The Quality of Her Tears

Lagrange had displayed the painting on an easel and at first glance I had to admit that it was a typical Alma-Tadema, done in his last years. It measured about 140 by 200 centimeters and it had his usual brilliant blues for skies and sea, set off with a sunburst of golds and yellows. Of course there was the marble, both in stone and in theatrically posing bodies. There were the colorful clothes and dreamy faces; the classic composition. I could see the attraction all right, but I once again wondered how the old guy ever got away with his kitschy tricks. Victorian soft porn I'd call it; forbidden sensuality covered by the excuse of noble art.

I studied the painting from closer up, once more convinced that I had never seen the piece before. So I shifted my attention back to 'my' report. It had my letterhead all right, and the lay out I always used – even my writing style. The signature looked genuine and had been notarized, although I didn't know the French notary. I hardly ever use foreign notaries. I sat back, utterly lost.

"Will it go up for auction?" I asked finally.

"Better not, don't you agree?" he replied. I did agree. Then I said: "Someone is counterfeiting my reports. I have to warn all the auction houses, galleries, big collectors and museums. Oh my God, I'm fucked. If they can't trust my reports, how can I do my job?"

Lagrange nodded.

So I consulted graphologists and other specialists to prove that the report and the signature were counterfeits, but they said it was all 'well within the parameters of authenticity.'

Next, I sent off hundreds of warnings to any and all business contacts I had. I was rewarded with warm sympathy and cold requests to stop working on current projects – sometimes uttered in the same sentence. No need to say there were no new jobs. I was well and truly screwed. Luckily the usual disclaimers protected me against direct sues, but the obvious breach of trust was bad enough to ruin all prospects in the longer run.

I checked out the notary's firm and it sure enough existed. But when I asked for the committed notary, they told me he'd left the firm and they had no idea where he might have gone. I knew it wouldn't help me in any way, but I nevertheless asked them to send a letter to Lagrange at Sotheby's to confirm this.

For the rest, all I could do was travel around the world and talk with people in the flesh. In Ghent, Belgium I discovered another painting I couldn't remember approving. It was a Flemish Renaissance wood panel attributed to one of the famous Van Eyck brothers. I had seen the rather small piece early last year. It was supposedly lost and recently found again; its existence was hinted at by a crudely done 16^th century copy. I remembered that I'd held off my approval at the time, for lack of historical support. And yet, here it was, approved – written and signed by me, and duly notarized.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. My brain raced. Then I smiled at the puzzled museum's conservator, the stout and undaunted Jan Lemaire, a friend of years.

"Okay," I said. "I remember seeing the thing. But I never wrote this. There is no counter expertise yet?" He shook his head no.

"Good," I said, slightly nauseated. "Maybe you should ask for a second opinion. I'll pay for it."

For the first time in years we didn't go out afterwards to have Flemish hesp and an Afflighem on draft – or two.

I decided to stop my search. There might be many more approvals of authenticity lying around in auction houses, strong boxes of collectors, galleries and museums, signed by me and just waiting to explode in my face – like time bombs. There would be loss of assignments. I didn't know how many new cases would be found, nor did I know how many of the paintings would be proven false. But I had to decide what to do.

I reported the Alma-Tadema incident to the FBI and the French Sécurité. I had no hope at all that they would solve the crimes anytime soon, if at all. I handed them copies of the false report and gave them all information I could gather. They went through the motions, but weren't really interested. I hadn't expected otherwise. This wasn't an art robbery. It wasn't even proven forgery. In their eyes it was just another possible swindle in the highly virtual bubble we call the art world. I just collected all the paperwork and put it in a safe deposit, waiting for the time I might need it.

As far as my short-term reputation, I was powerless. I knew by now that there was no way for me to stop what obviously had started rolling. The art world is built on word-of-mouth. It soon felt as if I was standing in a storm of whispers. It was an irresistible wind that slowly pushed me into the margin – and out of work. All I could do was tour the world and talk with the people I had known from the start – people who owed at least part of their careers and fortunes to me; people I considered my friends.

Ah, well – the illusions of friendship...

Mia.

The next invitation to the mansion proved to be for a real party. Of course Mia doubted that. She'd even resisted going at first. It had taken Jean-Luc a week of talking, wooing, wining, dining, and fucking before she succumbed. It also took a thousand-dollar dress by Oscar de la Renta – silver-gray, feathery, and definitely worn with bra and panties. Still her heart raced when she passed the entrance of the mansion, her arm through her lover's, both hands grabbing him tightly.

But a party it was.

A throng of people milled through the ancient building, men in smoking as well as expensively dressed women – actors, politicians, writers, models, singers. There was dancing to live music in the brilliantly lit orangery. Papa was there, of course, and some of his cronies. She'd stiffened when she saw him, but he was nice, behaving like a gentleman. She was glad, though, when Jean-Luc steered her away to the dance floor.

The evening soon got more relaxed after the accumulation of drinks eased her stress. The conversations got wittier; the laughs easier. So she never knew when exactly the dizziness crept in. It must have been on their way out. The last thing she felt was the cool silk lining of the fur cape on her skin as the cloakroom darkened around her.

She was naked when she came to. Faces of unknown men swam in and out of her vision. Uncountable hands were on her, caressing, kneading, slapping. Then she saw Papa looking down on her, smirking, right next to Jean-Luc, who smiled and nodded.

A syringe floated into her limited view. She felt a sting in her upper arm and a hot rush of bliss triggered a string of debilitating orgasms.

She had no idea how much time went by as she couldn't cling to consciousness long enough to realize what happened. It might have been days. It might as well have been weeks. She was in complete shock and before she even had a chance to get over its first impact, a regimen of needles, pills, plugs, dildos, clamps, ropes, chains and riding crops warped her sense of reality and pushed her into an abyss of cotton candy apathy.

When her mental training was added, she had no defense against the systematic humiliation. Stripped naked, body and mind, they made her walk amongst snobbish, well-dressed men and women. She was forced into publicly serving them in every possible way. She was a walking ashtray, her hair used as a napkin for greasy fingers, as were her breasts. She became an object, casually chatted about. Her bodily assets and her behavior were commented upon as if she weren't there. There was the lending out to strangers and groups of strangers. There was the dressing up in outrageous and often silly outfits, including horses' bits, penis gags, crazy platform heels, butt plugs with tails attached, electrical teasers on clit and nipples, remote controlled vibrators – and on, and on, slowly nudging her into inevitable capitulation.

I remember Mia tied next to the urinals in a bathroom, her mouth stretched open to catch the steaming piss of male party guests. She was cast in a number of hard-core pornographic movies and sent away at night to whore herself out in the Bois de Bologne. And all the while she was praised for what she did, just to be cussed and flogged the next day for doing exactly the same. Her body was soiled while her brain was being washed – creating me.

They isolated Mia efficiently. When at last her things were returned to me, I found out that she'd been 'on the Mediterranean coast,' spending late summer down there with her new lover. At least, that was what I read in her mail. There were pictures of her too, in sunny bikini's, lounging by blue sparkling pools.

Scattered memories, as I said, but I still recall the girl waking up on what must have been the first morning of her captivity. She lay on a bed, naked, her arms strung up, cuffed and chained. I remember how all her joints felt stiff and painful, as did her mouth, her vagina and her anus. A cool breeze washed over her body when a door opened. In its brilliant rectangle stood a man she knew well. I can still feel her rush of foolish expectation. He walked towards her, taking her in his arms. She broke down sobbing. Reassuring noises left his mouth as he rocked her body. "Je t'aime, Mia, c'est tout qu'est d'importance," he murmured. "Je t'adore. Tu es si belle, si glorieuse. I am so proud of you." It only made her cry louder.

Her voice swam in a torrent of tears and mucus. "Take me with you, Jean-Luc," she whispered. "They have been so awful to me." He cradled her, murmuring soothing words into her ear. She rattled the chains that captured her hands.

"Please, Jean-Luc..." And her body shook from fresh misery.

He ignored her pleas. The stubbles on his jaw scratched her skin as he hugged her. She tried to push him away, but he held her tight. She moaned into his chest, begging to be freed. He just murmured, softly. A needle stung her arm and a by then familiar warmth rushed through her veins.

He rose, standing over her. He opened his pants and kicked her thighs apart. Then he knelt and slid forward, splitting her vagina in one hard thrust. She cried out in dismay, but her body responded at once to his fucking. Soon orgasms rolled on and on until he pulled out and splashed his sperm on her glowing face.

He left her without a word or a glance. She crouched into a ball, utterly lost in her drugged dreams. A large, rubber booted man came in. He dragged her off the bed and hosed her down with ice-cold water.

Mia's training had begun.

It changed the girl she'd been into the woman I am now. They burned her in hells of pain, only to swiftly abduct her to heavens of pleasure. She never knew which would be when, or why. After only weeks she started mixing the two up, as the human brain is prone to do. She came hard during her daily floggings, assuming her hell had become the gate of heaven – and eventually it did.

She also learned how to distill pride from degradation. Soon her nipples contracted when she only thought of what they might do to her. She kept calling it shameful and dirty, but it no longer stopped her body from reacting hard and eager. Finally her conditioned mind responded because of the dirt, the shame and the degradation. It had become as helpless as her body.

The last straw her vanishing mind clung to was the thought that she did it for her lover – the almost mythical man who by now was just a mirage.

I remember the exact moment when Mia became me. She lay on her bed that afternoon – not really thinking, just letting her mind drift on the shapeless sea that her consciousness had become. Hearing the keys clanging on their massive ring woke her like Pavlov's bell. The door opened and right beside her giant warden stood Jean-Luc. He looked handsome; his smile made her pussy flow, just as it flowed for any male she saw, lately. Like a well-trained doll she slid off her bed and took her position, kneeling – thighs spread, tits out, eyes down. The routine gave her comfort – as did any routine by now. They spelled safety in a confusing world.

She hadn't seen much of Jean-Luc in the months of her training. Once every two or three weeks he had visited her at night, when she nursed her freshly raped and flogged body on her lonely bed. He held her then, telling her he loved her. He never fucked her, just held her until her sobbing stopped.

That special afternoon he walked in. Standing over her he smiled.

"Bonjour, Mia," he said. His voice made her shiver. "It has been a long time, chérie, but you have spent it well." His smile widened. She dared looking up, searching for his eyes in the strewn light. She'd been trained to be silent.

He reached down, cupping her left tit, sliding the nipple through his fingers. She felt the thrill she was supposed to feel. Then he stood straight again, arms folded before his chest.

"Gaston here has brought you clothes," he said. "Please put them on."

The question confused Mia after weeks of essential nakedness. A bewildering jumble of possibilities invaded her mind. Would they go out? Would they have visitors? Would it be over? The idea of things being 'over' scared her. It implied insecurity – or maybe chaos.

She fumbled with the plain white bra and panties, the awkward pantyhose, the flowery printed blouse and the knee-length skirt. The shoes were modestly heeled pumps. Gaston, the giant who'd so often flogged and raped her, stood aside with a pink ladies' purse in his paws. He handed it to her when she was ready. They left the cell to walk down a corridor – Gaston up front, Jean-Luc guiding her with a hand on her elbow.

His grip was warm, secure; she leaned into it.

On the circular driveway at the foot of the steps stood a taxi, waiting with the engine idling. The passenger door hung open. It was a sweet sunny day. She hesitated on the upper step. Then she turned to face Jean-Luc. He smiled, nodding, urging her on to go down to the waiting cab.

"You are free, Mia," he said. "Isn't that great? Why don't you run down the stairs and be your own self again?"

The words made no sense to her – they might as well have been in ancient Greek. 'Free,' he'd said. And 'be your own self again.' The words scared her.

"Will you... go with me?" she asked, trembling from the audacity of her words. He just laughed.

"Oh, no," he said. "Of course not. I'll stay here. You once asked me to set you free, remember? I'm sorry I didn't, but now's the day. You are free, Mia, go."

While he talked he never smiled. His hands went down to the front of his slacks where he softly rubbed the bulge forming behind the linen. Mia saw it, but looked away. She turned and took two steps down the stairs towards the waiting taxi before she stopped again. Behind the trees was Paris, she knew. The thought should have excited her, but right then she felt strangely empty. The fake little job, the streets, the people, they all seemed unreal. And beyond Paris she saw the utterly decent town where she grew up, choked by its rings of Suburbia – and its very own brand of boredom. She remembered the disaster of her last visit. What was there for her but the mind-numbing perspective of marriage, missionary sex, spoilt children, churches, gossip, PTA's, soccer games, shopping malls and boring, boring, boring Saturday barbecues?

She turned around again. Jean-Luc had opened his fly; she saw his belt dangling. From the hollow of his hand lurched the head of his swollen cock. Its foreskin formed a ring around its slit. It was like a cat's eye. Then he pulled the skin back, making it slide over the purple mushroom. A sparkling drop of pre-come welled up from the eye. Mia was mesmerized.

She didn't know she'd moved until she was just one step away from the object of her trained obsession. Her hand reached out for it, but stopped when she heard a mocking laugh.

"Your taxi is waiting, honey," Jean-Luc said. He'd stepped back, but never stopped stroking his penis. The girl didn't seem to hear him; she just stared as the cock slowly filled out and rose. She came closer – walking in a haze of conditioned dreams. She dropped to her knees, her mouth opening automatically. But right before her tongue could touch, Jean-Luc's free hand pushed her forehead back. He laughed again.

"This isn't how we trained you, is it, chérie?" he said. She looked up, her eyes puzzled.

"Look at yourself, girl," he went on. "You're dressed like a soccer mom. You know better."

She understood. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse, opening them one after the other. Her eyes never left his as she opened the blouse and let it slide off her shoulders. The bra followed, fluttering like a huge white butterfly to the ground. She rose and pulled off her skirt, wriggling out of her pantyhose and her granny panties. Her head started buzzing; she panted as she rushed to be naked. Then she once more sank to her knees, feeling the coarseness of the stones.

"Bonne fille," he said, grabbing her hair and pulling her closer. He slapped her face with the now hard erection, marking her cheeks with its glistening juice. Mia tried to catch the head with her open mouth, but it escaped.

"Mais non," he chuckled. "Pas comme ça. You have to beg for it."

His words seemed to break the spell. Mia's eyelashes fluttered and she swallowed. She looked around and down to the taxi. The driver had left his car, no doubt to better see the naked girl kneeling in front of a swollen cock. A flash of long-forgotten embarrassment flooded her. Then she turned back to Jean-Luc and the presence of his wonderful cock.

"Dis-moi que tu es la mienne, Mia. Tell me you are mine." His voice seemed distant. She closed her eyes and when they opened again, she was I.

"I am yours, Jean-Luc," I said, without hesitation. "Please let me suck your cock."

His flesh was hot as it slid past my lips, caressed by the eager curling of my tongue. His taste and the velvet skin on his shaft brought back a rush of memories – and when his bulgy head nudged the back of my mouth, I knew I was home. There was no place else to go. I relaxed and swallowed him down my throat, as I had been taught. He sighed and praised me for having become so much better. It filled me with pride and I started bobbing my head to fuck his glorious gift.

His hands were at the back of my neck, fingers entwined. And just as he drew my lips down to his pubes, cutting of my breath, another hand touched my hip. Inches of hard flesh tore into my flowing cunt, pushing me forward. I heard Jean-Luc chuckle. "Vas-y, mon ami," he said. "Je t'en prie. It is only right to collect at least your tip when your ride has been canceled."

A roaring orgasm sealed my fate.

Carl.

On one of my PR-tours, as I called them, I was back in Paris. I attended the opening of a show at one of the galleries at the Place des Vosges in the Marais district. It was hell, lately, to walk in and know what thoughts really lived behind the eyes watching me. I grabbed a glass of wine and started mixing, latching on to the first friendly face I saw – there weren't many. After getting through to the young female artist and congratulating her and her agent on the exhibition, I tried making contact with the gallery owner. He was a man I had gone to school with, but I guess he got suddenly busy when he saw me approaching.

Studying one of the colorful lithographs, I felt a finger touching my shoulder. I turned around and looked into a smiling, bespectacled face, slightly Mediterranean under a shock of black hair. He held out his hand; I shook it. Something in his face was familiar; I must have met him somewhere, but too short and fleeting to stick a name to it.

"Je suis Jean-Luc Maynard," he said. The name rang no bell. "I am an arts professor at Sorbonne and Claudette, the young woman artist, was one of my students. I know who you are and I was wondering what you might think of her work. Especially since you aren't really into contemporary art." He smiled.