Chapter 2 The Garden Of Eve

Two nights earlier...

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the moon, casting a silvery glow through the curtains. She lay in her

ornate bed, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. It was a pattern she had grown accustomed to, the moments of contemplation that followed the lackluster encounters with Nicholas.

Nicholas, snored softly beside her, oblivious to her restlessness. As a wife in high society, she lived a life of luxury, with a grand mansion, fine clothes, and endless social gatherings. Yet, there was a gnawing emptiness, a longing for something more, something that could breathe life into her existence.

She turned her attention to the moonlight filtering through the window with a sigh. It was as if the moon itself beckoned her to escape the confines of her gilded cage and find solace in the world she had created for herself. It was a world of colors, of passions, and of hidden desires.

So she crept out of bed with a yearning-filled heart, leaving her sleeping husband behind. In the still times of the night, she could discover what her soul yearned for.

.

.

.

"Oh no, no, not my hair..." Clara couldn't help but cringe inwardly. The man lying beside her in the disheveled bed had taken to gripping her hair with a vigor that bordered on recklessness.

"Aaah..." She couldn't stifle a gasp as he tugged at her long, auburn Dutch braids. He was thoroughly absorbed in the act she knew, but my mind had drifted far from the bedroom. It was as if he was riding a horse on a chaotic battlefield, and her hair had become the reins.

The irony wasn't lost on her. As he exerted himself with wild abandon, she fought to suppress my reactions; he would think she was moaning for him. The moans were for something entirely different.

"Look at the mirror!" Nicholas ordered, a hint of command in his voice as he spanked her bare ass.

Her gaze reluctantly moved to the full-length mirror that hung on the wall opposite the bed. In the reflection, she saw her disheveled form and the man atop her, his face a mixture of exertion and satisfaction. The aesthetics of the scene had a certain allure, even if the desire was lacking.

"I feel like a brothel whore; customers' pleasure comes first." She muttered under her breath.

The self-awareness of her role in the grand charade was a constant companion, a harsh reminder of her duties as the wife of a powerful man.

But unlike many others, she couldn't bring herself to fake her precious moaning. It was a personal stand she had taken, a refusal to relinquish the last shreds of authenticity she clung to.

He is like a stallion, Nicholas' vigor was undeniable.

"You like that, don't you?" He questions amidst heavy breathing.

"I wish I could say I enjoy it, though; there are hundreds of maidservants in this house at his disposal. Maybe they would be more grateful." Clara said in an inconsistent tone as a result of the rigorous movement.

She remained passive, her thoughts wandering to her private escape. The drama playing out at the moment was a distant backdrop to the vivid world of her imagination.

"Uggh... F-fuc...! Argh... " Nicholas groaned, his voice strained.

"Finally, the climax has arrived," she muttered again, with a feeling of both relief and anticipation. As he slumped onto the bed, spent.

"Freedom at last!" She announced.

Nicholas, sprawled beside me, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his satisfaction. He turned to her with a self-satisfied grin. "That was lovely, darling, don't you think?"

"Yes, Nicholas, lovely as always," she muttered with my most affectionate well-practiced smile. "Lovely, oh so lovely, just like the beige wallpaper."

Nicholas wrapped his arms around me, oblivious to my inner monologue. "You know, Clara, you're a fortunate woman. I work so hard to provide you with all these luxuries."

She just nodded in agreement, she didn't trust my voice to convey the same enthusiasm. She was indeed fortunate in many ways after all, and the grandeur of their mansion was undeniable, but but couldn't help but wonder when life became a series of social gatherings and boring sex.

After Nicholas drifted into sleep, she carefully disentangled herself from his embrace, slipping out of the silk sheets and into a silken robe. She padded across the room to her haven, the artist's corner by the window of the room. The canvas leaned against the easel, untouched for weeks.

She looked at her neglected paints, brushes, and palette with a sigh. "I'm sorry, my dears." She ran a hand over her stool, which, too, seemed to express its melancholy at being abandoned. "I promise, I'll make it up to you."

And then, in a sudden burst of humor, she pretended to listen to their imaginary woes. She picked up a paintbrush and held it like a microphone to an invisible talk show host. "Well, folks, I've been on an unscheduled vacation, but I'm back now, and I promise not to leave you in the lurch again."

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, her only audience being the inanimate companions of her artistic world. "So, how have you all been, my little friends?" she continued, putting on an exaggerated voice for her artistic tools, sparking a conversation with the imaginary paintbrushes and palette, as if they were long-lost friends.

Clara settled in front of her canvas, her brushes, and palette at the ready. She gazed out of the window at the field bathed in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun. This was her solace, her sanctuary, and it was the view she had chosen to paint for herself.

With each brushstroke, Clara lost herself in the vibrant hues of the meadow. The tall grass swayed in the breeze, and the sun's last rays kissed the landscape with a warm embrace. The strokes flowed like a dance, as she expressed her emotions on the canvas, every detail captured with a painter's precision.

As she painted, her thoughts drifted to Aaliyah, the newest maid in the household. Clara couldn't deny the allure of the young woman. Aaliyah's beauty was a striking contrast to her humble position. Clara muttered to herself with a wry smile, "My newest maid, Aaliyah, the most beautiful of all my new slave maids. A work of art that my brushes will delight in painting."

Clara paused to consider the forbidden obsession that had grown in her heart. Aaliyah was more than just a servant; she had become the muse for Clara's clandestine thoughts. "Her images, hundreds of them will grace my private room, images of her in the most sultry of poses."

Clara sighed, fully aware of the risks she was taking. Her husband, Nicholas, was not a man to be trifled with, and he had no patience for her peculiar passions. "It's safe to say that I'm obsessed with her," she admitted with a mix of amusement and trepidation.

But she couldn't help herself. Her artistic desires and her infatuation with the forbidden had merged into a potent concoction. She remembered the fate of the twenty maidservants she had had sexual affairs with, her voice growing somber.

"He did so to twenty of my maidservants I was attracted to. I was so obsessed with them that I made a portrait of each of them."

Clara's gaze remained fixed on her canvas as she continued her confession to the inanimate object. "And I enjoyed the soothingness of our warmth and embrace, kissing, fingering..." Her voice trailed off as she thought of those stolen moments of passion.

A melancholic smile crept across her lips as she whispered, "We didn't have enough time to scissor."

Feeling a chill down her spine, she stopped her brush in mid-stroke. The actual world had quickly caught up with her after she had been whisked away from it by the intensity of her artistic daydream. She blinked, muttering,

"Oh..."

Her breath shuddered as she noticed her hands smeared with paint and her robes dappled with color. Until that point, she hadn't realized how deeply she had submerged herself in her thoughts and artistry.

She knew it was time to retreat to her sanctuary, her private room, a place she had aptly named 'Eve's Garden.' The room was her escape, her secret haven where her most provocative creations were born, away from prying eyes and judgmental whispers.

She cast one more glance at the snoring behemoth that was her husband, Nicholas, lying there with a satisfied expression. "The bull slumbers," she muttered, her wry sense of humor not lost at any moment.

With a graceful motion, Clara set aside her brushes, leaving her unfinished masterpiece behind. It would have to wait. Her artwork could always wait for her return; she could never afford to do the same for herself.

As she quietly made her way out of the bedroom, Clara paused at the threshold, casting one more glance over her shoulder. "One last snort of victory for you, my dear bull," she said with a teasing tone, almost as if the sleeping Nicholas could hear her.

She shook her head, feeling a mixture of emotions-amusement, desire, and a tinge of regret. Clara had cultivated her methods of finding joy and fulfillment in a world that often seemed to restrict her desires.

With that, she stepped into the corridor, shutting the door to the bedroom behind her.

In the heart of the mansion stood the Garden of Eve, one of the largest rooms, a gallery of darkness veiled in sensuous secrets. The space was adorned with a multitude of canvases, each one brimming with unholy portraits of women in various states of undress and desire.

Positioned in rows of ten, five on each side of the room; there were a total of 250 of them, an opulent display that left little room for anything else, and veils had been placed on every portrait to shroud the forbidden fruits that lay beneath. A substantial, plush velvet drape hung from the top to the bottom of the large window.

There were two ten-foot roller-wheeled mirrors in the room; one was near the window side, and the other was in the center of the room next to a box of veil linens. Beside them were two stools and a clean canvas beside the window side mirror.

Clara stepped into the room, locking the door behind her, her eyes roamed over the expansive collection of her taboo creations. This was her secret realm, a place where her forbidden desires were given life through her brushes and paints.

With a voice hardly audible above a whisper, Clara thought to herself, "I need to expand my garden." "I'm running out of space to hide my forbidden fruits." She cracked a little, sinister smile at herself. "I'm starting to wonder, the forbidden tree had indeed borne the tastiest of fruits," she mused as she looked over her creations. The name "Eve's Garden" had always sounded right, an homage to the garden where every fruit was banned.

Among the countless portraits, a few held special places in Clara's heart. Her favorites, those she loved to please herself, stood out as testaments to her hidden desires. She approached these treasured canvases, each an embodiment of her secret longings.

I stopped before the portrait of Lady Dorothy Griffiths, Duchess of Edinburgh, a woman of noble stature who had become the subject of Clara's affectionate obsession. My eyes met the painted gaze of the duchess, and I chuckled. "My dear Lady Dorothy, you've been a delightful muse."

Next was Lady Loretta Walsh, Duchess of Sussex, with an expression of ethereal beauty and longing. My fingers gently grazed the canvas, "Ah, Lady Loretta, you've graced my garden with such elegance."

Next, I noticed the picture of Lady Odette, the stunning French woman who had recently become Sir Albert Emery Loyd's new bride. The sensuality depicted in the picture captivated me. I said, a playful gleam in my eye, "Lady Odette, you bring a touch of the forbidden to my garden."

And finally, my gaze landed on a portrait that held a more personal connection. It was one of my housemaids, Constance, whose image Clara had immortalized with an intimacy that transcended the paint and canvas. "Constance, you've always known how to make my garden bloom," I whispered, my voice conveying a mix of affection and desire I felt, She was my first real love.

As I stood in my secret chamber, surrounded by my sinful creations, my thoughts turned to the evening ahead. "Tonight," I mused with a sly grin, "I will indulge in the captivating allure of Lady Odette."

My heart raced with anticipation as I let my dress fall freely to the ground, leaving me bare before the veiled portrait. I regarded it with a sultry smile, eager to reveal the forbidden beauty beneath.

With flair, I grasped the veil and drew it aside, unveiling the portrait. Her eyes brimmed with a captivating intensity, her form exuding sensuality. My artistic skills had brought this woman to life on canvas, and the vivid image sent a shiver of desire down my spine.

I stared at the mirror next to me, allowing myself to watch. For me, the act of releasing tension was a form of artistry in itself. I couldn't help but admire my reflection as I found pleasure in the dimly lit room.

"Oh, Clara, you're beautiful touching yourself like that," I murmured to my reflection, my breath coming in shuddered gasps. The combination of artistic appreciation and self-indulgence was a powerful blend.

I couldn't help but ponder, how have I not made a portrait of myself yet? It was a curious oversight, considering the depth of my obsession with capturing the essence of beauty and desire. I turned my attention toward the window, where the evening sun was casting a warm, golden glow across the room; a mischievous smile playing on my lips.

The lighting was ideal, that was a golden opportunity right there. The evening sun is giving the best of its lighting.

With a seductive grace, she advanced to the window, her form bathed in the soft, golden radiance of the setting sun. Clara's reflection in the mirror framed the sensual scene, capturing the essence of a woman both a creator of beauty and a seeker of desire.

With the evening sun casting a warm, golden light over her, Clara began to paint her portrait while indulging herself. The mirror's view allowed her to capture her form and her expression as she lost herself in both the act of creation and self-pleasure.

She painted herself with a sensuous touch, the brush moving rhythmically, capturing every curve and shadow of her body. It was a surreal experience, and Clara marveled at the realistic sensation she received from every stroke of the brush. It was as if she could feel the brush caressing her skin, and there was a kind of psychotic tingle that ran through her.

"You're so beautiful, Clara," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror, her voice filled with a mix of awe and desire. She couldn't help but appreciate the artistic and sensual beauty she had captured on canvas.

"Touching myself is the greatest feeling I could ever get," Clara murmured, her breaths coming faster and more fervent. "This is the longest I have gone without an orgasm..." Her voice trailed off as she painted, the pleasure building, "Like my body listens to me and will not yield until I permit."

Just as she reached the final curve of her brush, her body shook vehemently, and she collapsed from her stool to the ground. Her hair brushed across her face as she lay there, convulsing, for a few minutes. The intensity of her release left her breathless and spent.

As she lay on the floor, Clara's gaze flickered to the new portrait she had just created. It was a vision of herself in the throes of both creation and desire, a masterpiece that captured the essence of her forbidden passions.

She was beyond satisfied at the sight. A new masterpiece for sure.

"This I will put in the middle of the room; with a velvet veil, I will cover it." She muttered with a weak smile.

Her private world was one of solitude and desire, where her obsessions and passions were her only companions.