Death of a Duchess
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My Last Duchess free porn video
My Last Duchess
By Cal Y. Pygia
"I'm happy to do it, of course," Thaddeus said, "but, remember, that
every correction--"
"It's not a correction," I interrupted.
"--or revision," Thaddeus continued, "is an extra hundred dollars,
minimum."
"Fine," I said. I wanted the painting to be perfect, and I was willing
to pay whatever it cost to make it so. I had no intention of telling
Thaddeus Martin this, of course, although I suspected that the artist
had probably figured it out for himself by now. After all, I had
already agreed to--or, to be more precise, had already insisted upon--
over a thousand dollars in revisions to what was more and more likely to
become Thaddeus' magnum opus.
"Given the nature of this, uh, revision, the cost will probably be quite
a bit more than the minimum," Thaddeus warned. "I mean, it is a rather
significant revision."
"Fine, fine," I replied.
"I just wanted you to know ahead of time. Most of my clients don't like
surprises in their bills."
"Just do it, okay, Thad?"
"Sure, James. Delighted."
What had inspired me to commission the work upon which Thaddeus was
working was both a poem, "My Last Duchess," by Robert Browning and a
particularly painful affair with a lovely lady who hadn't been quite as
submissive, as it turned out, as she'd advertised herself to be.
She hadn't advertised herself literally, of course; I want nothing to do
with the sort of women who take out classifieds in dubious porno
publications, sex magazines, or their online equivalents.
Amanda Johnson had advertised herself the way that all women advertise
themselves--or, at least, all women who are on the make: she went
braless, wearing low-cut necklines that showed plenty of cleavage;
skirts slit up the side to mid-thigh; thong underwear (or none);
stockings and garter belts; and, of course, a mask of makeup under
perfectly coiffed hair.
There was her body language, too: a wide, ready smile; a disarming
manner; girly flirtatiousness; averted gazes alternating with lingering
looks; an indulgent manner; and a solicitous, engaging, and submissive
demeanor.
She'd sucked my cock on our first date and had taken it up her lovely,
round ass on our third.
I'd thought I'd found the perfect woman.
Thereafter, slowly, subtly, she'd changed--or, rather, the true woman
behind the makeup, the perfectly coiffed hair, and the admirable breast
implants had begun to make her appearance. What I'd granted as favors
and privileges became demands. She began to expect special treatment
all the time. Opening doors for her and pulling her chair out at the
table were the least of her expectations. She wanted wine and roses,
chocolates and champagne, five-star hotels with room service, vacations
at exclusive (and expensive!) resorts, a penthouse apartment on Fifth
Avenue, and a Lamborghini. Suddenly, my Rolls wasn't good enough for
her! And when I suspected Amanda of having an affair with another man
while I was having an affair with her--well, that was the last straw!
I'll admit, I complained about my uppity mistress. Who wouldn't? Hell,
the fiery little vixen had become more difficult than my wife, and
Sheila was high maintenance enough. My wife's constant demands are what
had driven me to seek a mistress in the first place. I'd thought I'd
hit the jackpot with the submissive, doting Amanda, but her supposed
passivity had been just that--supposed.
It was my grumbling about the bitch that had led Henry Hammond to
mention "My Last Duchess."
We'd just finished a round of golf and were drinking a few cocktails at
the country club as the afternoon drew to a close, and Henry had
chuckled as he'd remarked, "She deserves the same fate as that of the
last duchess in Browning's poem."
Not being what one might call a fan of poetry, I'd replied, "Huh?"
"'My Last Duchess.' You've read the poem, of course?"
I hadn't even known we'd been talking about a poem until now. "Years
ago," I'd lied.
Thaddeus had quoted the opening lines:
"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fr? Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fr? Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fr? Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad."
"You should read it again," he'd suggested, "with Amanda in mind. Her
portrait on a billboard might just serve her right." He'd finished his
martini. "Another round?" he'd asked. "On me."
I'd finished my own. "No, thanks; maybe next time." Thanks to Henry, I
had better things to do than to get soused.
Thaddeus is a superb artist, and, when I paid him the $25,000 his
portrait of Amanda had cost him, I told the artist as much. Thaddeus
had captured her likeness so perfectly that she looked real. She's an
undeniably lovely lady, especially as Thaddeus had painted her,
emphasizing her perfection in the subtle, flattering manner in which
he'd depicted her blonde hair, as if it were a gleaming gold halo; her
wide blue eyes, as if they reflected an azure sky; her cheeks, as if
they blossomed with the soft blush of a delicate rose; her lips, as if
they'd been sucking upon strawberries. Her breasts were not only high,
round, full, and firm, but they looked more natural upon the canvas than
they did upon Amanda herself. He'd done an excellent job, too, in
capturing her concave tummy, the slight flare of her hips, her sleek
thighs, her dimpled knees, and her tapering calves. Her sex, like the
rest of her charms, was also gloriously detailed and so lifelike that I
imagined that I could reach forth my hand and--
"She's a handsome woman," the artist observed, admiring the color
photograph of Amanda that had served as his model.
Studying the painting upon the easel, I concurred. "That she is."
"The poem you gave me was inspirational, too," he said, especially the
lines that read:
'Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace - all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" - and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!'"
"It's quite a poem, all right," I said.
Thaddeus called his masterpiece Novus Mulier. I preferred a different
title, the one that, I'd decided, would appear with the enlarged version
of Thaddeus' portrait on the billboard I'd hired for a year. After
twelve months of Amanda displayed, larger than life, by the side of
Interstate 95, for millions to see, I figured my revenge upon the bitch
would be nearly as complete as that of the duke who'd displayed the
portrait of his last duchess upon his castle's wall. (A "close reading"
of the poem's text, literary critics contend, suggests that the speaker
of the poem, the duke, murdered his mistress, but there's a limit beyond
which I am unwilling to go, even in the interest of art--or revenge.)
To say that, a week later, Amanda Johnson was turning heads on I-95 is
an understatement. She damned near caused wrecks!
Of course, there have been legal actions by "outraged" citizens, mostly
puritanical parents of small children, who have demanded that my
masterpiece be removed; some even want the billboard itself torn down.
Of course, I have no intention of removing my artwork. After all, it's
a masterpiece. I call it Amanda Johnson's Coming Out Party. There's
even a subtitle, of sorts: There's More to Her Than Meets the Eye!
The final revision, which cost me an extra two grand, by the way, but
was worth every cent, shows her cock and balls; her dick stands proudly
upright, before her concave tummy, and her balls are risen inside the
contracted pouch of her tightened scrotum. (In the photo that Thaddeus
used as his model, Amanda's prick is flaccid and her balls hand loose
inside her slack scrotal sac.)
In addition to the public's protests and demands for the removal of my
billboard-size portrait of Amanda, which, my lawyers assure me, I can
tie up in court for at least a year, I've had the pleasure of hearing
from Amanda herself. In teary (and unanswered) appeals left on my cell
phone, she threatens, demands, begs, and cajoles, beseeching me to
"please take down that monstrosity." She is (or was) closeted, after
all, her transsexual status known only to me and a handful of her most
intimate friends (including, I believe, as I listen, repeatedly, to her
demands and entreaties, the man with whom she's been having an affair
while I was cheating on my wife with her); Amanda had harbored no
intention of ever letting others--her pastor, the members of her
church's congregation, her colleagues, her business clients, her
friends, or even her family--know that she's a transsexual who's opted
to keep her male genitals.
I'm tempted to call her so I can tell her that I have absolutely no
intention whatsoever of removing her image from the billboard and, if
she wants to take the matter to court, that's fine with me. I have the
means, the motive, and the opportunity, thanks to my inheritance of my
family's fortune in oil, to litigate the issue for as long as I like.
She, on the other hand, has nothing but what I've given her, except for
the penthouse, concerning which I've already begun eviction procedures
against her lovely shemale ass, and her Lamborghini. Like it or not,
she's been outed, before millions, and her secret remains a secret no
more.
Revenge is sweet.
Life is sweet.
Sheila and I are getting a divorce, but that's okay. I've already found
a replacement for her, another shemale named Vickie Matthews. She's
already sucked my cock and taken it up her ass lovely round ass, and she
seems docile, obedient, and submissive, just the way I like them, but
I'm not taking any chances this time.
Today, Vickie and I are taking a little drive, along I-95.
I'm going to show her my "Last Duchess."
Mikayla
- 10.09.2020
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