The Artist: The Artist

The door creaked open, along drawn out groan of aged wood. A few rays of the moon's light peaked in and managed to illuminate the dark figure that entered. The figures' deep violet eyes seemed to swallow the rays into it's depths, as if no radiance could bear to shine in those dark eyes. He twisted his head to one side slowly, until an audible pop cracked in his neck. As he slowly rotated his neck, his long tresses of hair flowed freely, black night descended from his face and crest, descending down his back like a waterfall. He loosened the fingers in his right hand, his long delicate fingers preparing for their work. His thin lips drew back in a grin.

The artist had arrived.

He walked in a slow circle, pondering. How best to render this latest piece of art. How best to render this vision of utter beauty. His long black cloak swept around behind him, flowing behind him like ripples in the black sea. He stopped, gazing at her, lying there modeling for him. He admired the long graceful curve of her neck, the soft roundness of her shoulders. Her face was lovely, bright brown eyes set upon a slightly cherubic face, her cheeks rounded and soft. Her full lips, trembling ever so slightly. His gaze followed her every nuance, his eyes seeming to wash over her like fire. The fullness of her breasts, still firm with youth. Her waist was thick, her belly smooth and inviting. Her hips were generous filled, her short stature emphasized by her proportionately short legs. It gave her a somewhat childish, innocent look, despite the obviously mature features of her womanhood. Covering this all was a black gown, with long slits along her thighs and a cropped short top that allowed more than teasing glances at her heaving bosom.

"How should I render you? Just what would be the perfect imagery to best display your loveliness?" His voice spoke suddenly, geniunely perplexed. His voice spoke in a low, cultured voice. There was a hint of an accent, cultured, educated. One somewhat diluted by much travel and many years spent abroad. "What can I do? Are my abilities up to the task?" This one was special, he had to savor her. He wanted to keep her just as she was, childlike and innocent. "How best can I capture your spirit?"

He approached her slowly and ran a hand along her neck. His long fingernails trailed along the ample flesh slowly, dimpling it slightly. She trembled at his touch, struggling against the chains that kept her held so securely. The cold iron bit into her wrists as she struggled. He cared for her meticulously, feeding her well, cleaning her lovingly with a damp towel. He spent long hours brushing out her hair. He dressed her carefully, and though he had seen her nude many times, this was the first time he had touched her in a way that could be called intimate.

Her beauty tortured him. He wanted to claim her, his passions burning fiercely. He so desperately wanted to take her, claim her body as his prize. He wanted to rut her like an animal, release his dark lust into her. The wolf within him begged him to, the beast growing impatient with his artistic pursuits. So many others he had brought here, painted them and then ravaged them. Why was this one so special? So lovely... so tempting? Why deny yourself, the wolf within him had roared, why deny me!?

Because, he thought to himself, I am an artist. That thought alone held the beast at bay, the ravenous monster that wanted to consume the innocent lamb before him. He has told himself that many times. Each time before though, it had failed. Each time he, well,  he shook his head, he mustn't surrender. He mustn't think of the other times. That was the path that always took him down the road to Hell. This time, he must concentrate. This time, he must finish his work.

With slow deliberate steps, he set up his easel. He gathered up his canvas, lovingly hand-stretch by his own fingers, draw and fastened onto the sturdy wooden bars. Dripping his brush carefully into his colors, his hands begin the dance, the dance of a painter. On a dance floor, he is clumsy, possessing two left feet. In battle, he has nary the strength to carry a sword, though he has other means to kill at his disposal. But here, in his art, his vision, he is a god. A creator of his own world, his own eyes see it, his own mind creates it, and his own hands bring it to life. And until the next moon shines at it's zenith, he sets out to make beauty immortal.

For many nights this goes on, his midnight visits to paint, this unseen piece as his model sits, terrified. She is held in chains of terror as strong as the iron that binds her. She recoiled from his touch as he cared for her, even as he is undeniably gentle. She cannot deny he is handsome. He has a certainly noble quality about him, a presence of class that thinly covers... something else. She can see the way he clenches and unclenches his hands when he pauses, she can almost smell the animal lust that comes from him. She is helpless, and she knows it. She sits, daily, waiting for the inevitable moment that he forces himself upon her, when he drives open her helpless legs and takes of her what he wants. She sits, watching those silent eyes, and knows that he too waits for that moment.

The moment the artist becomes a monster...