Hirst Hall

Chapter 12 – In which my portrait is painted thrice over

Thomas Lawrence arrived late in the afternoon the following Sunday.

During the preceding week I had humbly begged my husband to show me the third portrait of Lady Anne.

“Not yet, dear wife, not yet.  But Soon I will allow it.”  His reply raised both my anxiety and my anticipation.

He had me taken by James again in the same position as before.  And as the previous occasion it was necessary for Rose to open me and to stretch me with her fingers and the wooden tools before James would fit inside.  But once I had been prepared my body was unable to resist his assaults.  I succumbed piteously in the inevitable paroxysms of unwanted delight.  In truth, although the vast size of the gardener dragged me to previously unimagined places, I preferred Sir Thomas.  His size was satisfyingly large and yet could be accommodated more easily.  This coupled with his ardour, his clever knowledge of my needs and his expressions of love for me made him my master in more ways than just the legal sense.  I was indeed happy for I had won a great victory for my daughter and was at the same time experiencing more physical pleasure than I had ever had in my life.  For eighteen years I had been almost without gratification and now I was like a garden watered after a long drought: bursting into bloom.  I did not enjoy being humiliated and tormented but I knew how it stoked Sir Thomas’ desire.  And so if he wanted me to take one of the servants in my mouth or to have the gardener pummel my bottomhole I tolerated it.  Of course then I had no inclination of how far he planned to travel along this twisting road.  But I was too far to turn back and seek a safer path.

That Sunday, having been spanked before church as was becoming customary and suffered through another sermon (this one was on the sin of Vanity), I went to change into a short dress as soon as we returned to the Hall.

“Don’t bother changing, dearest.  I think you have proven yourself obedient enough for now”

I flung myself in his arms and kissed him even though there were servants passing as they too returned from church.

“And that is most unseemly behaviour for the Sabbath,” he said teasingly.

I cannot describe adequately how pleasant it was to go about the house with my bosom and arms properly covered and with my skirts once more swishing along the floor.  And, oh the pleasure of feeling silk drawers sliding over my enflamed bottom was simply intense.

So when the carriage carrying the painter pulled up I could meet it properly as Lady Dalrymple.  Having come from the Devernes the coach bore their arms, Thomas Lawrence not being wealthy enough as yet to set up his own.  Our carriage would take him down to Ludlow once the commission was completed.

He was a delicate, elegant looking man of about my age with fine features and sandy hair and his keen eye immediately set about appraising me, his work for the next week or two.  I had expected him to be alone but he was accompanied by a young assistant. Marco.  This youth, barely nineteen it transpired, was the son of an Italian painter friend of his and was in England to improve his portrait painting.  He was the most breathtakingly handsome young man I had ever seen: long dark hair bound back, flashing eyes and an intense smile.  He clearly knew it too.  Every woman in the house, with the exception of Mrs. Jones, was going to swoon over him.

After dinner that evening Sir Thomas offered to show our guests the portraits of Lady Anne that Mr Lawrence had completed a decade before.  First we went to the Yellow Salon to see her formally dressed.  The painter expressed his pleasure at seeing the picture again and his regret that the sitter had died so young.

Next we moved to Sir Thomas’ bedchamber where Marco first noticed the headboard just as I had done.  He exclaimed his pleasure at its workmanship and, being from Venice himself, knew immediately who the master carver had been.  I blushed as the three men unashamedly discussed its subject matter and pointed out particular details.  Then they turned and appraised the second portrait. Young Marco did not seem overly shocked, was this sort of painting perhaps common in Italy?

“And the final picture, Sir Thomas? Are you willing to let me view it once more?  I confess that I have never painted its like except that time.  It was most unusual and yet I believe it to be one of my finest works.”

“My pleasure, Mr Lawrence, it hangs in my dressing chamber where I may admire it every day.”  And with this he opened the door and we entered the one room in Hirst Hall that I had never been allowed in to.

The valet, James, was there but I barely noticed him.  We were all staring at the painting upon the far wall.  It was not large in comparison with the others, being about two foot on each side and was lit by a pair of double wall sconces.

I stood there, slack-jawed, staring at it.  It was far beyond risqué.  It was intensely, incredibly obscene.

A naked Lady Anne was represented from the waist up with her fine small breasts with their hard little nipples.  She was kneeling before an anonymous man who was only shown from the waist downwards.  The male member was entirely in her mouth and throat.  Only the smallest fraction remained outside of her, enough to show how very large it was.  Her eyes were open and a single tear was shown in the corner of the visible one attesting to the immense effort of swallowing so much living flesh.  Her throat bulged where it had to accommodate this mass.  It was obviously not Sir Thomas; this man was not nearly hirsute enough.  However there could be no thought that this was coerced, Lady Anne’s arms were raised and gripped the back of the man’s thighs in order to allow her to pull him deeper into her body.  I was suddenly light-headed and the candlelight and the intensity of the subject matter reminded me of a painting by Caravaggio of the beheading of some Old Testament character that I had seen years before at Sudeney Place.  Despite all this there was no doubt that this was a portrait, no one who had known Lady Anne could be in any doubt that this was she.

“It’s your friend, James the gardener,” Sir Thomas whispered in my ear.

I felt faint and swayed, feeling his hand quickly in the small of my back.  I could not comprehend it.  No woman could surely have taken that giant’s organ in such a fashion.  I was certain that it would kill me to even try.

“Magnifico...” Marco whispered, barely audibly.

For several minutes we all admired it in silence.

“And is this how you wish Lady Caroline to be painted?” Mr Lawrence broke the silence.

I swayed again.

“Not quite,” my husband replied thoughtfully, “I have something different in mind.  Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow.” 

And with that the viewing was over and we departed to our beds.  I noticed however that while Sir Thomas and Marco showed distinct signs of turmoil in their breaches, Mr Lawrence did not.  I wondered if it was because his interests lay elsewhere or because he viewed the portrait only as a subject that he had painted.

At breakfast the following morning Sir Thomas and Mr Lawrence discussed the first two portraits while Marco and I listened attentively.  I noticed that the young man appraised me differently now, aware that soon he would be seeing me both nude and probably utterly compromised.

“As it is now late May and pleasantly warm, I would like Lady Caroline painted on the terrace with the gardens in the background,” said Sir Thomas.

“And what dress should her ladyship be wearing?” Mr Lawrence was very businesslike; he clearly wished to be about his task. 

“A think the peach, silk one that you wore to the ball, with the matching bonnet.  At least in the first portrait. Would that suit you, my dear?”

“I like that dress, Sir Thomas.  It would be most suitable.”  I planned to be utterly obedient, knowing that I should have no say in the matter in any case.

“Would you like Lady Dalrymple to be seated or standing, Sir Thomas?”

“Standing, I rather think.”

“In any particular pose?”

“I should like Lady Caroline to be leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, facing away from the canvass and looking back over her shoulder at you as if briefly distracted from viewing the gardens.  Is that possible?”

“Of course, Sir Thomas.  It will be different and challenging as compared to a standard portrait, but quite possible.  And for the second portrait?”

“Exactly the same but en déshabille.”

“Excellent.  And the third?”

“Let us discuss that when the first two are well underway.  How long will it take?”

“Well, Sir Thomas, as you recall, last time it took me three weeks.  However the greater part of that is work on the dress and the background.  For both of those young Marco is perfectly accomplished, perhaps even better than myself.  I propose that I complete that major parts of all three paintings this week as I must return to London to paint Princess Caroline.  Marco will remain here until all the detail work is finished to your satisfaction.”

“That will be satisfactory as long as the young man’s skills are as fine as you believe them to be.  When will you begin?”

“As soon as your wife is ready, Sir Thomas.  Marco can fetch the canvasses now.”

“Easy enough.  Would you mind changing, my dear, and meeting us on the terrace?”

I obeyed and met them as Marco was setting up the second canvass on a large easel.  He had clearly had help as the footmen were still laying out the professional painter’s considerable equipment.  Mr Lawrence directed me to the balustrade in a corner of the terrace where the sun would not reach us till late afternoon.

My husband posed me leaning on the stone balustrade looking out over the gardens and parkland.

“Now, my dear, look back over your left shoulder.  Turn yourself at the waist and let your left hand rest in the fold of your dress.  Look directly at Mr Lawrence.  That’s perfect.  Now, where are your feet?”

“Together, at the end of my legs,” I could not resist being a little difficult.

“Well then move them apart, about two-foot apart.”

Two-foot?  That was a long way.  And if repeated when I was naked would be scandalously indecent.  But I complied nonetheless, slowly shuffling my legs apart.

“Excellent!  I will leave you to it.”  And he vanished back into the house.

Mr Lawrence worked feverishly, continuously on the move; first he painted in broad strokes then in more detailed.  After a while I asked for a glass of water which Mary brought for me and later we had tea.  Both could be placed before me on the balustrade and not seen from the painting position.

After some three hours Mrs. Jones appeared to tell us that lunch was served.  My position on the balustrade was marked with chalk and I could step back.  Mr Lawrence came in but Marco remained on the terrace.  As soon as Mr Lawrence stepped away from the canvass he began work on the landscape.

I went to look at the progress and my limbs ached from the stiffness of standing still for so long.  I was surprised at how fast the painter had caught my likeness.  My outline was only done in the broadest of strokes and the background was entire absent except for the tiny piece of balustrade around my right hand.  But my hands and face were largely complete.  He had made me look quite beautiful and I was grateful.  In the portrait I wore a look of slight surprise as if someone had just called out to me.

Sir Thomas joined us for lunch and as soon as we were done we went back outside.  Marco had already sketched in the broad outlines of the foreground and the parkland beyond.  Four of the gardeners were just dragging up a large cast lead planter containing a tall thin cypress, perhaps some ten foot tall.  The young painter ordered them to place it to one side of where I stood at the balustrade explaining that its narrow height would make me seem taller by being positioned there.

Sir Thomas expressed pleasure at the painting so far and I moved to resume my position.

“If your ladyship does not mind, I should like to begin the second composition,” Mr Lawrence ventured.

I hesitated.

“Send for Rose,” said my husband turning to one of the footman hovering at the edge of the terrace.

Soon she was there and helped me out of my clothes under Sir Thomas’ supervision.  My peach silk bonnet remained, but the dress and all my undergarments save my boots and stockings were removed.

“Take your position, my dearest.”

I blushed at being naked before Mr Lawrence and Marco.  They were the first outsiders to have seen me thus.  I reconciled myself that, of a fashion, they were still servants; they were after all being paid for their work.

When I approached the balustrade I placed my hand on its mark and slowly edged my feet apart until they were as before.  There was no doubt that my freshly shaven sex could be seen from the painting position.  I turned to look back, thereby revealing one breast to the onlookers.  I let my left hand rest on my thigh.

“My God, but you are gorgeous.  Quite magnificent.  Now a few little additions.  Rose, undo Lady Caroline’s right stocking.”

The girl hurried to comply and I felt her undo the lace and the fine silk cloth slid slowly down my leg and pooled at my knee.

”Lovely.  Now, dearest, let your left hand move backwards till it is on your buttock.”

I complied, though I was worried about how this would look.

“Good, now take hold off your bottom cheek and pull it open a little.”

“Nooo!  Please?  It will look so bad.  Please?”  I would look like a wanton strumpet, opening and offering myself, and from behind.

“Are you disobeying me?”  A touch of steel had entered his voice.  The look on Mr Lawrence’s face showed he had heard it too.  Marco was just staring at my blatant nudity.

“No, husband, I am not”  And I complied; I gripped my bottom and pulled it up and apart, thereby improving the view of my sex and perhaps even offering a glimpse of my bottomhole.  I shuddered at the thought of the appallingly indecent view I must be presenting.

Sir Thomas left and I remained in that position for another three hours till the sun crept round and freed me.  At intervals Mr Lawrence would tell me to relax my grip for a few minutes before once again putting myself back on display.

Rose dressed me and we all had tea on the terrace except Marco who was once again back at work on the canvass.  At Sir Thomas’ insistence I went to view the progress.  It was every bit as scandalous as I had feared even though the painter had only worked on two areas. I looked immediately at the area I most feared and found that Mr Lawrence had painted my bottom pulled somewhat apart by my hand.  My sex gaped slightly open and there was even the hint of the aperture between my cheeks.  My face was also a surprise.  I had expected an expression like Lady Anne’s in the bedchamber: a beautiful woman frankly displaying her sexual nature and challenging the viewer to look at her and to think what he would.  But in my case he had painted me as a shy woman, almost girlish in the peach bonnet, slyly opening herself to the viewer.  It was flagrantly sexual; I was inviting the viewer to take me and from behind.  The one stocking loose around my knee only made the invitation more impudent.  Tears sprang to my eyes and I almost cried: I was to be preserved in this pose forever.

That night in our bed while we were making love I begged my husband to reconsider, to make my portrait more like Lady Anne’s.  His movements within me slowed but did not stop.

“No, why should I want two portraits the same?  And I think Thomas Lawrence has captured your nature perfectly.  He has shown you as the most exciting woman conceivable.  The pole that young Marco was carrying around in his breaches all day bears testimony to that.  I imagine he is in his bed right now frantically abusing with himself as he thinks of all the perverse things he would like to do to you.”

I shivered at the thought of the handsome young man playing with himself and my sex twitched.  Sir Thomas pushed hard into me in response.  I helplessly squeezed his member with my muscles, it felt irresistibly wonderful.  Maybe I was what my husband said.

“I am going to hang it there.” And he pointed to where a painting of ‘Diana Surprised in her Bath’ now hung on the wall to one side the bed.

The thought of myself hanging there, perpetually offering my bottom to him, was too much and I climaxed convulsively.  His domination of me was entire: I might and would fight it but I could never win.  In all honesty, I was no longer even sure I wanted to win.  I resisted out of pride alone.

The next morning I was at breakfast with Sir Thomas and Mr Lawrence.  Marco was nowhere to be seen.  I blushed somewhat at the thought of him still asleep having spent too much of the night awake.

“Shall I put on the peach dress once more?” I asked Mr Lawrence as we finished.

“No need, your ladyship, today I plan to concentrate on the naked portrait.  Besides, Marco already has the dress.”  He waved at one of the windows looking out over the terrace.

I went to look and there was the young painter, busily working at the first of the canvasses.  The peach dress had been hung on a seamstress’ dummy and placed up against the balustrade where I was to stand in a few minutes.  Far from being lazy he had clearly been up from dawn to catch the light before his master took over.

I spent the entire day on the terrace, naked apart from boots, stockings and bonnet, excepting a brief pause for luncheon.  Marco moved the first canvass to one side and likewise the dress but he did not stop painting.  I began to comprehend the immense detail that would have to go into the pink silk ball gown.  I returned again and spread my feet to the chalk marks and placed one hand back on the balustrade while the other reached behind me.

As the day progressed Mr Lawrence would wander over to Marco’s canvass and give advice or call him over to his portrait to give him instruction.  I did notice a certain stiffening in the young man’s trousers when he looked at me and my portrait, but then he would return to his own work.  At lunch he did not join us but worked on the background of the second picture.

In the late afternoon Sir Thomas joined us for tea and we all admired the paintings.  Marco had made the dress sparkle in the sunlight and it only served to highlight my features.  The painting lied magnificently: it had made me to be utterly beautiful, far more so than I really was.  The tall, thin cypress only served to make me more elegant.

Mr Lawrence had worked on the other parts of my body.  In this case it only served to highlight the unmitigated brazenness of the portrait.  I noticed that the one visible breast had a clearly erect nipple.  In this portrait the tall thin tree beside me looked as if it were some form of gigantic, priapic phallus, erect at my nudity.  It was hard to deny that the painting was a masterpiece but I never wanted anyone to see it.

“Tomorrow we can begin on the final portrait,” Sir Thomas announced.  I quailed inside.

The following day at breakfast, young Marco was once again out on the terrace hard at work on the two portraits.  They were now largely done as far as Mr Lawrence was concerned, needing only a few further touches from him.

“Let us meet in the Yellow Salon in fifteen minutes, my husband announced as we were finishing, “I have had your materials brought there, Mr Lawrence.”

“Very well, Sir Thomas,” replied the painter.

“What shall I wear?” I asked nervously.

“It matters not, my dear,” Sir Thomas cheerfully responded.  “You won’t be wearing it long!”

In the salon an easel with a three-foot square canvass had been set up, larger than Lady Anne’s third portrait, I noticed.  It faced the sofa and I was relieved to see that the chaise longue was nowhere to be seen.  Mrs Jones and Rose were already there and Mr Lawrence joined us, shown in by Sir Thomas.  I was grateful that Marco was not invited.  He was still on the terrace at his work.

“Right, let us get to work disposing her ladyship.”  My husband was all business-like.  “Rosie, please help your mistress to undress.  I wish her to be entirely naked, wearing nothing but her wedding band.  Mrs Jones, please fetch the little box of tools.”

While the housekeeper went to the chest, Rose swiftly divested me of everything, including my boots and stockings.  She even let down my hair which I never do except in bed.  In the end I had on only the plain gold ring on my left hand.

“Lean back on the sofa please, beloved, and open your legs.”

I complied, blushing helplessly.  Although I had been in this position before I knew that the painter was going to preserve me in my humiliation forever.

“Exercise Lady Caroline’s arsehole, Rosie; I want it thoroughly opened.  I take it you have given it a proper rinse out this morning?”

“Yes Sir Thomas, as always.”  The maid was reaching for the second size of carved member and the little pot of unguent.  With little more preparation she dipped the head in the viscous liquid and then presented it to my bottomhole.  With one firm push she slid it home drawing a groan from me. 

I was now used to accommodating Sir Thomas or the carvings in this spot and could not pretend that there was any pain and only minimal discomfort.  What there most definitely was was heat. Warmth surged from my sex in response to the intrusion.

After a couple of minutes she changed to the next size and I stretched to allow it entry.  She would bring me to a climax if she continued long with her manipulations.  I tried to keep control and so retain the vestiges of my pride.

“Shall I insert the largest one, Sir Thomas?” Rose enquired, ever the attentive servant.

“No need, just leave that one fully inserted.  Mrs. Jones, ring for James please.”

Moments later the gardener appeared.  I shivered though I had guessed he might be called upon, guessed it and feared it.

“Thank you for coming James.  You remember the portrait of Lady Anne you helped with?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

“Well, I am in need of your assistance once more.  I will require your best efforts and will ensure there are a few sovereigns in it for you at the end.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas.  You are always most generous.”

“Dearest, please stand up so that James may be seated.”

I struggled to my feet, though it was hard to stand comfortably with the large carving still wedged deep in my bottom.

“Help undo James britches for him, dear, and get his cock nice and hard.”

I leant down and did just that.  It did not take long as he was already more than half-hard and when I applied some lotion and manipulated him he soon reached his full, titanic size.  My hand would not even fit around it and it was as long as my forearm.  I dreaded it but saw no way to avoid it except disobedience and that was a step too far.

It was clear to me that James was to remain fully clothed except for his unbuttoned breaches.  In this way my nudity would be emphasised along with the fact that he was a servant in his homespun vestments.

“Well done, Lady Caroline” said my husband.  “Now please straddle your mount while facing Mr Lawrence and lower yourself onto him.  You had better remove the imitation prick first though.  Oh, and I recommend greasing your friend first as well.”

“Oh God...” I groaned as I slid the damned thing out.  It was the first time I had been forced to extract it myself and there was something disgusting and thrilling simultaneously about doing this.

Then having greased James’ organ as much as I could I took up my position and began to lower myself.  It was appalling, almost indescribably so.  I had to reach down and hold that immense pole of flesh at the vertical while easing my bottom onto it, guiding it into my bottomhole.   Yes I had done this with my husband in the privacy of his room and now I wondered if he had been training me for this day all along. On the previous two occasions with James he had been the one pushing it in, now I had to do it myself.  Gingerly I lowered my bottom onto him.

“Aaahh!”  The big head had just passed into me.  There was a flare of intense discomfort and the corresponding surge of pleasure in my sex.  I looked up to see them all watching me.  Mr Lawrence was staring at James’ vast tool, I was suddenly certain that he was more interested in the gardener than me.  Mrs. Jones was gazing at me with her sardonic smile, I knew she was enjoying my humiliation.  Rose stared at me wide-eyed her face betraying a mixture of disgust and pity.  And Sir Thomas, with that wolfish grin and the twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”  I slowly lowered myself in little gasps.  It was so gigantic and it was going in me so deeply.   Finally I reached the end and was sat fully upon him with that incredible mass inside me.

“Fuck your arsehole, my dear.  Slowly!”

I began to comply, lifting and gently lowering myself.  I climaxed almost immediately, openly and uncontrollably, and in everyone’s full view.  I had no idea how James was managing to hold out, he must have brought himself off beforehand, maybe more than once.

“Now lean back on him.  He’s strong enough to take your weight.”

I did as I was told and felt a couple of inches of him slide slowly out of me.  I was still so stimulated that I knew any further movements would only bring more crests of pleasure.  He was now buried under my body.

“Now James, take hold of Lady Caroline’s legs at the knee and pull them up please and apart as well.”

As he did this I was opened up as never before.  My poor bottomhole was pinned on his immense organ and my sex above it was spread wide open as my knees were pulled up to my breasts.  I could only imagine what it must have looked like from where the others stood.  Once I was fully bent open like this Sir Thomas continued his instructions.

“Now bugger her, James.  Nice and deep, please”

The gardener shoved himself upwards, burying the inches that had slid out of my bottomhole straight back into me.  Bent double as I was it felt even bigger, even though that was quite impossible.

“Oh My God!  Oh please...  please.... stop.”  My face must have looked comical as I struggled to cope with the sensations.  I erupted into an explosive pinnacle of lust, squealing at my pleasure.

“Now stop, James.”  And he did.

“Reach down with one hand and spread your cunt, dear.”  Against all my better judgment I obeyed him, using my fingers to open further the lips of my already swollen sex.

“And begin again.” The pounding in my bottom recommenced.

This stopping and starting went on till I reached another reluctant pinnacle.

“Now pull her ladyship right up, James.  Till you just slide out.  Keep looking at me, darling.” I barely heard my husband’s directions, lost in a little world of ecstasy.

I felt my knees pulled up even further till they seemed to reach my ears, lifting me off his organ as I was bent double. Finally, with an almost audible pop, I felt his thing slide out of my bottom.

“There Mr Lawrence, that is the pose I want you to capture.” 

I was staring along my bent double body just over my spread sex at the group of them.  I could only imagine what it looked like from the point of view of the canvass.  My husband was making for the door.

“I understand perfectly, Sir Thomas.  Right, my man, can you please lower her ladyship a little and get your rod back in her arse.”  James complied using one hand to feed himself back into me while the other kept my knees up high.

For the next three hours and then again after lunch this continued with brief little breaks.  I would be lowered onto him.  On Mr Lawrence instructions James would vigorously force himself up and down in my bottom before pulling me right up till he popped free.  Then the painter would furiously sketch and paint for a few minutes before I was once more impaled.  I climaxed twice more in the morning and once in the afternoon but spent the entire day in a daze of heightened sexual feelings.

We finally stopped just before afternoon tea when, with a tremendous groan, James lost his control and erupted in my bottomhole, releasing my legs and letting me sink onto his damned member to its full extent.

“Well, I believe we may as well leave it there for today,” said the painter.  “We can recommence tomorrow at about ten of the morning.  I must go see how Marco is getting on.”  And with that he too left.

Rose and Mrs. Jones came and helped me off James’ now softening but still immense organ.  I was too exhausted and too stiff to do much to help.  With some effort they got me to stand and I could feel a stream of his seed running from my opened bottomhole onto my legs.  I was beyond caring.  I looked down at James and he looked in little better state.

Dinner was ordeal as I just wanted to go to my bedchamber and collapse.

The next day was a repeat of the one before with the entire time spent in the Salon with myself once again seated upon James.  This time he lost control just before lunch and this allowed me time to go get cleaned up and to have a little rest before we began again after eating.  I ate but little; bent double the way I was I did not want a full stomach.  I did take several glasses of wine though to try to take the edge off the proceedings.  It only helped a little.  By late afternoon I was at the end of my tether when Sir Thomas appeared with Marco.  Despite all I had undergone  I blushed as the young man saw me in this grotesque position.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Sir Thomas said looking at my exhausted and dishevelled state.  “Time to finish now I rather think.  Mary is laying out tea on the terrace.  I hope today has gone well, Mr Lawrence?””

“Excellently, Sir Thomas! I shall be done by luncheon tomorrow.  Marco can then take over with painting the room.”

“And how are you doing, James?”

“Fine, Sir Thomas,” came the muffled reply from beneath me.

“Need to finish off?” Sir Thomas asked solicitously.

“Yes please, Sir...”

“No! Please no...” I wailed.

“Go to it man.  Tally ho!”

And with this James held me wide open and frantically hammered his member in and out of my distended bottom in front of them all.  It took a minute or two for him to reach his climax by which point I was already howling my own little gasps of extreme pleasure.  I had never been more humiliated.

My husband himself raised me up to my feet and I staggered a little.  His arm went around me a gathered me to his side.  I wanted to run from the room but instead just rested my head on his shoulder, utterly naked and completely shamed.

He led me round to where everyone was regarding the painting.

I gasped and burst into tears which soon became the deep racking sobs of a woman who knows she has been totally degraded.  I will not describe the sight before me in its totality but merely the two areas that drew my eye and would draw any viewer’s rapt attention.  The rest of the painting apart from the two bodies was complete undone.  Even the sofa was but crudely sketched but the work on James (what little of him was visible) and myself was near finished.  My face was a mask of tortured lust surrounded by a mass of tousled auburn locks.  My lips were half-opened, the tip of my tongue was just visible and my eyes shone with a desperate sexual need.  Because of the way I was drawn back in James’ grip my chin was only just above my sex in the portrait.  My fingers spread my red and swollen folds which glistened with my own secretions.  My hard little bud stood out like a scarlet beacon.  But worst of all was my bottom: my buttocks were stretched wide apart by being bent double.  The immense log of flesh with its flared head rested against one cheek having just slipped from my poor aperture.  This entrance which should be so little and tight (and was in the second portrait) here gaped wide open, quite unclosed.  I suppose the pummelling it had received and the sheer size of the instrument that had transfixed it had left the muscles so stretched that they no longer closed immediately.  I cannot imagine anything more obscene than my portrait; it was much, much worse than Lady Anne’s.  I buried my head in my husband’s shirt and moaned my anguish; my despair was not helped in any way by the steady trickle of male seed I could now feel running from my bottomhole and down my leg.

A little later, dressed by Rose once more, I was on the terrace sipping tea while all congratulated Mr Lawrence on his masterpieces and Marco too as his work on my peach dress was nearing completion.  I was not congratulated: after all I was just the sitter not the master craftsman.

The next day I was once more impaled upon James as Mr Lawrence finished his work.  The inevitable physical results were the same and I could not fight them.  I did not even need Rose help preparing myself now.  I merely greased my bottomhole and the gardener’s swelling member and then slowly lowered myself onto it.  It still hurt as it initially made its way into me, but not as badly as it once did.  I felt as if I were some experienced whore.

In the afternoon I was returned to the peach ball gown and the terrace while Mr, Lawrence and Marco made final adjustments to the attire in the formal portrait.  The way the dress shone in the painting made me look like the most beautiful woman imaginable.  It was not Lady Anne’s challenging but delicate allure, mine was softer and fuller.  But seeing this one hanging openly in the house would inevitably make me think of the other two.  I supposed it must have been the same for my predecessor.

The coach was prepared and Mr. Lawrence departed leaving Marco behind with us.  We all gathered on the steps to see him off.

As he stepped into the carriage he turned to us.

"Do not keep the lad too long.  I need him in London.”

“Have no fear, Mr Lawrence.  I shall give him good reason to finish the portraits.”

“How’s that, Sir Thomas?”

“Well, for each portrait that the young man hands over, finished to my satisfaction and properly varnished, I shall instruct my wife to satisfy him, using her not inconsiderable oral powers.”

I gasped out loud.  No...  For some reason the thought of having to suck off the too handsome young man was even worse than the footmen.

“How does that arrangement suit you, Marco?”

“Very well, Sir Thomas!”  He was gawping at me quite openly.

And over the next two weeks he worked hard on completing his works.  I was no longer required as a model and indeed saw little of the young man except that he was either on the terrace or in the Yellow Salon completing the paintings.  He rarely joined even us for dinner.  But three times I was summoned to join Sir Thomas as he received a completed portrait.  And three times at my husband’s command I slid to my knees and took his organ in my mouth.  His member was as handsome as the rest of him but the first time he lasted less than a minute.  I swallowed his semen as instructed by Sir Thomas.

“Foolish lad,” my husband quipped, “next time I recommend you pleasure yourself first.  That way you will last long enough to really appreciated Lady Caroline’s skills.”

I remember him gawping like a gaffed fish but nodding frantically.

The next two times he had clearly taken Sir Thomas’s suggestion and he lasted much longer and I had to work at my task.  The last time indeed I heard Sir Thomas amused instruction after I had already been at my work for some while.

“Swallow him, my darling.  Take him right into your throat.  All the way.”

I did it; I swallowed his member down into my gullet, milking him with my throat muscles.  It brought him to a gasping, moaning climax as his seed bubbled down to my stomach.  I rose to my feet and tried to look calm. 

He stared at me in amazement; I was instantly sure no woman had done this for him before. 

I took a certain malicious pleasure in licking my lips, swallowing ostentatiously and walking away while swinging my hips.  If I was to be humiliated then I had to enjoy little victories where I could.

Sir Thomas’ gentle laughter echoed as I left.