Aeolus P. Cerigo

"Yes," he demands. "The hardness of the man is for you. I see the eyes you draw. They look at you. There is nothing in his sight, but you. There is worship on his face."

Before she can think of what she is doing, Alex is across the room opening her folio, pulling the drawing from her case and looking at it. She looks up at Paul and looks at the drawing again. As he said, the model's eye are drawn to the front and center as if he is looking straight at something or someone right in front of him. His mouth is lightly open and there is the look of awe on his face.

"You will tell me what you see," he asks, not quite as demanding as before. "When you draw yourself, eh? You see this drawing of the man? You see him worship you?"

In fact, Alex had the drawing of the discus thrower pinned to her easel while she posed for the self-portrait she was working on. She looks at Paul and looks back at the discus thrower. "How ... how did you know?"

"The hand you draw, holding your hair. It is the hand of the man. You think of him holding your hair when he comes to you, eh?"

Alex puts the drawing of the discus thrower aside and pulls out the self-portrait. She examines her hand, and the model's hand raising the discus behind him. Paul is right the hand at the back of her head is a copy of the man's hand.

"This man, he is your lover?" It is the same question he asked when she was in his office, more firmly asked this time, as if the model is his rival.

"No, he was a paid model," she gives him the same answer. "I had never seen him before, or since, the day he posed for the class." She shakes her head, looking at the drawing. "I don't even know his name."

"As you draw yourself, you imagine this man coming to you." He may have meant the words as a question, but it does not come out that way. He sounds sure of what he said.

"Yes," she whispers as she looks at her drawing.

"You imagine my hand on you, eh?" He holds out his hand, the gold coin bright in dim light of the room. "You look at my hand, lick your lips, close the eyes, and the chills come to your flesh."

"Yes," she tells him the truth. It does not occur to her not to answer his question.

Standing beside her as she examined the drawings, he has watched her. Much as she had dreamed of him doing, he slips his hand between her thighs and touches her as his hand goes upward to cup her sex. He asks her, "This is what you think of? How I will touch you?"

"Yes," she whispers her answer, her head going back as her eyes close.

He leans toward her, his mouth near hers, breathing on her, but not touching, "You think of my mouth on you?" His finger enters her and moves back and forth. He hears her indrawn breath. "You see me grow hard for you and you prepare yourself for me?"

"Yes," her answer is little more than a breath of air. She is unaware she licks her lips.

His breath is hot on her face. "You imagine the taste of me, yet you do not take me into your mouth." When Alex shakes her head, he asks, "You have done this for a lover?" Alex shakes her head again. "Ah," he breathes, understanding changes his tone of voice. "The goddess has a fear of her slaves. Yet, she draws the object she wishes to take into herself, yes?"

Finally Paul's lips slightly touch hers, linger for a moment before moving to her cheek and then to the softness beneath her ear. It is a slow exploration of her, as he tastes her and savors her. He lifts his head and looks at her for a moment. His hand leaves her sex and comes to rest against her cheek, a quick partial smile coming and going across his face.

He drops his hand and takes one step back, speaking as if the sexual interlude never happened. "This will be a difficult day. You are ready?"

She shakes herself as a fine tremor goes down her back and lodges at the base of her spine. She answers his question, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She cannot turn it off as quickly as he seems to do. "I think I am ready. If I understand, we will spend most of the day in the Haroldson home?"

"Yes," he nods. "This woman is selfish and rude. You will not mind?"

"I'll be alright. I'll just imagine she is a woman with a big ass, naked, and does not know it."

Suddenly, Paul erupts into loud boisterous laughter. It is the most natural moment Alex has seen the man have. There is no artifice to his solemn expression. His dark brown eyes twinkle. His heavy chin comes up from its usual downward angle. "Big ass?"

"Yes," Alex says, putting her hands on her own ass, as she wiggles it from side to side, "I have a small ass." She shrugs her shoulders. "It works for me." ***

As Paul said, Mrs. Haroldson is selfish and rude to everyone, except Aeolus P. Cerigo. She is dismissive of Alex, "Oh, he brought you again. Well, stay out of the way." And then adding "If, you can," while showing a great deal of doubt that Alex has the manners to remain silent when important details are being given to the renown designer.

Likewise, Vivian Haroldson is disdainful of Marklin Anders, Paul's assistant. However, when she learns Marklin is taking notes for Paul, she often links her arm through his, disregarding that she interferes with Marklin's ability to write on the notepad he carries. Marklin's frequent, slightly confused, glances at Paul, tells Alex something is different about the way Paul is acting. However, Alex has no experience to determine what that difference might be.

A tour through a home owned by people who enjoy their space and care for their investment could not be farther from the morning spent in the current home of Harold and Vivian Haroldson. As the woman explains it, every room they enter is too narrow, or not large enough. Each room has too few windows and ceilings are too low. Colors are dull, carpets are drab and old, paint is not fresh, and nothing is modern or comfortable.

The short man, who spends most of the morning walking in step with Alex, is the photographer, Byron Pleasant. He spent half of the previous day in a helicopter, taking photos of several selected sites for the future construction. He gives Alex a number which she writes on her page and a name, which she learns is the name of the room. He gives her similar information as they move from room to room. The photographer takes his pictures as Alex listens to Vivian Haroldson talk. As the woman talks, Byron photographs the room's problems and Alex sketches what the woman describes for her preferences. Page after page her sketch book fills. At the mid-morning break she begins a second sketch book. At the noon break, Byron changes the memory cards in his digital cameras, and has a short conference with Marklin, both of them shaking their heads after glancing at Paul. However, they are ready for another session of listening to a woman, whom none of them like, talk of her wants and wishes, without a care given to cost or difficulty. Cost will be handled by her husband and difficulty is left to the expertise of Aeolus P. Cerigo.

Near mid-afternoon the cars are on the road to the airport where they wait in another lounge while the airplane is given the final inspection before the passengers fill the small cabin. The atmosphere in the lounge is fragile, with Marklin and Byron avoiding Paul as if his fuse is short and they fear they will be annihilated by the explosion. Both of their faces show the strain of three long and difficult days. The two men are startled by a sudden movement, jerk at a flash of light, and are agitated by a loudly spoken word. No one is interested in talking. It is as if they are individual turtles who have pulled their heads into their shells, afraid to come out for fear there is danger they cannot escape. Their caution is transmitted to Alex, who is also quiet.

As the airplane begins to taxi to the end of the runway, Marklin is sleeping, his Dramamine keeping him from nausea. Byron is sorting through his memory cards, putting them into individual envelopes he marks with notes for Paul. Alex is leaning back as far as her seat will go, slowly stretching her neck, flexing and relaxing her shoulders, and trying to find a comfortable position to relax. And Paul is staring straight out the window beside his seat.

When the airplane circles to align itself to its home landing strip, Paul leans over and taps Alex's knee. "You will give your apartment key to Byron. Miss Compton will pack a bag for you." Alex looks at Paul as if she is ready to explode. He raises his eyebrow, similar to the expression he gave her when he used the telephone in her room, "I pay the bills. I own your services." But, he does explain, "We will work at my home. There is the preliminary design to make."

Paul precedes her down the steps, jumps down the final step, turns around to put his hands around Alex's waist, and lifts her to the ground. He takes her arm and leads her straight through the lounge to the open rear door of a car waiting by the front door. She hears the trunk slammed shut and a moment later the car begins to move.

When Paul asks, "You can rest in the car?" Alex nods. He turns her around to face him as he slides into the corner of the rear seat, leans back and pulls her halfway across his lap, with her head resting on his shoulder. He tells her, "Put you feet up, we will be two hours."

Alex awakens as Paul is carrying her. "Sh-h-h, sh-h-h," he tells her. "I take you to the bed." Still half asleep, she raises her arm, puts it around his neck, and relaxes against him.

Sometime in the night, she rolls over and feels herself being pulled close to a warm body. She has a vague memory of lifting her hips while her clothes were removed, her head on a cool pillow, and warmth surrounding her.

As a faint light begins to fill the room, Alex hears a toilet flush and moments later, hands lift her to her feet, taking her to the bathroom. Her head is fuzzy, her shoulders hurt, her neck is stiff, and Paul is so gentle and caring of her needs that she wants to cry. He puts her back into the bed and curls himself around her. The next time she is awake, the room is filled with sunlight. Paul is pulling her from the bed, leading her through a sliding glass door and down the steps into a large tub full of swirling hot water.

"Oh, thank you," Alex says to Paul as he holds her hands until she settles in a deep bucket seat, with the hot water swirling just below her neck. "Heaven could never be so wonderful."

Alex chuckles. "In the days, when a goddess walked the land as a mortal, there were many slaves to care for the one they worshiped. You have but one humble slave."

"Why do you call me a goddess?"

"Ah, the goddess doubts her powers, does she? To honor his goddess this slave is polite to the Haroldson woman, despite her insults to the goddess. To show his regard for the goddess this slave does not show disdain for the monstrosity of a house. The slave protects the goddess from the shrew. This slave frightens his minions by his mild manners. Marklin and Byron are surprised to see the slave is tranquil. Only because the goddess is near can the slave be calm."

"Paul, you are a charlatan. Slave and goddess are foolish labels you have created to snare me into your web."

He grins and holds out his arms, "You will come to the slave for his sacrifice?"

Gingerly, Alex stands and takes one step until he can take her hands, pulling her to sit astride his hips. She rests her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Thank you for taking such good care of me. I am so tired." "Until Marklin arrives with your bag, I will keep you naked in my bed, so I can touch my goddess." She feels his body shaking as he chuckles in her ear. "Alas, we must then work."

Wearing only terrycloth robes, Paul and Alex are eating breakfast at a patio table set for three when Marklin arrives. He takes his seat as a plate of food is placed in front of him by one of the older women Alex has seen moving around the house, doing various household chores.

"Thank you Mattie," Paul acknowledges the food. "Can you unpack Miss Reardon's bags and show her to a room after breakfast?" He looks at Paul to say, "Based on the drawings Vivian Haroldson looked at, before we left yesterday, she has increased the size of the house by about twenty-five percent."

Paul nods, a faint smile on his face, and asks, "More or larger rooms?"

Marklin shrugs his shoulders. "She still wants that elevated, glass enclosed sunroom, to look out over that deep ravine. She has a grounds keeper who assures her he can partially divert a nearby stream through the ravine and create a pond. She has some idea of watching wildlife from her sunroom."

Paul puts his fork down on his plate and leans back in his chair. "They can obtain approval for this?"

Marklin nods, "Yes, Haroldson has a Senator in his pocket. When I asked, he said they will have approval before construction begins."

Paul nods, takes his eyes from Marklin, looks at Alex and smiles widely as he stands. "So, we will make the house for the shrew, eh?"

Finishing her coffee, as Paul leaves the patio, Alex notices Marklin is grinning. Because she has heard Paul call Mrs. Haroldson a shrew so many times, she cannot resist asking, "What is with this "shrew" he keeps calling her?"

Marklin lowers his voice. "He gets tired of the artificial hero worship these people heap on him. To diffuse this he has some idea in his head that each woman exhibits the characteristics of an animal, or in a few instances, an insect. It sort of helps him avoid using the word "bitch" all the time." He tries not to laugh, but Alex can see he likes Paul's nickname for Mrs. Haroldson.

"Oh, well," Alex explains, "I use a physical characteristic." When Marklin raises his eyebrows to question her, Alex grins and says, "I told Paul I just imagine she is a woman with a big ass. She's walking around naked, and does not know it."

Much as Paul had done, Marklin leans back and laughs, long and hard. He finally takes his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his eyes. "Oh goodness," he complains. "No wonder. That is priceless." He looks at Alex and knows she does not understand. It takes him a few minutes to explain that he and Bryon spent the whole day wondering if Paul might not be feeling well, or had already made up his mind he was not going to build a house for Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson, because he was being so easy to get along with. They waited all day for his explosion, fearing the later in the day he vented his anger, the worse it would be. He finally says he hopes Alex stays around a very long time. She is better at taming the tiger than anyone he has ever worked with and he has been with Paul for fifteen years.

For the remainder of the day, Paul, Alex, and Marklin spend their time in a room, the walls of which are covered with corkboard. Before noon, Byron's photos, Alex's drawings, and some of Marklin's descriptions are tacked to the walls, beginning to be grouped into rooms, exterior elevations, and interior design elements. Marklin often moves aside and watches, with a surprised look on his face, as Paul arranges a group of exhibits.

Arguments are frequent, good natured, and often heated, when there is a disagreement over which room the woman was speaking about when she talked of something she wanted. Only when Alex downloads all of Byron photos and compares the small numbers on her drawings with the numbers on the bottom of the photos can they figure out some of the half written notes Marklin struggled to write, with Vivian Haroldson holding on to his arm. Marklin stops, with his mouth half open in surprise, when Paul corrects him about something the woman said.

When Alex asks why someone wasn't carrying a voice recorder, Paul's face turns red and Marklin laughs. "Do you want to listen to her say all of that a second time?" He laughs again when Alex violently shakes her head.

Despite the various breaks during the day and for a leisurely served and enjoyed late dinner, all three of them are back in the windowless room, until late in the evening. They move a photo, tilt a head to look at a drawing, or stand behind Paul to watch his pencil moving. Alternately, he listens to suggestions, or seems to ignore what it going on around him. All the while, a rough sketch of the front of the house begins to appear on a large sheet of vellum, mounted on a tilted table Paul rolls around the room, while he consults the grouped exhibits on the walls. A small dusting is brushed aside as the cordless eraser removes a line, while another appears in its place, longer, shorter, or at a different angle.

He often abandons the front or rear basic design details of the house and walks around the large tables in the center of the room. He stops before another drawing and adds a detail or changes another. It is as if he can see something in his head and cannot make his pencil draw the lines he imagines.

Late in the evening, Marklin takes Alex's arm and leads her from the room, walks her to her bedroom and bids her, "Good night."

Catching his arm before he can walk away and whispering, although she need not do so, Paul is a long way from her bedroom, Alex asks, "How late will he work?"

Marklin shakes his head. "I've returned to that room after breakfast to find him still working. He will stop for an hour or a day. But his mind is working during that hour and all of that day. Get some rest. It takes us poor mortals a few days to recover from the last few days. Good night, Miss Reardon."

"Good night, Marklin." ***

"The goddess can give attention to her consort?" The words are whispered in her ear as Paul pulls Alex over on top of him and holds her head against him. She feels a fine tremor in the muscles of his arms wrapped around her and across his bare chest under her cheek.

"Paul, you will make yourself ill if you don't get some rest," Alex says as she lifts herself up and kisses him gently. He holds her head for a much deeper kiss, and then allows her head to come back to rest against him.

"Your slave, you have concern for him? You wish for more from your slave than the worship of his body?" His hands go up and down her back, resting on her hips for a moment, pressing her to himself, his growing erection resting between them.

"No, you are not my slave. You may be a slave to your art and your skill, but not to me."

"Ah yes. I step down to place you upon the pedestal. I can be the man, the slave. I can worship and adore the goddess. I can be mortal." He moves his hands to her shoulders and then down her arms, taking her hands and placing them on himself. "Marklin tells me I must not abuse your time. You have need of rest." His voice grows rough and intense. "I must have your touch. To feel alive again, you give me this?"

As gentle as he was, he becomes fierce. His arms go around her, crushing her to his chest as he rolls her over and kisses her. His mouth is hungry. He pushes his tongue between her lips and under her tongue brushing her tongue upward, swirling the tip of his tongue around the tip of hers. He sucks her tongue into his mouth and uses his to push it back into her mouth. He rubs his tongue on the roof of her mouth, with an intensity he does not seem able to control. And then he begins all over again, he cannot get enough of the taste of her and wants to share himself with her.

As suddenly as he seemed to attack her, he slows. His breathing is heavy as he grows gentle. His lips move across her face, touch her eyes and caress her forehead before moving to the tenderness of her neck.

He moves between her legs, his hands sliding up her torso under her shirt to cup her breasts in his hands and rests his face in her cleavage as his breathing slows. He takes deep breaths and blows through the material covering her. As a carefully controlled movement, he pulls the shirt over her head, drops it beside the bed, and smoothes her hair from her face.