I have been baring my wares on the big screen. Before you get excited (or throw up), it’s not as…um…whatever…as it sounds. Firstly, I’ve kind of ‘borrowed’ a 25″ monitor, and secondly, I’ve been plunging the depths of my folders (yes, folders) and making a list of the works I have which are nearly there, exciting but will need some attention to bring to the boil, or are still only a hot little throb in my imagination. As a result, I’ve decided to share some of these on a Tuesday.
The snippet I have for you today is from a work in progress, which will, all being well, be published towards the latter end of 2018. This book is a sheer indulgence on my part, my rule being ‘write what excites you because that way it will be full of integrity’; it’s quite a literary story and intended as historical (1930s) romantic fiction. However, the more I work on it, the more it seems to be penetrated with erotic elements.
The very basic premise is a love triangle between a woman, her intellectual companion and his friend, an artist. having escaped the marriage she was pushed into after the Great War ended, she now lives in a boarding house, and has struck up an intense friendship (of an intellectual and literary kind) with a writer who lives upstairs. The closer they get, the more she intrigues his artist friend, who is determined she will become his Muse.
Becoming lovers to them both, she embarks on a a Bohemian lifestyle she had only ever dreamt of. But, as her relationships grow ever more tense physically and intellectually, one lover seeks to claim her while the other becomes increasingly elusive. When world events begin to take a sinister turn, she finds herself trapped between her overflowing desires and her primal need for safety. Would she risk losing everything her head and her heart needs in order to fulfil the desires of the man who has captured her soul?
This little teaser comes from the moment she receives a letter from the Artist, when he first begins to let her know he wants her as his Muse. See what you make of it.
One day, they wrote to each other many times, so many that the messenger boy at his employ must have felt like a winding and unwinding corkscrew. The conversation had begun as it had so often done in recent weeks:
I want you to consider what I said. There is a room here, should you consent to become my artistic lifeline, my model, my muse. You do understand how important it is that I have that, don’t you? I know you do. My artistic temperament has chosen you, and there is nothing that I can do to alter that. The room would be yours to do with as you wish.
But this time he added more:
All I ask in return is that, when I draw you for the first time, you allow me the privilege of undressing that beautiful body that hides away under your clothes, and under Alex’s arm as he holds you in my doorway when you leave me in the early hours, to wash your wine glass and feel the great chasm that opens inside me as I climb into my smooth, cold, empty sheets. The body that hides beneath him as he makes love to you. He does lay on top of you, doesn’t he? I know him. He would hold you there, safe and secure, and unable to move. To breathe. If you were mine, I would want to elevate you, to lift you onto me and watch as you delighted in your own motion upon me while I gaze at the contours of your face in your ecstasy. I should remember the exquisite curves of your shoulders and your breasts, see the colours I need through the touch of my hands as I lift your hips up and down, up and down, watch your neck and your lips for the very precise shade of red I would need to create the colour of your orgasm when I once set upon the canvass like an animal possessed while you sleep.
But, of course, you are not mine. I merely offer you a room, a place that meets your needs better than the one in which you currently live. What you choose to do with it — whether you live in it on a permanent basis — is up to you. And I offer you the opportunity to provide yourself with new experience, a way of life, to discuss things you have never talked of before, or dared to think most possibly. I know how much you enjoy talking about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, for instance. Alex told me. He tells me everything. You must have guessed that. That could be our starting point, our beginning. I wait impatiently for you to decide.
She stared at the words. He wrote two more pages about Dante Gabriel Rossetti, all very knowledgeable, as if written by an art historian, just like a lesson on a painter from a textbook. His knowledge was flawless. But she didn’t read it carefully, didn’t mull it over and over like she did with Alex’s letters. His knowledge didn’t excite her in the same way. But she read the first page several times, and her breath came faster. A pain slid its way down her body, beginning in her stomach and finding a resting place between her legs. She needed to feed it, to satiate it. Moving over to the bed, she laid down, letting her knees fall outwards, tugging at her dress so it bared the thighs above her stocking tops. Gently, at first, she touched the cotton that covered the ache.
© Ina Morata 2017