I knocked on the door and waited. I had put on tight jeans, a loose shirt and glasses, rather than contacts. He might not be expecting someone young, so he needed to see I am a professional, but also think that it'd be nice to have me around.

He opened the door.

"Mr Kane? I am here for the painting? The assessment?"

He did not seem surprised at my appearance, which was good. "Ah, yes, you must be Dr Hogh, come in, please. It's right there in the living room, just to the right."

I entered the room, and there it was.

An original von Hohenheim. The thought overwhelmed me but I maintained my composure. The painting leaned against the wall of the owner's modest living room. Benedict Kane was not a duke or a millionnaire art collector. Just a guy who knew just enough to spot the bargain of a lifetime in the backroom of a junk shop.

"Well, what do you think? I know you need to make tests, but do you think it is the real thing?" he asked after a few seconds.

If it's a copy, then it's probably even rarer than an original, I thought.

"I must take samples to check the pigments composition, dating, analyse the signature, the canvas, it will take a while," I said. "But I think it is likely to be authentic," I said, making sure to appear appropriately careful. "May I take a closer look?"

He gestured me closer. "This is what you are here for."

I had of course never seen a von Hohenheim up close. Very few people had - the handful of known surviving works were in private collections, or sealed in the Vatican's vaults, if you believed the rumours, away from the public eye. I had seen a few black and white photos from the early 20th century, and read the scholarly analyses of those who had studied the corpus. I found myself recalling the comments of Dr Andrade, and agreeing with them:

He described von Hohenheim - no relation to Paracelsus - as a simply competent painter of the Flemish school. His technique was that of a master, but unexceptional. His use of shadow and light was good - I noted the contrast on the face of the subject that was lit by the torch on one side - but he was no Rembrandt. His mastery of the human form was without question excellent, but the simple fact of the matter was that there were a hundred just as good painters in the 16th and 17th centuries. Under other circumstances, von Hohenheim would be one among many, a half-forgotten artist whose better works would fill the walls next to more famous pieces.

But it wasn't skill that made him stand out. It was subject matter. Themes. Composition.

In an age of boundless pornographic content, the scandalous nature of the painting might seem trivial, but when he flourished, it was beyond taboo.

By most accounts, von Hohenheim had begun as an apprentice to a Flemish master around the turn of the 17th century. Upon leaving this apprenticeship he had received a few commissions, and at the start of his career his work was ordinary – there are records of him doing portraits for wealthy merchants or their wives, though none of those paintings survive, or if they do, he did not sign them and they are not identified. He is also known to have done a seemingly standard painting on the Adoration of the Magi theme for a local church in Antwerp, but this was later burned, after he had become infamous.

He is of course ignored in the majority of records and art histories of the period – most of the information we have on his life comes from the church archives listing the various charges against him, and a series of letters sent among his anonymous patrons that somehow survived.

From those we learn that his journey into depravity began when he did a commission for a painting of the Annunciation. He depicted Archangel Gabriel presenting the Madonna with the traditional lily, but also having a very prominent erection. It is unclear whether he actually meant to be provocative, and it does seem odd that whereas ostentatio genitalium was an accepted subject in renaissance art, this was for some reason condemned. In any case, his creativity was not appreciated and the bishop's disapproval drove him out of town.

But he had found his calling. Was he an especially spiteful and stubborn person who decided he would not budge to his bullies? Did his misdeed and its publicity attract the attention of wealthy patrons who were looking for something different? Whatever the case, his work became gradually ever more pornographic, decorating secret chambers in mansions and exclusive clubs across northwestern continental Europe.

He painted orgies and sexual acts of all kinds, often based on mythological motifs that he gave his own spin to. For example, his version of Pan and Aphrodite did not have the goddess shooing Pan away with her sandal, but rather saw her arched on top of an altar as the goat-god penetrates her, one of his Satyrs masturbating and ready to ejaculate on her body.

"Sorry, I got carried away, but it really is a fascinating story," I said, realising I had babbled on about all of that to Mr Kane. That's ok. Showing honest interest helps.

"No, you are right, it is. I knew some of it, but it does feel more authoritative when narrated by an expert," he said, humouring me.

I directed his attention to the painting at hand. "Now, assuming of course the tests confirm its authenticity, this piece is comparatively more subtle," I said. "There is no sexual act depicted – instead, the young woman is seen from above, as she is leaning back, her face and chest dripping with semen." It was basically like the post-cumshot scene of a point of view blowjob video – a truly remarkable angle for the time, though I did not mention this association.

"And look at the composition," I continued. "She is illuminated by a brazier, while the left side of the painting is darker; there is of course all sort of symbolisms you can discover there. And what about this? Despite the deterioration of the paint, look at her right eye, how it is closed, while the left one remains half-opened with, uh, ejaculate stuck to her eyelashes."

I held my breath at the exquisite quality of this detail. Her mouth was half-open, and she had one hand on the floor, the other one exposing her genitals to the viewer, inviting them. I didn't know how to express that in non-sensual, professional terms, so I stopped talking.

He examined the things I pointed to with genuine interest, which was all the motivation I needed to go on.

"The somewhat less crude, more suggestive theme, and the high quality of the brushwork – look, it is not just the eye, the overall fluidity of the semen all over her skin, the dishevelled hair, her necklace broken and on the floor, the ornate ring on her finger – these are all indications that this was done during the artist’s period of maturity."

He pointed to something at the right-hand edge of the picture, a broken hand-mirror on the floor beside the woman. "Do you think the reflection in the mirror is the artist himself, or the man who had sex with her?" he asked. "Or both?"

The face in the mirror, anyway a miniature portrait, was faded. There were no known depictions of von Hohenheim, so it was impossible to know.

I took a few samples to send to the lab, and agreed with Kane to come back the next day - the chance to study the work was rare and he was happy to oblige me.

***

The next morning, I was taking meticulous notes on every little thing about the work, and answering Mr Kane's occasional questions.

"You know, she kind of looks like you," he said at some point, squinting. The words left his mouth before reaching his brain. "I mean, the hair and the you know, face," he added awkwardly.

I laughed it off. "I guess there might be some resemblance," I said. It was an inappropriate remark, since given the subject's portrayal it was easy to guess he used his imagination to see the resemblance, but I had spent hours squatting, kneeling, and bending every which way in front of the painting. He didn't even have to check me out intentionally. And the truth is I saw it too, once he said it - her slim body, her breasts, her lips, it was almost bewildering. If van Hohenheim had drawn tattoos on her, I'd have proclaimed him a prophet. I just thought there is no way I could manage to look as sultry as her after a guy cums on my eyes.

"So, tell me more about the artist - what happened to him?" he said, in an attempt to change the subject.

I didn't need a second invitation. "Well. For a couple of decades, he pulled it off. As I said he managed to find a circle of nobles and upper class citizens who engaged in debauchery, and appreciated his talents. It was all very secretive obviously. Until one day the Inquisition got a tip and barged in one of their gatherings - they arrested the heretics, or whatever they called them, and though von Hohenheim wasn't among them, his artistic contribution to their group was revealed."

I noticed again that Mr Kane - he wasn't much older than me but he had hired me (sort of) so I automatically gave him a title - looked genuinely to be hanging from my every word. I lost my train of thought as I was simultaneously thinking about the artist's life, how appealing paying attention is in a man, that he was actually kind of handsome, and that this is extremely unprofessional. And so very needlessly risky.

I took a deep breath and went on. "Most damning was that among the works confiscated were two with religious themes - the ecstasy of St. Theresa, and I do not need to tell you what his interpretation of the angel's spear piercing her was, and the Temptation of St. Anthony, where the Saint was very much open to temptations. He managed to flee to Germany but the protestants weren't very willing to shelter him at this point. He was arrested but died before being handed over to the Church authorities, Catholic or Lutheran. Of course some say he escaped and disappeared."

"I suppose he made a deal with the Devil to get his talent in exchange for his blasphemous themes," he said. "Maybe the demons dragged him to hell like Don Giovanni when his time was up."

"The Inquisition surprisingly didn't accuse him of that, I think, and his memory was expurgated too quickly for folk tales about him to appear. I guess it could make for an interesting book plot, though I would expect the Devil to grant him greater talent."

He frowned. "Yesterday you marvelled at the quality of the cum - sorry, semen - on her face," he said, pointing at the painting.

"Well, that is very realistic," I admitted. "But come see this," I motioned to him.

"Look," I said, showing him the broken necklace. "The coat of arms on it is ecclesiastical, likely belonging to a cardinal. So von Hohenheim painted the wife, or maybe the daughter of a cardinal as a, well, excuse the term, cumslut. And," I continued with a little too much enthusiasm, "whoever that is in the mirror, likely committed a cardinal sin, pun sadly intended."

Mr Kane nodded thoughtfully. "So we have a scandalous mystery in our hands. Did someone tip them off to harm the Cardinal's position? To alert him? Was the painter mayhaps offered a new life in exchange for identifying the man in the mirror?" he added with a wink.

I laughed. "That would be something that could certainly raise the value of the painting, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Kane. For all we know this work was not among those found by the Inquisition."

"Benedict will do fine, Miss Hogh. I do not think I will sell it, to be honest."

That was an unwelcome surprise, but I remained calm. "It is worth a lot of money. It could be life-changing. Don't get me wrong, I like people who collect art just for art's sake, but if I were you I would not hesitate."

"Really? I thought you seemed obsessed with the guy. I could see you having a secret room of his works."

"With money, I could buy access to the rest of his surviving works. Maybe even the Vatican vaults - some say the Inquisition didn't destroy the confiscated paintings."

"Of course they didn't." He looked thoughtfully at his treasure for a while.

"You know, I too draw, though my topics are, I confess, mundane. Not sure they would attract your interest," he said.

I feigned offense, though it could have as well been genuine. "I have a Doctorate in art history, you know."

"And you are the author of at least 3 journal articles on sexuality in Renaissance paintings, which is why I contacted you in the first place," he said.

"Well then, I guess I am not suited to appraising your modern, prude work," I said. Worried I might have taken it too far, I quickly added, "Unless you want to switch to more porny topics or something."

Benedict - funny how my mind had already accepted calling him that - replied nonchalantly: "I would have to find a model for that, wouldn't I? Even von Hohenheim used them."

Normally I am not confident at picking up even obvious verbal signs, but there was a clear, large, non-verbal sign bulging in his pants. My heart raced but I made up my mind quickly. To deny the flesh in the presence of a work by Master von Hohenheim would be almost blasphemous.

"You're in luck, as it seems you have a clone of his model right here."

He turned to look at me, with what I guess is considered a smoldering look. He took half a step towards me and I jumped on him, pushing him against the wall and violently kissing him. My fingers traced his hardened cock under his clothes and I got wet instantly. What can I say? I am a size queen. It's not that big cocks give me better sensation, sometimes it's the opposite. But the psychological effect of knowing I am getting fucked by one is stronger.

One hand was on my ass, the other trying to get under my shirt, but I didn't need to be groped. I needed his cock in my mouth, and was so hungry for it that when I dropped on my knees I didn't tease, I just pulled it out and devoured it. His hands found their proper place, on my head, holding it in place as he fucked my mouth. At some corner of my mind that hadn't been taken over by bestial instincts, I marvelled at the power of art to drag out our true selves into the light. It turned our very lives into a chiaroscuro study.

Benedict was as horny as I was - it can't have taken more than a minute before his breath started getting faster. He tried to pull out but I didn't let him. I wanted my mouth to be flooded with cum, and he thrust, once, twice thrice, four times, each filling my throat with his hot load. Just as I expected, just as I hoped, it was too much to swallow and it dripped out on my chin.

"Take a photo," I said. "This will make a good reference if you want to make a tribute to von Hohenheim." Another stupid and pointless risk. It must have been the artist's daring spirit, reaching across time to cloud my judgement.

He seemed surprised, but took a few photos - asking for my phone to do so, which was another good trait that made my cunt even wetter. He wouldn't actually have them available to draw, but that wasn't really the point.

I posed as best I could - which meant I tried to imitate the painting's stance - and then opened my legs and nodded that it was his turn. He went down on me, and soon, somehow I had climbed on top of him, riding his face frantically. I let out a string of obscenities as I climaxed. I came staring deep into the half-closed eyes of the painted girl. What a thing to share, centuries apart. I resolved to find out exactly who she was.

***

On the next day, he greeted me a little awkwardly, probably unsure whether we should pretend nothing had happened, but I had crossed a mental line. I'd take everything I could out of this job, and to hell with the risk.

So instead of saying good morning, I took his hand, put it on my breast, and said "fuck me" instead.

And fuck me he did - he took me on the floor, savagely, holding my face pressed down against the floor and my hands behind my back after he had pulled down my clothes just enough to stick his cock in me. It was very uncomfortable and he came all over my clothes, but I liked being manhandled like that. It seemed like I had triggered something in Benedict. Or maybe it wasn't me. There really was something about this damn painting.

"So, where did you learn about von Hohenheim?" I asked a while later.

"A footnote in a book about Rubens. Something like 'as original as Rubens' take on the subject was, it cannot compare to...' - I got the rest from the internet," he said. "What little there was, anyway. I was hooked when I saw that painting of the farmers."

The Farmer's Wife was one of the few catalogues works of von Hohenheim. It showed the titular subject bent over a kitchen table and spit roasted by two men. One was presumably the farmer, the other - taking her mouth - the noble who commissioned it. Apparently the artist had watched the scene play out a few times to make some preliminary sketches before starting. The painting had stayed, hidden, in the noble's family before being rediscovered in the early 20th century. It had been sold to a private collection in the 80s but it was probably the master's best studied work.

I got an idea. "Want to reenact some of his paintings? Think of it as performance art."

We spent the next couple of days with that game. Some were easy - there was a known von Hohenheim sketch that was simply a handjob - and for some we had to improvise. Without another partner our playing out of The Farmer's Wife came in two parts - once all over my ass and once down my throat - but it was worth the effort. Our best one was the Whore Triptych, which gave me a chance to put all my holes to use. Whatever lingering reservations Benedict might have had for me, they went out the window once he heard me scream and beg him to fill my ass with his load.

Relentless fucking aside, I did have a job to do, I was doing it between fucks, and it was progressing. "I cannot do a full restoration here," I told Benedict on day five, "but I have cleaned up a few spots, and I have a revelation - see here, at the bottom left corner? We have a title."

There were only so many known titles for von Hohenheim's works, and "Maria de la Serra" was not among them. "I have made a quick search, and it matches - the coat of arms belongs to Cardinal de la Serra, who married the much younger than him Maria in 1605. And, if you can believe it, the Cardinal was removed from his position around 1612. I didn't find out why, but..."

"But you think he commissioned this himself."

"It's not him in the mirror, but cucks are as old as time. I postulate he hired younger men to fuck his wife while he watched - and since he liked watching, what better than having it painted?" It was a decent proposition to satisfy his curiosity.

***

I meant to be done earlier, but I lingered a bit. It was fun, which I did not expect, and I did get cold feet at some point, but in the end the confirmation from the technician was there, and I had to move on.

"Congratulations. It's a von Hohenheim," I said and poured him a glass. He drank it in one big gulp.

"You sound a little melancholic. It doesn't have to end here," he said. "You can keep coming. Make sure I'm not ruining the painting."

"I've really enjoyed our collaboration, Mr Kane. But I'm afraid it's almost over."

He stumbled a little, and I eased him down on the couch. "I must be getting old, I didn't drink that much," he said.

I gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it's probably the poison." He laughed. I didn't. "Yeah. So, it's not lethal, it will just incapacitate you a little while I steal this," I said pointing to the painting.

"But...I know your name," he said, confused. I really did like him - he didn't even wonder how I could do this after we had fucked so much. He didn't think it "meant" anything. No, he was pragmatic. Just so very wrong.

"Professor Juliette Hogh was 70 years old, and she died a few weeks ago. Stroke."

Benedict had sent professor Hogh an email about the painting. She had forwarded it to Dr Vanderbilt, who used to be my supervisor during my PhD. He never checked his emails. I had his logins. I found the message, had already heard of Dr Hogh's passing, and I was tempted. A chance to study a real von Hohenheim!

I didn't plan to steal it, of course. At first I wanted to just do my job, offer to find a buyer for him, and keep a percentage. I didn't even imagine he'd think I'm professor Hogh. I planned to just tell him I'm her assistant or something, but he hadn't done his homework.

It could have been simple, but then, he didn't want to sell it. And then I discovered the little secrets in the picture. The Cardinal's wife, and oh oops, the bit I left out. I had also identified the ring she wore - it depicted St. Paul as a fisherman. It was the papal ring. A not very subtle reference - von Hohenheim really lacked subtlety - she was having an affair with the Pope. Which was not that crazy - there are several popes known or suspected to have been sexually active, it's not just the Borgias.

But the depiction of the act - that was something the Vatican would rather conceal, now like they did back then. I had a few contacts. They were willing to pay a lot to keep the scandalous picture away from public eyes. Not the worst scandal the Church could be embroiled in, not by a long shot, but one it could keep under the rug.

You really never expect the inquisition, do you? I laughed to myself.

I was given assurances the painting would not be destroyed. It was of course a shame for it to be hidden away. But I told myself it didn't matter - it would never be publicly displayed anyway, no museum would have bought it.

I didn't tell him any of that of course. I did tell him I would make sure he got a cut of the money once I sold it. A not-too-small one - it was only fair.

There was a risk he might have filmed me or taken pictures with his own phone. I did encourage him after all. But I didn't think he'd go to the authorities and tell them 'I bought a very valuable painting of a cumslut, and this cumslut here stole it'. And if he did and it led to me getting captured, well, so be it. I had a feeling Master von Hohenheim had not regretted his path either.