A Short Story Inspired by La Loge by Renoir

In hindsight, the morning was memorable for this muse. I’ll admit I was wrong; the day turned out better than anticipated—my initial perception of what would transpire needed to be corrected. If only my Mother knew what she sent me into, she would be full of rage, but that's half the adventure of life - engaging in cat-and-mouse games of curiosity and wonder, diving into unknown holes, and enjoying the time we have - even if hidden to most. It is how we grow the most - stepping out of our comfort zones, taking on the persona of a character we admire the most, or relishing in the attention of others - even if it makes our parents less than happy. 

   We are only here, living and breathing briefly, and it is enthralling to me to learn all the secrets outside our given daily morbid reality. Today’s given reality was for me to pose in my most astute form, complete with purity, expectation, pride, and formality. It seemed like no fun until he arrived. 

   Most women would love to sit for an artist to paint them. Most women would sell their souls for the opportunity to see the colors and contours of their faces brushed in oils, seductively staining the canvas fabric, exposing every confidence, truth,  and part of themselves that drowns in self-doubt. Seeing yourself from an outsider's perspective fascinates me a little, leaving me to wonder - does their view match my feelings? It’s really the only reason I agreed to do this for my family.

   With that said, I, however, am not one of those women. I am not your typical lady. I am much more than what you see on the surface as I sit wrapped in a lace blouse and squeezed into this suffocating corset. I am straining to keep a smile plastered across my face as I expertly hide the sadness and emptiness I feel daily. I am unsatisfied and full of unfulfilled promises. I haven’t had the strength to break free of expectation, to break free of how I am supposed to dress and act for the sake and honor of my family - even though they are as fucked up as anyone walking the streets at this hour - probably even more so.

   If you knew us, really knew us, you’d run away as quickly as possible, fearing the chaos would rub off. But we still “pretend.” What’s the saying? Keeping up with the Joneses - well, we are the fucking Joneses, and I am usually the embarrassment of the lot. People strive to be us, to know us, to keep up with us. It is laughable at best. If they only knew the real story, but my mother hasn’t given up on keeping up with appearances - so here I am, pretending to be a “proper lady.” 

   I was indeed made to attend this session; I was asked ~ well told by my family. I was also instructed to be cordial and courteous. My family knows me well, and they are too often embarrassed by my forthright nature and lips, which part with words they only hear from “less exquisite” people they tell me. I will try my hardest to remain silent, setting my uncouth mouth aside, not staining my family's name - for today, at least. 

   My arrival was fashionable - fashionably late, and I was pretty flustered. I was trying my hardest to keep it together, to keep the thoughts bubbling to the surface contained - neat and hidden - buried. The setting met my lackluster, disillusioned expectations, which solidified my frustration about this day and my portrait being painted on this canvas. This is simply not me, but today, I exerted enormous energy “pretending” to be okay. 

   The morning was anti-climatic. I was doing my utmost to remain pleasant, occasionally sneaking in a frown or a smirk - hiding my devious thoughts while letting my imagination run rampant below the surface. I typically fill my time with playing out ungodly scenarios in the depths of my mind, devious and dark and risqué. 

   When I thought this day couldn’t get any worse, I noticed and felt the energy of a very unrefined man lounging on the sofa, looking out with binoculars behind me, completing the scene of being in a theatre box. 

   At the artist's request, he looked out into a nonexistent crowd. This man was too close for comfort, but his smell intoxicated me. His natural scent was mixed with alcohol, spicing up the energy in this drab room. I’m unsure if I loved it, hated it, felt uncomfortable, or was comforted by him. I think he sees right through my proper façade.

   Our unspoken chemistry collided right away. My body instantly awakened, and I began to breathe heavier. I was self-conscious that one could see my plump, full breasts swelling a little quicker above my corset, wanting to burst out into his hands as I straightened my shoulders and arched my back for him to get a closer, more hands-on look - secretly inviting him in to feel my swollen, wanting, tender skin. 

   Does the artist notice this unspoken energy? Does he sense my arousal from this mysterious man’s presence? Was this intentional to “perk” up my mood? Did he see the woman behind the curtain wanting to be touched? 

   When my raging, internal thoughts were settling some, I felt a fingertip under my dress, unbeknownst to anyone but me. The man started touching the base of my lower back, tracing my spine to the crevice of my ass. His touch quickly overtook my composure when I heard a whisper from behind. My eyes shot open, and I was certainly awake now. He had my undivided attention. 

   “Baby, they are painting you. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Let’s see how long you can last.”

   My eyes were wide open in surprise. I was not expecting this twist of excitement, fortuity of fate, but indecently, I welcomed it. I immediately wanted this man to touch every ounce of my body. His fingers were magic, and my skin exploded in a fiery but shivering sensation, awakening every place he touched. I have never experienced this or had been touched like this before. His fingers began to travel further down, pulling my panties to the side and wiggling their way in. 

   “Sit up slowly, but do not make it noticeable. It would be best if you remained pleasant and composed for the artist. You don’t want anyone to question your morality, young lady,” he said in a very chill, matter-of-fact way.

   Outwardly, he appeared very nonchalant, pretending to be bored with everything around him. He seemed almost apathetic, which intrigued me even more than his smell. Who is this man, I thought and pondered as I lifted the back of my bum just so as to give him more accessible access to what he was after. This was certainly unlike the normal me and was definitely out of character. Or was it? Was I waiting for someone to engage in this type of attention? The attention I needed and desired, even publicly.

   His fingers found their way through all the undergarments we “ladies” wear, and oh my - I feel them on my body, between my legs, feeling their way through the folds, directly into the wet, moist places that no typical lady would let a man venture - a man she didn’t know (especially in public). I had to focus and not lose myself in this secret between us. I had to regain my composure so the artist would continue painting and not notice my now-flushed skin. I had to concentrate and squeeze my thighs together while feeling the pleasure this man was evoking down under.

   I knew by one touch that he was very skilled. He wasted no time, sliding his fingers into my wetness very easily. He knew what he was doing. He varied the kind of touch he was providing between my legs, rotating between sliding his fingers in and out of my body and circling my clit. He knew exactly where to touch, when, and how. He was teasing in brilliant ways. 

   I was taking deep breaths through my nose, trying to hold in moans that desperately wanted to escape. I almost lost my composure, and he knew the end was near. He knew an orgasmic release was evident. There was no hiding it. The pleasure I was feeling was not secret. I was on the brink of closure right there, right then. It was at this moment he pulled his fingers out, leaving a trail of wet essence on the inside of my thighs, offering me a bit of reprieve to regain composure.

   He was still, but I felt his hand against my legs, wet with passion, wet with secret indiscretions, wet with longing and anticipation. I was sitting there, maintaining my posture but wanting this man I didn’t even know to touch me again in places that would make my mother disown me for good. At this moment, the feelings he was awakening would be worth it, and I didn’t care about anything but where his fingers were going next.

   “Please continue,” I whispered, a little louder than anticipated and breathier than intended. 

   “I am working as quickly as possible, Miss,” the artist abruptly stated, looking over the canvas and instructing me not to move.

   I smirked and heard the man behind me laughing, looking into the vast beyond, trying not to cause a scene. The artist thought I was talking to him, but my words were intended for the man behind me. I wanted him to continue touching me, to cause my legs to quiver, and to induce the sensations he had previously evoked.  

   He leaned in close and whispered, “I am working as quickly as possible, Miss,” mimicking the artist and causing a smile to spread across my face wider than before. He was humorous and talented.

   And with that, he ran his finger over my clit, and inserted it into me with more force than last time. It made me jump and roll my hips at the touch of his skin on mine. I had to shut my eyes and take a deep breath in. I began biting my bottom lip, knowing my cheeks were rosier than they were a few minutes ago. What decent woman, or “lady,” lets a man touch her like this in public without being married? Me, that’s who, and I couldn’t wait until he continued.

   “Do you want more?” he whispered behind my back. 

   I put my hand gingerly up to my mouth to hide the smirk and replied, “Of course, I want more. What lady wouldn’t want more?” 

   “Excuse yourself. Tell the artist that you need to relieve yourself and that you need to request a break—then meet me in the back area. It is dark and private,” he said as if he’d done this before.  

   I didn’t respond right away. I sat there, soaking in this moment. I was internally struggling with myself. If I go, I feel there will be no coming back with a “proper lady” perspective. This man is unraveling all my ideals and what I thought I wanted and needed. Would I even see him after today, or would we part ways, never to see one another again? I didn’t want to overthink this too much.

   My voice firmly interrupted my indecisiveness. “Excuse me,” I said to the artist, interrupting him. His head peered over the canvas, looking directly into my eyes. “I need to request a break for a moment. I have to . . . relieve myself. It’s been quite a while of me sitting here,” I managed to say very seriously. 

   He waved his hand my way. I took that as a yes - go ahead. I quickly fled to the back, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone had followed me. There was no sight of him. It was dark and private, just as he said. I closed my eyes briefly, rested my back against the wall, and recognized his smell. He was here, somewhere. 

   I closed my eyes and whispered, “I’m here, waiting for you.” 

   “Shhhhh,” is all I heard. “Do not make a sound, ma cherie.” 

   Quieting my voice, I felt a hand pulling up my dress slightly and backing me up against the wall, even more so by my hips. His hands felt good around my body and moved down to my legs as he slipped discreetly under my skirt. What I felt next, I can’t say I ever experienced. 

   He was kissing his way up my right inner thigh. His lips were soft and wet. I couldn’t even finish my thought when he moved my panties to the side and began kissing and licking between my legs. He was gentle and slow, and my skin prickled with each touch of his lips dancing their way across my most private, unexposed areas. 

   Suddenly, his tongue entered me, and my body was alive with a desire and ache I had not felt before. He transformed me into a fit of passion. I grabbed the top of his head and pushed it further into me. I couldn’t hold out any longer and exploded in his mouth, wanting this feeling I had not experienced before never to end. He stayed under my dress for many minutes, but it felt like an eternity. He was stroking me, playing with me, licking me clean, letting my body calm and recover from the wild tempest that bubbled to the surface below. 

   He removed himself slowly and fixed all my clothing, rendering me completely useless but wanting to return me unharmed, unscathed. 

   “What about you?” I managed to say, gazing into his eyes as he kissed my lips, letting me taste the fruits of his labor and my sweet pleasure. 

   “This day was about you,” he whispered into my ear as he walked away after kissing down the side of my neck, fixing my hair to perfection like nothing had happened. 

   “Will I see you again?” I whispered, still out of breath, my hormones still raging. This unknown man had lit a fire in my soul, and I don’t think any other man would ever satiate me. 

   He stopped, backed up, and sweetly kissed my nose. He kissed my lips with a fervent passion and looked me directly in the eyes. “One day. Perhaps I will find you when you least expect it.” 

   And then he was gone, disappeared into the darkness and out a side door. I hesitantly and nervously returned to my seat in front of the artist, inhaling deeply, closing my eyes, and letting my thoughts drift to what had secretly just transpired as I put the same smile on my face to continue the painting session. 

   “Turn to the right, please,” the artist interrupted my indecent thoughts as I replayed the moments that just transpired in the back, dark, private areas.

   I obliged, listening to his directions carefully. The rest of the afternoon continued uninterrupted. Did he know? (The artist, I mean.) Did he feel the difference in my soul? Did everyone experience this type of pleasure? It was indeed a new experience for me. Is there more color in my cheeks or a new look on my face? Or was no one the wiser? I had so many lingering questions about the day, the man who stole a piece of my soul, one I willingly handed over with no hesitation. 

   I honestly didn’t care what the artist thought. My only desire was to find out who that man was and how to find him again. He took a piece of me with him that I will never return. I learned where I fit in, what pleasures another could bring me, and where I belonged in the most unsuspecting place. This afternoon was unconventional but one I will never forget. I am now insatiable about feeling what I felt today, every day. He has ruined me for sure. 

©Tegan Matthews, 2024