An excerpt from Chapter One

"I would like you to meet Dorian Gray," Basil said.

The man identified as Lord Henry Wotton extended a hand in my direction. When I took it, an electrical charge passed up my arm that left me breathless. Our eyes locked. The power in his, the indomitable will therein, kept me from speaking. I could not understand the feeling overwhelming me, yet I felt that I had just experienced someone who would change my life, of that I was certain. But what I was not certain of was whether it would be for the good.

I came to my senses only when Lord Wotton broke the physical contact. He turned away to stare at the portrait on the easel which Basil had been working on. It was a large canvas, full-length.

"Beautiful! Extraordinarily beautiful!" Lord Henry was saying. "A young Adonis, made of ivory and rose-leaves. A Narcissus." He turned to Basil. "To your Echo, no doubt."

"Merely a painting," Basil hurried to reassure him. "Dorian has been kind enough to sit for me."

"Hardly just a painting," Lord Henry said. And now he turned toward me again. "A work of art. The model and the artist. United."

Basil cleared his throat. "Every portrait painted with emotion is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. The painter, on the colored canvas, reveals himself."

"Then you must exhibit yourself," Lord Henry said, laughing. His eyes had found mine again. I felt like a child before him, unable to speak, unable to do anything but allow those masterful eyes to control me.

"Never!" Basil said.

The vehemence of his response jolted both Lord Henry and myself. Basil stood, a round man, short, losing his hair too young, a look of wilful pride on his whiskered cheeks, a pride that made no sense.

"Surely I'm not sitting in vain," I said, finally locating my voice. "I should think you would have found me a worthy enough subject for display. Certainly others do, if the number of party invitations I receive is any indication."

"That is not the point!" Basil said. Disconcerted, he moved to a decanter. "Brandy?" he asked.

It was still morning, but Lord Wotton apparently had no awareness of time's limitations. Because he accepted the offer, so did I. I felt myself locked into his aura, wishing to be close to him, physically, psychically, and yet at the same time wishing more than anything else to get away from him. A peculiar feeling overwhelmed me--I wanted to submit myself to this man, and I fantasized him buggering me. I was headlong into the fantasy when suddenly it was interrupted.

"So," Lord Henry pursued, as though the conversation had not faltered, as though I were not in the room, as though I had not just envisioned his cock plugging my asshole. "You are too close to Dorian to part with his image. Are you fearful of forgetting such beauty if it is not in your presence?"

"On the contrary. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is a suggestion."

Hearing myself spoken of in this spectral way brought my ire to the fore. "I should think that after so much has occurred, I should be more a reality than a fancy," I said, my tone a bit huffy. I was, of course, alluding to our passionate sessions in the middle of the night.

Lord Henry turned on me sharply. A broad smile filled his face. Only now for the first time did I notice just how cynical a smile it was. "Yes, Dorian, you must demand what is rightfully yours. A place of prominence in the life of the one who creates you. For after all, if he consumes your time, and whatever else he consumes in the production of this portrait, then refuses to show such a fine work, what, then, will he do with that image?"

The thought had not occurred to me, nor concerned me until those words were spoken. I had not seen the canvas yet, and moved around the easel.

"No, Dorian, do not--" Basil began, for he hated his work being observed before it was complete. But it was too late--I had already seen the best, and the worst.

The likeness of myself stunned me. Yes, Basil had captured me, my youth, my delicate beauty. His talent was strong enough, and perhaps his desire as well, that the fine edge between male and female that many a twenty-year old exhibits had been secured. The portrait was definitely male, though, the clothing, the stance, the look of determination spread throughout my youthful features. Seeing myself thusly was daunting. I began to notice something else; imbedded in my features was a seductive quality that I had not hitherto been aware of. A look of longing laced with submission permeated the face in paint, and throughout all that an undercurrent, a steely quality that appeared dangerous, even to me. I did not understand it then, and could only stare at the picture in awe, entranced by my own visage.

Basil was busy with excuses. "It is not my best work. Perhaps not modern enough in style..."

"Modern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at," I mumbled. "But they are quite impossible to live with; they are too clever, too assertive, too intellectual. Their meaning is too obvious, and their method too clearly defined. One exhausts what they have to say in a very short time, and they become as tedious as one's relations."

As if reading into my words, Lord Henry who had, unbeknownst to me come up behind me, said, "Basil, you must sell me this portrait. I should like to have Dorian in my possession." Did I feel the back of Lord Henry's hand brush across my behind? For some unknown reason, memory of the slaps Basil had administered the night before were rekindled in my flesh and in my brain. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted this man, Lord Henry Wotton, more than I could even permit myself to know. But I also knew that I could not have him. He was dangerous, that was evident. He would not respect the limits I imposed with Basil and which the artist readily agreed to. Lord Henry would insist on taking me beyond those limits, which would expose all my secrets. But equally, I could not bear to have him own this portrait. For after all, the portrait might become more dear to him than the person on whom it was based, and that was not acceptable either.

"I wish to have it myself!" I blurted out. It was the only solution I could think of.

"Whatever for?" Basil called.

"I am the subject, it is within my right to request that the portrait be given to me, sold to me, or destroyed."

Lord Wotton looked like the proverbial cat that had captured the canary. I could not know then just what that look meant.

Basil out and out refused. In fact, my request, nay, demand, set him off on a long, boring discourse on the rights of the artist, and the inability of the non-artist to understand the various levels of the value of true art, the general worthlessness that society as a whole places on the arts, etc. etc.

As I half listened, I felt liquid seep down my thighs. In that instant, I glanced up. Once again my eyes locked with those of Lord Wotton. He knew! Of that I was certain! Horror filled me. Would he let on? I knew not. I doubted it, at least he would not announce what he knew now. Not yet. Not until he had me vulnerable enough. For what Lord Henry knew, which I, of course knew, and of which Basil and the rest of London had been woefully ignorant, was that the liquid seeping from me was not semen, but the sweet juices of my cunny. Lord Henry instinctively deduced that I was a woman disguised as a man.

My body, staked beneath his fierce gaze, began to tremble. I felt my bound nipples firming with desire. Without a doubt, I knew that when the time was right, when he decided it was right, Lord Henry would not only have me, and at his whim, but he would expose me to the world! ...

HOME

WRITER

EDITOR