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From: malinov@mindless.com (Malinov)
Subject: {ASS} RP Iris by Lord Malinov
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Iris
by Lord Malinov
"I have been accused of thinking about women too much . . . But what
could be more beautiful than thinking about women?" - Auguste Rodin
~~~
I had risen early that morning. I remember sitting at my table,
drinking a strong cup of coffee, my thoughts plagued with some
infernal melody from one of the operas. I don't remember which one,
something french with a femme fatale. The line of twenty notes turned
in a carousel of impassioned thoughts. I picked up a pen and began to
sketch when a knock came through my studio door.
A young woman, almost a girl, slowly peered into my well lit cave.
"Hello?" she said, a little afraid. Her voice rang enchantingly, the
lilting tones of her excitement and nervous trepidation ringing bells
of a delightfully feminine timbre, with undertones of a seductive
contralto. I wondered if she sang, and then shook my head at my own
folly. As surely as they would bat their eyes, all girls like this
one sang.
"Come in," I said, a little gruffly without letting myself stare at
her. Experience had taught me it best to start these things coyly,
giving the appearance of being unimpressed by the beauty they peddled,
notably uninterested in the charms they flaunted. Even in such
matters, it is important to haggle. "What is your name?"
"Iris, sir." She took slow, tentative steps into the clutter of my
studio. My eyes caught the flash of a strong calf rustling beneath
her skirts. A mischevious smile stole across my lips.
"Don't call me 'sir'," I said, allowing a bit of tenderness in my
voice. I took the opportunity to look full upon the young model,
taking that first full draught of her lines and colors. Iris struck
me at once as lovely, but my critical faculties were already
diminished by that stage of my career. Years of looking at women had
taught me to discern the beauty inherent in every female's form, from
the plump rose of a newborn girl to the etched character of an old
hag. Curious, I tried to decide if Marcel, my nephew, would find Iris
attractive and concluded as quickly that he would, for hers was the
fertile flowering type that the boy seemed to prize so highly. "Sit
down," I suggested, pointing to a stool in the center of the bright
space. Iris calmly acceded to my instruction. "Good," I thought.
"Neither too shy nor too eager."
Her cheeks had a rosy bloom, full with an embarrassed smile. Blue
that seemed almost a flavor of perriwinkle formed the thin rings that
lit her languid eyes. Her long hair fell in unnatural curls of gold
and beige with hints of red in the stream of sunlight.
"You've come to model?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. I mean, yes." Iris blushed slightly, deepening the color
of her pale complexion. I felt my heart beat slightly quicker at the
sight and I instinctively reached for a pencil.
"Do you know what that means? You've done this before?"
"I think so, sir . . . I mean, I've sat for a few of my friends." I
could see the muscles of her neck relax slightly, gently.
"I'll want you here every morning by eight. We'll work for six to
eight hours a day. I pay one hundred francs for a day's modelling, as
long as you continue to show up or as long as I let you in. Don't
curl your hair or paint your face, unless I request it."
"I'm sorry," she said, pulling at a lock of her coiffure.
"It will be rare that I ask you to strike a pose and hold it. I'm
interested in the flow of movement and life. In that way, working for
me will be easier than for some of my colleagues. Generally, I'll
want you naked, but sometimes you'll simply be draped. I don't mind
the natural inclinations of your modesty, but I can't abide prudery.
Will that be a problem?"
"No, sir." Iris turned to look away from me, breathing tensely.
"You have a beau?"
"Yes, sir."
"He knows about this?"
"No, sir."
"If he causes any trouble here, that'll be the end of our
relationship. It is important for you to realize that we are
embarking on an affair. I am an artist and you will be my model. For
this to work, you must become more than just an ornament for me to
admire while I draw." I smiled and picked up my pad.
"I'll start with some quick sketches and watercolors. If things go
well between us, we may decide to set out on creating some more
serious pieces. I'm going to let you stir my emotions, and then
release them in lines and color and form and composition. As long as
the feelings erupt from within me, I'll want you here and will pay for
your presence. When I grow bored with you, which will happen
eventually if not sooner, I'll dismiss you. Can you accomodate me?"
"Yes. I hope so. Can I have some coffee?"
"Yes, Iris, certainly. Make yourself at home."
I began with a few sketches of her facial expressions as Iris sipped
the pungent coffee and told me about her family, the inevitable tale
of a gruff, cold father and an industrious-but-mousey mother which
seemed almost a standard for these young models. Iris' lips turned
slightly at the corners, provocative after a fashion, particularly
since she seemed unaware of the subtle invitation they communicated.
I touched my tongue to the lead point.
My pencil chased after her lines, teaching me by each stroke the
details of Iris' beauty. She walked over to put the mug on my table
and I watched with rapture the rustle of fabric over her hips. I
could feel the yearning that presaged a good rapport. All at once, I
hoped Iris would work out.
I picked up a charcoal stick. "Can we begin the figure studies?" I
asked.
Iris sat down on the central stool again and looked away, hesitant.
"Can I ask you something first?"
"Certainly."
"Well, sir," she began, her voice wavering slightly, "they told me
that you always sleep with all your models."
I laughed. Certainly not all of them. "They told you that and you
came anyway?"
"Yes, sir."
"If we decide to work on a sculpture," I informed her, "I will have to
touch you. It is the nature of the medium. Anything else that arises
between us would only be the spontaneous result of our mutual
affection. I must confess that such indiscretions have happened
before, sometimes to great effect. This is emotional work, for I will
strive to discover and emphasize the beauty of your body and soul. If
I succeed, it will be because I want to see you in that fashion. For
many women, the rapt attention of such a flatterer is more seduction
than any man has paid them before."
"I understand," she said calmly. She untied the string at the neck of
her blouse and removed it. My hands smeared my thick paper with
black, following the quick line of her upraised arm. Another line
caught her firm shoulder and the page fell to the floor at my feet.
Iris unloosed her skirt and pushed it to the floor. I quickly
sketched the fall of her hair as she leaned over, and the muscles of
her upper back.
"Stop there," I told her suddenly. "Leave your shift on for a while.
Walk in a slow pace around the studio." Iris smiled brilliantly and I
traced the lines on my pad.
"Do you love him?" I asked her as she strode confidently past my
easels. She stopped. "Keep moving," I said sternly.
"Does it matter?" she asked seriously. "I mean, is it important to
your work that I be honest with you?" I tried to draw the shrug of
her shoulders and the way her finger pushed a golden lock behind a
reddened ear. I rejoiced as my marks reflected something of Iris, her
unobstructed path to her emotional well.
"No," I told her as I hurriedly traced the lines. "I'm not your
priest. I'm just making conversation to keep your mind off what I'm
doing." I smeared the line under her chin with the tip of a finger.
"Well, then, of course I love him."
"But you keep the modelling a secret from him?" I turned to the next
page in my sketchbook and curled my lines in imitation of the fullness
of her bottom slipping down to her lean thighs. Iris twirled impishly
and laughed. I liked the sound of her mirth and added a wash of color
to her torso.
"I can't tell him everything I do, now, can I? Stephan's just such a
sturdy, serious man and if the truth is told, he really doesn't have
much soul. He cares nothing for art," she explained. "I really
should stretch out so that I can move easier." I nodded my assent, my
fingers deftly molding her likeness onto the parchment.
"Do you love him?"
"Yes," she replied, pausing slightly before she began to bend at the
waist, pushing her fingers down her legs to reach her feet. "I rather
think I do. He's good to me." I caught a glimpse of the pale brown
curls hiding her sex and quickly traced their chaos.
"Does he love you?"
"I suppose he does. How can I know? He tells me so, anyway." She
put her hands upon her waist and turned from side to side. I drew the
flare of her profiled smirk, the small nose and faint brows. "He does
when he wants to kiss me. I guess that counts for something."
"Uh-hum." I turned another page and traced the curve of her back as
she bent. "He likes to kiss you?"
"Ha!" she exclaimed. "I think that's all he likes. Can I take this
off now?" she asked. I nodded, feeling the warmth rushing into my
face.
"Do what suits you," I instructed her. "I want to explore your
motions and reflections. Be yourself." At once, she lifted the shift
over her head. I grabbed a brush and impressed my page with the flush
of her pale skin, following the lines of her hips, the bulge of her
young belly, the curves of her full bosom. My strokes flew furiously,
anxious to capture every moment of her newborn nakedness. Iris turned
and continued the pacing.
I stopped working to watch her. There is nothing in the world so
captivating as the motion of a naked woman and I let my mind absorb
the image, devouring the vision with a ravenous appetite. She began
to stretch her torso long and swayed from one side to another. Iris
had obviously been trained in dance and the fluid gestures sparked a
masculine fire in my blood. I kept myself from taking up my pad.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Very," I replied. "Your beauty is intoxicating." I raised my
pigment-stained fingers to my lips. "Sometimes the act of working
prevents me from seeing."
"Ooh," Iris purred. "You are a sweet talker." She took a few angelic
steps toward me. I held my breath as I watched her glide. Her
breasts, full and firm tightened and wobbled with each step. I picked
up my pencil, instinctively.
"Must we continue working?" Iris asked coyly.
"Do you like to be kissed?" I forced myself to ask, sketching the
supple wave of her abdomen. Iris turned her back, forcing me to add
another figure to the side of the page. She waggled her bottom at me,
teasing my fiery senses with the proximate lure of her sex. Longing
to touch her, I ran the lines of her labia between the swells of her
cheeks.
"Mmmm," cooed Iris, settling herself down on the floor below me, her
legs spread wide in obscene invitation. I tossed my drawing aside and
began another in a flash, expressing the vulgar pose in a dash of coal
black. "I like to be kissed, here." Her fingers traced the moist
pink of her blossomed sex. I drew another wrinkled line.
"Iris," I said, setting my drawing aside once again. "I think I would
like to sculpt you. Such form and substance. So lovely."
"I thought you might," she said, her breath growing short as she
teased her excitement. "I rather hoped you would."
~~~
If we had but world enough and time
My coyness, dear reader, would be no crime.
Malinov
Power belongs to those who dare. . . Sapere Aude
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