The Protege

As if by Providence, The Master himself provided a way, if I just had the courage to embark. One Friday, just as he was about to begin his latest masterpiece on my toes, he looked up at me.

"I hope that you know, Miss Ellington, how precious a gift this is that you continue to allow me," he said. "I can only pray that is also somewhat enjoyable for you as well."

Could this be the opportunity? The chance? To move beyond?

"It is indeed, Master Bereau." I responded with enthusiasm. Did I dare? I steeled myself. I had to try. I had to know.

"But I think there might be a way that it can be enhanced all the more."

"In what way?" he asked.

Now the leap. Without any net. In a voice barely above a whisper, but exuding all the confidence I could muster,

"If you were naked while you do so."

This time there was no mistaking his sharp intake of breath. He also could hardly do more than whisper.

"Will you also be unclothed, Miss Ellington?"

It took every bit of my internal strength to arch my eyebrows.

"No, of course not, Master Bereau."

He let out his breath in what I could only hope was a contented sigh. After a long moment of hesitancy, during which I died a thousand deaths, he got up from his knees, and began to slowly disrobe. He was meticulous in folding his clothes and setting them aside. When done, he stood before me, eyes cast down and arms at his side. Totally bare.

He had more than a bit of a paunch, and he was somewhat more hairy than I had imagined. And he was not particularly well endowed, hardly at all. But the instrument of his manhood which he did possess, tremulously rose to stand straight and rigid, bobbing slightly as if begging for even a morsel of my attention. My breath hitched.

He was magnificent.

I smiled benignly, and raised my feet onto the pedestal.

"You may begin."

He returned to his knees as if in a swoon, and began to carry out his charge with exuberance. The colors before had never seemed so vibrant, nor the patterns so intricate. I was mesmerized as he labored so tirelessly on his dazzling display, and when all my toes were finished, it was unquestionably his finest work yet. For the ages. And I would finally make it more. To do with it what I wished.

As always before, he raised my right foot to blow it dry. But this time I lifted it out of his hands and firmly brought it up to his lips, running my toes across, leaving a trail of paint behind. I continued them up along his cheek, doing the same.

"Miss Ellington. What..." he sputtered.

"Hush, Rohan." I commanded. "And it is Miss Ella now." I continued. "And I, too, am a painter, and it is my turn to create."

With that, I continued the trek of my foot up his cheek, across his forehead, down his nose to his other cheek, then to and around his chin and mouth, leaving all the rest of the paint from my toes in their wake. As I did, I raised my left foot onto his now tightly retracted sac, and then up and around his rock hard shaft. Using my toes of both feet, I swished and whorled and stroked the colors to my ever increasing satisfaction. And like any proper object as a canvas, he remained perfectly still, paralyzed, as I joyously dabbled in my own art, until he buckled and let out a whimpered pant.

"Miss Elling... Miss Ella... I don't think I can hold back much longer."

"Shhsh, Rohan." I teased. "Let me finish my masterpiece."

And with that, I twirled the toes of both of my feet and stroked more firmly and urgently, until he arched back, and emitting an almost anguished and inarticulate cry, he gushed out great gouts of his pearly white joy, whose opalescence joined with, and then covered all of the other colors on the palette of my foot. As he did, with the aid of my hand which also had been active throughout, I too exploded within myself, reveling ecstatically in feelings I had never before experienced, that went on and on, as we both seemed transported to an entirely different existence.

I gave us both some time to come back into ourselves. When he did, he looked up at me as if a dream.

"Miss Ella, there are no words," he murmured. "How can I ever repay you."

Could this finally be the moment for the other? I gathered myself.

"There is a way, Master Bereau"

I had his rapt attention.

"As I said earlier, I too am a painter. And I am, but a fledgling one, with so much that I have to learn. And what I want more than anything is for you to teach me, to become your student. And if I can ever prove to be worthy enough... to possibly even become your protégé."

I stopped suddenly, shocked by my own audacity. His face became still, even withdrawn. And he remained silent for oh so long. Finally, he spoke.

"I have never had, nor ever wanted a student, let alone a protégé."

He let that linger for another very long moment, and then offered up a most buoyant smile.

"But it now appears that I have both."

**********

I continued to pose for him four hours a day, five days a week. These were always followed by my, to die for massages, and his kiss, and on Fridays he always found new and fascinating ways to adorn my nails. And on occasions of my choosing and whim, although not as often as either of us may have desired, as I had to keep my determined focus locked in elsewhere, I would sometime bestow another delight. But at the end of all of these days, he would now spend countless hours instructing me in all of the secrets of his art. While posing I remained, Miss Ellington. At those times when I required him naked and permitted passion I was always, Miss Ella. But as his student I became simply, Ella.

The Master was a strict teacher, precise and demanding, but his critiques were never cruel or demeaning. He taught me first about colors, how to mix and match, the consistencies, and when to use each and how. Then, what textures to use in what situations, and the use of the wide variety of instruments to best utilize them all. I learned about his almost unique use of light and perspective, how a given brushstroke would bring the attention of his audience to exactly where he desired it to be, and then a different one to direct it to the next place he wanted their eyes to go. And on and on until the entire concept of his work captured them completely. And I practiced his process rigorously and relentlessly over and over, until after several months he declared one day that we were done. When I asked in terror what he meant, he said that I could now imitate his work and style as well as possible, but that it was now time for me to strike out to develop and find my own vision. He would continue to observe, provide technical support when needed, but his critiques would now only be comments, never judgements, with encouragement when appropriate.

I now spent hour after hour on canvas after canvas, rejecting and discarding most, except some few with which I was at least somewhat satisfied. Over much time though, I found that there began to be more of these. One evening, as I approached my first year anniversary in his employ, just as I was finishing a painting of which I was very pleased, one of a number of such in recent times, The Master said that it was enough. Of what, I inquired. Enough for my first public showing, he declared, which he had arranged for at Regine's, for a week from the following Friday.

I rocked back, mortified. Regine's was the preeminent art gallery in the city. Only the most well known and regarded artists had unveilings there. The Master himself had had many there. It was not the place for a first time showing of an unknown painter. But Rohan Bereau had major influence, and he had obviously used it to the maximum. Despite my abject protestations, he assured me that all would be well. That I was ready. But I could only worry in horror how others would view this unlikely, and probably to most, unwarranted advance into the light.

That Friday evening came much too quickly, as I tentatively chose twelve of what I hoped were my best works to be on display. The Master accompanied me to the gallery, but then indicated that he would remain out of sight in the background so as not to draw any attention away from me. I was not sure this was actually beneficial as I could have used his aura and calming presence to help see me through.

There were more patrons in attendance than I had anticipated, and those who approached me were unfailingly polite and complimentary, but this was to be expected in such circumstances. They were not my primary concern at this time. Rather it was the art critics, and not just a few were present, and one of particular note, Roger Devereaux, the most influential art critic in the country, possibly the world, who wrote for the flagship newspaper in the city. That he had come to view the works of an unknown, nonentity like me was highly unusual, and the pull of The Master seemed in evidence once again.

From the corner of my eye, I had watched him warily though much of the evening as he would stand impassively for goodly lengths of time before each of my paintings, but I was still startled when he came up to me as the night neared its end.

"Miss Ellington, I would like to introduce myself," he offered. "I am Roger Devereaux."

"You need no introduction, Mr. Devereaux"

His lips curled up briefly at the recognition.

"Thank you" he responded. "I've been led to believe that you are a protégé of Rohan Bereau" he continued.

"I am most certainly a student" I replied. "But I would never dare to claim to be anything as exalted as his protégé."

"Indeed" he acknowledged. "And am I to understand that this is the very first showing ever of any of your paintings, anywhere? And at Regine's?"

"It is." I answered in a very small voice.

He glanced around the room. "Very interesting" he said softly. Then more firmly. "I wish you luck, Miss Ellington." And with a slight nod and a bland smile, he took his leave.

It was very fortunate that the event was coming to an end, as I had become nothing but jelly inside. The Master brought me home to my apartment. I didn't wish to talk and he complied, but his confident presence served to settle me some. He insisted though that I come to his house the following afternoon, as he indicated that we would then have much to discuss. I had a very ill foreboding. But I didn't refuse.

**********

He greeted me himself at the front door of his home the next afternoon, as he was alone. It was the very first time I had ever been there on a weekend. He led me to a large sitting room, where I had never before been. Without preamble he asked me to sit, and handed me a printed sheet of paper.

"Roger Devereaux was gracious enough to send me an advance copy of his column and review that will be published tomorrow in the paper" he began. "I thought it would be best if you read it here first."

Making my best attempt to keep the trembling in my hands to a minimum, I lifted the sheet up to read.

'This past Friday evening at Regine's, I attended the first ever showing of a collection of paintings by a new artist, Ella Ellington. Miss Ellington is apparently a protégé of Rohan Bereau. It has been quite some time, several years actually, since The Master has graced us with any of his own new offerings. Perhaps he has been using that time to groom and pass the baton of his particular and wondrous art onto someone new. If that is the case, then Miss Ellington would seem to be a very odd choice.'

My heart began to clench...

'While The Master's works always, most subtly, seduce us, to draw us in willingly to be embraced by their magic, and then to sensually discover all of their pleasures and treasures, Miss Ellington's art does nothing of the sort.'

... and then sank like a stone.

'Her paintings, of which there were twelve, more boldly demand our attention, of which we are very reluctant to give at first. But then, they irresistibly ensnare and enthrall us with their strange power, and almost other worldly allure. And when we do finally fully surrender to each of them, we are very richly rewarded indeed.'

He went on to describe in detail my techniques, my style, and what he perceived to be my vision. At its end there could be no question. It was a rave. I dropped my hands back into my lap.

"I have also been informed by Regine's," The Master now added, "that the majority of your paintings have received bids, several of them in the five figures."

I could only think of one thing to say.

"Master... Thank you."

"That is unnecessary" he retorted. "It was your paintings, not mine, that claimed the day. I will say, though, that I think Devereaux was far too paltry in his praise."

I basked in this even greater compliment. But I suddenly knew what had to be said.

"There is one thing though that he is absolutely right about, Master." He looked at me inquiringly. "It has been far too long since you have shared your genius with the world."

I strove to fortify myself to proceed. "You have been painting virtually every day in the year that I have posed for you, and possibly even longer than that. But no one has ever seen any of that work. I have never seen any of it. Why do you deprive the world? Why do you deprive ME?"

He didn't answer for quite some while. But then...

"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it is time."

He resolutely stood before me and offered his hand to help me rise. "Please, I would like you to come with me."

He led me to a stairway down into his basement, another place I had never been. At the bottom was a locked door, which he opened and turned on lights. Beyond was a long and narrow room, almost like a wide hallway. The only lighting was that which individually illuminated each of the many paintings that hung on both walls for the entire length of the room. We entered, and then stopped before the first paintings on both side walls.

They were both of a foot. Unmistakably, my feet. On both of my feet I have a single birth mark. On my right foot, it is on the top, just before the base between my second and third toes. The one on my left is slightly larger and more irregular, and is on the inner side at the top of my arch. Both are very small and hardly noticeable. Such was not the case in the paintings, however, where they were not only present, but accentuated as focal points, not as marks of birth, but as marks that served to point to and validate the exquisite beauty of his created whole. There were a dozen of such paintings, six on each side, all of my feet, some of one alone, and some of both together, in all the variety of the positions in which I had posed. And all with one seemingly singular purpose in their painted presentation... To Be Revered.

But then the paintings changed as we progressed further down the room. They began to be of me. All of me. In various guises, aspects, and ranges of emotions... thoughtful... playful... joyful... incandescent... Each more beautiful than the last, and more than I had any right, or knew myself to ever be. Until we came to the last.

It was alone on the far end wall, larger and placed higher than all the rest. It again was of me. But the face that gazed down upon us from the painting was beyond beauty. It was ethereal... serene... almost as if all knowing...

Almost as if...

A Goddess.

I was overwhelmed.

"This is my private collection" he softly broke through my daze. "But the world will never see any of it. It is meant only for me."

I wrenched my attention from the painting back to him. None of any of this bore any resemblance to the presentations which The Master created for the world. Those were a fantastic expression of his transcendent Art. This, THIS, was an uncensored and raw exposure of the very essence of his deepest desires. Of Himself. And at that moment, I knew... and accepted... and wanted just as desperately as he...

I would be his Muse. And the Mistress he needed. But I would demand so much more.

"No, Rohan." I corrected. "THIS is OUR private collection. EVERYTHING about It. But you're right. The world will never see it. It is meant only for US."

He stared back at me in wonder... And understood.

"If you will have me, Miss Ella."

This time I had no difficulty raising my eyebrows. And then smiled, radiantly.

"Yes, of course, Rohan... Forever."

I took a step forward to lead. And he further understood and rushed forward to envelop me in his arms. I brought my mouth crushingly to his, pushing my tongue through to dance with his. Before this, the only place his lips had ever touched me were my feet. But now, they would lavish me everywhere, anywhere, anytime that I desired. And I would have all of him, in any way that I would ever wish.

I broke off our first, oh so delicious kiss. "And Rohan, we will continue to add to our private collection in so many, many delectable ways." I paused, in command. "But you must also begin to create again for the world. You cannot deprive them any longer."

He nodded in obedience.

"As you will, Miss Ella."

**********

And he did. To even greater acclaim, as he again established his mantle as The Master. And through his tutelage, I was able to carve out my own separate and successful identity in the light.

To the world, we are distinct but bonded partners.

But in our private world, we are so very much more. Through our now undeniable and unshakeable love, we have forged our disparate but complimentary natures into an unbreakable whole... Me, as the always accepting, and giving, inspirational Top. And he, as the endlessly devoted, and ever serving, foundational bottom... as we rapturously continue to create, together, our ingeniously inventive... and ongoing...

Masterpiece of Life.