Muse 2 - the Assignment 2

MUSE - The Assignment 2

This is part 4 of the story. It makes little sense to start here, and you can find

the first part here

.

English not being my native tongue. I'm translating chapters and will publish them over a couple of weeks. Be patient. There will be kinky stuff, but it takes a while to reach it. The characters, setting and plot should interest you in their own right. Suggestions and reactions are welcome, given that it is my first novel. Enjoy!

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Pyrmont, 18 July

Hours passed. I ate and drank some of the water and bread, wrote a few letters and reread the testimony lying beside the bed. For me, the game between her husband and his lady were nothing more than a window to the past. My nights with Anna in Paris. Old wounds, but not too painful anymore. Milena slept restlessly, tossing and turning under the covers until she woke up with a start in the morning. I quietly put the book aside and looked at her. The wild confusion of the dream that awoke her gave way to icy calm.

"If you wanted to ruin my life, you have succeeded. Congratulations," she said hoarsely. I leaned forward and offered her a cup of water. "That was my intention," I said. "Here, have a drink. You'll be thirsty."

Evading my gaze, she sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her, and took the cup. "I hate you," she whispered, and took a sip.

I nodded with a sigh. "I know."

"And you obviously hate me, or you wouldn't have done this to me." Her gaze fell on me. "Why? What did I ever do to you?" Her voice was unsteady, in contrast to the unflinching frozen mask of her face. Under her icy exterior, she wanted to be consoled. I couldn't, not as long as she regarded me as the enemy. I could only show compassion when she broke the ice.

"I don't hate you," I said, cool and level, "but I have little respect for this image you desperately try to maintain. After all, it's as real as your late great-uncle."

She did not give in. Demonstratively, she let go of the blanket, striking a seductive pose, completely at odds with the contempt in her eyes. It would have made a beautiful painting.

"Being a slut and a whore," she asked, "is that what you want me to be?"

"Among other things," I said. "A slut you already are. Whether you want to capitalise on it, I leave to you."

The pose disappeared. She just sat, no longer bothered by her nudity. I involuntarily thought of Courbet's painting. She looked at her wrists. The marks of the rope had faded.

"The truth, finally," she said and dropped her hands in her lap.

"I never lied to you," I said. "You lied to me, but I don't blame you."

"Not true. I've always been honest with you." She avoided my gaze.

"You haven't been honest," I said. "Not with me, and certainly not with yourself."

"Drivel. Empty words." It sounded gruff, but she still didn't dare look at me. "I'm tired of your games."

Fleeing would not help her, nor did I allow her to. "Then let's talk about your games instead," I said.

She no longer avoided me and looked at me calmly. "I don't play games and I certainly don't play with people."

"Oh, no?" I kept silent until she averted her eyes again. Time for the final blow. "Very well then," I said. "The Duke Von Anhalt Bernburg houses a brothel on his estate where your husband cheats on you with another. In your circles, this is not unusual and sometimes even welcome. There are plenty of wives who prefer to occupy themselves with running a home, fine arts, charity, their secret liaisons and raising heirs."

She looked up at me, glowering. "That's not me."

"No, on the contrary," I agreed, "with all the evidence of his infidelity, you don't confront him, but me, the owner of the brothel. I hear the accusation, deny nothing, but I admit nothing either. I only propose that, in exchange for answers to your questions, you submit yourself to me for a month. What do you do? Do you laugh at me? Are you deeply offended by my proposal? Do you threaten to reveal my secrets? Or are you finally confronting your husband about his infidelity?" I let the question linger, but there was no rebuttal. Relentlessly, I continued. "No. Not you. You accept my proposal. A man with a questionable reputation, who may even be dangerous. Who demands you put your fate in his hands."

She pulled the blanket tight around herself again, evading my glare. It could not hide her blushes. Her icy calm gave way to brooding restlessness. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know why I said yes."

"You do know. Or rather, you think you do."

I waited for her response, which did not come. She just stared in the distance.

"Look at me!" I barked at her.

She hesitantly focussed on me with frightened eyes, her breathing fast and shallow, unable to put her side of the story into words.

"You married your husband. An arranged marriage, sure, but you really love him, and he loves you, you are certain. Until little hints to the contrary appear. Long trips abroad, bills that don't add up, gossip that gets to you through the grapevine, and finally evidence you no longer can ignore. You live a lie. Your love turns to deep loathing and hatred. You despise him, but also despise yourself. How could you be so stupid, so gullable?

"You want revenge. For you, no lover and pretending nothing is wrong until death do you part. You look for an affair to hurt and humiliate him. Make him feel what he has lost besides your trust. You find me, the perfect instrument for your revenge. Someone high on the social ladder with a questionable reputation in this area. Your honour, your innocence, you don't care anymore. It's nothing more than a house of cards built on quicksand anyway."

She nodded slowly and remained silent for a long time. She had a lot to deal with. Maybe I missed some details, but by and large, the story was true. I picked up my book and pretended to continue reading. The text could just as well have been Chinese; its letters swam before my eyes. The suspense was killing me.

"All right, you got me. I lied to you." Whispering, she admitted it. "But I'm not a slut."

"You can't be a slut, you mean," I said, without looking up from the book, "You won't allow it, you know your husband won't, and none of the circles you move in ever will."

"But you don't mind, of course."

She was right, but for the wrong reasons. I looked up and slammed the book shut. The slap made her flinch, but she kept looking at me with disdain.

"A slut," I said, and tasted the word in my mouth. "Someone who has the courage to accept her desires and give in to them. Someone who doesn't allow herself to be stifled by social restrictions, but pursues her own path. Someone who doesn't hide passions and desires, but lives life to the fullest. As long as she respects the freedom and happiness of others, I can only admire her. Unfortunately, society perceives it as a threat when women behave like this, so the powers that be torture, murder and rape them. Where civilisation made that kind of spectacle unpalatable, laws and words are used to persecute, condemn and banish them. Branding them as sluts. So it takes courage to be a slut, and yes, I hope you dare to be that brave."

"So I have to lower myself to your level. And that of my husband. Who apparently had no problem abusing one of the sluts you're so proud of." The words were combative, but she dropped her head in defeat.

I put the book away and risked her ire by sitting next to her on the bed. Besides a shy glance, she didn't react.

"We all have our own predilections. It is useless to be ashamed of them. You either give in to them or you don't," I said and put an arm around her. "Whatever you choose, as long as you are honest with yourself, I won't admire you any less for it."

Her restless fingers played with the blanket she had wrapped around herself. "Did you do that to her too?" she finally asked. It took me a moment to realise she meant her husband's favourite. The question was harder to answer then she could conceive.

"I did, several times," I said, "It's a game, Milena. Even though I played her lord and master, she was in control. One word from her and it was over. I didn't hear that word last night."

Lost in thought, she stared at the empty canvas before us. Her gaze went to the doors, one open, the other still locked. Finally, she turned to me.

"What do you expect from me now? Am I to surrender so you can fuck and humiliate me? As punishment for lying to you?" She said it in one breath, before she could think about it. Pride glimmered in her eyes that she summoned the audacity to pose the question like that.

I had trouble suppressing a smile. Because of her language, but also because she shattered the false image of herself with her questions. Offering me an excuse to fulfil her desires. After all this, she had to be mentally exhausted and unable to resist the urges her body dictated. I put my hands on her shoulders.

She blinked, drawing a quick, agitated breath. She feared the consequences of her audacity. I would lie if I said I wasn't tempted, but one misstep on my part could destroy everything I constructed so carefully. "Milena, if it is punishment you crave, I will give it to you gladly," I said, and meant it. I ached to use her body and submit her to mindless ecstasy, to have her howling with pain and pleasure. She must have seen it in my eyes. Her whole body tensed like a string.

"But this is not the time to fulfil these desires," I said, taking her hand and pressing it between her trembling legs. She squeezed her eyes shut with bated breath.

"If you feel excited anticipation here, you are ready. Not while you feel a knot full of icy fear here," I said and slid her hand up below her breasts. I let go of her hand. She relaxed, gazing at me as if in a trance.

"Besides, you haven't shown me your desires yet. It is time to carry out the task I have given you. When you finished the painting, we'll meet again. You still have three days." I stood up, helping her to rise from the bed. The blanket slid to the floor, but she didn't care. She was ready to create her first assignment.

You see through me, punish me, manipulate me. Yet I am grateful you do. You break down barriers that I have imposed on myself. The artists who preceded me are certainly not the least. No matter how ashamed I am of the images in my head, I must paint them. It's more important to me now than anything else. I know you will not condemn me over the depravity of the resulting picture. I can proceed again.

Pyrmont, 21 July

For the next few days, I visited Milena when she slept and left her water, bread, and a clean dress. I didn't want to distract her. She always left the easel with the canvas facing the wall. Not only out of shame, I think; also because she wanted to reveal the finished painting. At times, she went outside for a break. Short ones, the work took precedence.

As it did for me, organising ongoing investments and managing the estate, but often enough, my thoughts were with her. How far should I accompany Milena on her exploration of dark desires? Was it worth all the risks? Letting her paint for the rest of the month while she learnt to accept her husband's transgressions was by far the most sensible and safe choice. But my daydreams, filled with her rope entwined body and passion filled kisses, thought otherwise.

On the morning of the eighth day, I found her sleeping. The easel stood in the middle of the room, covered by a sheet. I sat down in the armchair and read some reports. When she woke up, she looked at me, but remained silent and said nothing. I put the reports aside, peeled an apple and offered her a piece. She sat up and took it. Chewing, she stared into the distance. In the end, I could not contain my curiosity.

"And?" I asked.

"It's finished."

"Can I see it?"

She blinked her eyes, as if noticing me for the first time. She hadn't expected that question. "Do I have a choice?"

I nodded. "The assignment was to create a work that shows your darkest desires. Whether you want to share them with me is up to you."

"What about your collection?"

I gestured at the veiled painting. "Some of them were only seen by their creator."

"Then what's the point of the work?"

Eating another piece of apple, I gazed at the covered canvas. "For me, it is a test. Can I resist my yearning to see the work, or will I break my promise to the maker?" I turned to her. "For the artist, it does what it did for you."

"Have you always kept your word?"

"No, not always," I said. "After the creator's demise, it is hard to keep it." I stood and walked over to her bedside.

She looked up at me. "It's my best work yet."

"No doubt it is." I cut another chunk of the apple and offered it. "You want to show it to me?"

"Yes... No." Hesitantly, she accepted the slice and gazed at her work, chewing on her piece of apple. This choice came as a surprise. "I doubt it, actually."

"Your doubt makes it good enough for the collection. You already know that. It's the next assignment that makes you nervous, because I will know your dark desires."

"That too, yes," she said and faced me with a mischievous smile. "Maybe I want to put your resolve to the test."

I shook my head. "What you're really afraid of is giving in to your desires. Or mine."

She remained silent. I tossed the apple core in the wastebasket, sat next to her on the bed and waited until she could put her thoughts and questions into words. It was her turn, not mine.

"Why me?" she finally asked and faced me. "I mean, I understand what you believe in, the philosophy you adhere to. But that's all theory, impersonal. Why are you doing this for me? You barely know me."

That question was easy to answer. "You already know this. I like what I see in you. You are beautiful, clever, brave and confident. You have talents I can put to good use if you dare to give them free rein. That wasn't possible as long as you remained a prisoner of propriety's golden cage. I recognised it and decided to find the key."

"Because of your sister."

There was little point in denying it. "Yes, in some ways, your situation is similar."

She frowned. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. "Then why should I trust you with my secrets?" she asked. "After everything you did to her."

Now she finished the painting, I needed to convince her she could trust me with her next step. Only the truth would suffice. "I could tell you now that you are not my half-sister, the circumstances are different, and I am a changed person with different motivations and insights. However, the hard truth is that you can't trust anyone, not even yourself. You can only hope that someone doesn't betray your trust when you need it. It keeps life exciting."

"Not for your sister."

I cursed myself for that last remark. "That's true. I can't redeem myself for what I did to her. It will always stand between Anna and me."

"Do you love your sister? Half-sister?" She glowered as her mouth became a stern, thin line. Jealousy?

"Yes, but not in the way you imply. We pursue the same goals."

"I am one of those goals?"

I leaned back on the bed. Grey clouds drifted overhead above the glass ceiling of the cell. "You're not a goal. Our goal is to celebrate what life offers, no matter how strange or dark it may be, according to others. I think you're one of the few capable to do so."

"With you as my tutor, of course," she said.

I ignored her derision and looked at her. "Whether that role suits me, you know better than me. I haven't seen the canvas yet."

She scowled at me. "It has nothing to do with your own lust? Cravings you want to share with me?"

With a sigh, I sat up. "Of course it does. I'm no saint. But if that was my goal, it would already have happened while the Berlin elite relished in the resulting scandalous gossip."

She nodded and turned her gaze back to the canvas, pondering. "I'm scared."

"Rightly so. It won't get any easier, but I'll promise you one thing. Every step you take will be a step of your own choosing. When you bear the consequences of your choices, trust me to be at your side. Just as I trust you to be who you are, without pretence."

She stood and looked down at me. I kept her gaze as she put her hands on my shoulders, leaned forward, and gently kissed my lips. Not a kiss that demanded an answer; she walked to the frame and revealed the canvas.

It was an asset to my collection, far beyond my expectations. Words can describe it, but do no justice to the feelings it evoked in me. Its limited colour palette consisted mainly of black and white. A realistic image, almost tangible.

In the foreground, a woman bowing towards me in harsh bright light, naked. Remnants of her beautiful clothing linger, torn like rags around her legs. She could barely stand, hanging in strappado, her wrists tied with ropes that pulled her arms up behind her, left and right into the darkness.

Her body shone with sweat. Red whip marks contrasted with her white skin. Traces of tears ran down her cheeks, smeared with remnants of a once sophisticated toilet and partially covered by a detached mask. Long, loose hair framed her face. Her mouth was open wide, set in a scream of lust or pain, while drool was dripping from her chin. She looked straight at me, her eyes shining with pride.

Hanging from the ropes, she pushed her rear against the man behind her. He was naked as well, but in silhouette because of the light behind him. Blurred with movement, he pushed his hips forward, straining every muscle, one hand like a claw in her buttocks, the other a fist tangled in the woman's hair, forcing her to look at me. His face was unrecognisable. He looked up; mouth open to let out his last breath in ecstasy.

Two men crouched in the shadows on either side of the pair. Their dark, blurred hands touched one of her breasts and her crotch, while they kept the woman's legs spread at her ankles.

The source of the bright light, a seraph, hovered behind the couple. Serene and foreboding, it watched the pair in front, it's face the spitting image of the woman in the foreground. An angel of vengeance, because with a white-hot spear she pierced the hearts of both lovers and bound them together.

It completely overwhelmed me. Despite the angel's spear, I wanted to be the man in the picture. The confidence she had in me by sharing those desires shocked me as well. Trust I doubted I deserved or was worthy of. I tried to find words but couldn't. They were redundant. I tore myself away from the woman on the canvas to focus on the same woman beside the painting. Equally proud and confrontational, and just as vulnerable and naked, despite her simple dress. "And?"

I found words. Stammering. "It's intense. It's beautiful." Ridiculous, couldn't I think of anything better? "I'm deeply impressed, more than I dared to hope."

The tension broke, and I answered her proud smile with my own. "You didn't sign it."

She glanced at the painting. "I thought it unnecessary. You're the only one who gets to see it."

"I hope you'll change your mind, but it's up to you." Ready for the next step, I got up from the bed and approached her. I had no room for doubt, had to focus. Her breathing was fast and nervous, despite her calm gaze.

Keeping my eyes locked on hers, my tension returned as I held my hand open, and she laid hers in mine with the hint of a smile. I pressed it against her belly, just below her breasts. Her breathing became heavy, as did mine. The warmth of her skin radiated through her dress and heated me.