Dominions

19

19

- 19 -

When Rodin woke, there was a message waiting on his screen. He tapped and opened it.

It was from Leopold. The weather was forecast to be ideal for sailing over the next few days, and the Councillor was keen to take his dinghy out on the lake. Would Terrell be available to join him tomorrow evening?

Rodin tapped a reply, to the effect that this would be ideal, and that he was excited by the prospect of trying a new activity. Then he shut down his screen, and concentrated on preparing himself for another new activity‌—‌modelling with Paskia.

Sertio rose early, and almost seemed surprised that Rodin had already prepared not only his breakfast, but refreshments for Paskia, as well as setting the studio out as Sertio had previously suggested.

Paskia arrived shortly before ten, and Sertio met her at the lift. He led her up the stairs to the studio. She paused to look around, especially at the hanging cloth and the suspended sketches from Rodin’s modelling session. Sertio directed her over to this area, and Rodin followed.

“Now, my dear Miss Paskia, I realise how this must seem daunting to you. As you can see from these images, and from our previous conversation, I will require both of you to be n***d, but we will take things at whatever pace you desire. If you wish to pose for a few sketches while still clothed, I’m happy to accommodate.”

Paskia looked over the sketches, deep in thought, moving closer then taking a step back. Once or twice she glanced at Rodin, as if comparing the black and white images to the real thing.

“I believe I told you that I used to swim a great deal as a youth,” she said, her voice quiet, but with a forced strength that surprised Rodin. “I can recall that, when the water was cold, it was far better to dive straight in rather than ease oneself in. The initial shock of immersion would often leave me breathless for the first few strokes, but I soon adapted, and was already completing lap after lap while my more cautious colleagues were still not fully submersed. So taking this as a lesson, I think it would be best to go‌…‌how can I put this?‌…‌all the way as soon as possible.”

Sertio grinned. “That is most excellent, my dear, most excellent. A strong nature to balance your fine, delicate frame‌—‌it further strengthens my conviction that you are the perfect subject for this project. But may I ask one thing before we begin? To ease us all into this level of informality, I suggest we forgo formal address, and also that we start by my assistant greeting you with a friendly embrace.”

That was unexpected, but Rodin nodded, and stepped forward. He brought a neutral smile to his face as his eyes alighted on Paskia’s delicate features. No eye shadow today, and her lips quivered as she took the lower one between her teeth and bit softly.

He raised his arms, and she took a stuttering step into them. He reached round, hands on her shoulders, and felt her own hands curl round his waist as her breath brushed against his neck. They held the embrace for a couple of seconds, then parted.

“Thank you, Terrell,” she said, her eyes only meeting his own occasionally. “And I would like to feel more comfortable with you too, Mister‌…‌sorry, Sertio.” She opened her arms to him

Uncertainty crossed the artist’s face, but his arms rose hesitantly, and they met, Paskia almost lost in the folds of his smock, her hands unable to meet across his back. Sertio’s arms reached round, barely touching her.

They broke, and Rodin noticed the obvious discomfort in the artist. He searched his own mind, recalling only the most fleeting brushes, the briefest of handshakes, and found himself remembering the peculiar look on Sertio’s face as he stood in Rodin’s doorway, watching his exercise.

“That is‌…‌thank you, my dear,” he said, his face pale. “But I believe we should begin. I suggest Terrell disrobe first.”

He nodded to Rodin, and stepped to his easel, clattering his brushes and pencils. Rodin removed his clothing, placing each item neatly on a chair. He sensed Paskia watching, but he didn’t meet her eyes. When he finally removed his shorts, he let his hands drop to his side as he looked over to Sertio and gave a nod.

“And now, my dear, would you prefer a screen?” the artist asked. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

She shook her head. “I’m diving headlong into cold water. You’ll both see me eventually, so why hide?”

Her hands rose to the knot at her neck, shaking slightly as they pulled the ends, releasing her robe. She caught it as it fell, folding it neatly, placing it on a second chair. Beneath, she wore a simple short-sleeved top and tight-fitting trousers. She slipped her sandals off and pushed them under the chair before undoing the six buttons on her top. She turned to slip it from her shoulders, presenting a smooth back to Rodin and Sertio, muscles moving beneath the surface as she folded the garment, the mark behind her ear visible for a moment as she bent to one side. Her hands then slipped into the waistband of her trousers and pulled down, her body bending to assist the movement, revealing plain white undergarments that clung to her firm backside, her legs shapely as she removed each one from the material. Her thighs were strong and smooth, like those of a runner‌—‌no, a swimmer, Rodin corrected himself. The hands moved back up to her waist and, with a finger of each under the cotton, she removed the final stitch of clothing and laid it with the others.

no, a swimmerShe turned suddenly‌—‌another dive into the cold water‌—‌and stood, arms by her sides, her eyes directed at the cloth hanging behind Rodin and Sertio. She took a deep breath, raising her small breasts‌—‌Rodin had noticed she had no need for support under her top‌—‌and extending briefly her stomach before it returned to its flat state. Rodin figured that she put time in to care for her body, and was again convinced that she had undergone only minimal treatments, if any.

Sertio circled her, muttering in admiration, eyes taking in every pore. Occasionally, a hand would reach out only to hover, before falling back to his side. His head twisted this way and that as he talked of the light catching the skin, of shadows, of still movement.

For her part, Paskia took in long, shuddering breaths. Her eyes stared straight ahead, but slowly her limbs grew less rigid. Then her eyes turned, taking in more of her surroundings. When she looked at Rodin, he smiled in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

As her breathing settled, Sertio stopped circling. “I believe we should begin,” he said, and arranged his two models, guiding with hands that never touched. He had Rodin and Paskia face one another, hands meeting between them. Her skin was warm as her fingers curled around his own. Sertio had them both stare past his easel, and so Rodin could only see Paskia in his peripheral vision.

The artist sketched, muttering to himself as he had done when Rodin had been his lone model. Light streamed in through the windows and the skylights, the warmth pleasing on Rodin’s shoulders. His muscles relaxed into the pose, and he allowed his mind to drift. If nothing else, modelling like this gave him some down-time.

They worked through the morning, Sertio having them stand in different poses as the sketches piled up at his feet. Rodin and Paskia faced one another, hands clenched tight. Then an embrace, foreheads touching and eyes closed, her breath warm and sweet on his chin. Sertio had them sit together, her on his lap, first facing him then facing away. Finally, he had them lay on the ground, Paskia curled up in Rodin’s arms, her knees against his stomach and her head buried in his shoulder. And finally, Paskia with her back to Rodin, hand resting on his arm as he held her tight, their legs entwined. He could smell the shampoo in her hair, mingled with sweat as the heat from the sun brought a sheen to her flesh.

Sertio sketched as the sun moved slowly across the glass outside. Rodin breathed steadily. This felt‌…‌calming. He tried to think back to when he had lain with someone like this. There was no pressure, no need to talk or even acknowledge each other’s presence, just the sensation of skin on skin, and the warmth transferring between their bodies.

Maybe, he thought, it was the lack of effort. He had no need to think. He was a lump of clay in the artist’s hands, all decisions taken from him.

A part of him screamed against this, reminding him that he had a contract to fulfil, and that he should be using this time to plan. But surely that could wait. He’d be with Leopold this evening, out on the lake. For now, there was no harm in taking advantage of these quiet moments.

Rodin prepared a light lunch, and as they ate Sertio talked‌—‌at great length‌—‌of how the morning had gone. He was clearly pleased, but wanted another session, if that was amenable to Paskia.

“This morning has been surprisingly enjoyable,” she said. “I was amazed at how soon I forgot that I wore no clothes, and how comfortable I felt.” Her eyes darted to Rodin, but she looked away quickly. “It bought back pleasant memories.”

But the way she then looked down to her plate made Rodin doubt her last statement. The memories clearly left a bitter aftertaste.

“I’m glad, my dear. But if you’ll excuse me, I must retire for a while. The muse is a harsh mistress, and after such a productive session in the studio, I feel quite drained. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Terrell. Until tomorrow, sweet Paskia.”

Taking a final bite of his cake‌—‌and Rodin made a mental note to bake more‌—‌Sertio stood, gave a brief bow to both Paskia and Rodin, and left. Rodin heard his door click shut.

“He’s not at all what I expected,” Paskia said.

“What were you expecting?”

Her face twisted for a moment. “I’m not altogether sure. Shae showed me some of his work, of course, and I found them too dark. I suppose I expected the man to match his art‌—‌a hard taskmaster, with a cold exterior. But he’s more like a kindly uncle. I can hardly imagine how such disturbing pieces come from one so likable.”

Rodin considered this for a moment. “Maybe he does have those dark thoughts, but they come out in his art.” He could have added more‌—‌maybe should have‌—‌but he couldn’t find the words. Besides, that sentence summed it up.

Paskia nodded in the silence, biting her lower lip again. “Yes. That makes a great deal of sense. And I recall a quote along the lines that without art we are nothing more than savage beasts.”

“And that is why there is so much art in the Dome. It calms the savagery inside, even for those viewing it.”

Paskia frowned at him, just for a moment. Then she nodded. “That’s why artists are so important.” She opened her mouth, as if to say more, but instead took another sip of her drink.

Rodin remembered that she’d come from another Dome, and had gone through some difficulties. He felt the urge to know more, and so he took a while to phrase his next statement. He wanted to draw her out, not shut her off.

“I’ve heard that they use art in Correction, too.”

He spoke as if that was an off-the-cuff remark, but he watched her intently. Paskia turned away, and the glass in her hand shook, the liquid sloshing around. But it was only for a moment. Back in control, she placed the glass firmly on the table.

“I’ve heard that too.” Her words were forced, though. Her breath came quicker, but now she pulled in a lungful of air, held it for a couple of seconds, and exhaled slowly. She looked at him, and he knew it was hard for her to meet his gaze. “May I ask‌…‌your body. The scars. Why do you keep them?”

The same question both Daventree and Sertio had asked. “Do they disturb you?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, “I find them intriguing. They hint at more beneath the surface. I recall Sertio suggesting there was more to you than met the eye.”

“And he suggested that was a similarity between the two of us. I’d judge that you’ve undergone only superficial alterations, if that.”

There was the briefest of laughs, nothing more than a giggle. “You’re not happy with what you saw?”

Was she flirting? “By no means. I prefer a natural look, even if there is room for improvement, which in your case there is very little of.” Why were his sentences becoming so clumsy?

Was she flirting?“Very kind of you to say so, but there is much that could be improved upon, especially according to Shae. My aunt,” and there was a hesitation after this word, “reminds me on a daily basis that the rounded figure is what many prefer, along with fuller lips, and possibly a lower forehead, not to mention feet that are more diminutive, and‌…‌oh, she has a long list of improvements.”

“But you prefer to remain natural.”

She shrugged. “This is who I am. Fashions change so frequently, and I don’t see why I should pander to the supposed wishes of the masses, especially when they are so clearly guided by a select few.” Her arms waved, and her voice became stronger. But then she stopped, and brought her arms down. “What I mean is, those in the know, in fashion circles, suggest what should be popular, and people simply follow. No, that’s not quite right‌—‌please excuse me, I’m becoming confused. Please forgive my outburst.”

No need to forgive, thought Rodin, intrigued to finally hear some real honesty from her. Paskia did not follow the crowd, and was close to showing contempt for those who did. She had transferred to this Dome to escape difficulties in her past. The dots were beginning to join, although there was no discernible picture yet.

No need to forgiveHe wanted to tell her not to worry, that he wouldn’t think any the worse for her whatever she said. But how could he do that without making her question who he was? He had to stay under cover.

“I‌…‌I think I’ve had enough excitement for today. Maybe I should go.”

Where did that come from? Rodin looked up, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find a way to prolong this conversation. “Please, don’t feel you have to rush off. Do you want another drink?” Why did he feel the need to keep her here?

Where did that come from?She shook her head. “That’s kind of you, Terrell, but I need to rest.”

“We have guest rooms‌—‌I’m sure Sertio wouldn’t mind…”

She held up a hand, and smiled sweetly. But she swallowed before talking. “I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll see myself out. I can call Shae while I’m in the lift, and she can meet me.” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “She still insists I shouldn’t be out on my own.”

And before Rodin could say anything else she stood and left.