Invitation to Ruin by Ann Vremont

comforts as I
posed for a few preliminary sketches that he might show me his
vision. Such vision! Passionate even on charcoal and paper. How
accurately he captured the essence of my spirit while preserving my
beauty. That those rough materials he used should be made to reveal
my sublime grace—surely he is as talented as any painter at
court.
    So, it is done! The money for supplies went
with the letter of commission this morning and I will see him this
weekend when I return home for another week’s stay—Gabrielle having
somehow convinced my parents that the city is safe.
    June 9, 1787
    He has drawn secret pictures of me! I know
because I saw them today—having searched his drawing desk while he
was busy setting up his supplies and staging the posing area. I
could not help but do so, his manner at my arrival made me
suspicious. He was in a great hurry to hide (not merely put away)
the sketch books when I came. It seemed too facile a possibility
that he was trying to protect my delicate nature by hiding common
nudes. Since he could not think me so ill-educated a school girl,
it stood to reason that he must be hiding his sketch books
specifically from me.
    And I was right, though I had no idea how
thoroughly impudent a beast he could be. The pictures start out
innocently enough, such that I might consider them more refined
exercises as he formulated his final vision. But, oh how the series
progresses. It moves from a study of my face to one of me sitting
on a chaise. From there, he has me reclining with a leisurely
grace, my clothing much as I might wear to bed, only loosely
fastened. And then he has me alone in my flesh—no covering of any
fashion! Only my hair is down, falling in loose waves over my
breasts.
    Even there, he did not stop and I marvel at
where he found the time for so many sketches—have I possessed his
thoughts that he has done nothing but draw me since our first
meeting? For there were dozens more—all in an unclothed state. No
mere studies of my form, either. He has drawn me at the height of
my passion. Images of me touching myself, images of me on my hands
and knees, lips sensuously parted. Pictures where my legs were
thrown wide as if I were inviting the whole world to come and take
a peek.
    How difficult it was to softly answer his
summons to come and sit…to demurely pose before him while feeling
as if he already knew me in a most intimate manner! Again and again
he had to correct me as I sat there...for I could not sit still. I
had to look at him, see him, try to figure out what had driven him
to make those sketches.
    So, too, was I enchanted by his very
presence, for he is a most handsome and virile looking young man.
What response, I wondered, had these images of my body so wantonly
exhibited produced in him?
    Now I sit here debating what I should do when
I next pose for him. Do I tell him I have seen the pictures?
    June 11, 1787
    What a difficult man! When I confronted him
about the pictures, he acted nonchalant and showed me sketch after
sketch of nudes, male and female, some of them in the very act of
copulating with one another. When I thanked him, with honeyed
sarcasm, for not pairing me with one of his sick imaginings, he
only gave me a sly smile! What depraved acts has he drawn me
engaged in? And why do I want nothing more than to go back through
those books and find myself down on my hands and knees with
Christophe’s manhood impaling me from behind!
    June 12, 1787
    A letter today from Christophe—canceling the
day’s session because something “more important” has arisen. Vile
beast that he is, he sent me a picture of his phallus drawn, he
says, to scale—though he must lie!
    June 13, 1787
    How accurate his pencil! I must confess, I
could not throw away his degenerate token. I spent the evening in
my room, studying it, learning its every detail until I could think
of nothing but taking its living twin into my mouth before
sheathing it deep inside me.
    The shaft is of a generous