This is part 3 of the story. It makes little sense to begin here, and you can discover the first part here:

https://www.Storyva.com/s/muse-18

English not being my native tongue. I’m translating chapters and will publish them over a couple of weeks. Be patient. There will be kinky stuff, but it takes a while to reach it. The characters, setting and plot should interest you in their own right. Suggestions and reactions are welcome, given that it is my first novel. Enjoy!

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Pyrmont, 14 July

That I would be a bone of contention for Milena was hard to digest. I slept restlessly and woke up early enough to spend hours pondering over my clothes. Given my mood, I decided on the costume of a convict, black and simple in cut. A convict with style, though; an outfit made of silk and decorated with meticulous embroidery. A significant contrast with her clothes when she entered the dining room, dressed in the white linen dress. She had decided to step out of her golden cage. “So? How does it look?” she said, her attention on invisible fluff she was brushing off her robe. “It looks beautiful on you, but I am biased, of course,” I said with relief. “I am quite aware of what I ask you and grateful for the trust you placed in me.”

“Didn’t you expect it?” she asked and looked up.

I shrugged. “It could have gone either way. I haven’t shared my life story often and the reactions have been… different. I’m happy with your decision.”

I held up my hand. She locked my eyes with a stern gaze before she handed me the collar. Then she turned around and held up her hair to present her neck. I carefully fastened the leather strap around it. She shuddered and turned to face me with downcast eyes. Which was fine by me, because I was more nervous than expected. Despite my past, she had dared to take the step of willingly submitting herself to my authority. We embarked on an adventure. Neither of us knew if it would end well while our objectives diverged.

“Sit down, breakfast is ready.” I tried to act casual. It couldn’t have been very convincing. I offered her a chair, and she sat down. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. It won’t surprise you I slept little last night,” she said and stretched to get rid of a last yawn. I poured coffee for both of us before I joined her at the table.

“For me, it was no different.”

“My decision kept you awake? What did you have to lose if I refused your proposal?”

“The chance to acquire a beautiful work of art and a beautiful friendship. Among other things.” What other things I had in mind, I left unsaid. The chance of watching her kneel before me, naked and awaiting my command. Her plain dress didn’t hide her lithe body, and no dress ever covered her mesmerising eyes, seductive and scornful at the same time. She threw me a nervous glance, but didn’t dare to ask after my thoughts. We buttered toast and ate in silence.

“That will be the first assignment?” she asked, after she washed down a piece of toast with her last bit of coffee, “making a painting for you?” She looked at her empty cup. “I doubt I could do anything you’d appreciate. What you really appreciate, I mean.”

My tension ebbed away to a pleasant level. I had this conversation with other artists. “I don’t doubt that you have such a work in you. The question is whether you have the courage to make it. What I want from you is a painting that expresses your deepest, darkest desires. Nobody needs to know that it is your work, which gives you the freedom to express yourself without constraints. Except for the constraint of time. You have one week to make it.”

She played with her empty cup, thinking it over, and finally put it down when she reached her decision. “Very well, though my desires may be a little tame for you.”

“Maybe. I won’t judge your desires on their merit, as long as they are yours.”

A slight blush coloured her face, and she shivered again. Her desires probably weren’t as tame as she feared. Her fingers caressed the collar, and she agreed with a slow nod. “Good. And then? What’s the second task?”

“Your second assignment is to serve me the rest of my breakfast as a member of my staff would.”

“You are joking.”

“Not at all.”

She frowned. “Why?”

I locked her eyes with a stern gaze and allowed an uncomfortable silence to linger. She didn’t avoid my gaze, but her frown disappeared.

“Because I am asking you and, according to our agreement, you have to carry out my commands. Because until now I served you to protect your privacy in relation to my staff. But mainly because in daily life you don’t share the freedoms your staff enjoys,” I said. “Nobility obliges, remember? That obligation fell away when you decided to wear the collar. Freedom of responsibility has a price, as any servant knows.” She looked at me bewildered, and I broke the tension with a grin. “And because I’d like another cup of coffee, please.”

With a mischievous smile, she undid the top button of her dress and accepted the challenge. “As you wish, Duke,” she said and stood up to put her money where her mouth was with an elegant bow. She realised the game had begun, although she did not know where it would lead. In the end, this was true for both of us.

I never understood the importance of the collar in our agreement, but the moment it adorns me, I do. It brings me back to the other painting you bought, as your warm fingertips slide over the sensitive skin of my neck, followed by supple black leather and the chill of the white gold clasp locks it in place. I have submitted to you, my fate is in your hands, which should be apprehensive and aggravating, but brings a tranquillity so heated and sensual it makes me blush. I’m free of any responsibility for my actions. They are yours to decide now.

After breakfast, I took Milena to the makeshift atelier I had set up for her. It was a fairly large basement, part of the original fortifications which I normally used for training. A grill door locked the entrance, which I opened to let her in. I stood in the doorway while she explored the cellar, satisfying her curiosity. The skylight high above us allowed daylight to enter. The main attraction had center stage: an easel with an empty canvas. In a wide circle around it stood its audience on the wooden floor: a workbench with stools and an armchair. A cupboard, a dressing table, and a bed with a side table lined the bare walls. All the furniture was unadorned, comfortable, and sturdy. The cellar was clean and dry. Behind a curtain, it also provided a sink and a water closet. On the workbench lay materials she needed for painting, together with a jug of water and a bowl with fresh bread. Besides the entrance, the atelier had two other doors. One labelled ‘fear’ and the other ‘desire’. She would discover both doors locked; they would play their part later. “I’ll bring your toiletries,” I said, and closed the grated door behind her. The key clicked, locking the door.

Startled, she turned around. “Are you locking me up?”

“This month, you are mine. What is mine, I keep under lock and key.” The first real confrontation with the reality of our agreement.

“Say, I’m not an object,” she said with a nervous laugh, grabbing the bars of the door. I was at least as tense as her, but not allowed to show it.

“Objects can be stolen, and you could decide to leave before the month is over,” I said.

“Damian, this is not a funny game. Let me out,” she said, angry now, tugging the bars.

“No, it’s not a game,” I said, “and no, I’m not letting you out.” My apparent calmness made her realise I meant it, and her eyes widened with fear.

“Listen, I really won’t leave just like that. I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” she said.

“Then it doesn’t matter that I lock the door,”

“There is really no need to lock me up. You can trust me.” Her seductive smile didn’t reach beyond her lips. “You know that, otherwise you would never have told me your whole story.”

“Who should I trust, Milena?” I asked. “The Milena you are, the one you want to be, or the role you play for my pleasure?”

The smile disappeared. She clenched her fists around the bars. “So your solution is to lock me up like an animal.”

“Just because you’re scared and in unfamiliar territory doesn’t make you an animal.”

She lost all false pretense, let go of the bars and wrapped herself in her arms. Tears stood in her eyes. Only fear remained.

“Please, let me out.”

I slowly shook my head. “No. If I let you out now, I’ll be reneging on my part of the bargain.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, “I really don’t.”

“Maybe not now, but you will later. If I let you go, you’ll never come back. You’ll have missed the opportunity I’m offering you. Like I said, you make choices. I enforce the consequences of those choices. You promised to obey me for a month, I promised to command you for a month, and I keep my promises.”

Only when you lock me up I realise how rash my decision was. I am literally at your mercy. For a month. A month in which nobody will ask questions about my absence. Fear is useless in this situation and I become furious. At you, for locking me up and apparently not granting me the trust I grant you. Also at myself, for allowing myself to be manipulated by you so easily. And maybe because I don’t think it’s as terrible as I should. Shouting is useless in this cell, there is no one to hear me. But you can forget about your work of art. I’ll show you.

Pyrmont, 15 July

The next morning, I visited her again, dressed in simple black working clothes. Appropriate garb, because her cell was a colourful mess. She had destroyed the art supplies and thrown them through her cell. The easel had survived unscathed. The empty canvas stared reproachfully at the artwork splattered on the wall in large angry letters: ‘BASTARD’. Milena crouched on the bed with her back towards me. She still wore the collar; she had kept her part of the bargain. For me, it was all that mattered.

“Better,” I said from behind the bars that held her captive.

“What!?” She refused to look at me.

“The mural you painted.”

She glanced at the wall, and with a slow pivot, she met my eyes like a newly caged tigress. “Nonsense,” she snapped at me.

If I remained calm and serious, I expected her to become more reasonable as well. “You can’t deny that it shows more passion than the earlier work.”

“Fine,” she said, and stood. “If you are satisfied, you can let me go.”

“No,” I said, feigning my attention to the manicure I received this morning. “Your month under my guidance just started, and this was not your assignment.”

“Are you really planning to lock me in here for a month?”

“That’s up to you. Although it will be difficult to create a painting with what you have left.” I gestured at the mess of spilled paint and broken utensils on the floor.

“I’m not making anything for you ever.” The tigress was back and glared at her captor.

“You are not making it for me, Milena, but for yourself,” I said. “True art may please the casual observer, but its purpose is to express truth as seen by the artist.” I nodded at the mural. “Q.E.D.”

She took a deep breath and tried to calm down, her arms stiff, her hands fists. “Listen, I’m not a prisoner, not of you, not of anyone. You have no right to lock me up.”

“Wrong on all accounts,” I said. “You are a prisoner, but not mine, and you granted me the right to lock you up when you accepted our agreement.”

“I would do what you ask me. That was the agreement,” she said. “Not that you’d put me in a kennel like a dog.” She crossed her arms with her shoulders raised and looked away.

“Milena, in this cell you have more freedom than you ever had,” I said. “You can be angry and sad here, have fun, suffer, enjoy, whatever you want. With no one caring who you are and judging what you do. This atelier is here for you alone. The only thing I expect you to do is to comply with our agreement. Who knows, maybe you will find peace to be yourself and use your talents.” Then, slightly more forcibly: “Look at me.”

She did so with a deep sigh. “Why? What do you want from me?”

“You know what I want. I’ve already given you an assignment. You need new materials, I think. Do you want them?”

“Why are you doing this?”

My eyes wandered over the mess as I searched for the right words. I hoped I had found them and faced her again. “Because I see talent stifled by its surroundings. Because I enjoy beauty that touches me and I know you are capable of it. Because I want to be proud of you, daring the steps to achieve it. Because I know you won’t take those steps unless I force you to make hard choices. In this case, the choice between waiting a month for me to release you, or doing what I want you to do. A month minus a day. Clear this mess. Cleaning supplies are in the cupboard. I’ll provide materials to get back to work.”

I didn’t wait for her answer and went to get the art supplies. On my return, she looked at me with disdain and continued to tidy up the mess in silence. I put her own painters’ box over the threshold, together with the promised toiletries. I locked the door again, and I left her alone until the next day.

The next day, I can’t deny that you are right, although I still discover it ridiculous that you locked me up. I have no intention of leaving. You want to be my teacher and patron. I see the value in that, but I can not trust my dark desires to the canvas. I buried them for good reasons and I don’t know if I want to dig them up. And whether doing so is wise if you don’t trust me. Because that’s what the locked door of my cell tells me.

Pyrmont, 16 July

Milena sat in the armchair waiting for me. She seemed quiet and had covered the canvas on the easel. I entered the cellar carrying a tray with water, bread, and some fruit and put it on the workbench. Without a word, she stood up and hesitantly revealed the outline of her painting.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I studied it silently. As I expected, the new work lacked the passion of her mural. She had drawn a man and a woman embracing with a loving, tender kiss. It was only sketched in pencil, but it caught the essence of the moment. A skilful illustration for a romantic novel.

“Nice,” I said.

“That says nothing. What do you really think?”

Despite everything, she still wanted my comment. A good sign. “I’m sure it will be beautiful. I really mean it.” I faced her and gestured at the remains of the mural. “Better executed compared to your previous work as well. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t appreciate this. But what do you think yourself?”

She looked at the sketch and lowered her head. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“This is your dark desire?” I asked. “Romantic love?”

“No.” She sighed, “I just don’t have any dark desires.” She didn’t even bother to make it sound sincere.

“You wouldn’t be here if that was true,” I said, “and you know it.”

She looked up sharply. “Very well then, I have no dark desires I wish to share with you.”

“Then don’t. The work is meant to express yourself. What holds you back is shame and perhaps a lack of inspiration.”

“What’s wrong with shame?”

I exchanged the full bowl for the empty one and cleaned up. “In daily life, not much. Without taboos, we fall into anarchy. But if you get the chance to be shameless without repercussions, use it. Sometimes you have to let yourself go.”

“Like my husband sometimes lets himself go in your brothel?”

I didn’t deny it. “We are all unique Milena, everyone has personal inhibitions and desires. Your husband his, you yours. We all try to keep them on a leash, but if you don’t release your leash occasionally, you wither away, tied to the perch of propriety. Those who dared to do so made the art I showed you. Shall I add this work to that collection? After all, if you finish it, you did what I asked you to do.”

It remained silent for a long time. She let herself fall into the chair and looked at the ground. “No.” she said, her voice soft but with conviction.

It was hard to contain my elation. She understood this was an opportunity, not punishment. The romantic tableau did not fit in with the pieces I had shown her. She could do better and now she would try. I walked up to her and offered her a key.

“This one opens all the doors in your cell. You may choose which.”

She took my key and gazed at the two closed doors. “What do the signs mean? Fear and desire?”

“What it says,” I said and examined the cell. Everything was neat and clean, only faded paint smears remained as evidence of her receded rage.

“What’s behind those doors?” she said.

“Inspiration for your painting.”

“What if I choose the cell door?” It was a sincere question. She deserved a sincere answer and an honest choice.

“Then I wish you a pleasant stay on the estate, and I have no other assignments for you. When the month is over, I’ll collect the collar and tell you about your husband.”

“Beyond that, I won’t see you again?”

“No, then you have chosen to return to your golden cage. I can do little for you while you’re there.”

“Then I will have failed you.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “No. I would be sorry, but I’m already proud of you for getting this far. What I expect you to do is difficult. The path I guide you on will only become more so. For most, it’s even impossible. But I believe you can do it, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I will come back tomorrow. If you’re still here, we will talk more.” I emptied the tray and left the cellar.

When you finally give me the key, I can leave, but I don’t even consider going outside. I’m far too curious about the other rooms. I choose ‘Desire’, I’m already anxious enough about what awaits me. It doesn’t make any difference. The two doors access the same room, like fear and desire can be sides of the same coin. Paintings and drawings lining the walls are much more intense and explicit than those in your exhibition. Like Carraci’s prints with satyrs seducing women and a painting by Corinth depicting bacchantes celebrating. These are artists I have heard of. I discover the drawings by Rops and Zichy, artists I don’t know, more disturbing. Zichy with drawings of copulating people, almost lifelike and sensual without being judgmental. Especially the works by Rops touch a chord and confuse me. A woman hanging from a cross and enjoying it despite her unfortunate position, or the tableau of a woman surrendering to a crucified devil, her ecstatic face close to his erection. The second one depicts a naked woman lying on a table, surrounded by darkness and overwhelmed by what passed before. I involuntarily place myself in their position, and it excites me. The last work by Rops hangs above a low filing cabinet. A woman reading in bed between piles of books under a towering devil, who is carrying more volumes for her to read.

It should have been a warning. Folders full of photos and reports fill the drawers of the cupboard, providing a picture of the events in your House of Seven Sins. Testimonies recorded on typewriters, at all times written in the first person, leaving the narrators anonymous: the experiences of your courtesans with their clients. At first, I look for the person who describes their union with my husband, but no one mentions guests by name, although they will undoubtedly recognise themselves in it. I am captivated by the desires of others and recognise them. My desire to do whatever I want. My desire to leave all obligations for what they are. Above all, my desire to surrender to sensual urges I’ve been forced to keep in check all my life. I give in, and let my fingers do their work, only to refrain from reaching a climax, overcome with shame. That is not me. I can not be the girl suffering my fantasies. But I am, and the files show me I’m not the only one submitting to it. In the end, my body overcomes my resisting morals and I fall asleep with a first version of my painting in mind. I know one thing for sure: I’ll never be able to paint it.