(10, continued)
“Why these infernal stairs, for all love?” Adelaide moaned, rather too loudly.
She was as full as she’d been since Sicily and the sloshing weight in her bloated abdomen conspired with the wine swimming in her head to make the tight spiral staircase a treacherous path. She stepped slowly and gingerly, one hand on the feeble railing and the other on her churning stomach.
Fortunately Allen was below her, his bulk filling much of the passageway. He had outdone her in every way at dinner, but seemed far more adept at handling the indulgence and able to handle not only his descent but hers as well.
She managed to trip anyway, in the final steps before reaching the bottom, sprawling onto his plush mass with a squeal. They tumbled out onto the floor of his workshop, toppling an easel and rolling onto the clay in a giggling fit.
“I’m so sorry,” she cried, watching the ceiling spin. “I have no idea where my feet went.”
Allen heaved himself up. “They must share your adventurous spirit. Are you alright?”
“Yes. Very, very alright.” She managed to sit up and tried to catch her breath between bouts of giggles. “Oh. My dress isn’t, though.”
He helped her to her feet and they surveyed the damage. A long tear had opened along her left leg, displaying the soft flesh of her thigh and the pale fabric of her chemise.
“At least no one’s around to be offended this time,” Adelaide noted, flapping it about. “Well, you’re here. But you don’t…you don’t look offended.”
“Not in the least.”
“I’ll just have to make something up to Mrs. Torcia. Again. I’ll have to get better at lying.” She wandered into the studio, weaving aimlessly. “Is that wrong?”
“Is what wrong? Following your happiness?”
“But…hiding it. Can I live two lives? Can I be one Adelaide to us but some other Adelaide to the rest of them?”
He followed her. “I don’t think there’s any shame in being an actress. Sometimes you go on stage, you wear your costume, you play your role, you act the part they all came to see. They applaud. They pay.”
She strutted a little, waving to an unseen audience, and tripped over a chest.
“But then the curtain closes. You take off your costume and your mask and you go home. You are not your character, no matter how well you portrayed her. You are someone else. Sure, you’ve worn two faces, but the effort of one face gives the other face a reason to smile.”
Allen reached out a hand to steady her. She turned to him and smiled. “Which audience are you?”
He gazed down at her.
“Do I need my costume for you?”
Before he could say anything, she reached to her shoulders and unfastened her dress. The torn garment fell into a bundle at her feet.
He set his broad hand on her cheek, leaned in slowly, and kissed her. Her stomach gurgled happily.
“Paint me,” she breathed, when their lips had parted.
“I’ve already finished your portrait,” he mused, “your very chaste, publicly presentable portrait.”
She shook her head. “I want a new one.”
Stepping back, she let her hair down and shook it out. She swayed a moment, steadied herself, and in one elegant motion slipped out of her chemise.
Only a few candles had been lit and their warm glow danced over the smooth contours of Adelaide’s skin. Shadows accentuated the gentle rolls behind her midsection and the squeezed valley between her thighs. Her glutted belly swelled out, only one side illuminated, like a half moon. Her diamonds, the only article she still wore, twinkled above her naked bosom.
“Without…” she continued, setting herself on a stool, “without my mask, this time.”
Allen nodded slowly. He reached for an easel, but stopped and hurried over as Adelaide contrived to fall off the stool.
“Perhaps the divan,” he suggested, leading her over.
She flopped onto the divan with another giggle, rolling onto her side and trying to emulate the decadent poses of Allen’s other paintings. She draped one arm lazily behind her head, let her dark hair fall in cascades over the pillows, and crossed her plush thighs.
“Perfect,” Allen remarked, stepping back.
A long, uncouth belch echoed off the cellar walls. Adelaide excused herself and laid a dainty hand on her stomach.
“Yes,” the painter gasped, eyes bulging. “That’s it. Yes. Do not move. You are aglow, absolutely aglow. I see it.”
In a frenzy of motion surprising from so large a man, he set up a new easel and assembled his tools. His eyes darted about between the vision before him and some world in his imagination and he unbuttoned his coat.
“Divinity. I will portray you as Fortuna, in all her glory, with all her bounty. Yes.” He sketched furiously. “All her attributes…the rota fortunae…the gubernaculum…the cornucopia…”
He droned on. Adelaide basked in her fullness, luxuriating in the ache of her belly and the warmth in her head. The hand on her stomach began to idly caress its curve.
“What will I do with this portrait?” she wondered quietly, watching Allen paint. “I can’t give it to poor Brenton. He would turn redder than his coat, hee. I certainly can’t hang it at the Palazzo. I can’t even hang it here, with all the prying eyes coming in and out…” She thought awhile, hiccupped, and pursed her lips with a smirk of realization.
“Why these infernal stairs, for all love?” Adelaide moaned, rather too loudly.
She was as full as she’d been since Sicily and the sloshing weight in her bloated abdomen conspired with the wine swimming in her head to make the tight spiral staircase a treacherous path. She stepped slowly and gingerly, one hand on the feeble railing and the other on her churning stomach.
Fortunately Allen was below her, his bulk filling much of the passageway. He had outdone her in every way at dinner, but seemed far more adept at handling the indulgence and able to handle not only his descent but hers as well.
She managed to trip anyway, in the final steps before reaching the bottom, sprawling onto his plush mass with a squeal. They tumbled out onto the floor of his workshop, toppling an easel and rolling onto the clay in a giggling fit.
“I’m so sorry,” she cried, watching the ceiling spin. “I have no idea where my feet went.”
Allen heaved himself up. “They must share your adventurous spirit. Are you alright?”
“Yes. Very, very alright.” She managed to sit up and tried to catch her breath between bouts of giggles. “Oh. My dress isn’t, though.”
He helped her to her feet and they surveyed the damage. A long tear had opened along her left leg, displaying the soft flesh of her thigh and the pale fabric of her chemise.
“At least no one’s around to be offended this time,” Adelaide noted, flapping it about. “Well, you’re here. But you don’t…you don’t look offended.”
“Not in the least.”
“I’ll just have to make something up to Mrs. Torcia. Again. I’ll have to get better at lying.” She wandered into the studio, weaving aimlessly. “Is that wrong?”
“Is what wrong? Following your happiness?”
“But…hiding it. Can I live two lives? Can I be one Adelaide to us but some other Adelaide to the rest of them?”
He followed her. “I don’t think there’s any shame in being an actress. Sometimes you go on stage, you wear your costume, you play your role, you act the part they all came to see. They applaud. They pay.”
She strutted a little, waving to an unseen audience, and tripped over a chest.
“But then the curtain closes. You take off your costume and your mask and you go home. You are not your character, no matter how well you portrayed her. You are someone else. Sure, you’ve worn two faces, but the effort of one face gives the other face a reason to smile.”
Allen reached out a hand to steady her. She turned to him and smiled. “Which audience are you?”
He gazed down at her.
“Do I need my costume for you?”
Before he could say anything, she reached to her shoulders and unfastened her dress. The torn garment fell into a bundle at her feet.
He set his broad hand on her cheek, leaned in slowly, and kissed her. Her stomach gurgled happily.
“Paint me,” she breathed, when their lips had parted.
“I’ve already finished your portrait,” he mused, “your very chaste, publicly presentable portrait.”
She shook her head. “I want a new one.”
Stepping back, she let her hair down and shook it out. She swayed a moment, steadied herself, and in one elegant motion slipped out of her chemise.
Only a few candles had been lit and their warm glow danced over the smooth contours of Adelaide’s skin. Shadows accentuated the gentle rolls behind her midsection and the squeezed valley between her thighs. Her glutted belly swelled out, only one side illuminated, like a half moon. Her diamonds, the only article she still wore, twinkled above her naked bosom.
“Without…” she continued, setting herself on a stool, “without my mask, this time.”
Allen nodded slowly. He reached for an easel, but stopped and hurried over as Adelaide contrived to fall off the stool.
“Perhaps the divan,” he suggested, leading her over.
She flopped onto the divan with another giggle, rolling onto her side and trying to emulate the decadent poses of Allen’s other paintings. She draped one arm lazily behind her head, let her dark hair fall in cascades over the pillows, and crossed her plush thighs.
“Perfect,” Allen remarked, stepping back.
A long, uncouth belch echoed off the cellar walls. Adelaide excused herself and laid a dainty hand on her stomach.
“Yes,” the painter gasped, eyes bulging. “That’s it. Yes. Do not move. You are aglow, absolutely aglow. I see it.”
In a frenzy of motion surprising from so large a man, he set up a new easel and assembled his tools. His eyes darted about between the vision before him and some world in his imagination and he unbuttoned his coat.
“Divinity. I will portray you as Fortuna, in all her glory, with all her bounty. Yes.” He sketched furiously. “All her attributes…the rota fortunae…the gubernaculum…the cornucopia…”
He droned on. Adelaide basked in her fullness, luxuriating in the ache of her belly and the warmth in her head. The hand on her stomach began to idly caress its curve.
“What will I do with this portrait?” she wondered quietly, watching Allen paint. “I can’t give it to poor Brenton. He would turn redder than his coat, hee. I certainly can’t hang it at the Palazzo. I can’t even hang it here, with all the prying eyes coming in and out…” She thought awhile, hiccupped, and pursed her lips with a smirk of realization.