” I exclaim in shock. “I am to follow you to places unknown, just like that?”

Suddenly his massive size and sullen demeanor speak for themselves. Surely I would be foolish to place myself in his hands! A cottage on the coast! Would I ever be seen again?

“You hesitate, Elise. Have you second thoughts? Are you afraid of me?”

Again I nod. “A woman must be careful, Monsieur. Not everyone may be trusted.”

He takes my hand then, firmly and without equivocation. “No dire fate will befall you, Elise. You will be returned to Paris after the completion of the assignment as you left it, perhaps tarnished a bit, but alive and well.”

“Tarnished? Did all artists find their models so convenient? Could I allow this man such intimate access? Once more I took in his dark features and smoldering eyes. He had an intensity that attracted me, a sensual tension that drew me in. Could I follow him to my fate?

I could…and would.

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Chapter 3: Elise, the Journey

It is a tale of love and valor.

The Greek myth of Perseus and Andromeda has long been a favorite of mine, tickling my naïve heart in ways I dare not share.

Once more the story unfolds in my mind as the carriage wheels cover the long bumpy track toward the cottage. She, Andromeda, chained to a rock, awaiting her devastation by the sea serpent in appeasement to the gods for her mother’s excessive vanity. Then Perseus appears, is immediately smitten, and rescues her from her fate.

Yes, a love story, one that has survived the test of time, and I have been chosen to model Andromeda on canvas for this strange and mysterious man. What have I done?

I glance once more toward the opposite seat, upon which my silent immortalizer rests. How long has it been since he approached me in the cafe with this proposition in mind?

A painting he had said, one already commissioned for a wealthy client. I, in his vision, was to form the armature upon which he structured his chained maiden, Andromeda.

At first I had been flattered that such an artist would consider me, insignificant Elise, for so noteworthy a piece. I accepted with an eagerness I feared I had lost long before. But then, as the details of my employment began to unfold, an unaccustomed discomfort began to set in.

I was to accompany Armand to a place far from the city, to a barren stretch of seacoast populated only by the cresting waves and the remnants of civilizations past.

There, I was to pose unclad, shackled as it were to both Andromeda’s “rock”, and my commitment to complete the project. I would be far from my accustomed byways, totally at the mercy of this dark and brooding stranger. Any recourse I might have had in the city, should the sitting go awry, would have vanished. I would be on my own.

As the time passed, I found myself becoming more and more overwrought, until finally the hour arrived for our departure.

Now, here I sit, listening to the rhythmic sound of the wheels as they carry me far from the relative security I have previously come to rely upon. Etienne, for he shuns his surname, sits brooding beside me, his eyes shuttered with vague detachment. He has spoken not a word since the cobbled streets of the city faded behind us. I am alone.

The sun crosses the sky in an easy arc, and still we travel onward. The silence by now is oppressive, and my trepidation has risen to outlandish proportions. The track beneath our wheels has dwindled as we creep farther afield, until now it resembles little more that a goat path along the rocky highlands that overlook the stormy sea below.

No one would find me here, I fear. No brave constable or noble Perseus would succor me should my lack of judgment prove to be my undoing. I have made my bed…

Once more I glance uneasily at Etienne. He appears to be a grim man, gaunt and dark in demeanor. His size and brooding nature appear formidable, and yet there is something about him that stirs me. In him I see both the unwieldy burden of the artist, and the closed preoccupation of a man who has cloistered himself from the world of light and social discourse far too long. His height and muscled girth are ominous, and I fear that I would be no match should this folly prove ill-advised.

I begin to wonder once more how long this journey will take us, for it has already surpassed my expectations. Long shadows trail their fingers over the rocky terrain as the sun lowers itself in the west. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, we crest one last, treeless hill and there it awaits.

The cottage lies on the seaward slope of a deep and restless bay. It appears to be a traditional affair, born of another time and constructed of native stone and ancient mortar. Already the setting sun has bathed it in crimson, the color of blood, and my fears rise anew. What will happen to me in this place, I wonder. What fate awaits this wayward model in such a place of barren seclusion?

Silently I close my eyes, and we begin our decent into isolation. Heaven help me, I whisper inwardly…heaven help me.

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Chapter 4: Etienne: Intimate Encounter

The road has been long and tiring. Too long have we sat in silence, assessing each other, wondering what the journey will bring.

This woman is rare, no mere bauble to throw asunder after a momentary tryst. And yet, many have done so. I wonder if I will be yet another, or will I find myself unable to discard her when we have come to an end? She draws me to her…she captures me…my Andromeda.

At last the cottage appears, tucked along the cliff as though to dominate the sea below by virtue of its solidity, and unwavering presence.

Through the long years it has housed fishermen and their families, peasant people who took their living from the bounties about them, knotting their intricate nets from heavy hooks set into the pillars of their humble abode, living, lusting and birthing in rustic simplicity for generations untold.

As I feel her trepidation the need to console speaks within me, and so reaching for her frail hand I enfold it in my own. So small, so vulnerable, it causes the male in me to rise to the fore. But for what purpose, to protect or to conquer?

Soon we find ourselves before the cottage, its roughhewn door and thatched roof welcoming us to rest within. Brusquely I push it open with my foot and begin to unload our meager belongings.

She enters, her eyes assessing the dimly lit room as though it had been waiting all these long years for her arrival. Perhaps it has.

It is a solitary place, a single room built of fieldstone with a tiny water closet attached, obviously added many years after the structure itself was build, a small concession to the passing of years. It has a wide bed resting in one corner, a chifforobe in another, a small table with two chairs, and a large, functional fireplace that dominates one full wall. But it is the center beam that draws her attention.

Supporting the burden of the roof above, it is strong and sturdy, hand-cut, and bears the heavy hook that so bespeaks cottages of this type. It is here that Andromeda will be shackled, here that this woman will channel the essence of she who waits for life upon my canvas.

She touches it as if she knows its power, as if it speaks to her through the timelessness of this place, and perhaps it does. I have told her that this is to be her resting place, her bed if you will. The purpose, I have explained, is to allow her to touch the Andromeda she buries within her, to feel the hopelessness, the helplessness that her trial would have evoked.

She putters now, crossing the room in endless cycles as she prepares the space for habitation. She has a domestic side! I hadn’t thought it, but suddenly she feels that a nest is necessary for her tenure.

She stops now and looks questioningly at the hearth, the place where countless pots and loaves have been prepared, and a furrow creases her brow,

“You won’t be cooking, if that’s what’s in your mind.” I say, reading her thoughts. “I have arranged for a local woman to provide provisions each day. The fireplace will suffice for heat and light, but I have not brought you here to serve as my domestic.”