The Foundation Ch. 03

After weeks of unrelenting stone carving, Caroline had run herself ragged and she was somehow still behind schedule. The coming end to summer, with all its implications for impending deadlines, had taken on an apocalyptic dimension.

Perhaps it would've been feasible if there were three of her: one Caroline to work full time on art; one Caroline for administration (such as paying her credit card bills on time, which she had forgotten); and lastly, one Caroline to pursue future opportunities that might advance her career.

"Or you could just hire an assistant," said Virgil, who'd been patiently listening.

Caroline sat up. She'd been sprawled out on his couch, self-indulgently elaborating on her cloning fantasy as if she was in psychoanalysis. Now she was embarrassed to admit that a more practical solution hadn't even occurred to her. She frowned. "Oh, huh. I don't know..."

"Why not?"

She sighed, "For one, I'm broke."

"What about an intern?"

"Why would someone work for me for free?"

"A student would be lucky to learn from you for free! They're already in debt to go to school."

She turned to look at him. His eyes were closed, and somehow he balanced with immaculate posture on a yoga ball. Perfectly serene, he was the picture of enlightenment. Of course he was at ease in dispensing ethically dubious advice.

Virgil rented a neighboring space in her building. Since they met in the elevator last year, the two had become friendly. He was a conceptual dancer/ poet, and used his mostly empty studio for rehearsals and photoshoots, but he kept a little sitting area at the front.

At first, it was unclear how he was able to afford all this; he didn't have a day job, hadn't gotten any big grants, and there wasn't exactly a huge market for conceptual dance/ poetry. Sometimes he made vague references to his patrons, but shied away from any further discussion.

Then, one late night at the studio, they met for a smoke break. Caroline, as usual, looked like Pigpen from Charlie Brown-- puffs of dust emanating from her studio clothes. He, on the other hand, was wearing a silk robe. His attire finally prompted further explanation of his "side business": privately selling photographs and videos of himself in lingerie to an "exclusive clientele of high-end gay fetishists".

He didn't have a typical dancer's build, more broad than long, but he was fit and magnetic to look at. Handsome in the way male models often were-- a mesmerizing mixture of masculine and feminine features-- he had a sharp angular bone structure softened by pouty lips, and his deep complexion and dark hair contrasted against his shocking, light green eyes.

He opened one of those eyes curiously because she'd been staring at him without responding for too long.

Caroline cleared her throat. "I just don't know how helpful an intern would actually be..."

He had unfolded his legs and leaned, rolling until he would almost certainly fall forward, but instead landed on his feet gracefully.

Exhaling the breath she'd held during this maneuver, she finished her thought, "I'm not very good at delegating."

Stretching, he tilted his head forward and rolled his neck out he spoke, "Work on getting better at it. Otherwise you will never be bigger than you are now. Big artists don't do it alone. They have studio assistants."

She groaned, and slumped back into the couch. Of course he was right. But she didn't have to like it. "Where's your intern then?"

Without hesitation he replied, "Puerto Rico."

She laughed, "Oh really? What's his name?"

"Luis. He's a remote personal assistant that helps me with my business."

"Oh." Now she felt silly. "Like... your side business-business?"

"I have to keep up a certain level of contact with my clients. I was doing it myself for a while, but it was a lot of work. It didn't leave me much mental space to do my real work, so I hired someone online."

"That's pretty genius, actually."

He shrugged, still stretching. "A lot of people do it now... Caroline, if I may, where are your patrons in all this?"

"My who?" She was genuinely confused.

"That couple you see."

"They're not my... they bought some work from me, but it's not like that."

"Didn't you say they wanted to support your career?"

"I guess? I think they want good things for me. Like they care about me?"

"Weren't they going to host some sort of artist dinner for you?"

Caroline went pale.

When she had told Virgil the story about the hotel room and their offer, she'd intended it to be titillating gossip. It seems he had interpreted it as a career update.

In truth, she hadn't heard much from them lately, since her run-in with Margot and Liz. Some friendly texts, mostly photos of meals they were making, but nothing remotely flirtatious and nothing about the dinner. It was weird.

She let out a large, inadvertent sigh. "Maybe it was just... idle pillow talk. I don't know."

"You should follow up about that. Make it happen."

"I guess I don't want to seem... pushy?"

"It is a delicate thing," he conceded. "But all you have to do is remind them of what they want." His angelic, full lips curled into an impish smile.

---

Later that night, against every instinct, she wrote a text to them to ask if they had a date in mind for the party, along with a suggestive selfie.

They didn't respond for an entire day. When they did get back to her, it was to say that their plans were up in the air, and that they'd check back in when they returned to the city.

After the initial gut punch of receiving that message, she decided that it was actually Fine. She was completely Fine. It was no big deal, and not worth getting upset about. She was so, so busy, that she actually didn't have a single spare second to worry about things like that...

Except that in the studio, when she was absorbed in the flow of chiseling, her thoughts would wander.

Next thing she knew, she was gritting her teeth and imagining elaborate scenes in which Arthur and Margot found some new plaything in the Hamptons and forgot about her. It got to be distressing enough that she had to force herself to stop working. She couldn't afford to make a mistake because her hands were angry.

A week later, to her surprise, she got a text message from Arthur. It was Friday, just before Labor Day weekend. He invited her to have dinner with him-- only him-- at their townhouse that night.

An overture like this was exactly what she'd been waiting for, so it was a little confusing that her first thought was to turn him down.

After all, she was Fine, and not upset at all about how they had blown her off. But she was so busy! Far too busy to take a night off.

Her stomach grumbled, and she thought about the dinner that awaited her if she declined his invitation: baby carrots and hummus unceremoniously shoveled into her mouth, standing over her kitchen sink after midnight.

Instead, that evening she found herself nervously standing on the stoop of their West Village townhouse with a bottle of wine in hand.

She'd even gotten dressed for the occasion, wearing a loose white linen shift-dress with puff sleeves, and had pinned her usual pigtail braids up like an overgrown brunette Heidi. The childlike look was complete with bruised shins and chewed fingernails. There hadn't been much time for personal upkeep lately.

When he answered the door, she wasn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't the green and white striped apron Arthur wore.

"Don't look so shocked, Caroline," he admonished her, his voice unusually chipper and familiar, as if no time had passed at all. He accepted the bottle of wine from her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and invited her in. Dizzy, she followed.

Music emanated throughout the house seemingly from nowhere. It was a genre she didn't recognize: kind of jazzy electronic hip hop instrumentals from, she guessed, the 90s. Whatever was cooking smelled wonderful. And the central air conditioning was on full blast. She had almost forgotten what that was like.

He chatted animatedly as he brought her back to the kitchen. "Excellent luck, I had a meeting that got me back to the city but they canceled at the last minute. Couldn't have dragged the family away from the weekend festivities, and I was already out here, so now I get a little time to myself."

He put the sweating wine in the fridge to chill, and, sliding over to the stove, stirred onions in a large stockpot before setting the burner on the lowest setting. He turned to face her.

"God, look at you. I can't believe I get to have you all to myself tonight."

Despite her misgivings, the compliment warmed her cheeks. It was true that they hadn't been alone together since the first time at her studio. Long ago she'd resigned herself to the thought that it had been a one-off thing.

He continued, as if reading her mind, "That is, if you aren't too spoiled by always having two people telling you what to do."

She bit her lip, and looked down. "You're right," she said, cryptically.

"Right?" he repeated, like he might've misheard her.

Her heart pounded, and she felt her whole body flush. "Like you said. I guess I'm spoiled."

"Is that so?"

"I mean, this whole home-cooked dinner date thing seems a little trite, don't you think?"

She forced herself to look him straight in the eye, challenging him, but her hands were starting to shake. So she leaned back against the substantial kitchen table for support, to compose herself.

Arthur seemed surprised by the provocation, but not in a bad way. His dark eyes shone. "Trite?"

"You know, corny. Uninspired."

"Why don't you have a seat?"

"Standing is fine."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't reply. He returned to his work at the stove.

There was already an open bottle of white wine sitting out that he poured liberally into the stockpot. Then he used a wooden spatula to scrape at the bottom. She watched his hands as he worked-- they were too big for his slender frame and should have seemed ungainly, but there was a kind of grace in the way he moved. She'd stolen glances of his hands before, as he fastened cuffs around her wrists, tying, untying, gripping... God, she had missed that.

He was engrossed in his task and in the music, but occasionally glanced over his shoulder and seemed amused by her attention. He'd added some kind of stock, Worcestershire sauce, fresh thyme, and a bay leaf to the pot. After covering the soup with a little flourish, he finally said something.

"A home-cooked dinner isn't interesting enough for you?"

Actually she'd enjoyed watching him, but kept that to herself. Instead, she shrugged in apology, but without any remorse. "You've done better."

"It isn't like you to be so... uncivil." His voice dropped into a more threatening register, but he was still smiling.

"I'm... testing it out," she stumbled.

"Testing what out, exactly?" He asked her as he began to calmly untie the apron, not breaking eye contact.

Her face was starting to burn. "Um, testing out... how you'd react?"

"And? How is it going?"

"Not sure yet..."

"How do you want me to react, Caroline?"

She'd abruptly reached the end of her rebellious streak; it was a lot shorter than she realized. She cast her eyes to the floor. "I don't know..."

He placed the apron on the counter behind him and stalked toward her.

"Because you're always so good, you wanted to see how I'd deal with a bad girl, is that it?"

"Maybe?"

The table had been a support before, but now she felt like she'd backed herself into a corner. He was standing in front of her, his arms crossed. "What a shame. We could've had such a nice night together."

"We still could," She offered, so very meek now.

"No, I'm afraid not. Because Caroline decided tonight she'd experiment with being a brat. And while she looks so sweet and innocent, too." Tenderly, he ran his hand along a braid pinned to her head, before his fingers spread, gripping a broad swath of hair. He slowly pulled her head backward, baring her neck, while she tried to hold herself up braced against the table. "You didn't want to have a nice night, did you?"

She didn't answer.

He gripped her hair more tightly. "That wasn't a rhetorical question, Caroline."

"I didn't know what to want!" She squeaked, and it was the truth.

Then he suddenly released his grasp on her hair. She held herself in the same uncomfortable position, her neck bared, breathing heavily, afraid to move.

He placed his hands outside hers on the table, and leaned in.

"I'll tell you about the nice time I wanted to have. I thought it might be nice to have dinner together and catch up. Then I'd have you for dessert, right here on the table-- make you come with my mouth as many times as I wanted."

She moaned, twisting and writhing, as he leaned further into her, nudging his thigh between her legs.

"Now she's all ears." In the space he had pried open, he scooped a hand under the hem of her dress, slipped her white cotton panties aside, and easily sunk two fingers inside her. "Greedy little cunt," he whispered to her, as he held her still, impaled on his hand.

She shuddered with pleasure at his treatment, at those words, at his fun in doing this to her.

"After I'd had my fill, I was going to take you upstairs and fuck you up the ass, and make you thank me properly for all my attention."

Caroline moaned, feeling herself becoming embarrassingly wet. It was beyond comprehension how badly she had needed, somehow, exactly this.

"Then, if you had been good, I was going to tell you more about the party that we want to host for you. But I guess you don't want to hear about that."

He had hit a nerve. She jerked her head up to look at him, "No!"

He gave her a hard look, "No?"

"That's not fair. Please don't do that to me, tease me like that." Now she was upset, in a way that was clearly not a part of the game any more.

He withdrew his fingers from her, wiping them on his apron as he stepped back. His eyebrows creased in concern, but he said nothing. He was waiting for an explanation.

Everything she'd been suppressing was rapidly surfacing, and she couldn't hold it back.

"It's just like... It had been a while since it came up, and then I thought..." She paused, the frustration mounting in her voice, "That you forgot? Or you weren't serious? So I asked about it, and you guys took forever to get back to me, and put me off, like I was being ridiculous for asking!"

"It wasn't ridiculous, Caroline, it's just... complicated."

"Well, what the fuck was I supposed to think after you treated me like that?"

He heaved an impressive sigh.

"We were serious, we still are-- but I'm sorry we gave you cause to doubt it... I don't really want to get into it, and it's not an excuse, but this summer has been... difficult... and we weren't in a good place to plan anything."

She hung her head. "I haven't been having an easy summer either, Arthur."

"I know, and you're right." Then he lifted her chin so they could look at one another, directly. "It wasn't respectful to you."

The way he accepted responsibility so readily made her eyes well up with angry tears. "It was fucked up."

He pulled her into his chest. "I know."

Stiff at first, she allowed him to hold her and did not reciprocate, her face smashed into his shirt indignantly while she let out a few sobs. They stood like that for a while. She softened, and her tears subsided.

"I'm sorry, Caroline."

"Thank you for saying that," she sniffled, pulling away.

He looked at her sadly. "If you want to leave I'll understand... But I'd still like to feed you, you look a little thin, honestly."

She gave him a weak smile, her face still red and tear-streaked. "It's the stress and the heat. Really kills my appetite."

"Will you stay with me? We can just talk."

She wiped her eyes, and nodded.

"Would you like to pour us both a glass of wine?"

She nodded again, and he leaned forward to kiss the top of her head.

When her task was complete, Caroline set herself up on the countertop adjacent to the stove and sipped wine, watching quietly while Arthur finished the meal.

Dinner was classic French onion soup topped by melted Gruyere and served with crusty hunks of sourdough baguette. It was very unseasonal, but it was tasty and filling. Most importantly, it was not baby carrots and hummus.

They ate together at the kitchen table and lit some candles as the sun started to set.

Conversation moved ahead, cautiously. She tried to ask general questions about their summer vacation without straying into unwanted territory-- though she was, of course, terribly curious about whatever trouble he had alluded to earlier. He regaled her with stories safe for public consumption: of sailboats, and skinned knees, and a memorable cedar plank salmon he'd made for a dinner party. In turn, he inquired about the progress of her commission. She was flattered by his interest and memory for details about the project, but she tried not to bristle too much when the specificity of his questions stressed her out.

After dinner, he brought out a bottle of armagnac and two scoops of vanilla ice cream. He had some brandy, but seemed mainly content to watch her eat. She looked, and felt, much better after the meal and was fortified by the alcohol.

She set her spoon in the empty dish, and looked at him with eyes narrowed. "Not that I'm complaining... but I thought there was a different menu for dessert?"

"Is that what you want?"

Her answer was immediate, "Yes."

Arthur moved around to her side of the table. Standing over her, he placed a hand on her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into him.

His voice was quiet, "You're going to have to ask me for it."

She groaned and, craning her neck, looked pleadingly up at him.

"Go ahead," he gave her face a little pat, and crossed his arms.

"Please... can we do what you said earlier?"

"More specific."

"Please, will you go down on me?"

"And after that?"

"After that..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Will you fuck my ass... and then we can talk about the party? Please?"

He looked pleased, maybe relieved. He nodded, and signaled for her to stand.

Gently lifting her dress over her head, he left her in her white cotton panties while he admired her like that for a moment, tracing his hands over her breasts.

"Go upstairs, get on the bed. I'll be there in a second."

Caroline was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, so she could see him come into the bedroom. When he entered, he dimmed the lights. He moved to the bed and turned her so that her legs hung off the side. He knelt, and pressed his face into her clothed mound and breathed in.

"God I missed you," he whispered. She let out a soft moan.

Despite his earlier threats, it was very nice, several times over, before she was howling with sensitivity, and begging him to fuck her.

--

Laid back on the bed and rolling a condom onto his cock, Arthur pointed to a bottle of lube on the bedside table. "You're going to take my cock up your ass, and I'm going to let you do all the work."

This was new. She must have looked worried, because he asked her what she was thinking.

"You mean... like with me on top?"

He nodded.

"I don't know if I can do that," she demurred.

He was resolute: "Try for me. Go slow if you need to."

Still concerned, she picked up the lube and straddled him.

He reached up to stroke her cheek, then gave her a light, affectionate slap. "That's my little overachiever." She smiled.

It was awkward, trying to hover over him at the right height so that she could control the depth and speed of the entry. Once she had managed to slip the tip inside, gasping, she looked down at him to make sure it was right.

He seemed pleased, "That's good. Keep going, and I want you looking at me the whole time. Understand?"