As she walked out onto the street, she thrust her bosom proudly. Her stance did not go unnoticed. She laughed at one gentleman who walked straight into a lamppost, so intent was he on studying her unfashionably plump form.
***
For their third session, Pavel had draped a platform with luxurious red velvet. Still wrapped in her coat, Hannah shivered and set her hat on the table. She paused to consider the roses. The blooms were halfway open, the petals taken on a pale, aqua hue.
“You are growing blue roses,” she observed, finally expressing her curiosity regarding this oddity.
Pavel smiled, blending the pigments of his palette. The windows closed, he had rearranged their studio setting to better utilize the dim light from the one bulb hanging overhead. With his stool placed near the table, Hannah found herself conversing with him at eye level. She resisted the foolish urge to lean over and greet him with a kiss on his beard-stubbled cheek.
“You know the story of Baba Yaga?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hannah replied. “The old wise woman who lives in the woods.”
Pavel nodded. Touching a fan brush to the canvas, he made several long, quick sweeps of muted taupe to set the background. “The Slavs, they say if one brings a blue rose to Baba Yaga, she will grant any wish. You see, when someone knocks on her door and bothers her with a question, she ages another year. She brews tea with the roses to stay younger.”
“Blue zavarka?” Hannah teased.
Pavel chuckled, his voice more languid and husky than usual. The timbre of it caused Hannah’s already-cold skin to dimple.
She added her own knowledge of the subject. “I have read Belgian botanists once offered 500,000 francs to the first gardener to grow a blue rose. Perhaps their offer still stands?”
Her laughter lightly fogged the air. She tightened her coat around her.
Pavel joined in her laughter. “The money would be nice, yes! I could rent a larger room and paint you everyday. For now,” he said, gesturing toward the disused stove, “I cannot even afford coal. I knew the cold would return, but I set the money aside to pay you.”
Bending to one side, he reached under his stool and fumbled for something, He sat straight and held out his hand, producing a bottle of clear liquid. He winked.
“Today, we stay warm the Russian way.”
Hannah’s eyes rounded. “Where did you get that?” she asked in a loud whisper. Though she and Pavel were alone in the room, she peered guardedly over her shoulder.
“I stocked my cabinets months ago,” he explained with a broad, impish grin. “I saw the dry laws coming. I remembered when the tsar outlawed spirits in Russia before the Revolution.”
“Really?” asked Hannah, surprised.
“Yes, and the Bolsheviks, they have made no move to repeal. But then they are too busy fighting amongst themselves to enjoy a drink together.”
Hannah pondered this. She had not realized that America and Russia shared common ground in regards to Prohibition.
Pavel rose. He brushed past her, pausing a moment as his arm made contact with her shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, staring down at her. A guarded expression passed over his eyes, leaving Hannah vaguely unsettled.
He went to the kitchen cabinet. The neck of the bottle clinked against glass as he poured Hannah a small serving of the vodka. When he passed the heavy-base tumbler, his fingers lingered against hers, causing her heart to leap, her stomach to lurch, her knees to nearly give. Her exterior composed, Hannah gagged at the sour bite of vodka, but drank it down. Fire instantly emanated from her belly, indeed leaving her warmed all over.
She turned and allowed Pavel to help her from her coat. His hands smoothed down her arms, and she found herself wanting to melt back against him.
How might he react if I did? she wondered. Would he spurn her? Embrace her?
“You have bought a new dress,” he said, noting her black serge suit, turning to hang her coat on the peg.
“Yes,” she said.
“I like your purple dress better,” he snorted, looking back upon her in playful disapproval. “This one, it makes you look like a widow in mourning. But I see you have worn your boots.”
“Yes,” she said. “Because of the cold.”
Secretly, she had worn them for him.
“Ah well, your dress, it does not matter,” he said nonchalantly as she followed him across the studio. “If you agree to my idea today.”
Hannah halted mid-step. Her lips pursed, she studied the velvet-draped platform set in the middle of the floor. Pavel froze, aware that she had stopped moving. He turned and met her silent question.
“I wish to paint a classic pose.” He paused, and she distinctly heard him swallow, saw his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Your backside. If you are willing…”
Hannah considered him a moment. Her cheeks blazing, she nodded in assent.
Pavel’s eyes shifted nervously toward the partition screen, a cream lace shawl draped over one corner. “Keep your hair up. You may leave on your…undergarments. You will wrap into the shawl.”
At her hesitance, he returned to the kitchen and poured each of them a second shot of vodka. “Drink. It will help you relax.” He drained his in one gulp, plunking his glass back down. As she sipped daintily at her own drink, he licked his lips and looked straight at her. His eyes darkened, and his polite reserve dropped. “Leave on your boots and your stockings.”
His tone bordered on commanding. Hannah’s body responded with a flash of excitement tinged with nerves, fueled with anticipation.
Behind the screen, she unbelted her dress, then clumsily undid the buttons in the back. She tugged the tight bodice past her wide hips, the wool pooling to the floor, followed by her camisole. Bearing in mind every famous nude she had ever viewed, both in books and at the museum, she removed her bust bodice. She pondered whether to remove her knickers, and decided to take them off. Her nipples perked and her skin tightened in the chill air of the room, and yet her limbs tingled with a growing liquid heat.
She hugged the shawl around her shoulders and clutched the lace at her bosom. Lightheaded she emerged from behind the screen. Feeling detached from her own body, she placed one foot in front of the other and strutted across the floor in deliberate promenade, her spool heels clicking and echoing as though from a far distance. With caution, she eased herself onto the platform. Her back turned to Pavel, she curled her legs to one side. The new taupe silk stockings paired with her old boots made for a strangely sensuous effect.
Pavel’s footsteps approached. Perhaps it was wistful thinking, but his touch seemed to linger deliberately as he slid the shawl from her shoulders. The lace whispered down her flesh, followed by the smooth palms of his artist’s hands, burning a trail on either side of her spine. The lace draped at the dip of her waist.
Hannah wondered if he could see her bared chest from where he stood. She found she did not care that he saw—and in fact, hoped he approved.
“Hold your hands behind your head,” he said, his voice lower and more gruff than usual, likely due to drink. She thrilled at the familiar feel of jute as it wrapped about her wrists.
“Be still,” he instructed.
Something smooth and round slid through the crooks of her arms. From the corner of her eye, she observed a long, wooden pole, like a sawed-off broomstick, stained with layers of paint on one end.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She could hold the pose indefinitely this way. Transferring the stress from her upper back to her lower spine, she breathed slowly, in, then out, aware of his eyes upon her exposed backside, and the shawl where it clung just above the swell of her buttocks. She arched her spine, knowing it would accentuate her shape.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
At some point, she heard the brushstrokes slow, and his breath grew labored.
“Pavel?” she asked, turning her head.
“No, be still,” he gasped.
“I am fine,” he said. “Please…be still…do not turn your head…”
Something clattered to the ground. Alarmed, Hannah disobeyed and peered over her shoulder as far as her bindings would allow. Straining her eyes, craning her neck, she saw the palette dropped to the floor, the paint splattered around it. The door to the washroom slammed shut.
Minutes later, Pavel returned to free her arms. He did not speak. As the wooden pole slapped the floor, the silence grew uncomfortably tense, as taut and tangible as the stress coiled in Hannah’s gut.
After she had dressed, he thrust the money at her, looking away, his expression blank and unreadable. She opened the door to leave then she turned back and looked at him, concerned by his shift in mood.
Pavel studied the painting, one elbow braced in his cupped hand. He scratched at his chin, his face pensive. She noticed his shirttails, which he had failed to tuck in during his brief visit to the washroom.
He had not even offered to let her see their work for the day.
“You cannot come back,” he said quietly.
Tears blurred Hannah’s sight. “Why?” she asked. Her voice cracked. “Have I disappointed you in some way?”
“No, Hannah,” he said sadly. “No. I disappoint myself.” Still refusing to look at her, he walked to the sink. With a squeak of metal, he pumped a steady stream of water. Reaching up, he grabbed a handful of turpentine-soaked brushes and began rinsing them. The water ran in colors, in shades of red and blue and green, blending into an indigo whirlpool in the basin of the sink. “I am on my last ruble. I cannot afford to pay you anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “What about your client?”
“He has refused the last two paintings. He demands full nudes. He does not understand my vision.”
“What of today’s painting?” she asked.
He heaved a sigh and looked heavenward. Guilt twisted his features.
“I will pose fully nude next time, then,” she said with determination.
He threw the brushes down and shut off the water. He gripped the curled lip of the sink. He turned his face to her, scowling. A dangerous chemistry charged the air between them.
“I painted you today for myself!”
“What—”
“Do you see now why you cannot come back? It is unnatural for me to—” his features contorted as he sought the words “—to desire you in such a way!”
“Unnatural?” she cried with a stomp of her foot, a ball of her fist. “For a man to want a woman? One who wishes for him in return?”
“Your hands tied together? Your feet restrained with rope? Yes! That is how I want you! That is why you must go, now, and do not return!”
With a sob, Hannah turned and fled the apartment. Her heels clicked madly down both flights of stairs, through the parlor floor lobby, down the granite stoop to the sidewalk outside.
She ran the entire way to the trolley stop, weaving through pedestrians, ignoring the way they gawked in passing.
She did not flee because Pavel’s desires alarmed her. She ran because in that moment of Pavel’s confession, she had wanted to rush to him, fling herself at him, tell him it did not matter, she would do anything he asked, allow him to take her in any manner which he desired, convention be damned.
***
For the next week, Hannah hoped Pavel would call for her, but not a word. She inquired with the other girls to see if he had requested a new model; to her relief, he had not.
The first day, she sat for a Coke ad. The middle-aged painter droned on about his early boyhood on an Irish potato farm, before the blight forced his family to immigrate to America. He spoke of how his father had worked in a factory and his mother had scrubbed floors, until they’d saved enough money to purchase land out West and start a new farm. They were stunned when he announced he never wanted to eat another potato in his life, and he wished to stay and paint in the sooty, crowded den of New York.
Leaning toward the table, her shoulders still straight as befitted a lady, Hannah listened with half-hearted interest, lost in thoughts of Pavel as she stared off into the corner at colorful bolts of calico stacked against the wall. Her chin braced against one hand, her rounded lips an inch from the straw floating in the trademark contoured bottle, she nodded off a few times, dozing in and out, her attention suddenly caught when the painter hinted that the handsome Swedish dressmaker, with whom he shared the studio space, to be his lover. She had heard of such relationships, and found the concept intriguing. Fully alert, she studied the painter. He bore the genteel demeanor common to the artist, but he did not look or act any different from the average Irishman.
Marxists and homosexuals, she mused to herself. Modeling had certainly broadened her social scope, more so than her bohemian mother, even.
The second day, she was surprised to meet a female illustrator, though this gave her a sense of comfort as she posed in various corsets, chemises, bust bodices, and a new device called a girdle. Supposedly, the girdle would replace the corset as it lent the wearer more comfort and ease of movement, but she found the monstrosity to be just as restrictive and nearly swooned once due to her inability to take a full breath.
She was further surprised when, after having dressed, the sketch artist brought out a camera and asked if Hannah might pose for a few stills. Hannah agreed and watched with curiosity as the woman stretched out the accordion bellows, setting the lens in place for proper focus. Crouched beneath the black curtain, the artist told Hannah photography was fast replacing painting, allowing the working class the luxury of portraits once reserved for the rich and elite. Because of this, she would soon be opening a photo studio to advance and profit from this trend.
The flash powder fired, temporarily blinding Hannah. She remembered not to blink and remained perfectly still so as not to blur and ruin the image.
“Do you model on weekends?” the woman asked Hannah as she started to leave.
“No,” Hannah replied, her vision still readjusting, stars dancing before her eyes. “Only Mondays through Thursdays.”
“I will need an assistant. Perhaps you would like to earn some extra money on Fridays and Saturdays? I may open on Sundays, too, as I’ll be a block from the Jewish district.”
Hannah walked out the door, tucking the small card with the new shop’s address into her purse along with the few extra dollars she had earned that afternoon.
The third day, she modeled nightgowns. The session started innocently enough, with Hannah wearing floor-length flannel gowns that buttoned high under her chin. When the painter offered her additional pay to try on a black lace-dressing robe which he called a negligée, she shrugged and agreed. Posing for Pavel had lent her greater objectivity, and because she felt no attraction for this artist, she suffered no qualms over her state of half-dress.
She was less agreeable, however, when he took liberties and blatantly fondled one of her breasts through the sheer brocade. She slapped his hand away and curtly told him, “No.”
He left her alone the remainder of the session, instead sharing his recipe for homemade bathtub gin, then regaling her with tales of a secret saloon, opened in the storage basement of a German delicatessen, with rumors of more popping up throughout the city. His attempted pass forgotten, Hannah hung on to every word, utterly fascinated to learn otherwise law-abiding citizens were engaged in the nefarious underworld of contraband activities. She refrained from reporting the artist’s brief indiscretion to La Doña.
By the fourth day, her patience had worn thin.
“Who did you get?” Hannah asked Anais, peering over the other girl’s shoulder.
“A sculptor. I have posed for him several times now. We are doing a figure study.” Anais cocked her head and considered her a moment. “You have waited the entire week.”
Hannah studied her own card. Another Coke ad with the homosexual, who seemed to have taken a fraternal liking to her.
&nb
sp; Anais turned and snatched it from her hands. “This painter works only two blocks from the sculptor.”
“We can walk together then,” said Hannah.
“No,” said Anais with a sly smile. “I will pose for both of these artists today.”
Hannah’s eyes widened as she comprehended the other girl’s implied suggestion.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “He explicitly stated he would send for me.”
Anais gripped her shoulders. She pressed her mouth to Hannah’s ear. Her chestnut hair smelled of perfume, her porcelain face of talcum. The furtive whisper came in short, hot puffs, sending cool, pleasant shivers through Hannah’s limbs.
“Darling, can you not see? His silence speaks volumes. It cries for you! It begs you to come to him.”
***
Hannah clinked the tarnished brass knocker against the red-chipped oak. Pavel answered, opening the door a scant crack, one elbow braced where he slouched against the wall. He wore a long-sleeved undershirt tucked in one side of his trousers. With his beard thickened, his hair in his eyes, and the lucky sable brush tucked behind his ear, he looked quite the eccentric. His sweat smelled of vodka, enhancing the effect, one which only drew her to him all the more.
“I did not send for you,” he said gruffly.
“I know,” she muttered. “I skipped my assignment today. I want to pose for you.”
He opened the door wider, her entrance still blocked.
“I have lost my client. I am awaiting word from a publisher. They need illustrations for children’s books. I will send for you then. It will be…nice work. Clean work.”
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 21