Thick fog rolled off the Thames, darkened by coal dust, as it poured through London’s cobbled streets on the autumn eve of 1879.  Street lanterns flickered, doing their best to hold off the dampening blanket of heavy moisture. I watched as my master, Thomas Ashcombe, pulled the crimson velvet drapes closed over the large front windows, marking the beginning of another evening in the solitary sanctuary of his sitting room.  The fire crackled beneath me, filling the room with warmth despite the chill of his lonely existence.

Thomas unstoppered the glass decanter, letting the brief sound of its ring go unmuffled as he poured his nightly brandy into the familiar snifter. He took his lonely place in his favorite overstuffed leather chair in front of the fireplace, or more importantly, before me, prominently hung above the mantle. He sipped the warm, caramel taste of the brandy, allowing his tongue to savor its feel and tingle, before its warmth soothed his throat on the way down. His face displayed the deep longing of his soul as his eyes moved admiringly up the contour of my body to the glint in my hazel eyes. It had become a nightly ritual. He was tormented by desire. The covering of the brown wool twill trousers did little to conceal the unmistakable movement in his lap as he studied my form. His cock rose as a thermometer of his unbridled lust.

The desire was mutual, our souls the same. Truer said, my essence came from his. With each stroke of his brush, he created me, not from an image or model, but from the depths of his own imagination and desire. Each touch was an expression of his soul. For weeks, with adoring tenacity, every brushstroke on the canvas was an act of passion. Every touch brought me alive. Every detail made me his: the auburn of my hair, the penetrating emerald in my eyes, the tender lines of my lips, the feminine touch of my long fingers, the inviting lure of my bosom, the romance of the blue and lace frock atop my petite shoulders, the luminous softness of my skin. Thomas painted not just what he saw, but what he longed for. Every gentle, purposeful caress of the brush brought more depth, realism, and life. I was his passion, and with his every touch, he became mine.

Thomas Ashcombe was a moderately celebrated painter with works displayed in homes and halls from Hyde Park to the ancient village of Bath, near the River Avon, one hundred miles to the west. Critics praised his landscapes and admired his portraits for their realism. He earned acclaim from both the rigid elitism of the Royal Academy and the scandalous new Grosvenor Gallery on Bond Street, the “Palace of Art” for the budding Aesthetic movement. Few artists had works in both. Despite his success, more in the quality of his art than in material, at thirty-four years old, Thomas was unmarried and alone. He lived a solitary existence in this narrow Georgian house overlooking a quiet square in Bloomsbury. His only regular visitors were the maid who came twice a week and the postman, who brought more unpaid bills than letters.

While Thomas took great pride in the fact that his works hung in galleries, halls, and homes, I am the one masterwork he will never part with. Many have tried, mesmerized not only by the realism of my beauty but also by the way my captivating hazel eyes follow everyone in the room, as if Mona Lisa herself. Never did they realize how clear my vision was. “True love has no price,” he answered a duke’s steward who offered to pay any sum respectfully above what was reasonable, to secure me for his master's renowned collection. “Only upon my death, will I part with my Vivienne, and even then, her soul in mine, I pray, will constitute heaven itself.” 

I watched the longing in Thomas’ desire for me, as I had so many times, in the solitude of another quiet evening alone together. He sipped his brandy as his eyes admired the subtle nuances and details of my loveliness, as no one else could. The passion in his eyes made me feel seen. Known. Craved in the most carnal ways, that stirred me to my core. I moaned, silenced by the dimensions of my existence, watching his cock continue to grow beneath the thick tweed trousers. His pintle was imprisoned by the fabric as I was by the canvas, secured and bound by the frame around me. Art reflects life, yet few contemplate the ways life may be bound in art, yearning to be set free.

I watched hungrily as Thomas liberated his swollen cock from his trousers, taking it with a loose grip in the palm of his hand. He sipped from his brandy, held in his left hand, as his right began long, slow strokes with his eyes fixed lustfully on me. He was in no rush. His mind methodically stripped me of the dress he painted upon my body, teasing with irresistible seduction. Each prolonged stroke of his cock was as meticulous as the brush strokes that created me. I watched helplessly, aching for the impossible, to satisfy his deepest desires. He let go of his manhood, filled his palm with brandy-laced spittle, and took hold of himself again with a firmer grip. His pace quickened, sometimes running his palm over his bulbous head before descending again. I studied his every move for what pleased him. Moans slipped from his mouth. He stretched the self-pleasure out, bringing himself again and again to a torturous edge, wanting our evening rendezvous to last. Finally, after more than an hour of our shared lust, his body tensed. He closed his eyes, quickly opening them again, fixed on mine.

“Oh, yes, Vivienne!” he cried out.

Our connection was as real as the geyser of cum erupting from his beautiful cock. He continued his strokes, refusing to allow our moment to end. Thick seed flowed effortlessly from him, soaking the wool tweed covering his lap. His eyes never veered from mine. I ached to lick him clean, to experience the feel of his hot seed filling my needy womb, and to be his in every way he wanted.

My confinement in the canvas was torturous, yet without it, I would not exist. I watched powerlessly as Thomas finally released the grip of his cock, but not his gaze on me. His shaft softened gradually, descending into the white viscous pool on his lap. He savored the moment, despite his lonely ache. The same vivid imagination that created me conjured the moment we just shared.  

Every passing month only intensified Thomas’ longing for me and my longing for him. It was impossible for him to know how I yearned for him, imprisoned in the dimensional limits of the canvas. The cruel irony grew more painful. I am the figment of his greatest desire, yet, confined to this medium, I can never fully satisfy his desires and my destiny. I long to. I hoped he could see it in my eyes. My deepest desires are held in bondage to the very canvas of my existence.

The night came when everything changed. Thomas returned weary from a trip to Liverpool, where his art was showcased in the new Walker Art Gallery.  A raging storm blew in fast and strong. Thunder rolled through the city, accentuated by echoing claps. Street lights flickered helplessly in the strong winds. Torrential rain lashed against the windows. Flashes of lightning lit up the skies and his sitting room.  Thomas poured his brandy and slumped in his chair, exhausted. The fire crackled beneath me, warming the room. His eyes met mine. Our souls connected with a familiar shared passion. After only a few minutes, his eyes closed, dozing from the tiredness of his travels, slumbering into another quiet, solitary night at home.

Suddenly, lightning hit the rod of the house, electrifying everything. Wind screamed down the chimney, stirring the fire to a roar, its flames rising to lick the mantle beneath me. The ornate frame around me glowed, filling the entire room with golden light. The boundary between paint and air became thin. I was enlivened and knew instinctively this was only a moment, a fleeting chance. It was a door that would never open again, forcing a choice that would change everything, or nothing. If I chose life, it would come at a cost, as true love always does. The painting, his masterwork, would die. If I crossed over, I could never return. I had watched his loneliness for so long. He breathed life into me. Could I do anything less for him by inhaling my first breath?

My eyes blinked. An involuntary, sudden gasp filled my lungs. Everything was new. Sensation surged through my body. My fingers reached out and touched the edge of the gilded frame. It felt warm to the touch. I stepped through the canvas and lowered myself onto the hard wood floor. Each part of my exquisitely painted form took on flesh as I escaped the bondage of the canvas and frame. The room smelled of linseed oil and burning oak. I stood barefoot in my elegant one-of-a-kind gown before the warm, crackling fire, taking in the reality of the moment. I ran my fingers through my auburn hair and down the front of my body. I felt beautifully alive in ways beyond what I could have imagined. I glanced back to see the dark emptiness of the canvas in the ornate frame.

I took another deep breath, turned, and stood in front of Thomas as he drowsed in his chair. His face was tranquil as his chest rose and fell with every breath. I instinctively studied him, with a new appreciation, as my eyes moved down to take in his body. New, peculiar feelings suddenly stirred within me. My nipples hardened, drawing attention to the fleshiness of my bosom tightly held by the bodice of my dress. My stomach fluttered like hummingbird wings I had seen in the window. Desire moistened the softness between my legs. I moaned out loud, uttering my first sound. My hand quickly moved to my mouth, overwhelmed by the strange feelings intensifying in me.

“Thomas,” I said softly, daring to find my voice for the first time. My voice was soft, feminine, almost melodious. “Thomas,” I repeated, this time a little louder.

Thomas’s eyes flickered like the street lanterns outside before opening fully. He jumped with a start in his chair. “Who are you?” he shouted, standing up, his eyes still focusing from his doze. His heart visibly pounded in his chest. “How’d you get in here?”

“I’m your Vivienne,” I said, feeling my own heart thump within.

Thomas’ mouth opened in shock. His eyes quickly moved to his masterwork above the mantle, found it dark and empty, and then back to me, the very embodiment of his deepest desires. “This can’t be,” he exclaimed. “Where’s my Vivienne?”

“I’m here,” I answered. “I’m still yours,” I reassured, hoping I had made the right decision to empty his masterpiece, to give him myself.

“This must be a dream!” he said, looking around the room and then back at me. “This can’t be. You can’t be.”

“It is,” I said. “I am. You made me. I am yours.”

He stepped forward, reaching his hand out toward me. His fingers ran up and down my arm, feeling the softness of the dress he originally painted and the skin of my forearm. Electricity shot through my body at his touch. My breathing quickened. Our eyes locked onto each other as we both leaned in. There was a brief pause, and then our lips met that first time, sending lightning like that outside through both our bodies. I gasped in arousal. A new, deeper passion flowed between us.

Thomas stepped back to take in the spectacle of his creation standing in front of him in bodily form. His finger turned, motioning for me to twirl so he could inspect me. I spiraled slowly, almost as if in a dance, blushing proudly as the object of his desire. As I completed the turn to face him, I smiled, seeing the appreciation on his face.

“Beautiful,” he said. “You are magnificent.”

“You made me this way,” I answered, “for your own delight.”

“That I did,” he said, taking in the reality of it, of me, still trying to comprehend the moment. He leaned in and kissed me again, confirming this was more than a dream in the depths of his consciousness.

Our lips parted. We embraced. The softness of our warm cheeks pressed against each other, my lips near his ear. “You created me out of your deepest desires,” I whispered. “I exist to please you.” Our faces pulled back. Our eyes connected with shared, warm affection in this defining moment. I offered a warm smile. “I am yours, Thomas, to please you in every way.”

Thomas stepped back to gaze at me, studying my form as if evaluating a painting for the first time. The softness in his eyes turned lustfully passionate, as I had helplessly seen so many times when he self-pleasured himself in front of me. Everything in me ignited with arousal from the unbridled desire in his eyes.

“Let me see you without your dress,” he said softly.

“Yes, master,” I said. A nervous excitement filled my being as I reached up with both hands to push the soft satin off my shoulders, lowering the dress down my body, past my breasts until the dress fell to the floor around my feet. I stood before him, naked, exactly as he had always fantasized, yet I was real. I felt the warmth of the roaring flames of the fire on my bare arse. 

“Exquisite,” he said. The look of love in his eyes intensified, mixed with growing lust. He sat back down in his leather chair in front of me. “Come,” he said with a gentle firmness. “Kneel here.”

He watched me, still in disbelief as I knelt down on my knees before him, pushing my naked form between his knees. Our eyes remained locked as my hands moved up his legs toward his lap, feeling his growing member beneath the wool of his trousers. Thomas moaned as my petite hand crossed over his shaft that first time. He opened his pants, releasing his hardening member.

I lowered his pants down his legs. I smiled, taking his cock in my feminine hands and long fingers, rubbing it softly at first. “Like this?” I asked.

Thomas moaned.

I began with long, slow strokes as I had seen him do for himself so many times before. My fingers studied every inch of his fleshly length, ascending and descending, while wrapped around him to take in the feel of his girth. My eyes glanced up to see him staring at me in disbelief. I felt it too. He moaned as I took his balls in my other hand, while running the palm of my other hand over the top of his sensitive bulbous head.

Thomas moaned again. We were lost together in the magic of this moment. I slowly twisted my hand as I moved torturously slow up and down his shaft, feeling the rugged contours of his veins and form. His cock swelled even more. I reached up to his brandy decanter, took a small swig, moistened my hands with it, before reclaiming his throbbing cock in my hands. In that moment, he knew I had long watched him pleasuring himself in his lonely existence. There would be no need for that any longer. I was here now, in ways I could not before, to gratify his every desire.

Thomas reached his hand out and ran his fingers through my auburn hair. His touch felt so good. His hand slid to the back of my head, gently pulling it forward toward his lap. “Kiss it,” he said, with a soft but direct voice. My lips touched the rounded head of his cock, kissing it a couple of times before sucking only his tip between my wet lips. My tongue slid out to taste him, my brandy-laced saliva mixing with his pre-cum. It moved slowly back and forth across his sensitive head as my hands continued their long strokes up and down his shaft. I was in no rush, and neither was he.

Thomas took my hair in the grip of his right hand, slowly but firmly pulling my head down to his lap. The length of his throbbing cock moved through my mouth and down my throat. I gagged. He pulled my head back, allowing me to get another breath before bringing my head down again, showing me what he wanted, what he needed from me. I slid my hands down the sides of his lap, holding on, while my head began to journey up and down the entire length of his beautiful manhood. I took him in deeper with each thrust down my throat. The sensation and taste were new and enthralling. I became ravenous. I increased my pace and force ever so gradually with each pass. My taste buds jolted alive for the first time. Saliva filled my mouth, pouring onto his cock, further lubricating him for my oral pleasuring.

Thomas moaned more loudly. I felt his arousal climbing as if it was my own. His cock swelled more in my mouth, approaching the brink of climax before I eased, extending his pleasure. It was torturously euphoric.

“Climb upon me,” he offered, pulling my naked arm up. My body and soul gladly surrendered to the firmness of his grip. I was his to do with what he wanted. My mouth released his cock with a pop. His dark red, now almost purple prick throbbed uncontrollably in his lap, begging to be fucked.

I rose up, climbed and knelt over his lap on the familiar overstuffed leather chair. He stared closely at my pussy for the first time, shaved exactly like he imagined, having created me as his perfection. My clit reached out from my folds, begging to be taken. My pussy glistened with unfamiliar, exhilarating wetness. I longed to be filled.

“You’re already so wet,” he said, touching me for the first time.

A deeper jolt shot through my body at his touch. He ran his thumb up and down my folds, each pass drawing closer to my begging clit. I shuddered as his thumb passed over it. His glance looked up, seeing the pleasure on my face. The fingers of his left hand spread my labia, exposing me to him completely. The middle finger of his right slid into me, curling to touch and stroke me as I had never experienced. He lowered his thumb onto my button, creating a dizzying rhythm with my clit and softness within me. He read me as he knew me, causing my entire body to quickly approach my first, overwhelming climax.

Just before the climax crashed over me, he stopped. I shook, pleading for him to take me. Our eyes connected. His gaze was loving, inviting me to trust him, yet firm enough to remind me that I was his. The force in his eyes made me even more aroused, desperate to be used every way he wanted.

His strong hands grasped my waist, lifting me up. I felt his cock beneath my wet pussy. The bulbous head of his cock moved back and forth across my folds, teasing my pussy.

“Yes, please,” I begged. “Please fuck me. Use me for your pleasure.”

The feel of his tip entering my virgin lips made me delirious. With torturous slowness, he lowered me onto his shaft, inch by inch claiming me as his own in ways we both dreamed since the first brush strokes of my creation. My ass lowered atop his lap, achingly filling my pussy with his glorious member.  I dropped my head back and gasped. Thomas moaned. His strong hands pulled my waist forward and back, creating a motion and rhythm of riding him. I instinctively rose and lowered myself on his manhood while rocking to his motion. 

Lost in passion, I reached down and pulled his face to my breasts. I shivered at the feel of his lips capturing them into his mouth, sucking, licking, and nibbling my tender erect nipples. I moaned, aroused by the mixture of pain and pleasure. The combination of his attention to my nipples, the rocking motion of me on top of him, and his cock pounding against my cervix brought the climax rushing back like a giant wave to crash over me.

The connection between us, master and masterpiece, was undeniable. Our shared arousal intensified, our moans answering each other like a song. We were consumed in each other. The reality of the moment was itself a beautiful, mesmerizing, breathtaking work of art.

Suddenly our bodies climaxed together, as one. Waves of pleasure cascaded over us, with ever-heightening intensity. It was indescribably euphoric. I shook uncontrollably at my own climax, but also at the feel of him filling me with his warm essence that first time. With every thrust, he masterfully painted the walls of my virgin womb with his seed. 

We made love all night. I was insatiable to please him, again and again, in every way until the bright morning sun rose over the city. It was my destiny. That night I first discovered the distinction between art and life. Sometimes art reflects life, yet in the most beautiful connections and moments, life is itself the true art. I am forever his Vivienne.