Pale Painter Ch. 02

Something was persistently banging. As Rosanda's eyes blearily tried to find something to focus on in the mostly dark bedchamber, she whined at the knocking sound that had disturbed her patchy slumber. Barely able to walk, dealing with heavy limbs softened by exhaustion, Rosanda kicked the covers down and felt her way towards a scarcely lit oil lamp standing on a little nightstand. Past experiences had taught her to always have a light in the middle of the night.

Her fingers pinched and rotated a little metal dial. The light intensified, letting her see more of the lavish bedroom, or rather, letting her see more of a blurred version. With the light, and her fingers, she was able to find her glasses and slide them on. The world was sharp again, and she found a robe to cover herself with.

The cold, smooth floor chilled her bare feet as she padded down to the door, and she called out, "Who is it?"

"Miss Rosanda Lunai? His Majesty has requested your presence. It's quite urgent."

It might as well have been the gods themselves who wanted to see her. Rosanda knew she couldn't refuse, not without something bad happening. The king was the one supporting her step-mother, after all. Regardless, she made a weak attempt. "It's the middle of the night. Can't he wait until morning?"

"It's best if you didn't make him any longer than necessary," the voice said in a complete deadpan. Rosanda was certain it was a male voice.

Rosanda's fingertips rubbed into the temples of her head, under the temples of her glasses. There was no escape. She told the voice that she needed a moment to get dressed. The voice agreed.

Rosanda slipped on and tied her stockings, pushed her feet into slippers, and then she laced up her stays over her chemise. Her knowing fingers tied on a bum roll very quickly. The appropriate diameter of the bum roll, as far as the fashionable people were concerned, had increased a bit in the past four years, leading to wider and more lavishly displayed skirts, although Rosanda mostly kept to a plain wardrobe. Her step-mother kindly let her have a portions of the profits from the paintings, and so Rosanda had regular income. If she really wanted a fancy gown, she could purchase at least one or two.

She put on her ordinary, unadorned black gown, and then her gloves. Then she combed and pinned her hair into a simple bun. Her homemade veil was wrapped about her head carefully. It was best to keep up the pretense of being shy. Perhaps it wasn't a pretense at all. Perhaps she would feel shy on this occasion. She was, after all, about to meet the king himself without her step-mother's companionship.

When she quit the room, a male servant wearing a very nice outfit greeted her and asked her to follow him. Rosanda was led this way and that. She couldn't map out the route. The palace was far too large for her to fathom at that moment. She was sleepy, barely walking. The servant had to pause at times to give her time to keep up. Occasionally, Rosanda yawned into her covered fist.

After a nearly tortuous walk, they stopped at a tall door that had the royal family crest gilded onto it. It was a golden image of the God of Hope. This particular interpretation, the most popular interpretation, was of a tall and thin figure, androgynous and lacking in many features. The figure had a collar around it's neck and shoulder shaped like a lotus flower, with its pointed petals framing the clean, bald head of the god.

The servant knocked on the door. Rosanda heard the king's voice even through the thick wood. "Is she here?!"

With a straight back, the servant replied, "Yes, Sire!"

"Good," said the king's great voice. Rosanda flinched at the loud enthusiasm. It seemed to slap her ears. "Let her in!"

The servant opened the door and asked Rosanda to enter the room. Rosanda grumbled and slid her fingertips under her glasses to rub her eyes. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she stepped into the dark bedchamber. She heard the door click shut behind her, saw the lights from the hallway seemingly disappear as the door covered them, and saw the new glow of a fireplace and felt its warmth.

Rosanda couldn't make out the exact size of the room, since there wasn't much light, but she managed to catch a few nice details. There were soft fur rugs on the floor. Hinting shapes of elaborately carved furniture were all about. A man was nearby, holding up an oil lamp. It was obviously the king. She could see his face, striking and harsh, those eyes seeming to shift from brown, to green, and back again, depending on how he moved behind the firelight. His hair was loose and wild.

And ... to Rosanda's chagrin, he was wearing a silky looking black robe that was slightly open near his chest. She was able to see a little bit of brown chest hair dusting what had to be his pectoral area. It seemed firm and healthy. He wasn't anywhere near the delicate stage of advanced age. In fact, he seemed quite strong.

Rosanda tried to curtsy, but exhaustion had her tripping a bit. She caught herself, though, and then she said very quietly, "Good evening, Your Majesty."

Kutberth I's voice was like molasses drizzled on a thick, yet fluffy scone. "Forget the courtesy for now. I need you to do something for me. Would you be willing to keep this matter private?"

Rosanda closed her eyes for a few seconds. She didn't really have a choice in this matter, did she? As her eyes opened, they turned cold. Her voice was colder. "I'd never do anything against my king."

Kutberth I nodded and moved away from her. He set his oil lamp on a small nightstand. A portion of an elegant canopy bed was lit up. "Come here."

Her slippers pressed into one of the fur rugs as she went to him. She stood very close to him, trying not to inhale his musky, savory scent.

"Please sit on the bed."

Rosanda was actually grateful to take a seat. She adjusted her skirts and planted her covered backside onto the mattress. The blanket was a thick, fur-lined creation. She tried to hide a yawn by pressing her gloved palms against her mouth. She did it out of habit. Her veil hid her mouth sufficiently.

And the king knelt down before her. If Rosanda had any extra energy, she would have wondered about it.

"I'm going to remove your shoes." He said it calmly, but there was a mild inkling of something dark in his tone, like he was getting hungry.

His hands slid under gown, hot against her ankle. His thumbs dug into the back of the shoe and pulled it off. The shoe clattered to the floor. The same treatment was applied to the other shoe. Her tiny feet only had stockings to hide them.

And his voice changed. It was rasping and needy. "Ah, they're shaped so nicely!"

Rosanda closed her eyes again. She wished she could be granted a few minutes of sleep. There was the firm touch of his fingers against an arch of a foot, stroking the texture of her stocking into her flesh. Her eyes opened again and she tried to focus on the top of his head as she gave another weak little yawn.

"Are you tired? You may lie down, if you wish, but stay on your back."

Might as well get this over with, she thought.

She flopped back, completely undignified, making a thud of a noise against the bed, tilting her bum-roll at an angle. She heard the man rise. "You should move back." Even in the darkness, Rosanda rolled her eyes. She pushed and kicked herself backwards so that the heels of her feet were just at the edge of the mattress. The comfortable bed was luring her mind away to a world where nothing really mattered.

Fingers against the bridge of her right foot, thumbs pressing into the soft arch, up and down, up and down.

Little fireworks floated and twirled all around her skin. Her fingers flexed into her palms. Her small bosom heaved under her clothing. Her toes curved a bit.

"Oh, what sweet little toes! I'd love to see them."

Something deep in Rosanda's pussy clenched and moistened. If she were in a clearer state of mind, she would have been mortified at her body's reactions.

Then his thumbs pressed in opposite directions against the heel, one thumb went up when the other went down. Her breath heated the cloth against her face.

Her foot was left alone for a moment, and then she heard something like the whisper of fabric lightly sliding against something. A moment after that, his fingers rubbed around her ankle bones.

Something with a soft texture, yet firm in structure ... and very warm, was pressing, sliding, and undulating against the bottom of her stocking clad foot. Not even her stocking could have disguised it. Rosanda knew what it was, but she didn't say anything. She was an artist, after all. She had socialized with both the low and high born of the world. She kept her barely open eyes tacked to the darkness above her.

Desperate, mindless groaning was echoing throughout the room. Rosanda tried to ignore it.

She couldn't. His voice was too stimulating, sending an insistent pulse throughout her core. Her clitoris was swelling up. She knew it. Even though her genitals were properly hidden under her chemise and gown, she felt as exposed as a working harlot.

Well ... there was the fact that the King Kutberth the god damn first was at her foot, not far from the hem of her skirt, and like a proper woman, she didn't wear a man's drawers over her buttocks and secretly flushed pussy. She could feel a little bit of air touching her most sensitive bits. A little trickle of fluid seemed to lick her thigh as it slid down her skin.

She moaned out the lust she had wanted to suppress.

And the king gave his own sound, a rusty sound, a strangled sound, deep in his throat.

And her stocking was wet, almost as if she had stepped in something.

"I ... I'm sorry!"

Rosanda almost didn't care.

"Wait. Please wait." She heard his footsteps, felt his warmth leave her. There was the sound of water pouring. Kutberth I was probably cleaning himself up. A minute or so passed, and then he went back to her. "I'm going to remove your stockings. I'm sorry, but it's better to have bare legs than only one stocking."

Rather mechanically, he reached under her skirt and untied the soiled stocking. Then he bundled it down, his rough fingertips drawing electric lines down her leg. Rosanda whimpered.

He used a dry portion to wipe off anything that had seeped through. Then the king took away the other stocking. She didn't know where he put her stockings. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

Rosanda didn't want to sit up, but she thought she had to. She whined as she pushed herself into a sitting position and shuffled closer to the edge of the bed. Her toes pinched the edges of her slippers, arranging them for easier access. She slid her feet into them, wincing at the rough discomfort the lack of stockings brought.

"If you'd prefer, you may leave now," the king said, patting her shoulder. Then his hand slid from the shoulder to her back.

Rosanda quivered, but she shook her head like a wet dog. Then she adjusted her spectacles. She was grateful that her veil was tight enough to keep her glasses in check.

She managed a curtsy and she mumbled a goodbye. Then she slowly made her way to the exit.

She slept surprisingly well the rest of the night.

***

The morning seemed fairly uneventful. Rosanda and her step-mother ate breakfast in their rooms. Then they locked themselves in the studio. Kosette continued her relaxation while Rosanda painted the canvas. She kept working until it was time for lunch. Then they ate separately again. Both women believed that spending too much time with a person could lead to insanity.

A servant knocked on Rosanda's door and said that the prince would like to speak to her. It wasn't the middle of the night, and so, Rosanda imagined this visit with the prince would be less naughty that the incident with the king. Just in case, Rosanda brought her step-mother along.

The two women were led to a small library. It was a cozy room, a sweet room smelling of paper and incense. A happy little fireplace kept everyone toasty.

The prince was standing as he greeted them. He looked so open, so amiable, that Rosanda wondered if his personality was transmissible. Under her black veil, she was smiling, and she walked a little bit closer to him without realizing it.

Of course, both women curtsied and greeted him.

"Rise, dear women, and take a seat if you wish." The prince took his own seat, a cushy red armchair. The red fabric complemented his outfit. He had on a tight, dark blue coat with pretty white and silver embroidery that was in shapes of camellia flowers and stoats in their winter fur. His tall, fairly thick form was almost straining against the coat.

"Thank you very much, Your Highness," Kosette said as she and her step-daughter sat down on a sofa. "I hope my dear Rosanda's appearance doesn't disturb you."

"Well ... I don't feel disturbed." Kutberth II's cheeks quirked and he gave a friendly, almost vulnerable shrug. "I will admit that I do think it's strange."

"My dear child is terribly shy," Kosette explained, smiling and patting her coiffure. "However, she believes that modeling nude for an artist is perfectly acceptable. People are naturally contradictory, aren't they?"

The prince's smile seemed far too honest to be royal. "I suppose so." His warm, autumn-like eyes landed on Rosanda's covered face. He leaned forward and put his laced fingers between his spread legs. "Miss Lunai, after some self-reflection, I've realized that you must think I'm an unpleasant deviant of a man. I've put too much stress upon you."

Rosanda actually believed him. She felt a genuine fondness radiating from him. Like a destitute little flower struggling to burst through a crack in a concrete pathway, Rosanda silently reveled in the sunlight that was his presence. Under her slippers, her toes squeezed together and then spread out, like a content cat's paws.

The prince turned to Kosette and asked, "Have you made much progress on the first painting on your list of commissions?"

Kosette nodded. "It should be finished by tomorrow."

"I suppose I can't cancel since you've nearly finished it." His richly colored face seemed to redden. Then a bashful smile came across his features. It was softened by the gentleness in his eyes. "I'll gladly pay you for you the painting once you've finished, but I might cancel my other orders."

One of Kosette's eyelids flinched. Her dark brown eyes had a desperate, panicking twinge in them. "I must have done something to upset you, Your Highness. I'm terribly sorry."

Kutberth II held one of his hands out, palm facing Kosette. "I'm not upset at all." A few strands of hairs came loose from his colorful ribbon. He pulled the hairs behind his ear. There was a small pearl earring dangling from the earlobe. "I simply don't want to cause Miss Lunai any more discomfort. I can't speak for my father," and here, there was a mildly uncomfortable twitch in his cheek, "but as for myself, I don't want to force Miss Lunai to do anything she'd rather not do."

It was at that moment that Rosanda's knees weakened, even though she was seated. Her nipples tightened and rubbed against her chemise. She thought that her own lips felt fuller, and they parted as if they were too sensitive to touch each other. She imagined that if her face wasn't hidden, she might have looked ridiculous.

And she wanted to be closer to him. She wanted to show him something of herself. She wanted him to admire her beauty.

She rose from her seat. Her covered fingertips pinched her glasses. Then she pulled the glasses away. Her vision blurred, especially where the more distant objects were, but she didn't care. Her feet were quiet as she stepped a few feet closer to him, so close that she could smell his cologne. It was different than his fathers'. The prince smelled like rich woods with a hint of roses.

His face turned up to her, and there was something like reverence in his hazel eyes. There was a small tremor in his smile, as if he hardly believed that this woman was giving him the privilege of looking at her bare eyes. To have a prince so enamored with her ... it was thrilling, certainly so.

"I'd be honored to continue modeling for you, Your Highness." Rosanda smiled. She knew he couldn't see it, but she smiled anyway. Maybe he knew she was smiling? Maybe he felt it in his bones?

She slipped her glasses back on, pushing the temple tips and temples under her veil. Then she went back to her seat.

The prince chatted with the women a bit longer. They mostly discussed ice skating and winter foods. Soon, though, the prince politely dismissed them so they could go on with their work. The women locked themselves in the studio again, and as Rosanda examined her reflection in a mirror, a small bit of pride swelled up in her mind. She thought her petite bosom was larger and curvier. She thought her hands were softer and elegant. Even her white eyelashes seemed lovelier.

***

Kutberth Bardrick Lothair, the king of Navia, summoned Rosanda to his bedchamber again that night. Rosanda wondered if she was technically his lover at this point.

When she was in the room, with the door closed behind her, the king told her to sit down on his bed again. Fortunately, Rosanda wasn't anywhere near as sleepy as she had been last night. She was alert when she sat on the bed. Her black clothing blended well with the parts of the room that didn't have any lights.

"Remove your shoes, and please lie down on the bed, on your back." He was in his robe again, and Rosanda knew he wasn't wearing anything underneath it.

Silently, Rosanda kicked her slippers off. Then she crawled onto the bed, sat on her backside, and fixed up her skirts so that they fanned out attractively over her legs. Then she laid herself back, looking up at the dark canopy.

She heard Kutberth I drag a piece of furniture to the mattress. She assumed it was a chair. She heard something creak. Then she felt his fingers slip around her ankle like a curious tentacle. Rosanda decided he was definitely in a chair.

"I'm sorry about your stockings. Do you remember? It was last night." He spoke sweetly, longingly, as if he actually thought she had forgotten, and he needed her to remember the moment. He pinched one of her smaller toes, but gently so. "I should measure your feet and legs, so I can replace your stockings for you."

The main phrase ringing in her head was: whatever you like.

Whatever he liked was fine, as long as nobody was harmed.

Slowly, languorously, as if every little movement had something toothsome in it, he reached under the skirts, under the chemise, and he untied a stocking. Rosanda flinched at his warm, tapered, yet still thick fingers, even though she had expected their touches.

The stocking was pulled away. Then he moved onto the other leg and untied the stocking there. When that one was gone, both her feet were bare to the air. She wiggled her toes, couldn't help it. She had to.

The chair creaked again. There were footsteps fading away. Then she heard the smooth sliding of a drawer, and objects being slid about, as if the man was searching for something. There was the curt tap of the drawer shutting against whatever piece of furniture it was part of. Rosanda wanted to sit up, but she was afraid she might ruffle his mood.

She heard the chair's creaking, felt his breath and heat. Then she felt something long and thin, with a texture like soft leather, being laid against various parts of her lower legs, her feet, her toes, at different points in time. Rosanda figured out that the leather object was a measuring device. Every once in a while, she heard something being scribbled on paper. He was honestly taking measurements.

"Very well, then. It's done. Hold on." He left her for a moment, possibly to put away the leather ruler and the paper. Then he returned to her, sitting down again, putting his fingers back to her toes for a moment. Then he gripped the heel of her right foot and lifted it up.