Andromeda
written by:
Katherine English

"Andromeda" By Katherine English and T.A.

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? ---------------------------------------------------------------------

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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ---------

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. --------------------------------------------------------------------

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."

As though on cue, I hear a tiny rap upon the door, and find a young boy from the village with a basket in his grasp. It is filled with supper and a few staples to see us through until tomorrow night. Wine, fruit, cheese and smoked meat lies inside, along with a large, crusty loaf. We will eat heartily this night.

Immediately we set about to break our fast, tearing into the fresh bread with gusto, nibbling at its accompaniments and washing the lot down with the dry, red wine that is typical of this region.

Then we are done, and she awaits my direction.

I stand from the table and move till I'm facing her, taking her hand in mine she rises before me. I lead her to the post in the center of the room, facing the fire.

By now the sun has set and aside from the firelight the room is in shadows. She watches me as my fingers move to the buttons of her blouse, one by one opening and exposing the alabaster skin beneath. I slide the blouse from her shoulders and it falls to the floor.

She looks at me with a mixture of fear and curiosity, as though no man has ever undressed her before. I work the skirt over her full hips and then the silken panties. She lifts one foot, then the other and is now before me, exposed and incredibly beautiful. I slide my fingertips along her sides, over her ribs, across her abdomen, softly rounded and so tender to the touch.

I cross to my bag and fetch two long strips of silk, then return to take her hands in mine. I hold them in front of her and begin wrapping her wrists with one of the silken strips, three times around and then between her palms so that she might grasp it.

I then hoist her arms over her head and tie the free end to one of the hooks attached to the beam. Her jut gloriously and my breath catches at the site of her, proud and defiant and yet helpless.

Bound.

I move to the hearth and retrieve a basin of water, now warm, as well as a bar of handmade soap and a small bristle brush. The soap is made from local ingredients, a concoction known to the locals since time immemorial. It contains seaweed which gives it the scent of the ocean.

I take a small cup, fill it with warm water and pour it over her head, wetting her hair, taking care to keep the water from running into her eyes. I work the soap into a lather and wash her long red curls, straightening them and then rinsing it with water from the cup.

I wet down her arms and run the soap over her skin, the suds forming and running along her outstretched arms. Then, taking the brush in hand I begin to scrub her. I know she is clean already, but somehow this bath seems like a cleansing, a purification suitable for a sacrifice.

I scrub vigorously, wanting to leave her flesh red and tingling. I run the brush over her shoulders, across her chest and over her breasts. Her breath catches in her throat and she squirms against her bonds.

"Shhhhhhhh" I whisper, running the bristles across the sides of her breasts, the tender underside, over her ribs, her stomach and the graceful curve of her hip.

The water is warm as it flows over her, but the breeze blowing through the open windows contains a chill, and her nipples are responding. My soapy fingers knead her and I pull slightly on them, bringing them to full attention.

Then, rinsing the brush in the basin, I once more run the soap over her flesh, over the swell of her full hips, over her powerful thighs, her graceful legs, her firm calves and over her feet.

Standing before her, I grasp my beautiful captive by the waist and kiss her hard on the lips. With sudden force I spin her around and force my hand between her shoulders, pressing her against the wooden post.

It is then I take the bar of soap in my hands, covering her rounded ass with creamy lather, using my hand to spread it within the cleft of her buttocks and the secret entrance it hides.

"Open your legs" I direct, speaking quietly, and she responds without hesitation. Under my direction the slippery bar slides along her opening, running lengthways along her channel until she whimpers with need.

I then set the bar aside and roughly scrub her thatch of pubic hair, my fingers pressing back the hood of her clitoris, cleaning the valleys of her sex and then thrusting two fingers roughly inside. Twisting and turning I try her, the soap stinging her delicate channel until, as quickly as I entered I withdraw.

I did not know that she would allow me to go this far without a word. Indeed I never intended to, but once there I could not stop.

I fill the cup now with clean water and begin to rinse her trembling form, watching the water wash away her foamy agitation onto the stone floor.

She stands before me glistening. Beautiful. I watch as the water evaporates on her skin from the heat of the fire, and tiny goose pimples form on her body. Her flesh is red and glowing from the brush and I imagine I can see the skin itself breathing in slow sighs before me.

Her nipples are as firm and hard as little pebbles, and I cannot resist taking one in my hand and give it a firm pinch as she hisses in pain, all the while staring wordlessly at me. She arches her back and whimpers her discomfort. I answer her unspoken question, "Because this is the way it has to be. No questions. While you are behind this door you are mine. And this is my way."

I rake my nails down her forearms, over her wrists, the inside of her arms and armpits. They dig in a bit deeper as they cross over her breasts, drawing red welts across her skin. I kiss her again and roughly grasp her sex, pulling at her curls and covering her vulva with my hand. My middle finger slips demandingly inside, mashing her clitoris with the heel of my hand.

My lips softly graze her neck, along her collar bone, over the swell of her breasts until then she feels my bite, hard and savage in the tender flesh. Again she whimpers, but yet the hardened bud swells between my teeth.

I slide a second digit inside, made easy by her wetness. My fingers spread inside of her and she begins to move against them, urging me onward.

I begin to stretch her nipple with my teeth and she squirms in pain until it finally slips free. I repeat this again and again with both breasts, my fingers continuing to work her, pressing forcefully into her abdomen, searching for and finding the spot inside her that when pressed makes her flow in uncontrolled abandonment.

I fall to my knees before her and pull my fingers from inside. Roughly I pull her legs further apart and press my face against her sex. I inhale her excitement, the smell of her cunt, rich and fragrant, betraying her response, her pleasure.

Roughly I grasp her pubic hair and she gasps in surprise. Then, spreading her lips, I suck her clitoris into my mouth, biting and abrading as my fingers once more fill her oozing channel.

She shakes as I insert yet a third finger, rotating my hand within her, probing her intimate domain with outstretched hand. I fill her, I stretch her vulnerable flesh, all three fingers spreading inside her in different directions, the walls of her cunt convulsing around them.

My teeth ravage her clit once again, pulling harder until I feel her shudder to a climax, her pussy swollen, engorged and dripping over her freshly scrubbed flesh.

Then, as quickly as I began it is over. I pull my hand and mouth from her, get up and walk away, leaving her to catch her breath.

I take my place in front in of her, grasping my pencil and sketch pad, and I begin to draw. My eyes feast on her, so very beautiful. I memorize her, my hands forming her image on the pad before me. Even from this distance I can smell her sex, her lips still flushed with red, still puffy and remembering me.

I'm sure it feels like an eternity, for her arms sag heavily and she begins to squirm. I order her to be still, not in a shout, more like a whisper. I refuse to lose control, I refuse to become angry with her. I have paid for her time, I own her for the next two days, and she will do what I wish.

I am strong enough to overpower her if I need to, but I can tell that I won't have to resort to that. Whatever force I use, whatever pain she feels will be because she wants it....and what she wants I will give her, perhaps more than she craved.

Still she squirms, and though I know her arms must be tired, I can't help but feel that she's testing me, to see what awaits her. I rise to the challenge, and with sigh I stand and close the distance between us. Then, leaning in close I whisper in her ear "I told you to be still and yet you do not listen."

She hears me fumbling with my belt and her eyes widen. I open the clasp, the sound of leather on cloth whispering in the room as I slide it from the loops. I pause, weighing my options, her breath escaping in shallow gasps as she watches me wrap the belt around my fist, until only a foot remains free.

In a flash my arm rises in the darkness and the belt comes descends, a blur which contacts her pale flesh just above her left breast.

Again I swing and this time it falls between them, the tip biting into the fragile shell of her right, immediately raising a welt.

The next stroke catches the ribs on the right side of her body, then the left. Tears flow from her eyes as the blows rain down upon her. Then, once again I lean in close and the onslaught stops.

"I know what you want, little one. I know where you want to feel the sting" And so, as my words are still warm in her ear she feels the bite of the leather across her abdomen. Again and again it falls, creeping closer and closer to the place where she craves it the most.

Once more I whisper "Is this what you want Elise? Say ‘yes'...tell me..."

Through her tears she tries to speak, and finally she manages to choke out the word. "Yes."

Almost as soon as the word leaves her lips she feels the band of leather wrap around her mound, the tip striking between her swollen lips. Again and again it falls, stinging her clitoris, whipping the wetness that is now her cunt.

My voice echoes in her ear though now the words must seem garbled and disjoint, indistinguishable. The only consciousness I have left her is centered on her pussy, throbbing and aching and still it goes on. I watch her breathing, the way she twists and turns and I can tell by her movements that she is coming even before the scream escapes her lips.

When at last I see her slump against the pole I stop. I kiss her open mouth, my tongue forcing its way deep inside, keeping her from catching her breath. My hand finds her nipple and I twist it cruelly before circling around to other venues.

She senses me behind her, and then feels another band of silk wrapping about her throat. I wrap it twice, the fabric soft against her skin, then around the post until I tie it to the hook which holds her wrists firmly in place.

I then return to her more vulnerable side, facing her. Her eyes watch me as I open my pants and let them fall to the floor. My cock stands hard, erect as I enter her "space".

"Open your legs." I demand brusquely.

Immediately she parts her legs as wide as she can and I move between her thighs. My organ grazes the lips of her cunt, wallowing in the wetness it finds, working her clitoris with its spongy head. My hands reach for her legs and I lift her off of her feet, then wrapping them around my waist I slide inside of her, like moving into melted butter, until our pubic bones meet.

I pin her against the post, penetrating slowly, withdrawing from her with deceptive ease then thrusting back inside with a force that slams her against the beam.

My hands cup her buttocks and I lift her higher, her legs curling tightly around me. With deliberation I step away, pulling her with me and the silk around her neck begins to tighten. Mutely I watch, her eyes widening in shock as it pulls taught and blocks her flow of air. Fear does that to a person. Fear takes her breath and leaves her heart pounding in her ears.

She has barely time to draw a second to breathe before I pull her back on my cock, impaling her again and again on my length. Urgently, she thrashes and twists at her bonds, fighting both for breath and satisfaction.

She's light as a feather and so very beautiful. I wish I could just take her to the bed and make tender love to her, but right now she wants a savage, and so a savage is what she'll have.

Finally, my nails digging into her tender flesh, she jerks wildly and screams her release, her sex overflowing, making wet, sucking sounds which fill the room. I feel her go limp and let her legs fall to the floor. Then, reaching up I release the silken bands from the hook and she slides downward along the beam to the floor below.

She looks up at me with helpless eyes as I step forward and grasp her hair in my hands, twisting it and pulling her closer to me. Then, pressing my dripping cock to her lips, she guides my shaft deep inside of her until she can take no more.

Once again I begin to move, shallowly at first then following with long strokes until her head is pressed against the wooden beam. Deeper and deeper I lunge until she can't escape from it and has no choice but to open her throat and allow me to plunder within.

Then, in thick, wet profusion I climax, warm jets pouring into her mouth as she fights to swallow, fights for air... and still I fuck her. At last the flow subsides, but my cock maintains its rigidity and I know I'm not finished. The thought of forcing the tender portal of her ass passes fleetingly through my mind, but my God her mouth feels so good, her puckered lips so very beautiful. And so I resume my attack, thrusting again and again until she watches me throw back my head for a second time and her mouth is filled with my warm, salty cum.

Finally, I pull away from her and she grasps me, sucking and licking until my organ is glistening with saliva. It is then that I realize I haven't taken her at all, but quite the contrary. Instead she has taken me, taken all that I could give her. I am hers, shackled by bonds of passion and longing. In her vulnerability, she has conquered me.

I help her to her feet and enfold her in my trembling arms. Her lips are now bruised, tasting of me, and I want to kiss away all that has passed between us and start anew. Tenderly I carry her to the bed, her arms wrapped tightly about my neck, her body snuggling securely against my own. I press her close, safe and warm, as if to ward off all the evils that men have brought into her life. The warm blanket nestles snugly about our bodies, a nest for new beginnings, and looking into each other's eyes we share a moment of intimacy before the curtain of sleep descends. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------

Chapter 5: Elise- Intimate Encounter revisited

I am Andromeda, and the rock upon which I am to meet my fate lies before me.

I wonder, as we descend onto the rocky ledge, with its fragile cottage perched precariously on the edge, had I arrived here with Perseus...or the beast?

The dank chill from the uneasy sea penetrates me, and I shiver. It is then his hand encloses mine, a gesture I had not expected, nor perhaps even wanted, but yet it lends some warmth to my heart.

He is a strange duck, the artist who sits beside me on the rolling wooden seat of that rumbling carriage, and I know not what to make of him. He has left me to my own devices all this long day, and yet he then extends himself to assure my comfort. There is more to be seen here, I suspect, perhaps more than I care to know.

The cottage is bathed in shadows as we enter, the last light of a dying day. Pensively, I gather my wits about me, scanning the Spartan core of that ancient place as Etienne secures our belongings and makes ready the fire for our sparse comfort.

I cross then to hang my clothing in a crude wardrobe tucked into the very corner of the room, and to these I began to add my Master's. He pauses to watch. Have I displeased him? Perhaps this small display of domesticity is inappropriate. I have much to learn.

Finally, foreplay at rest, we settle ourselves before the fire to fill our bellies and discuss what is to be expected of me. The rules are simple. I am to be Andromeda, both in body and soul. My fears would be hers, and my flesh her own. By day I will be expected to pose until my Master gives me leave to cease, and by night I will summon her spirit, chained to the solitary pillar that supports this hovel, so that we might become one upon the canvas, a single and inseparable entity.

I look about me then, and see the cold stone walls and strong hooks upon which the fishing nets had been stretched and woven so long ago. They look cruel now, empty of the hand-knotted webs that were the trademarks of those simple yet vibrant people. Civilization is far from this place, only the meager vestiges remain...those, and the whispering memories of bygone times.

And yet they fill the room, I think to myself. Somewhere within the gloom of these walls lies the aura of lives that had once filled this space with love and laughter, ultimately surviving the barren eons between. I will draw upon that to keep me sane, I think. I will find in Andromeda's heart the strength to define myself in this place. I will use her as she is to use me, and within her timeless spirit I will find myself a place.

"Now we will begin," he murmurs at last, his stern and solemn directives concluded. Then, leading me toward the center of the room, he positions my body so that the glow of the fire casts both warmth and illumination on the composition. He pauses to consider, then with sure and steady fingers he begins to loosen the tiny brass buttons that guard my modesty.

How many times have I felt the touch of one such as he, I wonder...how many? And yet as his warm fingers slip beneath my fine linen, I shiver. Never, I think, never like this.

Slowly he strips the remnants of clothing from my body, caressing my pale flesh as he bares me, his eyes ablaze with the reflection of his thoughts. It is then that the dire weight of our isolation hits me full force. What is to become of me next? What strange emanation is at work in this place? What hand guides the one that touches me?

I watch wide-eyed as my Master crosses to his satchel and removes two thin but sturdy-looking strips of fabric. My knees begin to weaken. Does he notice? Does he care?

Silently, he presses me against the beam, then proceeds to bind my hands before me. I cringe inwardly. This was a bad choice, very bad, and I now wonder if I shall be alive in the morning to rue my lack of discretion.

Sternly, he tests my bonds, then stretching my hands above my head, he attaches them to the uppermost hook, causing all but my tip-toes to pull taut and vulnerable before him.

Once more he explores my ashen form, his fingers curious and demanding, then retrieves a basin of warm water from the hearth and begins to abrade my flesh with something which smells of the sea around us.

The brush he uses to perform this ritual is stiff and unyielding, and in no time my breasts are red from its abuse, my nipples hard and yearning. He toys with them, turning and teasing until they are full and dark, swollen with a need I cannot identify. My lips part, and once again my inner demon rises within me. A soft moan escapes, and my bonds begin to tighten. I am weak...so weak.

My Master is thorough in his task, and as he scans his pink and profuse handiwork I wonder if he will finish the job he has started. Will he now deliver me from myself? Will he consummate that which he has so surely begun?

Without preamble he parts my legs and opens me brusquely, his fingers touching places that leave me breathless and yearning. Then, in a single lunge he forces his soapy fingers deep into my belly and drives me beyond the veil. I whimper, hunger rising between my thighs, the heat of his touch more than I can bear.

But, as quickly as it began, he withdraws. Is he finished? Will my release slip from my trembling grasp? But no, for now his ministrations escalate, his touch roughening as it covers me, his teeth tormenting my tender flesh. Pinching and biting he takes what he will, my wet and desperate response pooling between my thighs.

Then, parting my flushed and slippery petals, he presses his lips within. He is everywhere, everything, and as he thrusts his surging fingers deep into my weeping channel I whimper. I gasp, my deliverance upon me, and gushing I cover both my Master and I in my flowing rejoinder.

I am exhausted, my body twitching with unspent adrenalin as I sag against my bonds. My Master leaves me then, and taking up his sketch pad he begins to capture the essence of what he has wrought. Long moments pass, the strain on both my arms and composure growing as time takes its toll.

I test my bonds, an act that flies in the face of his whispered directives. Finally, he rises, and as though to discipline one beyond his authority, he slips the second strip of cloth about my throat and secures that too on the hook above.

He then circles to the fore, and I watch with racing pulse as he fumbles with his belt buckle. I squirm once more, this time in panic, but my struggles are for naught. I am bound. I am helpless, but yet I crave what is to come.

My eyes close, frozen in place, until finally I hear the hiss of leather against fabric and realize what is to happen. Softly the instrument of my chastisement sings through the air, laying great, livid pathways across my breasts and belly. I should pull away, I think, I should fight against this torment.

But I don't.

Instead the snake once again coils to undo me, the tension rises within...and I want more. I want him to...

Wet and desperate my eyes seek his own, and I know that he understands what I need.

"Say yes," he demands, forcing me to abet my own downfall...and I do. Immediately I feel the bite of leather against my soft and weeping femininity, the irresistible sting of the belt as it draws the last vestige of reserve from my quivering womb.

I scream! Over and over I wail my urgency into the flame-kissed room until finally my strength fails and I slump against the beam in ruin. In a frenzy he tears the clothing from his body. Exposing his hard torso and jutting sex in the dim light.

Once more he forces my limbs apart, probing within my slit with his massive knob until I beg for more. It is then he impales me, wedging his thick manhood deep inside of me until he challenges the very limits of my being. Brutally he lunges, so deep...so deep, until I feel I shall surely be rendered asunder with the ferocity of his invasion.

I shudder, I moan. If he finishes me now, I think, it will be a glorious end. To complete one's existence at it's very pinnacle... could there be anything more sublime?

Again I gush about him, all resistance lost, covering us both with my creamy effluent. All that I am is his, and he smiles in the knowledge of his power. I am putty before him, clay to be molded as he chooses. He is the creator, and I but the product of his whim.

He lowers me now from the hook, and pressing me to my knees he wedges my lips apart and I taste our mingled essence upon my tongue. Then, holding me, fingers knotted into my auburn locks, he plunges his thick appendage until there is nothing left untouched. I gag and try to pull away, but still he perseveres until I eagerly accept his offering deep inside my throat, another conquest aborning.

He thrusts, he pummels, his sex growing harder and more unwieldy with each lunge. Then, just as I fear I can continue no longer, he floods my being with his seed, filling my mouth until it flows from the corners of my lips and drips upon my naked breasts.

Finally he releases my hair, his manhood sated at last, and I grovel before him, licking our liqueur from his softening tool. It is then that he surprises me the most, for in the dénouement of his lust he is gentle, caring as he presses me to him and softly carries me to his bed.

In this man I have found a hive of contradictions, warring passions that stir my soul. Silently I watch him as he sleeps, his face at peace in the afterglow of intimacy. I am to be his Andromeda, but I wonder in the stillness of the night, if it is not he himself that is truly chained to a rock of his own making.

Perhaps when all is said and done, I will be his Perseus instead...or his Serpent. I smile at the irony, and curl against his chest, inhaling his essence as I fall into a deep and restful sleep.

Only tomorrow will tell... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------

Chapter 6: Elise- The Day After

Morning rises like a whisper in the east, a hushed intrusion into the silence we share. Had last night really happened, I wonder, watching his gentle composure as he sleeps. Can such a beast rage in such a peaceful breast?

My body, as one might expect, bears the disquiet of his passage the night before, and I long for a hot tub to ease the remnants of our first encounter. But, it is not to be, for here in this lost world the comforts are basic. A sponge bath will have to do...small succor, but better than none at all.

Silently I creep from his side, watching carefully as I leave him, gauging the rise and fall of his chest lest I cause him to wake. Then, taking the large kettle of warm water from the hearth, I fill the basin on the washstand and begin my toilet.

Slowly I caress the contours he had so carefully abraded the night before with his angry brush, feeling them tingle anew. What had he been thinking then, I wonder? What demons had his bristled weapon sought to exorcize?

Then, in the dim light of dawn I hear him shift, a brief rustle among the shadows. Is he sleeping? Is he watching me now, I wonder? Are his eyes assessing me as a woman, or a willing and accessible receptacle for his disquiet?

Turning in his direction, I peer through the gloom, but find only the dusky veil which captures that corner of the room. He must be asleep, I surmise...is he not? Certainly I would know if he were awake. His eyes would burn into me like twin beacons, eagerly licking at my flesh until I burst into flame. I would know...or would I?

Emboldened by my certainty, I lean once more against the post, that formidable support that dominates so well, and begin to stroke my aching body. It feels good, so good, a cathartic cleansing that washes away a multitude of sins.

He breathes heavily in the pristine silence. Is he watching? Is he?

But no...surely not! And so, with trembling fingers I continue to stroke the warm wetness over my breasts, caressing that which had been so sorely abused the night before until I feel myself begin to flow with the memory of that which has so recently passed.

The beast...had he read my mind last night? Does he know the way to disarm me, to take me in both body and soul? I can only guess, but in posing the question I answer it as well. Yes.

Flowing freely now, I slide the cloth between my thighs and cleanse the final traces of submission from my battered opening.

OH! The sensations it elicits! Once more I feel his hands upon me, the strength of his presence as he takes me, the trembling need as I capture his essence deep inside. But there was more last night. There was a joining that transcended the flesh as well. There was a deeper passion at work between us.

Again I search the shadows for a sign, but none is forthcoming. Should I, I wondered...could I?

Slowly the cloth slips from my fingers, landing with a soft "plop" between my feet. I close my eyes, the haunting vision of Him filling my mind as it had the long night through...and I began to stroke.

As though revisited, I can feel his teeth once more, ravaging that which he could not devour. His manhood impales me, and my quivering fingers followed suit. My knees begin to weaken, my legs threatening to betray me, and I reach one hand above me for the hook upon which I had shackled my passion the night before.

The storm builds, whirling in my belly like some squirming, gnawing carnivore, until with a whimper it bursts into my palm, leaving me flushed and undone.

Has he seen?

Knees shaking I slip to the floor, my fingers glistening with the evidence of my weakness. Would he taste the same this morning, I wonder, peering at my slick digits...would I taste the same?

Tentatively, I slipped my fingers into my mouth, sucking delicately on first one and then the other. Yes, he is here yet, but so am I. The delicate bouquet assails my nostrils, and I suck with renewed vigor. What better way to break my fast than this, I smile, savoring the flavor of passion's ancient recipe. What better indeed.

The embers in the fireplace pop, sending a shower of sparks deep into it's hungry maw, and for a brief second I see him, eyes wide and burning, invading my seclusion with heated gaze. I flush. He has seen me! He has watched my display of weakness in silence, and now I am his.

Red-faced and flustered, I begin to gather my clothing...but he stays my hand.

"No," he mutters thickly. "Today we begin. Leave your clothing, it's your bare flesh I want." And so, securing my wrists once more to the post, he begins to twine a length of chain about my body, holding me fast in its tempered grip.

The links pass between my breasts now, cutting into the delicate flesh beneath, then wrapping itself about my waist as it continues between my thighs until finally slipping intimately between the folds of my weeping sex like some perverted chastity belt.

I hold my breath...what next? Will he...? But no, for now he settles himself before the glowing embers and begins to sketch, capturing his Andromeda on the page before him in ways that only his eyes alone can see.

Long hours pass, the chain holding me tightly in its embrace, grinding in intimate friction against the tender nub of my clit. I am in agony. I am in heaven.

My Master has given me small sips of strong, hot coffee during my incarceration, and it is with great humiliation that I finally beg my freedom to relieve myself. He looks confused at first, as though Andromeda should not require such mundane things, but finally he acquiesces and my chains are removed.

"Leave the door open," He instructs, his tone brooking no resistance. "I need to know you...completely."

I pause at that. Would even this meager display of privacy be denied me? Could I function with his eyes upon me?

Cringing, I cross the floor and enter the small water closet that is this cottage's only concession to modern convenience. Then, settling myself atop the wooden ring I prepare to empty my aching bladder.

Nothing.

I close my eyes, eclipsing the sight of him watching me from the room beyond. Then, covering my slit with my palm, I feel my deliverance finally at hand. Quickly I conclude my business, then return to the outer room where He sits, his face stern and countenance troubled.

Finally, after an eternity of silence, he beckons me to the table. There he lays a small wheel of runny brie and crusty peasant bread for our morning repast. It is basic, primitive if you will, but at that moment it tastes like ambrosia. Ravenously I tear at the crusts, lathering them with the fragrant cheese, and greedily washing them down with huge draughts of red wine.

My head begins to spin, my senses reeling until my inhibitions fall by the wayside and my wantonness rises to the fore. He crosses then to secure me once more to the post, but my mind is on other things.

Heatedly I press my naked flesh against him, brazenly taking his hand and insinuating it first between my trickling nether lips, then within the drawn and demanding embrace of my teeth. He hesitates, his manhood stiffening as he allows my liberty. Then, with a jerk he once more wraps the chain about my squirming flesh and takes charcoal in hand. I am Andromeda once more...and the chains I bear are now of my own making.

And so passes the first day. Finally, night falls, and a child from the neighboring village brings a generous slab of venison and blood pudding for our evening meal. Grapes and hard cheese accompany the repast, as well as thick, dark bread and salted meat to see us through until the following evening. If we starve, it will be of our own doing, I reflect, and it will not be for lack of food.

Once more he sets the fire for the night, then turning he leads me to the post. Again I assume the position, my back firmly braced against the rough surface, my mind reeling. But tonight he pauses, as though warring with indecision, then abruptly turns me belly-first against the wood, fastening my arms about the pillar and securing my palms together in supplication.

My body tenses as he begins to caress my twin orbs. Surely he would not expect me to perform the one defining act that failed to distinguish me from those of his own sex?

Panic rising, I begin to struggle at my bonds, my fear of the unknown claiming me in no small amount. A tiny mewling sound escapes my throat, and my legs begin to tremble. Will he take pity? Will he release me?

Then, an oppressive hush falls over the room and I feel his hands explore that which he has so deliberately exposed for his use. Once more I whimper, my feet coming together in a desperate attempt to forestall my fate, but it serves no purpose.

At once he pries my legs and buttocks apart, then kneeling between my quaking limbs he proceeds to prepare the way for his vile act.

[No] I wanted to scream. No man had ever taken me thusly. Perhaps this was a passion of the Greeks, but surely the illusion of Andromeda has limitations!

Wordlessly he wets my nether passage with my own juices, his lips paying homage to that which lies before him, then rising he sheds his clothing and presses his hardened knob against my untried portal.

Desperately I clench my muscles to deny him entry, but it is a futile gesture, for in a single massive lunge he penetrates me, sending bolts of heated pain throughout my nether regions. My eyes begin to fill, but still I hold my tongue. I will not give this beast the satisfaction of knowing he has bested me in such a fashion!

Rocking his hips he proceeds to withdraw, but only for a second. Then, renewing his assault he thrusts his bulbous invader deep into my body once more, hilting himself as I writhe before him, crucifying me with his heated spike.

Whimpering, I bite my lip until the taste of warm, salty blood seeps onto my tongue, but still I will not cry out...will not plead for my freedom from this impalement.

Again he thrusts, and again until I become numbed by the sheer pain and force of his passion and slump against the post. Finally, as he floods me with the boiling proof of his lust, his arms enclose me, cradling my hands in his own as though to join in my supplication.

"I love you," he whispers huskily, and I know at that moment he means it. He had sought to brutally remove all defenses, to strip me of my barriers, and instead has imprisoned himself deep within their confines.

It was a final battle, and the beast has lost. In its place stands Perseus, my savior, bound to the same rock as I, the victim of our own unbending passions. As I feel him soften within me, I know that what we shared was a connection that could not be broken by mere absence of flesh. For better or worse, we were helpless before our shackles.

I lay my cheek against the cool roughness of the post, feeling his warmth enfold me. "I know," I murmured in pensive response, "I know... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------

Chapter 7 Elise- A New Day

The next morning I awake serenely in my lover's arms.

We had lain touched and touching until the rosy dawn had hedged the horizon, and then had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep. The pillar remains forsaken, a symbol of the freedom we have given each other, of the passage of demons from his life and mine. Instead rests the golden promise of myths to come, legends to rise from the ashes. We will create what we need from the vestiges of our old lives and forge ahead, timeless in our resolve and dedication.

We feast on a late breakfast, cold meat and fruit on the edge of the cliff, tossing scraps to the seabirds that circle and cry greedily above the churning waves. Then, slipping from our garments, we make long, slow love beneath the clear, blue sky with only the gulls to witness our lusty abandon.

Finally, it is time to return to the cottage, and to the task at hand. This time as he binds me to the post, I can sense a mischievous purpose underlying his actions, and I smile.

"You enjoy being bound, don't you?" he asks huskily, his eyes traveling over my pale flesh as though it was again the first time. "You like being touched, being taken, being helpless in this position."

I shake my head, denying all, but I fool no one. Even now the feel of my bindings causes my nipples to pucker and moisture to form between my thighs.

"You want me to touch you...here?" he asks, slipping a finger deep into my slit.

I groan, and force myself onto his probing digit, but he only laughs.

"Or is this what you crave?" His lips now seek my breast, suckling the nipple until it grows hard and urgent between his teeth.

"You want it all, don't you?" he whispers softly, his hands stroking my helpless body. "You want me to draw you out, fill you until you scream for more. Well...I won't."

My eyes widen. "Won't?"

"We must finish these sketches today, Elise. We have obligations. So even if I am weak and pause occasionally to...touch you, you must remain steadfast and unmoving. That is a model's job, is it not?" he whispers intimately, pressing his body against my own, his hand cupping the delta between my legs.

Slowly, I nod. He means it! We have work to complete, and it is my job to remain motionless until he gives me leave to shift my body once more. And so I remain.

For long hours he sits, sketchpad in hand, bringing my charcoal image to life. Occasionally he pauses and draws nearer to focus on the details of some intimate portion of my anatomy, at which time he allows his hands to caress, to probe until he hears me whimper my need into the silence. Then he returns to his seat and continues with the job at hand.

Finally, he sets his pad aside and approaches my position with more than a look of artistic concentration on his face.

"Do you enjoy it when I touch you in this way?" he questions, pinching my distended nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Do you enjoy the pain, the crudity when I take you here?" Now his hand slips between my thighs, his finger probing between my buttocks. "I think you do..."

"No...I..." I begin to protest. How could I crave something so vile? How could I? But I do.

Suddenly the chain drops to my feet, and my hands are freed. My lover rubs my cold fingers, massaging my wrists until I hope beyond hope that he will apply them elsewhere.

Then, he leads me to the large, wooden chair that rests beside the hearth.

"Sit," he directs, "and stretch your arms behind the chair."

I'm puzzled, but I do as ordered and clasp my hands together behind the firm, straight back of the seat. These my lover promptly binds in place, causing my breasts to jut lasciviously before him.

Then, tugging my hips forward, he spreads wide my lower limbs, draping each leg upwards over the wooden arms until I find myself fully opened and on display for his pleasure.

"Excellent," he murmurs, stroking his fingers between my thighs. "So pink and delicate. A feast for Man and Beast."

Then, kneeling between my thighs he parts my sex with his thumbs, like a ripe apricot, and begins to torment me. His tongue, oh his tongue...how it drives me. He probes, he teases, he drinks the nectar from my womb until I writhe in delicious agony, helpless to deny him anything. I come...I come...I come...

Finally, his cheeks slick with my juices, he rises and drapes my legs over his shoulders. Then, thrusting his hardened organ against my lips he bids me suck.

Eagerly, I obey, drawing him deeply into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his heavy shaft until it rests like iron against my palate. He's close, so close, and already I can taste the first droplets of his semen upon my tongue...but then he stops!

I open my lips to protest, but he stills me with a touch. Then, stretching my thighs higher...higher, he shifts position and presses his swollen sex against my narrower passage. I squirm, my traitorous arousal flowing wetly between my buttocks, and with a sigh he gives a mighty lunge.

Oh! The pain! If our last encounter left me stretched and bruised, it was nothing compared to this! Here, in this chair, in this position, I have no buffer from by which to inhibit his massive intrusion. I cry out, my lips forming the word "No" in silence, but no sound escapes into the wet pulse of the room.

Again he lunges, filling my body with his hot, hardened flesh, pounding inside of me until I writhe beneath him, lost in the tormented bliss he offers. Then, with a brush of his thumb upon my clit, I explode. Screaming, I tear at my bonds, I rut against him as he penetrates my very being. Finally, with one Herculean lunge, he groans his intent and gushes forth, filling my body with the molten offerings of his sex.

We have joined, body and soul. We have climbed the pinnacle. We are one.

Our last dawn creeps slowly over the horizon, bringing with it a dread of the day to come. Paris, and our old lives await. Our brief respite has passed, and the world closes in upon us once more.

What will become of us in the days to come, I wonder. Will we go our separate ways once the world intrudes into what we've come to know in this place? We have accomplished all that we set out to do and the sketches are breathtaking, but in our victory have we lost a more important truth?

We make love in the big bed one last time, touching as though it will be our last. The cottage seems to mourn our loss almost as much as we regret our exile from it. By tomorrow the magic will be gone and the bustling streets of Paris will swallow the memory that was our gift. Etienne will go about his business, a lauded artist, and I will take on another modeling assignment, alone once more.

I think now of Rostand and his distain, of the faceless men before him, and realize I can't go back to that. Perhaps I will once more be welcomed back into my father's home, a prodigal child begging for forgiveness for my wayward past. I will find a sedate farmer, or perhaps a fisherman, breeding him a school of fine, fat children while I try to forget that this time in the cottage ever existed.

But no, it will never come to pass, I can never forget. Etienne has become a part of me. I will see his face in every man who crosses my path until my journey finally comes to an end. I belong to him. My fate is sealed.

Etienne too seems devoured by the loss of what we've found in this place. His motions are sluggish and hesitant as he prepares his supplies for our departure. I feel his eyes upon me, longing for a solution where one is not possible. We are two separate people once more. We are lost.

Finally, all is at ready, and the carriage is loaded. We close the door behind us and the trappings of civilization once more embrace out lives.

I turn one last time to bid farewell to our cottage by the sea, and then suddenly realize that I'm not leaving it all. If what we shared here, in this enchanted place had any truth to it, then it's now a part of us. We will carry it through the days and years to come. This place was but the framework for the painting...the real masterpiece lies within us.

Etienne seems to read my thoughts, and takes my hand as he did on the hill above so long ago. It is not to comfort me now, as it was then. It is a promise.

I am his. He is mine.

The portrait is complete.