Venus and Psyché
By Essemoh Teepee
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 smotp©
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Venus and Psyché
“It is a cold one today, Gustave?” the Baker called from the doorway.
The figure of the painter, hunched against the biting wind trudged past the patisserie, giving no sign of having heard. Rubbing his hands over his buttocks, the Baker enjoyed the warmth coming from his shop in contrast to the winter chill outside.
“M. Courbet, is everything well with you?” The Baker called after him, to be rewarded only by a half wave in response. He shrugged and went back into his shop. So far, he thought, this year of our lord eighteen hundred and sixty four had been pretty good. He knew the painter would be back tomorrow for his regular croissant and rustiqué, perhaps he would be more talkative then.
His mind was full of visions, images of perfect women with the smoothest of white skin. His imagination was a fever of breasts and buttocks, arching backs and thrusting hips. His fingers ached from the cold but he needed to paint. He had to get the visions plaguing him onto canvas. Gustave had been to Louvre again.
The Louvre galleries were always cool; in the Parisian summer they were a haven, but in the winter they were as chill as a meat locker. He had stood in front of the Venus, his eyes following every luscious curve. He loved her back perhaps more than her front, every muscle held the erotic promise of sensual movement. Her spine led his eyes to the swell of her perfect rump. Her beauty made his cock swell with want.
The Canova sculpture was next, the tableau was magnificent piece; Eros revives Psyché. Standing in front of the pure white marble; Gustave, in his imagination watched Eros squeeze the girl’s breast and heard her moan in response. In his mind he saw the young woman swallow the Immortal’s cock and he felt the wind from the wildly beating wings of the God of Love in ecstasy.
It was the Borghese piece that filled him with fascination; he would usually save it for last. The sculpture was of a lithe and athletic young woman asleep on a couch. Her body ached to be taken; he could taste her breasts in his mouth and the softness of her breath on his cheek. What fascinated him was the semi erect cock where her vulva should be. The hermaphrodite was perfect; it seemed so natural a creature. He wondered what it would be like to take it and to be taken in turn.
The fire in the grate glowed and Gustave was warm and sleepy. The early morning trip to the Louvre and the walk back through the Tuilleries had tired him. The rich red wine and cheese also worked their magic. As he slipped into sleep the book by Apuleius he had been reading, slid to the floor. The Golden Ass fell open at the tale of Cupid and Psyché.
****
The Goddess was in a foul mood. She tore the silk robe as she threw it to the floor; she had felt suddenly disgusted by the caress of the fine cloth on her breasts and hips. Stalking nude through the marble and granite halls of her Temple she came to stand in front of a bronze mirror and looked at the image there.
A perfect figure in every respect, honey brown hair naturally waved and caught high on her neck to expose the tender skin there. She cupped her breasts and lifted her nipples to point at the mirror, pinching them erect between thumb and fingers. Venus regarded her reflection and cursed the name of Psyché. Picking up a vase more ancient than the pyramids, she dashed it to smithereens against the bronze image of her perfection.
“How fucking dare they!” Venus muttered and strode out of the chamber, a ripped parchment fluttering in her wake.
The handmaid entered the empty room and swept up the shards of alabaster. Amid the wreckage she found a torn scroll and read it to herself, lips moving as she translated the fragment of Latin script.
“ ..Oh incomparable Psyché; a light in the darkness of an ugly world. A beauty more radiant than the Gods themselves ...”
The servant looked up at the scarred mirror and whispered.
“Oh fuck; someone’s head will roll for this...”