A ringing buzzed in my ears, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the sound of his guttural moan, but gave it little thought as I rode on in my quest for satisfaction.
At this moment in time, I had no gender, no social protocol, and no classification that made me who I was. I would have them all be damned to hell to try to stop me from completing this journey of self-discovery.
He grabbed my hands, entwining his fingers with mine, providing balance as I took the dominant role with a freedom so new and sweet to me I sensed a laugh bubble in my throat.
“Look at your face, my dear woman. Look at the passion as it rises in your belly, consuming you with its fire, licking your precious rose even as I long to do.”
The image of his mouth pleasuring me skirted me even closer to the cliff I teetered upon. I reached out and grabbed the sides of the mirror, my fingernails scraping its ornate gold edges.
The position gave him greater depth and at last, my body broke from its fevered pitch and a divine wave of ecstasy consumed me, wickedly engulfing every sensitive part of me. Beneath me, Mr. Rodin’s body tensed as he pushed deep into my core thrice before he finally collapsed against the chair.
“Fair woman,” he gasped breathlessly, “quick, before the moment passes, lay down.”
Dizzy yet from the residual effects, he ushered me to the settee, propping me on my side, and tossed a lap robe haphazardly over me. My body still throbbed with the aftershock of our union, but I fought to bring my focus to look as I thought he would want me to look.
Naked, he grabbed the canvas and placed it on the easel, his face intense with his work, his eyes still dark with passion. He sketched furiously with a bit of charcoal and I cannot deny the very image of him engulfed in his passion made me wet again with arousal.
Truly, this man believes in his passion as a lover and as an artist. I can not help but admire him.
~Lady C.
September 27, 1874
Day two with Mr. Rodin.
“Is this what it would be like to be married to an artist then, Mr. Rodin?” I heard his low chuckle, but he did not look up from his work. His silence carried on as I lay there, my body relaxed from the sex we’d just had on Master Archibald’s desk. I draped my arm over my head, settling into a peaceful bliss, realizing the scent of sex lingered in the air along with the lemon polish I’d used on the furniture in my chores before dawn. “Exquisite,” a man’s voice whispered.
I opened my eyes, not realizing I’d been dozing, though I was not sure for how long. Mr. Rodin stood over me, his smile as strong and even as his sword which was once again stiff, jutting between his thighs.
I smiled sleepily, blissfully aware that my body craved him again.
“You asked me a question that I’ve yet to answer. Were I to marry one such as you, milady, I would never get any work accomplished.”
He knelt over me with a peacock feather plucked from one of the library vases and proceeded to trail it between my breasts. My nipples responded, tightening even as his smile grew broad.
Like a wanton, selfish child deprived too long of her favorite toy was I. Mr. Rodin, I would discover after a number of tutored experiments, was quite varied and creative in more than his artistic skills.
He pulled away the blanket, and teased my flesh with the feather.
“Have I told you how much you inspire me?”
His lips followed the feather’s path, and instinct drew my heels to the cushion, pressing firm even as I spread my knees. My fingers laced in Mr. Rodin’s thick hair at the top of his head, as his mouth sampled my jewel. The thought of endless days in his company, of afternoons spent like this in languid, sensual exploration entered my mind, even as his tongue entered my quiver. Indeed, it was he that inspired me. His tutoring of my sexual freedom, his challenge for me to claim it and embrace it, for that I would forever be grateful.
My body tightened with an urgency that shook me to the bone.
“Come, nectar of paradise,” he whispered his tongue delving deep.
I was unsure that I had the ability of more, but by the heavens, he was able to find my secret spot of profound pleasure. I uttered a quiet gasp as my hips writhed against his face, riding each succulent wave of pleasure.
I opened my eyes and Mr. Rodin knelt above me, licking his lips, as he bent my knees to my chest and entered me swiftly.
His eyes held mine, his hair hanging in the space between us as he mastered his movements, starting slow and teasing me with his smile. His thrusts soon quickened, commanding my body to join his frenzied dance. I curled my fingers over the polished, smooth wood of the settee, my fingertips pressed against the ornately carved finishing that I obediently dusted each day. My breath caught in my throat as yet another climax ripped through me. In the clarity of the moment, I realized that we’d made exquisite use of several pieces of furniture in the room and yet I had yet to see any of his creative work aside from his carnal pen.
I pushed against his chest with all my strength, rendering Mr. Rodin quite shocked. I sat upright clutching the blanket.
“Woman, are you mad? I was not yet finished.”
He sat on the floor, surprise on his face, his cock at full mast. He blinked as though unsure how he’d wound up on his naked bum.
“Mr. Rodin, it has come to me that you have kept me here for nearly two days and more than half that time has been spent in attempting to inspire you. Not that it hasn’t been most pleasant, of this there is no question, but I must insist that you allow me to see what you have been able to accomplish beyond ravishing me to the point where it may leave me bow-legged as a horseman.”
He sat there still, unashamed of his nakedness and listened to my rant. I was appeased he had the decency to look a touch contrite.
“Are you quite finished?”
My heart beat wildly even as I watched him uncurl his exceptional body from the floor. “Yes,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.
He grabbed one of many canvases and I noticed then the score of parchment sheets scattered about the floor. He turned it toward me with the flourish of a magician.
I blinked at the image before me, unable to tear my eyes from it. Tears stung at the back of my lids. It could not be me! This woman, and the several sketches of her, was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. “This…this is truly how you see me?” My gaze studied each drawing, seeing the fine detail of my hands, the way my hair curled over my shoulder.
“Are you not pleased, mademoiselle?”
I covered my mouth, for plainly I was overcome with emotion. “It is most intriguing, Mr. Rodin. I am astounded. Forgive my rant, but I don’t believe I have ever seen anything quite as beautiful.”
In return, he graced me with his slow, handsome grin.
“What will you do now?” I reached forward, mesmerized as I brushed over the texture of the canvas. At that exact moment, the rogue artist pulled the canvas away and my fingers froze inches from his manhood.
I knew it well. “Mr. Rodin, you are quite insatiable, how ever, I am quite certain that my mistress will no doubt require my services soon.”
His mouth lifted in a wicked smile, as he flung his hand over his heart.
“Ah, but my dear, could her needs be nearly as urgent as mine at present?”
“Are you professing your undying love for me then, Mr. Rodin? Are you prepared to take me to your next social gathering and introduce me as your wife?” I smiled as I took his hand. “You know I am only teasing.” I drew him to the settee, and he sat as I straddled his lap, impaling myself on his still rigid member.
“Alas, poor woman, you would soon tire of me, for your passion is far greater than what I could offer you even for a lifetime. Yours drives you and the quest is fierce, even as mine is to capture that passion on canvas.”
A gasp caught in his throat, and he held my face in his hands, crushing his mouth to mine as together, we tumbled over the edge.
As we had the day before, we lounged
draped beneath the lap shawls on the settee, sampling the lunch Mrs. Farrington had made. The morning had been a long and arduous endeavor of sensual creativity.
Mr. Rodin plucked a grape from its stem and held it to my lips. I drew the tip of his finger in with the fruit and offered him a smile.
“You are my wicked muse.” He popped a grape into his mouth with a grin.
My legs propped over his thighs, I glanced around the library that I had heretofore only seen when dusting. I’d never paid attention to the details, the dark wooden shelves built from floor to ceiling and stuffed with every kind of book and tokens of Master Archibald’s travels.
I munched on an apple slice and wondered what Master Archibald would think of how this day we’d claimed every piece of his stately furniture.
“So, have you considered coming away with me?”
His question snapped me from my reverie. “Coming away with you? Whatever for, besides being your wicked muse?”
His brows raised in mock surprise. “But, of course. I could introduce you to the Brotherhood.”
“Was it not you who remarked that you would never get anything done with me beside you?”
His hand massaged the soles of my feet and for a fleeting moment, I thought of what life would be like with him. He would be attentive, without question a wonderful lover, but I knew that in part what sparked his spontaneous muse was in fact the unknown. And soon his work would bring him to another delightful discovery even as I cared for our precious children conceived in our passion. I would no sooner see his passion bridled by me, than with chains.
“You are indeed a passionate man, Mr. Rodin. One I will venture to say with a great future and a great many more adventures ahead of you. In that, you and I are very much on the same road. Though our passion quest is different, it is no less what drives us both.”
He nodded, and gave me a grin that indicated he understood.
“I will never forget you, but you already know that, don’t you? I’ve never met a woman like you, Lady Cozette,” he said with a gentle tone lacing his voice.
I smiled, content in the companionship of his company alone if only for a short while. “As I will never forget what you’ve taught me, Mr. Rodin.”
Indeed, in looking back on the day, it was for me an awakening. Not only did I find that the world does hold a few men who believe that a woman’s pleasure is as important as theirs is, but more so. Nonetheless, I am no longer captive to the idea that my passion should be sequestered, hidden behind society’s standards that are far too rigid and full of lies and double standards at any rate. Indeed, it is that very passion, as Mr. Rodin states, that drive us to be who we are.
And perhaps of greater importance, I am most pleased at the woman I see when I look into a mirror.
~Lady C.
October 1, 1874
It has been little more than a week since Mr. Rodin and his aunt arrived. In this time, I have posed for our talented guest on more than one occasion. However, given the torrential passion betwixt us, we made an amiable decision that henceforth all my sittings should be fully clothed.
It was working until today when Mr. Rodin chose to sketch me at the pond, asking me to walk into the water fully clothed. I had come to accept his quirks as his creative genius, and thankfully, it was a warm autumn day.
I sloshed into the water, aware of the sun sparkling across its glassy surface. I trailed my hands through the water raising them high in joyous abandon. Sufficiently sodden, I smiled and glanced over my shoulder. “Is this what you want, Mr. Rodin?” My nipples tightened perhaps from a breeze or the look of sheer lust in Mr. Rodin’s eyes.
“Miss Cozette, I must admit that you are as tempting a morsel with your clothes on as when they are absent.”
“I remind you sir, of the agreement between us.”
“I ask you kind woman that you not remind me of the insanity to which I agreed, for I am in utter agony at this very moment.”
“Mr. Rodin, you are no better than a young schoolboy, unable to control your urges.” I smiled, easing the water through my hand and stood drenched in my thin frock.
He stood, prying off his shoes and socks and tearing his clothes off as he strode naked down the hill and into the water toward me.
My gaze widened as I hid my smile.
“It is true, Miss Cozette, think me as you wish but see how I burn for you. Would you, seeing my anguish, have no sympathy for my plight?”
He stood to his knees in the water without a stitch of clothing, the prize of his lack of control pointed at my belly. “Perhaps a dip will ease your fire, Mr. Rodin. I shoved him back into the water with such force that I stumbled back and fell on the muddy bottom.
I scrambled up, weak from laughter, and sloshed through the water toward the bank. My foot, snagged by Mr. Rodin’s hand, forced me to the ground and I heard his laughter behind me.
I fell to my back, my hair splayed like a siren’s, wet and clinging to my skin. My smile faded, hearing his laughter, a twitch caught my heart unexpectedly and I swallowed for the lump that rose sudden in my throat.
“Miss Cozette, have I hurt you? Oh, good woman, please understand that was not my intent.”
He checked my ankle and I propped on my elbows staring at him for a moment. “I am well, Mr. Rodin, no harm done. Nevertheless, sir, what precisely was your intent?”
His beautiful amber-colored eyes lighted on mine, his mouth spreading into a wicked grin.
It was a most enjoyable experience, dear Mr. Rodin showing me without reservation and indeed with exquisite clarity, how utterly beautiful is the autumn in the country as my gaze focused on the bronze and red leaves above my head, melding with the bright blue autumn sky.
A scream tore loose from my mouth as my body splintered apart with my climax, setting free a group of birds in the trees above.
I am not sure I recall if he ever picked up his sketching papers this afternoon.
~Lady C.
October 2, 1874
We are much alike, Mr. Rodin and I, a slave to our passion. For him, it is a brush or a piece of charcoal and for me, well, in truth, and it may come as a shock for those who may one day read this, but for me, it is the pleasure of sex. There you have it, plain and simple, and it is of no use to deny it.
True, I suppose I could dwell on the lost long love of my life, wishing for a ghost, pining away the prime of my youth with those things that might have been. Instead, I prefer (and this I owe to Mr. Rodin) to live in this moment, to grasp life’s pleasures as they present themselves.
I should very much like to present the same suggestion to my mistress, for though she involves herself most heartily in her charitable work, she neglects the part of her that makes her who she is.
Over afternoon tea, Mrs. Farrington informs me that she has spoken to other house servants and discovered that masters of these households force their wives to visit men of medicine, physicians whose sole purpose it is to quell unexplained bouts of hysteria in these women. She heard that one physician had even refused to continue seeing one woman, stating it was taking too long for her to respond to his treatments, taking time away from his other patients. Poor woman, she could have benefited greatly from Charmise’s leather diletto.
Why then is it acceptable for a man to have a mistress, who indeed he pokes with great frequency, and who also must respond in a like manner (though perhaps with not as much enthusiasm) as his wife? Is it because the whore is expected to have such obvious spasms due to her position in life? Is it that the proper woman is unable to possess desire, or enjoy the frequency of a man? Dear lord, I am most happy that I am not held imprisoned by such ridiculous notions, and I know that I risk not becoming the socially responsible good lady that my mistress deeply desires for me, but I cannot be anything less than who I am.
Not that I have not often thought what it might be like to be settled to one man and have a child. Nevertheless, to enter into the sanctity of the marriage bed for this reason alone, and
not for its equal and passionate joy therein, is not reasonable. (At least to me!)
I have come to the conclusion that any man to whom I would make such a commitment would not only see my passion fully, but on a frequent basis so he would have no will or energy for anyone other than me!
Perhaps I was born too soon for I believe the winds of change will come, though doubtless long after I am cold in a grave. Until then, it is my fervent determination to embrace my life and its passion, and if it should come attached with a cock, then so better to embrace it by.
Now to my work, as Mrs. Farrington will be watching to see I’ve hung out the morning laundry.
~Lady C.
November 3, 1874
The skies, otherwise blue, are mottled with low, gray clouds. It is further evidence of the certainty of winter. The winds have turned sharp and my walks to the meadow where the horses once grazed are barren, with the majority of the horses being sent to warmer climates. Mrs. Farrington tells me that Mr. Coven again has determined to keep a few horses behind and he hopes for a mild winter.
This news comes on the heels of my mistress announcing she intends to stay on at the manor through the winter. After the events of last year, she is not ready yet to face the throng of the season. She has yet to determine whether she intends to have her annual holiday gathering, though with the tension between her and the master, I do not see how this could work satisfactorily.
Mrs. Farrington has concerns of the weather, duly understood, as her dear husband might well have greater difficulty in making it home should he be granted leave. The frequency of his visits has dwindled considerably, making Mrs. Farrington fidget with worry.
She speaks too of the farmers from whom she buys vegetables and fruits who state that the weather has all the earmarks of a snowy winter. I have never seen a winter of heavy snow, but Mrs. Farrington informs me that even now, Mr. Coven is preparing by going deep into the woods for fallen trees to chop for firewood.
The Diary of Cozette Page 25
