Hannah repeated herself with emphasis. “I want to pose. For you.”
He studied her, then looked away. He stroked his beard with one hand. “I cannot pay you.”
She peered past him at the roses, now in full bloom, the blossoms a luxurious shade of lilac in the morning sun, the fringes of the petals darkened to royal blue.
“Then we shall negotiate,” she decided.
“With what tender?” he asked. His eyes sparked, his posture straightened, and Hannah knew she had snared him.
“You may pay me in roses.”
***
Fully unclothed, Hannah lay stretched on the bed, the tick mattress draped with a fresh, starched sheet. Her wrists had been bound to either side of the iron headboard, her ankles bound to the foot board, knees bent, thighs parted, her womanhood exposed. With her tresses fanned across the goose down pillows, she felt wanton and sensual in her role of hapless maiden.
Pavel stood over her, silhouetted by the lamplight as it shone at an angle from the tilted tassel shade. One by one, he crushed and tore at the blossoms, scattering blue petals around her. The petals tickled softly where they lighted upon her skin; the fragrance of roses filled her senses.
The remaining blooms intact, he spread them around the mattress, displaying the biggest and most beautiful across her navel, just above the tendrils of curls, careful not to prick her with the thorns, more careful not to brush her with his fingertips.
He stood on a step stool, looking down upon her as he painted upon the canvas, the easel raised high with an adjustable wooden tripod. As his eyes roamed her form, she felt the burn of his desire mingle with hers.
In meticulous detail, she imagined him painting her, envisioned the stroke of his brush as it trailed down the length of her taut limbs, the curves of her arched breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. When his eyes reached the juncture between her thighs, the torturous pulsation building there increased triple-fold. She squeezed her buttocks to assuage the pressure, but her agony only deepened.
“Pavel, touch me,” she begged in a hoarse whisper.
“No,” he shook his head. “I cannot. You are good girl. A good American girl.”
“No, I’m not!” she lied. “I have had lovers. I am experienced.”
“You are a bad liar,” he smiled sadly. “Virgins always are. Now hush. I cannot concentrate.”
Hannah pouted like a child. “I thought you enjoyed talking with me while you work.”
“Today is different. Your pose, it is distracting enough.”
Desperate, knowing only the fever inside her demanded to be quenched, she blurted. “Then touch me with your brush, as you do on the canvas.”
With a frustrated snort, he left his brush and palette on the tray of the easel and climbed down from the stool. As he reached for her, she thought, for a fleeting, hopeful moment, he might accede to her wishes.
With a stern glare, he took the rose from where it lay across her navel. Using his fingertips, he snapped and peeled off three of the thorns, dropping them to the floor. He leaned over her and, despite the scowl on his face, gently caressed her cheek with the petals of the rose.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed. She did.
“Open your mouth,” he said. She complied.
Her heart raced, and her mouth went dry. Did he mean to kiss her?
She felt the stem between her lips. Instinctively, she took it between her teeth.
“Do not lose the rose,” he commanded.
Her eyes flew open. She glared back at him, but made no move to disobey his order. With a wicked, satisfied smile, he stood straight and patted her on the flank of her thigh. He climbed back up the stepladder and resumed painting.
An hour or so passed, yet Hannah’s desire remained unabated. At long last, Pavel set his tools aside. Chin cupped, brow furrowed, he evaluated his work. Hannah watched with bated breath, trying to read his expression.
Pavel reached behind his ear and retrieved his lucky brush. With the handle pinched between thumb and forefinger, his shortest finger extended with elegant grace, he reverently applied the brush to the canvas and made one swift, single stroke.
“It is finished,” he murmured.
He touched the brush to his lips, the bare tip of the sable tinged cobalt. He wet the bristles with his mouth, leaving the brush clean. He then dried it on the inside of his shirt, exposing the dark smattering of hair that trailed down his lower abdomen. The heat inside Hannah rose as her eyes roamed downward, knowing where the path ended.
It was then she noticed the bulge through his trousers.
He sat on the bed beside her. The mattress shifted, and the springs creaked. Slowly, he began tracing her limbs with the tip of the brush. Soft strands of sable tickled pleasantly as they followed her veins, from the delicate flesh of her wrist to the sensitive spot at the crook of her elbow, then to the hollowed, downy patch under her arm.
His eyes intense, his mouth pressed in rapt concentration, he circled her breast, slowly working inward, until he lighted on her nipple. He traced the stiffened peak, sending another current to where she yearned most for the stroke of his brush. He drifted over her navel, then down her thigh, following the delicate tendon to her knee.
Slow and sure he drew back up. At last he brushed the pink, swollen bud which quivered above her entrance.
Hannah sighed, clenching her teeth against the rose stem, shifting her buttocks upon the mattress, guided by the waves of pleasure that coursed through her. As the brush hit a particularly sensitive spot, she gasped and bit the rose harder. The stem snapped against the tip of her tongue, but still, she held it in place.
Pavel now concentrated on that spot, circled faster, pressing the brush harder with each concentric motion. Hannah’s pulse pounded in her ears, and her ribs heaved with short, shallow breaths. Deep inside, her womb began to flutter, and then palpitate. As the pressure increased, hot fluid gushed forth.
“God forgive me,” he muttered. He cast the brush aside, and then he buried his face between her thighs. She melted, the heat of his mouth engulfing her. His beard scratched against her buttocks, heightening the delicious rise of her climax. She threw her head back and cried out for him, the broken rose falling to either side of her face. Her wrists and her ankles strained against the binds, the jute cutting into her flesh, the outer fibers shredding into torn threads. Light filled her vision as the room spun.
Pavel slid his body against hers, a smoldering trail of kisses left in his wake, until he came to rest, his wide palms cupped around her breasts, his weight crushed against her. He ground his hardness between her legs, the coarse fabric of his trousers threatening to send her into fever-pitched frenzy once more.
“Pavel, take me,” she begged, her body yielding beneath him.
“You taste yourself, no?” He traced the tip of his tongue across her lower lip and breathed lightly into her mouth. The essence of her desire flavored his kiss, the scent of her passion lingered upon his beard.
“Yes,” she sighed.
“How does it taste?”
“Sweet. Like cream.”
“That is the taste of innocence,” he murmured. “It is why I cannot take you.”
“I do not wish to stay innocent,” she argued.
“No,” he said firmly, though his breath came in ragged pants. “I will not spoil you. You must wait…until you are married…to a good man, a respectable man—”
“I will wait for no man,” she declared. Her tone grew taunting, daring. “I will choose of my own vo-lee-shun.”
Knowing the source of his weakness, she bucked her pubis against him. He groaned, his face contorted in agony, and then she saw his lust, now unrestrained, and his dark eyes flared like hot coals. Sitting back on his heels, he hurriedly slid his suspenders down and then fumbled with his trousers. He slipped them past his hips, exposing his manhood, the engorged veins as violently purpled as the roses scattered around them.
Hannah eyed his length and his girth with
trepidation. Before she could protest and voice second thoughts, he was back upon her, teasing her entrance with the bulbous tip of his shaft.
“Ask me again,” he breathed in her ear. His breath scorched against her throat, his stubbly chin scraped her collarbone.
“Take me,” she whispered, her boldness returned.
“As you wish, my precious Hannah.”
He tore past her barrier, hurting her, filling her. Yet even as she cried in pain, her keen wails of pleasure echoed throughout the studio. Hitting crescendo, her cries blended with those of Pavel, his grunts lower, guttural, backed by the wild symphony of the bedsprings.
The neighbor on the opposite side of the wall banged loudly. Pavel ignored them and took her all the harder. Hannah gasped, but quickened her pace, meeting him thrust for thrust, delighting in the sounds and sensations as he slid in and out of her, the pain lessening and her pleasure increasing by the second.
The neighbor knocked again, insistent. Pavel slammed one fist against the wall.
“Otva`li! ” he cursed back. The neighbor quieted. Some words needed no translation.
In the cold of the room, the lovers broke into a sweat. Pavel’s groans deepened, his eyes reflecting Hannah’s own delicious torment. Her muscles constricted, gripping him tightly, and the world spun once more. With a gasp, he pulled away. Hovering over her, he worked himself with his hand; his hooded gaze never leaving hers, until hot drops of fluid splattered against Hannah’s belly. Spent, he collapsed against her, his face burrowed in her hair, the evidence of his release slick and warm between them.
As they coasted down together from their shared ecstasy, he murmured to her in Russian, the rhythm of the words flowing like music. Though Hannah did not speak his language, she sensed his affection and sighed in response.
Afterward, she lay curled in his lap, her head cradled against his broad chest, the cotton of his sweat-soaked undershirt damp against her cheek. He rubbed her wrists, then her ankles, where the jute had burned into her and restricted the flow of blood.
“My client, I think he will pay a pretty penny for this one,” Pavel said. “Yes, I am sure of it. I will split my commission down the middle. You must give me your address. I will mail you half of the money.”
“Mail?” she asked levelly, hiding her alarm. “Can’t I come by the studio and pick it up?”
“Hannah, you must listen, I must tell you.” He held her closer, stroking his fingers through her hair. “I am returning to Paris. My friend, the poet I have spoken of, she has fled Russia. She has formed a secret group to help others escape. She has asked for my help.”
“That is most noble of you,” said Hannah, her heart swelling with pride even as it broke at his news. “Take me with you.”
“No, my precious little one, I cannot.”
“Why?” she sniffed. Perhaps he and this poet had once been lovers, she silently surmised.
Pavel cupped her chin and inclined her face to his. Tenderly, he traced the pad of his thumb down her jaw line. “Hannah, it is not safe. The Bolsheviks, they go abroad in secret now. They find and murder those who speak against the State. The émigrés are no longer protected under foreign asylum.” He paused, his stern features gone soft. For once, the crease between his brows eased. “Neither are those whom we cherish.” He looked at her pointedly. “That is to say, those whom we love.”
Hannah’s heart leapt at his confession. Free of any binds, she straightened in his lap and kissed his lips, one hand against his chest, the other twining his disheveled hair. On instinct, each hand skimmed down to where he had grown hard for her again.
He curled his arms above his head and allowed her to remove his undershirt, then he helped her free him of his trousers. With hooded gaze, he lay back and permitted her hands and mouth to roam, to touch, to explore, as though she were the artist, and he, her subject of study. His body, still fit from his youth on the farm, was as toned as the finest, classic sculpture. His sweat tasted of salt and vodka; the wiry thatch of hair at the base of his shaft smelled of her defiled innocence. Filled with a desire to pleasure him, as much as he had pleasured her, she took him into her mouth. He encouraged her, gripping her by the hair and facilitating her movements.
Abruptly, he jerked her head away and drew her face back up to his, the harsh pull against her scalp exciting her at some base, primitive level. He threw her back on the bed and rolled on top of her. Understanding, she crossed her hands above her head. He grasped her wrists, encircling both in one palm alone, as with the other hand, he smacked her plush, rounded rump with a loud crack and then clutched and spread her wide.
Responding to his rough demand, guided by her own unsated need to satisfy his whim, Hannah parted her thighs to receive him anew. Pinning her firmly, her wrists held in place, Pavel pressed her into the mattress and possessed her a second glorious time.
***
She sits outside on the patio, where the nurse has left her wheelchair so that she might enjoy a bit of sun and fresh air. It is the first day of spring, a temperate, clear day. The rose bushes have begun to bloom, but Hannah is oblivious to these, for she hides her own special rose in the palm of her hand.
She is one-hundred-and-four years old today. She has survived one stroke—a mild incident, the doctors told her. She has outlived two husbands and both of her younger sisters. She has buried one of three children, a memory which still haunts to this day; though her son passed away over two decades before at the age of sixty, with grown children of his own, she still felt it should have been her, not her child, who they laid in the ground that day.
Yet for all the funerals and heartache, she has witnessed countless births, of grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and recently received a photograph of her newborn great great-granddaughter.
When Hannah celebrated her first centenarian birthday, her photograph appeared in the local small town newspaper, and her image has appeared in the paper every birthday since. It is always mentioned that she, herself, was formerly an accomplished freelance photographer who balanced a career and motherhood well before the Sexual Revolution. It is never mentioned that, somewhere along the way, age had forced her to put the camera aside, or that after her stroke, she had voluntarily moved into the nursing home so as not to burden her loved ones.
Her family teases her that her yearly newspaper appearance has, at long last, made her a celebrity. Little do they know during her travels, she once came across one of her old Coke ads, reproduced on a tin serving plate and auctioned to a collector for a sinful amount of money.
And they know nothing of the 20x30 inch portrait, which hangs in a museum back home in New York, the painter and the model both unknown. Hannah is looking at the image now, centered within the latest issue of Time magazine which lays open across her lap.
Soon, her family and the reporter will arrive with the decorated sheet cake, laden with candles. They will bring a bouquet of flowers and bunches of balloons. She will open brightly-colored packages wrapped in shiny foil with endless curls of ribbons, though she receives the same gifts every year—new nightgowns, a robe, slippers, and homemade cards drawn in crayon by the children, along with a box of large-print paperbacks, and a bundle of movies to watch on the DVD player she received for Christmas a few years before.
She loves her family. She is always eager for their visits, to hear of their achievements, some of them creative endeavors, others pursuits in the working man’s world, the joke in their family being that one rebels by attending law school instead of taking up the arts. Though they do not ask it of her, she is quick to offer matronly wisdom on their woes. Always, she is both pleased and saddened to see how much the children have grown. She is proud, of each and every one of her descendants, the musician and the stockbroker alike, and would not change anything that has transpired in her life.
Hannah had thought she loved her first husband; the marriage lasted all of two years. She still mourns her second, the one she raised her family with; tho
ugh their passion had faded somewhere along the way, it had been replaced with a healthy respect, and when he’d passed on, she’d lost not only a spouse, but a friend.
Yet in her heart, she holds a secret place for the first man who ever loved her. A small part of her will always wonder—what if? What if she had gone abroad with Pavel? What if she had at least stayed in touch with him and been reunited with him at a later time? She had traveled throughout Europe, visiting the City of Light several times. She had once spent a week in the Eastern Bloc, in the days before the Wall had fallen, granted permit behind the Iron Curtain along with a West German journalist. In her journeys, she had kept her eyes open for one certain face, hoping by some God-granted miracle, she might find him in the crowd.
What became of her émigré? How many artists did he aid and abet before the Great Purge of the 1930’s, when countless artists and intellectuals—the intelligentsia—were censored, imprisoned, or executed for daring to speak against the Stalinist state? Had Pavel died in the process, a martyr to his cause? Or had he gone on to live his remaining years in peace, perhaps starting a family, as she had, with children left to carry his name?
In pondering Pavel’s life, Hannah has had many years to think on other aspects of her brief but unforgettable time spent with him. Not once had she asked either of her husbands to try the things she had done with Pavel, but in recent decades, it has gradually come to light that a certain tangent of society embraces such taboo practices. She and Pavel had simply partaken of what came naturally to them, and she knows, now, there was no shame or vulgarity in what she and her Russian lover once shared.
It is with this informed retrospect she looks down at her lap and studies the image before her—a portrait of a buxom, fresh-faced girl, stretched naked on a bed of cerulean rose petals, her golden tresses surrounding her like a shining halo, one flower clenched between her teeth. In a state of comfortable repose, the casual observer would never guess the curvaceous model’s wrists and feet had been bound.
In the lower right corner, the inset notes that the paint pigments have been dated between the late 1910’s to the early twenties, and the frame traced to a merchant in Greenwich Village who supplied the area artists. The text also states author Anais Nin modeled for painters in the Village during that time, and surmises that perhaps she might have met the girl in the portrait while they were making their modeling rounds.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 22