Fifty Shades of Submission (23 page)

She smiles gently. “You will learn to trust me again, I promise.”

We
have a new addition to our household.

My mistress
has commissioned an artist to paint her portrait. Without my knowledge, she has met with him a couple of times in town to discuss the project. And today he appeared at the house with his brushes and easel under his arm.

He is to stay with us for the duration of the project.

The painter is unusually tall and gaunt, a man in his mid-thirties with dishevelled clothes, dirty tousled blond hair and a thick stubble. He has paint stains on his fingers and his pale grey eyes dart about
nervously when he speaks. Words tumble out of the corner of his mouth in rapid nervous bursts. He has a generally wild and unkempt look about him.

I open the
front door and he stands there, shy and silent, clutching his paints and easel and a small battered suitcase that had seen better days. "Would you please tell the lady of the house that the painter is here,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “She’s expecting me."

I show
the painter the stairs. “She’s up there. She’s waiting for you.”

"Thank you. Thank you
very much." He darts up the steps like a frightened rabbit and I stand at the foot of the stairs and stare after him.

I suddenly have
a premonition that my mistress will catch this timid man’s soul in her snare and ruin him with her wickedness. He will paint her, and she will seduce him with her beauty and her charm, and then she will probably drive him mad.

My mistress has given the painter my room and told me to move into the cellar for the time being.

I accept my new accommodation
s without argument. I have learnt that my mistress will get her way, no matter what. It is easier to accede to her wishes than to protest and be beaten for my trouble.

At least now that the painter is here I will be allowed t
o be decently dressed every day, although I am still forced to wear the damnable chastity belt.

It is a sunny winter's day and the three of us are enjoying the warmth of the courtyard outside – the painter, my mistress and I. it is a beautiful spot. There are shrubs in mossy clay pots, and lush green ivy grows against the stone walls. An evil-looking gargoyle fountain against the far wall trickles a steady stream of water, making a lulling, comforting sound.

The stone cou
rtyard is my favorite place. I often come here to sit alone on the stone bench and reflect or read a book when my mistress is in one of her ‘moods’ or goes to great lengths to ignore me and banish me from her company. Sometimes I don’t see her for days on end. She has come to realize that excluding me from her company is another productive way of torturing me.

At the moment
she’s in good spirits and reading a book. She’s wearing a light summer dress and a straw sun hat that shades her delicate skin. The painter is sitting opposite her, drawing furiously in his sketch book. For the past number of days he has been looking at her with veiled adoration. It is clear that he has already fallen hopelessly under her spell. I almost pity him.

I like the painter. He has a
curious intensity about him. He seems to live for his work and I like the fact that he is a man of few words.

Now and then
my mistress looks up from her book and smiles at him. She does not look at me at all. She treats me as if I am not there. Since the painter’s arrival she has hardly spoken to me or acknowledged my presence.

“That’s enough for to
day, Eric,” she tells him. “You can go now.”

Dismissed,
the painter packs up his sketch book and leaves reluctantly to go to his room.

"Do you love the painter, mistress?"
I say, after taking some minutes to pluck up the courage to speak to her.

The painter has
been spending every evening upstairs with her, while she makes me wait outside her door.

She looks at me
quizzically, then shakes her head, and smiles.

"I feel
a kind of pity for him," she replies at last, "but no, I do not love him.”

“Have you
told him about us?” I have noticed that the painter has been giving me curious glances from time to time when he thinks I’m not looking.

My mistress
nods. “I told him that you and I have an unusual and special bond. That you have devoted your life to serving me. Like a eunuch.” She smiles. “I
have
in effect castrated you, haven’t I, slave – by making you wear the chastity belt?”

“Yes, mistress, you have.”

“The idea of a eunuch as my slave appeals to me immensely. One of these days I may just decide to turn you into a proper and permanent eunuch.”

“Eunuchs are usually castrated before they reach puberty, mistress,” I point out.

“Are they indeed? You’re so fond of reading about the blood and gore and sufferings of mankind - tell me, how is it done exactly? Do I need to cut off your balls or your cock - or both?” She laughed.

“The process of turning a young man into a eunuch varies, mistress. It is always done against his will and usually only the testicles are removed, but sometimes
only the penis is removed, and sometimes both. By removing the testicles of a young man before he reaches puberty, it inhibits the production of testosterone and so the eunuch’s voice is usually high and he is unable to produce muscle mass and takes on the appearance of a she-male, with boyish body and soft feminine features.”

“You seem to know a great deal on the subject, slave.”

“Yes, mistress. I have studied it.”

She is suddenly bored with the conversation and turns her head away. I study her perfect profile and eventually summon the courage to speak.

“Have you slept with the painter, mistress?”

She turns her head and h
er eyes flare up suddenly and glint dangerously. “Is that any business of yours, slave?”

“I was just wondering,
mistress,” I mumble.

S
he shrugs. “Well, if you must know, he
has
fucked me a few times. He is rough and uncouth and likes to pin me against the wall and do it standing up. He has not an ounce of sensuality or romanticism in him, which I find quite refreshing. He approaches sex like an animal – as though the sexual act is no more than a necessary bodily function. I almost enjoy the fact that he is so rough and unskilled.”

Her words
go through me like a knife. I lower my head.

“I think he
’s in love with you, mistress” I say at last. “I have seen the way he looks at you.”

She shrugs. “That does not concern me.
I love no one. Not even you.
Especially
not you! I used to love you, but I don't anymore. You may have gathered that by now. My heart is cold and empty and I’m glad of it. I feel as carefree as a young girl."

She looks at me thoughtfully
. "Soon, you will not love me any longer either. I will make sure of that. I will kill every emotion you have ever felt for me – except hate. Tell me when you have reached that point and I will give you your freedom."

"I shal
l remain your slave until I die, mistress” I say wretchedly.

She looks
at me with curious pleasure. "Think carefully about what you are saying. I have loved you yet I have treated you with cruel violence. Perhaps I shall eventually enjoy torturing you to death. Wouldn’t that be your ultimate fantasy – to be tortured to death for love? Wouldn’t that be fitting for a true martyr?"

She smiles
at me coldly sending chills down my spine.

The painter has established his studio in her sitting room upstairs and as the days go by I can see that he is falling completely under my mistress’s spell. When he is not with her, he mopes around the house like a lovesick teenager.

I almost feel sorry for him.
Our joint misfortune is that Saskia has unerringly found the weaknesses within both of us and is able to exploit it skilfully to her advantage. It’s a natural gift that I suspect she has always possessed – the ability to use her feminine wiles to find the Achilles heel in every man who takes an interest in her and then use it against him to break him at her whim.

She seems
amused to have two men vying for her attention. Two men who have been struck down by her beauty and her guile. She laughs at both of us, and how she laughs! I hear can her brazen melodious laughter in his studio as I stand outside her door, jealously listening.

And then the laughter subsides and there are other noises and I
know with certainty that they are copulating. As I listen I imagine him caressing her body with his big rough hands, the paint-smeared fingers with their dirty fingernails gliding roughly over her flesh, massaging and pinching and prodding her most intimate parts. And finally he will thrust himself roughly inside her while pushing her hard up against the wall while he supports her buttocks with his big rough hands and she curls her thighs around his waist, opening her legs wide to receive him.

I
feel ill to my stomach and sag weakly against the door, overcome by sheer wretchedness. At times like these I wish that I had never met her, had never clapped eyes on her, had never kissed her or touched her or even knew her name.

"
Slave!" My mistress calls and I enter her bedroom. The painter stands to one side adjusting his clothes while my mistress looks at me with bright eyes. It is clear that he has just fucked her. They both have the afterglow of sex, I can almost smell it in the room.

"
I have finally decided what kind of portrait is to be painted of us," my mistress says cheerfully, clearly in a good mood.

“
Us
? I say dumbly.

“Yes – you and me,
slave,” she says impatiently. “He will paint a complete replica of that-“ She points at the huge Rubens print on the wall, depicting the betrayal of Samson by Delilah.

She looks at the painter. “Are you able to do that, Eric?”

He nods and she seems pleased. “I have been told that you are able to copy the style of many of the old masters. My slave and I will pose in the same way as in the Rubens painting.  I will sit with my breasts bared on the chaise longue and hold my whip in my hand, while my slave lies naked at my feet with his head resting on my lap, looking up adoringly into my eyes. Take off your clothes, slave, and let us pose for the artist.”

I hesitate only briefly and then strip down naked.
The painter stares at my body. His eyes take in the scars from the cat-o-nine-tails on my back and buttocks and the back of my thighs, then travel over the words
serve, obey, worship
tattooed in ugly black letters across my chest. He stares at the big tattoo of the manacled hands with the word
slave
tattooed underneath.  Then his eyes move to my chained and weighted nipple rings and, finally, the gleaming stainless steel chastity belt clamped around my waist, encasing my genitals.

There is a look of
fascinated horror on his face.

My mistress
watches him closely and smiles with satisfaction. “You are repulsed by my slave’s mutilated body? Don’t feel sorry for him, the truth is he revels in his disfigurements. They are his trophies of suffering and humiliation. Each wound is worn proudly like a badge of honor – a testament to the idiocies and irrationalities of sexual love.”

The painter is speechless and
averts his eyes.

My mistress
goes into the bathroom to change and returns moments later barefoot, wearing a long red satin dress with white satin sleeves and trimmings on the bodice. She reclines on the crimson chaise longue. The bodice of her dress is low-cut and, with a small adjustment from her, she pulls it down and her naked breasts are fully and seductively exposed, hanging out over the top of the bodice.  The painter stares at her voluptuous breasts, mesmerized.

Saskia
lounges back on the chaise longue with the whip in her hand. She crooks her finger, beckoning me to join her.

“I want the pos
e to be exactly like the Rubens painting. You can also paint in exactly the same background.”

I look at her and then at the picture on the wall. She is striking almost exactly the same pose
as Delilah, with her bare feet, naked, exposed breasts, and the replica crimson full-length gown.

How long had she been planning this, I wondered?

I lie at her feet with my head in her lap, one arm casually flung over her thigh, just as in the painting. She lays one hand on my back and holds the whip in the other.