The dark street in Paris Petrie LeClair walked down was colorless and dark which was something he hated. The smell of wet dank dirt filled his nostrils reminding him he was in a part of the city where polite gentlemen rarely ventured. He chuckled to himself. No one would accuse him of being a polite gentleman by any standard. He was, of course, an artist. A painter of portraits was his trade and he made a decent living at it.
Portraits of fat aristocrat women with globs of gelatin filled skin were his subjects. Some actually nauseated him as he painted them on canvas, but they paid well and that was the crux of the matter.
The street suddenly veered left as he walked with his head down in a pensive mode. His destination was a small tavern; a den hidden from view of others where no one would recognize him.
As he opened the door squeaking on rusty hinges, the smell of stale whiskey rushed towards him inviting him to a small table near a corner. A man of burly looks nodded to him from behind the bar and a few moments later a tankard of ale was set before him. He cringed as he sipped the soured brew. It would take a few more gulps before it actually tasted good, but he didn't mind. He had no place to go. He hadn't been consigned to do a portrait in months and the promises of a new one was not within sight.
Petrie brooded in his corner pondering his ill fate, when a woman with a lush head of red hair sauntered passed him. She glanced at him briefly and noticed her green eyes were like those of a cat; always watching and waiting. Their eyes met and she nodded casting him a slightly twisted smile. Her skin was of cream smooth and unblemished, with a light tinge of rouge on her cheeks and lips. She wore a green velvet cape which hung delicately about her shoulders then draped softly to the floor.
Petrie watched her carefully observing every move she made. She was delicate, but willowy. She wasn't like the other women who frequented a place like this. She was different almost out of place in her surroundings, but seemed familiar to it at the same time.
The bar keep immediately handed her a glass of wine. She paid in gold coins then turned to sit at Petrie's table. Petrie could feel the rush of heat flow through his cheeks as the woman removed her cape allowing the fullness of body draped in gold satin to show forth.
"May I sit with you," she asked in a sultry voice.
Petrie said nothing for fear of choking on his words which allowed him only a muttering "yes" to escape from his lips.
Her dress was cut low with her breasts on the edge of tumbling out of it at any moment. His eyes followed her figure to her small waist to her full rounded hips sending Petrie's imagination into a whirl. He could only wonder what lie beneath the fine layers of silk that clung to her body like a second layer of skin.
When Petrie gathered his wits, he managed to speak coherently, "You do not look like a woman who would frequent a place like this," he said.
"I go where I like," she said licking the last drop of wine from her lips.
Petrie chuckled, "What is your name?" Petrie asked.
The woman looked at Petrie with her piercing green eyes, "What would you like to call me," the woman replied.
Petrie smiled, "Well you smell of jasmine in the spring."
"Then you may call me Jasmine," the woman smiled.
"Jasmine," he said as if it were honey on his lips then asked, "Do you not wish to know mine?"
The woman sighed heaving her breasts at him, "Is it necessary that I do?"
Petrie could feel the heat of his body growing intense, "No, I guess it doesn't"
Jasmine rubbed her fingers over the condensation of her wine glass then rubbed the coolness over her neck sighing with its refreshing tingle. She knew of Petrie LeClair. He was tall and handsome in a dark sort of way. He was worldly by most standards, but he held his highest regards to those other than clients. His private business in the beds of women was limited to those outside the aristocratic realm. For a few drinks, they were an easy tumble in bed to which he would cast out onto the streets in the morning.
"You are the artist Petrie LeClair," she said, "I have seen you before."
Petrie puffed his chest out, "Then you know of my work."
Jasmine leaned back smiling, "I know that you paint the rich fat cows of the upper class. I'm sure they pay you well to look at their sagging flesh."
Petrie grimaced. Jasmine was right. That was exactly what these women wanted. They were sexually deprived creatures who were reduced to paying someone to look at their nakedness for which their husbands had long since discarded for younger mistresses. He fed upon them for his livelihood. He could deal with it on most occasions, but the way Jasmine said it made him feel cheap like a leech sucked on the blood of animal.
"You do not approve," Petrie said gulping his ale to dull the sting of her blow.
"It doesn't matter whether I approve or not, Petrie, but I have seen your work and it is good. That is all that matters to me," she nodded brushing back her hair from her face.
"Matters?" Petrie glanced up at her.
Jasmine reached into the cleft of her breasts and retrieved several gold pieces which she placed on the table in front of him, "This is an advance. I want you to paint my portrait. I want you to paint me nude, but you must do it exactly as I say," she murmured lowly as if purring.
Petrie counted the gold pieces on the table. Her advance was what most paid in full. His heart beat in his chest. He would forfeit it all just to see her naked body in the light of the window. He would even beg for it.
"You're very generous," Petrie coughed picking up the gold pieces and stuffing them in his pocket.
Jasmine ignored his comment, "I know where you live. I will come to your rooms in the evening only. I will knock twice on your door. You will then know it is me. You are to tell no one of this. When the portrait is done, someone will come to retrieve it and you will be paid in full for your work. Is it agreed?" she asked knowing full well that the agreement was already sealed.
"May I ask why the secrecy?" Petrie asked.
"No you may not," retorted Jasmine, "You will have your money and I will have my portrait. That is all you need to know. I will come to your rooms tomorrow evening at seven."
Before Petrie could say another word, Jasmine rose, draped her coat about her shoulders, and left. Petrie sat back in his chair watching her leave still amazed at her beauty and brazen approach. She was guaranteed he would be ready at seven to greet her.
