MUSE – The Assignment 2

This is part 4 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, 17 July

Late in the morning, I went to her cell. She was still asleep. The door marked ‘Desire’ was open, the key still in the lock. I brought another tray with water and bread and woke her up by placing the tray with a slap on the side table next to her bed. She moved a little, but feigned to be dormant. I surmised she wasn’t able to face me and sat down in the armchair.

“Come, eat and drink. It was a rough night for you.”

“Go away, please,” she murmured. It didn’t sound like a request though, more like a command.

“No,” I said.

“I can’t paint it.” She was sure of that.

“But you will try,” I said, just as convinced.

She turned to me abruptly. Traces of tears marked her face. She was blushing. Anger, sadness and shame.

“They are testimonies of others. I’m not like them.”

I did not avoid her gaze. “I know, but you recognised desires they described.”

“You knew I would?” she hissed. Anger won out over sadness and shame. For now.

“No,” I said and nodded towards the open door. “I don’t know which stories got you riled up. They are your dark desires, not mine.”

It was true, though I had some notion. The paintings Von Bentheim bought hinted at Milena’s need to submit herself and her desire to relinquish control. The women kneeling before a higher power and accepting the necklace. Though her mind fought these needs with eloquence and wit, her body betrayed her when she averted her eyes or blushed during our conversations in private. But the woman on the train station depicted Milena’s overriding need: her desire for heated passion and unrestrained lust. The way her lips parted at my previous jabs with innuendo or when she spoke of the testimonies, just before her angry frown appeared. The way she moved without realising her body invited my touch. I had to be careful, though. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen things that weren’t there.

“Do you ever read them yourself?” she said, her lips trembling before setting in an angry thin line.

I nodded. “I had them written, so yes, I’ve read them all.”

“Why?” she whispered hoarsely and slowly rose to her feet. “Why on earth do you want to know this about others? Want to know it about yourself?” Her anger waned. Only sadness and shame remained.

“Knowledge is power?” I said. “Knowing that the guy staring at me in the mirror is not alone in his cravings?” I afforded myself a smile. “I think the main reason is that the animal within us is too curious not to read it.”

“I felt less than an animal while reading, like a beast. I don’t want to be like that.” Her gaze turned glassy. A testimony she remembered?

I stood and approached her. “Wanting has nothing to do with it. Your desires are like eating, drinking, and breathing. What matters is how you cope with them.” Sitting down next to her, I put an arm around her shoulders. She allowed it, leaned against me and cried bitter tears. Grateful she trusted me enough to do so, I waited for her to speak again. It took a long time. Only shame remained.

“Why am I so… disgusting?”

“You are what you decide to be. Not what others think of you.” I said and held her close. She had to find out she didn’t disgust me, on the contrary. She clung to me with her arms around my waist.

With my free hand, I brushed the unruly hair from her face, lifted her chin, and met her eyes. “Most people prefer to be blind to their true desires. They live a life of fear and regret. Not you, you were too curious and now you know. Most who know their cravings resist them with all their might and turn into hateful fanatics, punishing others for their own sins. Only a few have the courage to accept and enjoy their needs. Which group you belong to is the choice that lies ahead of you.”

“I lack that kind of courage,” she whispered.

With slow strokes, I slid my fingers through her hair like a comb. “I think you do, and I’m proud of every step you’ve taken on this path so far. If you go any further and stumble or fall, I’ll be there to catch you,” I said, and released her. “Come, I have clean clothes for you. When you’re ready, you can change. There will be visitors tonight.”

She sat up straight, frowning.

“My husband?”

I nodded.

She evaded my gaze and crossed her arms. “Did the transcripts involve him as well?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She shivered with her shoulders raised. “I no longer dare to face him.”

I caught her wrist and took her hand in mine. She relaxed, and with a casual glance, allowed me to kiss it. “That won’t happen tonight. Rest now, we’ll meet again later.”

I felt sorry for her. To face facets of yourself you rather hide away and forget hurts. She finally gave me a quick nod and I let go of her hand. With a tender kiss on her forehead, I said goodbye. Although I left the grilled door open, she remained in her cell the rest of the day. She removed the romantic lovers from the canvas and began a new work: the painting that would become part of my collection.

Early in the afternoon, Milena’s husband arrived with his business, but I let Alfred handle their welcome. I slept till the evening, for it would be a long night. According to Alfred, her husband and his business had enjoyed a sumptuous dinner. At the moment, he was engaged in a high-stakes card game. Soon he would leave for a private room with the lady of his choice. It was time to see Milena again. She had scraped the linen of her attempts at my assignment, sat on the bed and stared at the blank canvas. My entrance broke her concentration, and she looked up at me as I walked towards her.

“You come for naught. I can’t do it.”

“Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” I reassured her.

She handed me a stack of sealed envelopes. “I have written letters for my family and some acquaintances.”

“I will have them delivered,” I said and looked at the recipients. “One of them is here tonight as a client.”

“My husband,” she said wearily.

I nodded and put the envelopes away in the leather bag I was carrying.

She slumped with a deep sigh. “Can’t you just tell me what he’s looking for here? Or let me read it?”

“You have to see it for yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t tell you without violating the truth. Because otherwise, at the end of the week, you’ll still be fighting with a blank canvas, full of shame. And because I’m asking you to. Come.”

She sighed, took my hand and stood. In silence, she followed me through the secret corridors of the estate, to the dungeons where the House of Seven Sins was located, which made itself known with snippets of distorted party sounds. Laughter, wailing, yelling and screaming mixed with distorted music that elsewhere sounded cheerful, melancholic or soothing. We ended up in a small room with dark wood-panelling, except for one bare white wall. A heavy wooden chair faced it, and I invited Milena to sit. Dragging her feet, she did. I turned the gaslight low, waited until our eyes adjusted and opened an ocular on the wall behind her. On the white wall opposite the ocular, a sumptuous and spacious bedroom appeared. Soft light from candelabras illuminated an oversized four-poster bed, a table filled with all kinds of delicacies and an open wall cupboard with paraphernalia for the sensual game that was to be played here. On the walls hung paintings and carpets that served as inspiration and mirrors, many, many mirrors.

She turned around in surprise. “What is this?”

“We are in a camera obscura. You see the room behind it.” I knocked on the thin wooden wall with the ocular. She dropped her head.

“I don’t think I want to be here,” she said. An understatement. She shifted on the chair and nervously picked at her dress.

“Don’t you want answers to your questions?” I asked.

“I can guess the answers.” She gestured to the projection of the empty bedroom that wasn’t intended for sleeping.

“Whether your husband is cheating is not the question you’re wrestling with.”

She looked up in despair.

I continued. “The pictures you saw were taken here. No one can see us.” I knelt at her feet, locked eyes with her and held up my hand. “Give me your wrists.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tie you to the chair,” and with my other hand, I fetched the lengths of rope from my bag.

“Again, why?” Her voice was shaking. She was afraid. Not of me, I suspected, but of herself. She didn’t know how she’d react to what was about to happen.

“I promised to guide you on this path,” I said. “If you don’t experience this from start to finish, you will fall and I won’t be able to catch you. The rope I am tying you with, will prevent that.” I remained kneeling before her, my hand offered. Tranquillity itself. At least, I tried to be with little success. Fortunately, the situation distracted her too much to notice. Breathing hard, she looked around until she found the door. “If I say no? And leave now?”

“Then we both broke our promise. You will hate every free spirit, wishing to destroy it, especially your own. For you looked in the mirror of dark desires and rejected what you saw. It will be my fault, because I misjudged you,” I said slowly, word for word. I was as tense as she was, though for different reasons. This was the moment she decided if she really trusted me to catch her if she fell.

“There is no other way?” she asked with a whimper.

“Not for you,” I said. “There are other ways, but you can’t handle them yet.”

Trembling, she placed her wrists in my hand and her eyes bore into mine. I held her gaze while I bound her wrists to the armrests, firm but not uncomfortable. Softly I kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear: “I will not betray your trust. I will stay with you.”

Then I tied her ankles to the chair legs. Being tied up can bring peace and stability. Handing over your autonomy to someone else relieves you of responsibility and, if properly applied, this surrender brings ecstasy. But not all the time, or with everyone. I could leave that uncertainty behind me. Caught in the trance of rope, she remained silent, at the mercy of what would follow. I stood behind her and whispered, “You mustn’t make a sound, then they will hear us, as we can hear them,” then tied a gag in front of her mouth and put my hands on her shoulders.

We did not have to wait long. Her husband entered the bedroom with his masked companion. The talented lady who fulfilled his specific wishes. Their game of master and slave began. He played it with verve, balancing her on the border between pain and pleasure with numerous attributes, slowly increasing both. It didn’t take his eager victim long to fall into a state of exaltation she didn’t have to pretend. An ecstasy that did not subside entirely when they recovered after their first play. Only to allow him to continue the game after she enjoyed some food and a drink. He played her body like an instrument, with his voice, his hands, his lips, his tongue, and finally his cock. He humiliated her with her own desires: made her beg for more, then gave her more than she asked for. The game ended in a storm of orgasms that rocked their bodies uncontrollably. A sight I could never have explained to Milena; she had to bear witness, understanding it is a game both players enjoy. Two hours later, they were exhausted, satiated, and satisfied. The silence returned. When Milena’s husband fell asleep soon after, the woman left the huge bed. She threw a kiss hand at us before she left, dressed only in her mask, and marks he’d left on her body.

And Milena? Milena had been trembling and quivering in silence, frustrated and excited. Strapped to her chair, she seemed to be torn between disgust and lust for the dark, sensual game unfolding before her eyes. For me it confirmed her hidden desires, which didn’t fail to affect me. Neither did her tears, her anger and grief discovering the truth, which finally shattered the myth of her marriage and left her in shards. Would I be able to help her? A cold stab of fear cut the warm knot of my lust.

I closed the ocular and knelt before her, not avoiding her fierce gaze for a moment. Again, she looked like a tigress, this time ready to pounce on her prey. Although she didn’t realise it, she was freer than she’d ever been. Now she was the senseless animal she was afraid to be. I put my hands over her clenched fists.

“Can I untie you?”

Her breathing slowed. She calmed down, regaining her bearings, and looked away, squeezing her eyes shut, caught between wanting to ignore me and needing me to escape from this chamber. Away from the smell of her own sweat, tears, and lust. Away from the ropes she pulled tight around her ankles and wrists in her rage. Finally, I got a stiff nod. Reason returned, accompanied by deadly fatigue. She slouched in the chair and her straining muscles relaxed, although I suspected conflicting emotions caused the brunt of her exhaustion.

I freed her from the gag and quietly unwound the coils of rope that held her captive in the chair. While the red marks around her wrists and ankles would soon disappear, the memory of her husband and his lady would only fade. In silence, she allowed her tears to run free, mingling with the sweat on her skin. Her hair stuck to her face, the simple dress clung like a wet cloth to her body; no longer a lady, but a wounded animal. I took a blanket from the bag, wrapped it around her and lifted her from the chair to carry her back to her cell.

She let it happen, went completely limp and let herself go. Her heartrending cries mingled with the distorted sounds of revelry in the dungeons.

In the cell, I laid her on the bed and stripped her. She now only whimpered and occasionally looked at me with a blank stare. I massaged traces left behind by the ropes with healing oil, wiped sweat from her skin with a warm sponge, towelled her off and blanketed her. She fell asleep before I sat in the armchair next to her bed.

The next day the canvas remains empty, as I expected. I am ashamed of the images that haunt me and seek a way out. That night, you keep your promise and show me what brings my husband to this place. I hate you all. My husband for cheating on me. For depriving me of the passion he shares with a whore. I hate his whore because she dares to lose herself in her desires without shame and permits my husband to use her. I hate you for showing me this. I hate myself most of all because I crave what he shares with her. A craving I will never dare to indulge.

Pyrmont, 18 July

Hours passed. I ate and drank some of the water and bread, wrote a few letters and reread the testimony lying beside the bed. For me, the game between her husband and his lady were nothing more than a window to the past. My nights with Anna in Paris. Old wounds, but not too painful anymore. Milena slept restlessly, tossing and turning under the covers until she woke up with a begin in the morning. I quietly put the book apart and looked at her. The wild confusion of the dream that awoke her gave way to icy calm.

“If you wanted to ruin my life, you have succeeded. Congratulations,” she said hoarsely. I leaned forward and offered her a cup of water. “That was my intention,” I said. “Here, have a drink. You’ll be thirsty.”

Evading my gaze, she sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her, and took the cup. “I hate you,” she whispered, and took a sip.

I nodded with a sigh. “I know.”

“And you obviously hate me, or you wouldn’t have done this to me.” Her gaze fell on me. “Why? What did I ever do to you?” Her voice was unsteady, in contrast to the unflinching frozen mask of her face. Under her icy exterior, she wanted to be consoled. I couldn’t, not as long as she regarded me as the enemy. I could only show compassion when she broke the ice.

“I don’t hate you,” I said, cool and level, “but I have little respect for this image you desperately try to maintain. After all, it’s as real as your late great-uncle.”

She did not give in. Demonstratively, she let go of the blanket, striking a seductive pose, completely at odds with the contempt in her eyes. It would have made a gorgeous painting.

“Being a slut and a whore,” she asked, “is that what you want me to be?”

“Among other things,” I said. “A slut you already are. Whether you want to capitalise on it, I leave to you.”

The pose disappeared. She just sat, no longer bothered by her nudity. I involuntarily wondered of Courbet’s painting. She looked at her wrists. The marks of the rope had faded.

“The truth, finally,” she said and dropped her hands in her lap.

“I never lied to you,” I said. “You lied to me, but I don’t blame you.”

“Not true. I’ve always been honest with you.” She avoided my gaze.

“You haven’t been honest,” I said. “Not with me, and certainly not with yourself.”

“Drivel. Empty words.” It sounded gruff, but she still didn’t dare look at me. “I’m tired of your games.”

Fleeing would not help her, nor did I allow her to. “Then let’s talk about your games instead,” I said.

She no longer avoided me and looked at me calmly. “I don’t play games and I certainly don’t play with people.”

“Oh, no?” I kept silent until she averted her eyes again. Time for the final blow. “Very well then,” I said. “The Duke Von Anhalt Bernburg houses a brothel on his estate where your husband cheats on you with another. In your circles, this is not unusual and sometimes even welcome. There are plenty of wives who prefer to occupy themselves with running a home, fine arts, charity, their secret liaisons and raising heirs.”

She looked up at me, glowering. “That’s not me.”

“No, on the contrary,” I agreed, “with all the evidence of his infidelity, you don’t confront him, but me, the owner of the brothel. I hear the accusation, deny nothing, but I admit nothing either. I only propose that, in exchange for answers to your questions, you submit yourself to me for a month. What do you do? Do you laugh at me? Are you deeply offended by my proposal? Do you threaten to reveal my secrets? Or are you finally confronting your husband about his infidelity?” I let the question linger, but there was no rebuttal. Relentlessly, I continued. “No. Not you. You accept my proposal. A man with a questionable reputation, who may even be dangerous. Who demands you put your fate in his hands.”

She pulled the blanket tight around herself again, evading my glare. It could not hide her blushes. Her icy calm gave way to brooding restlessness. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I said yes.”

“You do know. Or rather, you think you do.”

I waited for her response, which did not come. She just stared in the distance.

“Look at me!” I barked at her.

She hesitantly focussed on me with frightened eyes, her breathing fast and shallow, unable to put her side of the story into words.

“You married your husband. An arranged marriage, sure, but you really love him, and he loves you, you are certain. Until little hints to the contrary appear. Long trips abroad, bills that don’t add up, gossip that gets to you through the grapevine, and finally evidence you no longer can ignore. You live a lie. Your love turns to deep loathing and hatred. You despise him, but also despise yourself. How could you be so stupid, so gullable?