The Painter & the Ballerina Pt. 01

"Yes, monsieur." Margot followed his instructions, bringing the jug of water and the sponge into the main room and setting them down of the table next to the basin. Degas, meanwhile, was setting up his easel and mixing his paint.

"Take off your clothes, now," he said, moving a handful of paint brushes off of a chair, sitting down on it, and looking up at Margot expectantly.

Margot offered him a shy smile as she untied her apron and began to undo the buttons of her dress. She watched his eyes trained on her, taking in every subtle movement of her fingers as she worked her way from her collar all the way down the length of her torso. Degas's face was stoic, but Margot thought she could detect a glimmer of excitement behind his eyes. Even Edgar Degas, with his removed, scientific gaze, was not completely impervious to a good striptease. As she slid her dress down and stepped out of it, she felt acutely aware of every movement her body made. She noticed the slight trembling in her legs, the way her flesh realigned itself as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She slipped off her underthings and stood in front of the painter, naked.

Degas studied her. "Your shoulders are tense," he told her. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No! Well, maybe a little..."

"A little discomfort is good. Try to pretend I'm not here," Degas told her. "I want to see what you look like when no one else is around. Take a bath."

Margot tried to follow his instructions and act as she would when she were alone, but she found herself second guessing herself. She walked to the basin and wondered, is this how I usually walk? Her limbs did not tingle so excitedly, surely, when she bathed at home or at the dance company. Her lips did not tremor as they did now, and she did not feel moisture swell between her legs as she now did.

She stepped into the empty basin, dipped the sponge in the water jug, and began scrubbing her body. The water was cool and invigorating. She started with her arms, then massaged her neck with the sponge, then moved to her torso. She glanced up at Degas as she ran the sponge over her breasts. "Don't look at me," he told her, and she quickly looked down. She dipped the sponge in the water jug again and stretched her arm up over her shoulders to wash off her upper back. This task required an awkward twisting motion, and she was just beginning to fear that she was looking ridiculous in front of the painter when he interjected.

"Freeze," he said. "Stay exactly where you are with that same expression on your face."

Margot obeyed, maintaining the contorted position and keeping her eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, the muscles on her face immobile. She felt ridiculous, caught in the middle of an awkward posture. There was none of the rehearsed beauty or grace of the ballet in her now-she was cold and wet, and her body was contorted into a thoroughly unladylike pose. It was embarrassing, but it was also thrilling in its intimacy.

"Continue as you were," Degas said finally, releasing her mercifully. Margot let out a sigh of relief and continued washing herself. She dipped the sponge in the water and ran it over her stomach and her lower back, her buttocks, her legs. Her skin prickled with goosebumps where the water on her skin had begun to dry, and her nipples had hardened visibly. She stooped down, bending over almost double to wash off her feet.

Once again, it was in this most undignified of positions that Degas issued the command, "Stop. Keep still." Margot obeyed, her back stooped, her hair dangling downward, her legs slightly bent, her hands clutching the sponge to her feet. It was not a physically taxing position to hold-not like the ballet positions he had made her mainstain when he'd drawn her the week before-but it did activate the muscles in her legs. She noticed the tension in her legs, her hands, and her upper back as she kept herself still for the painter and looked at the floor.

She heard Degas stand up and walk around her. His chair in front of the easel had been facing her front; he now walked in a circle around the basin where she was bent over, observing her from all sides. When he arrived at the spot directly behind Margot, he reached toward her and ran a single finger downward from the small of her back across her hip and down her thigh. Margot felt her pulse quicken. She and drew in a sharp breath as she felt the finger graze her wet skin. The position exposed her crassly, she knew; she could almost feel Degas's eyes consuming the folds of her nether regions, which moistened at the exposure. She longed for him to touch her there-how easy it would be for him to simply slip his fingers inside her! But a single finger to the thigh was all the satisfaction the artist would give her.

Degas began re-arranging objects around the basin. He placed the water jug on the ground, then reconsidered and positioned it again on the table. Then he dragged a decorated yellow rug and placed it next to the basin. It dawned on Margot that this must be the reason why he kept so many rugs in the studio, in order to have a variety of patterns to paint. She heard Degas pick up the water jug again.

"Your hair is too dry," he told her.

Before Margot could register the implication of this comment, she felt a deluge of cold water inundate her head and neck. "Aaahh!" she cried, shivers coursing through her body. With effort, she kept her posture as still as possible as she felt the water drip down her head and her face. She breathed in sharply and exhaled on a low moan. Degas chucked to himself.

She heard him sit down in his chair and rustle some paintbrushes, then silence. Margot could not see him through the mantle of her wet hair, but she guessed that he was painting her. She stood stooped and still as the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock. She focused on her breathing, calmly, in and out. She watched the droplets of water trickle down from her hair onto the bottom of the metal basin.

The stooped posture began to strain her back and her legs. She found that it was taking more and more effort to hold every body part still. She tried to keep her mind occupied as the minutes ticked by in silence by imagining future scenarios. After he was done painting her, would he avail himself of her nakedness? Would he touch her, kiss her, penetrate her? Margot wanted to give herself to him wholeheartedly; she wanted to feel him inside of her and bring him to ecstasy with her body. But she did not know if sex was an aspect of Degas's plan, or even his desire. It was, she realized, perhaps the first time she had ever had a lover (if she could even call Degas that) who had made her want him more than he had wanted her.

Margot spent an hour and a half bent over motionless in the basin before Degas allowed her to rest. When he did, she gratefully straightened her back and stretched her sore muscles.

"You will come back here at the exact same time on your next day off," he told her. "I like painting you at this time of day when the sun comes in through the window."

"Yes, I can do that," Margot said. She hesitated, then asked, "May I...may I see your painting?"

He smiled broadly. "Yes! Yes, of course, come around and look."

Margot stepped out of the basin and came to stand next to Degas's chair to take a look at the product of his labor. It was still in its early stages, she could tell. The brushstrokes were rough and broad, and the shapes inside it were only beginning to take form. Even so, it captured an almost uncanny feeling of intimacy. She saw herself, bent over double, her face hidden behind her hair. It was an awkward position, and there was a kind of joyful humility in its awkwardness. She could see the tension in the muscles of her stooped back, the way the light from the window reflected off of her skin, revealing a whole world of hidden colors that played across its sloping surface. He had captured both the privacy of the position and the voyeurism of its exposure-tension and release, peace and discomfort.

Margot let out a sigh. "I love it," she told him.

"I was worried you might think it was unflattering," he said.

"No, it isn't. It's...real. That's what makes it so erotic."

"Kneel down in front of me, I want to ask you something."

"Okay." Margot obeyed, her heart racing. Maybe she'd been wrong; maybe he did want to have his way with her. She knelt in front of him, still naked, and he took hold of a handful of her hair. The tension sent a thrill through Margot's body.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"I want...I want to be your companion, Monsieur. I want to make you feel good."

"Don't tell me what you think I want to hear; tell me what you actually want."

Margot considered this. "I do want to make you feel good. I want you to take hold of my body and use it for your own pleasure. I think that would give me pleasure."

He reached one hand down and grazed Margot's nether regions with his fingers. Margot obediently moved her legs apart a smidge to allow him easier access, but he withdrew his hand almost immediately and brought it up to his face. Margot saw with a flush of embarrassment that his fingers were covered with moisture. He rubbed the residue of Margot's arousal between his fingers and grinned at her.

"It aroused you when I painted you in all those positions, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"What about it? The humiliation? The subservience?"

"All of it," Margot admitted.

"I have something to show you." Degas began unbuttoning his trousers. He undid his suspenders and lowered his pants to reveal what lay underneath. Margot looked up at him with anticipation, ready to show him all she knew about how to offer pleasure to the male sex. But she did not see what she had expected to see. His penis was trapped inside of a small metal cage, the purpose of which seemed to be to prevent it from ever attaining erection. Margot looked at the device with puzzlement. It had a small padlock around one side and seemed to be fastened quite securely around the painter's testicles. Degas registered Margot's bewilderment and chuckled to himself. "Not what you expected to see, is it?"

"Why do you have that there?"

"I don't make a habit of having sexual relations," he told her. "I value my celibacy."

Margot searched his face for a hint of irony, but he seemed utterly sincere. She lowered her head. "So I never get to share with you..."

"Oh I assure you, Margot, you will have the privilege of sharing very much with me. You already have shared so much with me. You ask me for pleasure, Margot, and I'll give it to you."

"What else would you have me do?"

"I'll call for you again Margot, don't you worry. I have more tasks in mind for you."

***

Degas filled his pipe with tobacco and lit it as he watched Margot get dressed. She met his gaze and smiled at him shyly. He noticed the way her body realigned itself as she stooped down to step into her dress, then again as she straightened up. He enjoyed watching the subtle ways she altered her movement when she knew he was watching-the deliberate care she invested in each motion, the way she tensed her shoulders and bit her lip in nervous excitement.

Margot did not know it, but Degas had never shown his chastity device to anyone else before. He was not sure quite what had possessed him to reveal his secret to this particular woman. He had had other models in the past and doubtless would work with other models in the future. But he could not deny that there was something about Margot that had caught his attention and unsettled his cool, comfortable aloofness.

It was the wholehearted manner in which Margot had given herself to him that had captures Degas's fancy. She did not pose for him, strip for him, or follow his instructions so carefully out of a sense of duty or a quest for personal gain. Degas knew arousal when he saw it. He saw clearly that Margot had been as taken with the experience of being watched by Degas as Degas had been with the experience of watching her. It was a symbiotic union, one that Degas was finding all too arousing.

Yes, he thought. I'll share very much with you in the coming weeks, Margot. Just not in the ways you had anticipated.