Vitavie's Vignette No. 02: Their Saving Grace

Their saving grace, a fairytale - Vita's Vignet no. 2

By Vitavie

One of those endless rainy days. Mid-morning. My house.

I have just risen and wander from my bedroom, through the living room, towards the kitchen. Naked, as always. Unabashed.

The temperature is on the low side of bearable. As I stride past, he, that strange man, whom I have never seen naked, never seen without his suit, raises his head from the sofa pillows. I do notice, but ignore him.

I set the coffee machine in motion and eat my bowl of cereals at the kitchen table. As I am finishing, he enters the kitchen in his creased suit, looking rough, and sits down opposite me. He says not a word, but simply stares at me. I get up, turn my back to him and start pouring myself a coffee. I feel he stares at me, at my bare back, at my butt.

I hear him get up and approach me. I set down the coffeepot, for fear of spilling hot coffee over myself. He sharply slaps the left cheek of my buttocks, then immediately the right and the left again, the right. As I gasp, he grabs me and turns me around and in one fluid movement sticks his right arm under my crotch, the left around my shoulder and lifts me over his left shoulder - he is strong! He carries me to the kitchen table. With his right hand he wipes the cereal bowl off the table and lays me down.

I am taken by surprise, but surprises are the rule and not the exception. Therefore, I do not resist as he spread-eagles me and ties both of my hands and hence both of my ankles to the four legs of the table. I am not sure about all this, but curious at the same time. He has never tied me up like this before. I offer not a word; not a word is offered by him. My gaze is fixed on his face, whenever possible, whereas he merely casts me an occasional look. He is entirely concentrated on his actions.

Finally, he is done. He walks over to the kitchen counter and pours himself the coffee I was pouring for myself, the bastard.

Then, with all the time in the world, he looks me over from head to toe and back. He nonchalantly strokes my body with his one free hand, the right, plays with my hair and smiles a faint smile at me. Setting his coffee cup down between my legs, he proceeds by leisurely taking each of my delicate labia minora in turn between two fingers, the index and the thumb. He inspects the intimate inside of me and extensively ruffles the garden on my mound.

Should I object? I don't mind a bit that he sees my all and everything. Every woman has a cunt, which everyone knows and has seen examples of. Moreover, I am pretty. True, what he is up to - anything is possible. I will be helpless if he decides to burn down the house or penetrate my chest with a dagger, aimed at my heart. I am interested, however, in what way he will exploit his power. He has isolated himself. I can no longer be an accomplice.

Nothing happens that fundamentally disturbs me. He is now seated at the foot of the table, looking at me I suspect, at my underside, and I descend into a passive, almost thoughtless state.

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I haven't heard him get up, but become aware of him talking over the phone in the adjacent room.

'Yes, yes, she is ready. ... No, it all went as smoothly as expected. She did not resist. ... On top of the kitchen table, all tied up. ... You can come over, now, or in a little while - she won't go anywhere. ... All right, I will see you in a bit. Bye.'

I am intrigued. And slightly unsettled. Will a third person enter the scene? Until now we have been playing strictly as two. What am I to do? Break down and resist? Which in a way is to cooperate. And it is unlikely to be of any use. I decide to remain proud and not act. He does not reappear in the kitchen, for now.

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He must be settled on the sofa or so, since I hear no sound. Fallen asleep for all I know. He is still here, I am sure. I have not heard the front door.

And then... the doorbell rings. The third person? (My mum? No. she would have rung...)

A new test.

I hear him get up, hurry to the front door and answer it. Whispering, an exchange of kisses and he and the third person enter the kitchen. A woman. I am slightly relieved. The thought of a gangbang had crossed my mind (the other side of the coin of his sexual restraint so far?)

He introduces her briefly: 'My sister. She is here to help me.' He speaks, to her: 'This is Vita, my project. What do you think?'

She replies: 'You have not exaggerated. She is a fine piece. She'll do you justice', and approaches me. She touches my ankle with one finger and runs it along my leg, across my belly, my chest, stopping underneath my chin, pressing it up and looking me in the eyes.

His sister! I recognise his features. What is she like? What will she make of my inquisitive, but calm gaze? Does she perceive me fearless? Or does she perceive me helpless? I am helpless, armed only with my eyes. On her part, she is cool. I read neither sympathy, nor cruelty.

She turns to him. 'Yes, a statuesque beauty. But she requires tidying up, as you say. Let's go.'

She is looking at my nether growth. Oh no!

I hear the steely snip-snip-snip of a pair of scissors. He is assessing its working order and then hands it to her. She takes my pubic hair lock by lock, pulls them tight and cuts close to the skin. Sometimes, when the cold steel touches my skin - my thighs, my vulva, my lips - I shudder and clench my teeth. But she is expert and fails not once.

When done, she extensively rubs my skin with oil, gently. Its perfume permeates the kitchen. I close my eyes and allow myself to drift away ... and become aroused. Will she notice? Will he?

I return to reality when she lathers my mound (wet!) I then feel a razor scraping across my mound and crotch. She carefully shaves me bare, pushing my skin this way or the other, so as to stretch it, pulling my labia over or back to do the area close to my hole (danger!) Finally, she rinses me (flowing water!) When done, she pauses and looks me over.

'What do you think? Should we go on?' His voice breaks the spell. He continues: 'For me, I am not sure. Yes, the smoothness of her belly renders her much improved. Naked her cleft, exposing the gate to her mysterious depths. Innocence regained.' He strokes my lower lips. 'But... We could slick it back instead...'

'I know your "but",' she intervenes. 'For me, I am sure I have not done enough. That's what you want to say. But you hesitate. Because you have a relationship with this girl. That makes you dependent, soft-hearted and hesitant to simply and radically complete your artistic vision. I know your vision and have no reason to hesitate. I'll be radical on your behalf.'

She tosses my other hair now, auburn, wavy, well past my shoulders. Can this be true? Tugs at it, spreads it out on the table, like a fan, I imagine, or the tail of a peacock. She looks at him, extends her open hand. 'Yes?'

'Yes!' He hands her the scissors once more and looks me in the eyes, transfixes me.

I freeze. ('No! Not my pride, my wealth. For Christ's sake, no!') But under his gaze I remain speechless, in shock, merely moaning like a wounded animal. I should rant and rave, scream and shout; with giant's strength tear myself free. He knows my strength has been defeated. He would pity me, but looks so pale himself. What control I have over my mind sees that his usual superior attitude is not in evidence. The task was bigger than he. He could not have done without her help. His sister's.

God! She cuts and cuts and cuts my beautiful hair away, mine since childhood, mine much longer than the pubic hair I have lost already. She turns my head when she needs to do the other side; lifts it with his help when she does the back. I look her in the eye continuously, my vision blurred by silent tears. She never returns my imploring look, instead concentrating on her sad task. She reaches the stage where she cuts the short hairs to a stubble, now and then touching the skin of my head with the cold steel. So new... so strange... so naked.

He hands her the hot water and the can of shaving foam. She shaves me until clean. Clean of individuality, clean of an essential element of woman's mystery, clean like a new-born. My mind is hypnotised by the scraping, scraping, scraping of the razor on my skull.

In the end, I am in a trance-like state, removed from it all. I feel slight breezes on my strangely sensitive skull as they walk closely around me. Are they considering the effect of their doing?

Are they happy? Am I? Beyond care... careless...

They whisper as they walk around me, but I don't listen. When they finally release the ties that bind me, I do not react. I do not spring up to yell at them, to hit or assault them.

Still not done... Together they rub me with some medium. (What medium? Oil? No... Should I care?) They start at my feet, continue with my limp legs, lifting them when necessary. It is soothing. When they do my crotch, I am not aroused, just soothed. My bare belly follows, and my chest, my breasts, both arms. My face. They then proceed to turn me over and I mindlessly cooperate. My buttocks, my waist, my back, my shoulders. When they finally sit me upright and rub my skull, I observe that my body is all white. White. I close my eyes again.

Time has stood still. The painting may have taken forever.

They help me to step off the table. I stand with their support. I have lain down for hours. My arms over their shoulders, I walk. They lead me into my dimly lit bedroom.

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There! I see an apparition. A statue. The eyes are alive and look at me, look through me. So smooth. So cool. So clean. I feel humble under the eyes of this otherworldly creature, there to cleanse me from my sins. A stern angel. Then - shock - I realise I am looking at myself, reflected in the full-length mirror. My body's whiteness is ever so slightly gleaming. In the twilight that has come over us, my body appears florescent.

Is this I? Is this a better self? I feel I grow. I stand tall, calm and serene.

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They put a kimono around my shoulders, sandals on my feet and a wide-brimmed hat on my head, carefully. They gently lead me out of the room, out of the house. Outside, it is evening. She opens the door of a car and helps me sit down, helps my legs inside and closes the door.

We drive through the anonymous dark city, bright lights drifting by. When we stop in front of a building, as in a dream I recognise the art school. I am ushered through the door, through the near-empty corridors (whose few passing occupants grant me quizzical looks) until we hold still in front of a door. She opens it. He takes a deep breath, takes me by the arm and resolutely enters the space, ushering me along. There are many people here. I hear a buzz when we enter: the people are idly chatting.

He leads me on to the small stage at one end. The space is the model study room I am well familiar with.

He speaks: 'Behold, my friends, a work of art, my life's work, my living statue. She was just another mortal girl, like you. She gave me her body, I appropriated it and enhanced, amended it. I instilled it with a spirit. She has risen above life and is immortal. To prove to you that she is totally mine, I give her to you. She is totally yours, to enhance and amend you. She is your muse, your subservient angel.'

After those words, he takes off my hat and throws it aside. My hot and naked white skull is exposed. The audience gasps. With another movement he unties the binding of my kimono and drops it on the floor.

Gasps once more, louder, more intense. My white, smooth body is fully exposed. The students are frozen, pale. Many of them I know from my classes and they will know me, but I see no recognition. I breathe in deeply. They stare at me from a distance.

Then a girl cries as in terror, extends her finger towards me and calls out my name: Vita! She recognises me. She recognises me; not my face, but my body, so well-known to all of them in my former mortal guise, that of their model.

The audience comes alive. More cries, people gesticulating, asking, explaining... Everyone recognises me now, my body, mouths agape.

Several minutes of complete silence follow. Then they slowly inch towards me, touch and admire me, their statuesque beauty.

Their saving grace.