His strokes were smooth and fluid, the colors, more vibrant than any he had ever seen. Amazed at the canvas before him, Terry could see life in his painting. There was no muse. He had no model. The woman on the work, though only pigments in oil brushed onto a framed canvas, seemed to stare into his soul. She seemed so real to him.
Shaking his head from the mesmerizing image, he turned his attention to his palate, the pools of varying colors, so vibrant and alive, invited his brush to taste its fruits. The paints were acquired in New Orleans during a recent trip to celebrate Mardi Gras from a little shop in the Vieux Carre’. Vieux Carre’, for those who’ve never been to the Big Easy, is, “French Quarter,” in the Creole language. The little shop where he made the purchase was run by an elderly woman who was said to practice voodoo. Her shop was filled with a hodgepodge that varied from spices and witchcraft supplies, to books and craft materials. Powders, potions, and incenses lined the dusty shelves along her other wares.
If she wasn’t a witch, she most certainly fit the profile with her wild eyes and tangled hair that used to be raven but was now streaked with as much grey. Bent and bony, she stood behind the counter to take your money, the old building, itself a reminder of bygone days of New Orleans legend.
Terry thought back to the day he made the purchase. After spending nearly an hour in her shop, he finally approached her with his selection of paintbrushes and several canvases of assorted sizes. He remembered the way her eyes bore into his and the way she took his hand in both of hers. Her fingers, calloused and joints deformed by age and arthritis, clasped his palm and traced the lines in it.
“I can see sadness,” she said in a gravelly whisper, “You’ve searched for love and found none.”
“I’m a loner, ma’am,” Terry lied, his eyes nervously looking into hers, knowing she saw through him.
“No,” she shook her head with a weak laugh, “Lonely Yes, but not a loner. You’re very particular for whom you are looking.”
The lie rebuked, Terry resigned himself to her readings, her fingers continuing their journey through his palm. He watched with interest her trembling hand and felt her rough skin holding him. His eyes followed her when she reached for a jar on the counter, chanting something in the Creole language. After dipping her finger into the black liquid in the jar, she withdrew it and traced a line from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, her eyes flashing and her voice chanting away.
“What is this?” He asked of the dark stain on his forearm.
Finally releasing his hand, she explained that she had blessed him to find his heart’s desire. Adding up his purchase on a cash register that could not have been less than a century old, she went on, “You seek a woman, no?”
“Everyone wants companionship,” Terry admitted.
“Yes,” she nodded, bagging his purchase, “But you seek someone that does not exist. You seek perfection.”
Terry thought back to the many women that he had dated in his fifty years. So many beautiful and exotic ladies from diverse races and countries, all beautiful in their own uniqueness. Having traveled the world, he had been with so many. But there was always an element in each of them that turned him away. Always something.
“I speak the truth, do I not?” She smiled, breaking his thoughts.
“How much do I owe?” Terry asked, annoyed at her accurate intrusion into his soul.
“Wait,” she hushed him, disappearing through an opening behind the counter that was covered by a blanket rather than a door.
He could hear her rustling through whatever was stored in the room then, finally, emerging with an old wooden milk crate. With some effort, she lifted it, depositing it on the counter. “You paint with oil, no?” She asked.
“Yes,” he answered, peering into the crate. He could see at least twenty small jars of paints, none labeled for color, “But I have paints at home.”
Placing his brown paper sack of supplies in the crate, she said, “These paints will bring you success in your efforts. Take them at no charge. Thirty-seven dollars for your purchase.”
He handed her two twenty dollar bills, telling her to keep the change, “Thank you for the paints. Are you sure I can’t pay you for them?”
Stuffing the two bills into the register, she said, offering her hand again, “Take them with my compliments. Accept your destiny with no reservations.”
He took her hand again, unable to refuse. She held his with both of hers, again a low gravelly chant in her native language, her bony hands clamped tightly on his.
Terry was open-minded except for black or white magic. Not something he believed in but he felt something. Adrenaline or nerves, he could attribute it to a number of things. Her eyes though, aged and experienced, were ocean blue and sharp. He couldn’t look away when she stared into his. That’s when he started to fear the reality of her spirit that pried into his. She was speaking to his soul with no words, asking him to free her. ‘Free you? From what?’ He asked, speaking no words.
‘Free me,’ her eyes begged, ‘I will owe you my life.’
Shaking himself back to the present, he found himself dabbing his brush into the pool of ocean blue on his palate. Looking back to his canvas, his focus was on the eyes of the maiden he created. All his skills learned over thirty-five years of painting were confounded. His hand was guided by some foreign force. Those eyes, still fresh in his memory, stared at him again from the canvas. The paint color, a perfect match to Mamma Rose’s eyes.
Shaking his head, ‘How do I know your name?’ He asked the painting, again without speaking words. Her eyes, so deep and blue, were the final touch. The painting finished, he sat, mesmerized by the work of, he thought, his hand. Such beauty, “The Maiden,” he titled it. She seemed to call to him with her eyes. She was the embodiment of his idea of perfection.
The woman he never found. The love that, for so long, evaded him. He sat for nearly two hours just hypnotized by those eyes. They spoke to him, repeating the message, ‘Free me.’ He couldn’t look away. The image became so real to him, so lifelike on the canvas that he could almost feel her heat. The old grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight, breaking the spell that his beauty cast.
Dropping his brush into the can of mineral spirits, he would clean it in the morning. Time for a shower. One last look at his maiden. Her long, wheat-colored hair tangled around one finger, and her full cherry lips smiled seductively as she sat on the sill of a closed window, the same window that stood open behind him in his studio. This was the culmination of his desire. Her body was lithe and limbs willowy and her skin was kissed by the warm summer sun. Would that he could find her in life.
Dowsing the lamps, he walked to the bathroom just off the main bedroom of his home. The water, hot and relaxing, soothed his tired bones that ached from standing at his easel for the past three weeks since purchasing his supplies. Having spent over nine hours just today, his back was sore. Wrapped in a towel, Terry walked from his bath to his parlor for a bourbon before retiring.
As usual, he felt satisfaction for completing a work, and this one was particularly satisfying. He sat in his Queen Anne chair, feet propped on an ottoman as he sipped the strong spirits. Not a big drinker, but he found that a little bourbon always helped the aches. His mind went back to the maiden again, her eyes so mesmerizing. Never had his skills been so keen and precise. It was as though the brush or the paint itself guided his hand.
Terry put his whiskey glass on the table by his chair and walked naked to his bed, towel on his shoulder. Pausing at his studio for contemplation, he decided to name the painting, ‘Mistress Rose.” The same name he hung on the shop owner. It just seemed to fit her and now an even better fit for his beauty. Her smile seemed even brighter now than when he painted it.
Suddenly very aware that he was naked, Terry covered himself with the towel and almost apologized to his beauty. Shaking the thought from his head with a snorting kind of laugh, he walked to his bedroom. And dropped his towel on a chair, “Fucking hell was that?” He grumbled to himself.
Sleep found him quickly and dreams of youth and forgotten love filled that sleep, dreams of women from his past, so vivid and real. The regrets of not holding on to some and relief that some left quickly. Of them all, not one satisfied his requirements of perfection. None of them would compare to his Mistress Rose.
The night was warm and humid so he slept atop the blankets that were moist from his perspiration. Being used to nights in southern Louisiana, Terry slept under a slow, wobbly ceiling fan, naked as usual, the big wood frame window of his upstairs bedroom stood open. A sudden, cool breeze stirred him from his dream-wracked sleep.
Terry woke to see the filmy, pale blue slips gently waving from the heavy wrought iron curtain rod. After sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood to close the window, noticing the purple twilight of dawn beginning to glow on the gulf horizon. A full, yellow moon hung low in the southwestern sky, accenting the loneliness of the early morning. He took several minutes to appreciate the natural beauty of a hand-painted sky.
Pulling the thin curtains together, he turned to the bed and froze in his tracks. The figure of a young woman lying naked across his bed. Propped on one elbow, she faced him with an almost ghostly countenance, “Come to me, my love,” she beckoned, her left hand outstretched.
“Rose?” He whispered in disbelief.
“Come, my love,” she repeated, “I’m free now. Let me thank you.”
Terry couldn’t move, his mind trying to make sense of the moment. ‘I’m dreaming,’ he thought, ‘I must be dreaming.”
“You aren’t dreaming,” she whispered, “Come, let me thank you.”
“Thank me?” Terry asked, shaking his head, still trying to make sense of her presence.
“Come to me,” she repeated, still offering her hand.
After a long moment to take in her beauty, her perfect body naked and exposed to his view, he took four slow steps to the bedside, his hand now in hers, she guided him to her side on the bed. Face to face, she smiled and caressed his cheek, sliding her tiny, soft hand from his temple to his chin.
Rose smiled at the confusion in her hero’s eyes for just a moment before offering a kiss, her hand pulling his to the curve of her hip. When her soft lips touched him, Terry was taken completely. Sucking her tongue into his mouth, he savored her kiss, sliding his hand over her hip and cupping the supple cheek of her derrière. His erection grew quickly, pressed between their bellies.
Breaking the kiss, Rose snuggled closer, kissing his shoulder and neck, her fingers exploring his body, finding his throbbing shaft nestled against her thigh. Terry did some exploration of his own, his palm sliding slowly over the soft curve of her ass. His heart beat wildly, almost audibly in his chest, belying his age and experience. He was as nervous as a teenage boy experiencing his very first time with a female.
Rose let him take his time, knowing full well the spell cast on her hero. The magic of the paints had him in a daze of wonder. He had no idea what he was dealing with for Rose was nearly two hundred years old. Trapped as a girl of sixteen by the voodoo priest Bayou John after she threatened to reveal their affair, she lived in the body of Mamma Rose.
John was her first and last lover so many years ago, depriving her of her beauty and youth when he cloaked her in the body of his aged mother, cursed to live in her until freed by the hand of a chosen hero. Terry was that chosen man. Chosen by fate and the place he lived. Unknown to him, his house was the childhood home of Momma Rose. Purchased from a real estate agent that thought that information was unnecessary to the new owner.
Since he was old enough to be on his own, and with a large inheritance from his beloved grandfather, he made the purchase through the agent. He learned many artistic skills here between his travels. His latest painting, not by mere chance, was a perfect rendition of his sixteen-year-old lover. Freed at the stroke of midnight when the final drop of paint had dried on the canvas.
Young in body but the experiences she had gained in the Vieux Carre’ gave her the knowledge of the black arts of voodoo. Hundreds of books and thousands of hours spent studying magic and spells lead her to the solution. To break the curse, she needed someone intimately familiar with her host body. This man had spent thirty-five years sleeping in the bedroom of the host. He washed in her clawfoot tub every time he took a bath.
The paints were the catalyst. He was fixated on the blue eyes but the lips, so cherry red, were pigmented with the very blood of the host. Once the paint had dried, the aged host was removed from her youthful body. To make the anti-spell permanent, she would have to make love to her hero. After nearly two centuries locked in the body of an old woman, she looked forward to it. The fact that his cock was so hard and thick just made it that much better.
Terry was still exploring the secret parts of his very young lover. The soft downy hairs between her legs, so fine and golden, tickled the tips of his fingers. Her juices flowed from the center of her sex, emanating a spicy, almost cinnamon aroma. Not having been with a woman for over three years, Terry struggled to contain himself. So beautiful and so perfect, the warmth of her body soaked into his. Her youth, contrastive with his age, merely accented his experience.
His fingers finally found the tender entrance of her sex. Softly pushing into her, he heard her soft moans and felt her body respond. So sensitive to his touch, after two hundred years, she meant to enjoy every touch. Finally releasing his rigid cock from her soft grip, she let him roll her on top of his body, kissing deeply, “I must taste you,” he whispered.
“And I, you,” she answered, turning to take him into her mouth, she positioned herself so that he could sample her as well.
Terry was thick and long, hard and throbbing as she swallowed as much of him as she could, humming a love song to herself as his tongue dredged her long-deprived furrow. Her body trembled in anticipation. The saltiness of his clear emission whetted her desire for more.
She felt his strong hands spreading the cheeks of her tight, young rear. His tongue plowed deep and forcefully through her slit, evoking moans of pleasure. Her soft, blond pubic hair rubbed against the scruff shadow of his three-day beard. Nothing had felt so good for as long as she could remember.
As for himself, Terry was becoming drunk on the juices of this teenage beauty. His idea of the perfect woman was embodied atop him. He wanted this moment to go on and on. Her soft lips caressed the veiny shaft of his cock, bringing him dangerously close to climax. He concentrated more on her scent and the taste of her liquid excitement, lapping it from the folds of her sex. He wanted to be strong and make sure to please her as well. For the moment, he contained himself.
Venturing further, he sampled the pink of her little budding sphincter. This elicited a squeal of pleasure as she looked over her shoulder in surprise. Her blue eyes smiled at him as he repeated the motion several times, pushing with increasing pressure with each swipe. As the sunbeams of dawn began to play across the otherwise dark room, he saw her pushing back, opening the little rosebud just so for him.
His little darling gave another yelp when he stabbed the point of his tongue deep into her back opening like a dagger, tasting her forbidden depths. The scruff of his chin rasped against her erect clitoris, causing even more pleasure to bubble in her sex. He could tell that she was close by the moans and the way her young body quaked in his grasp. He would push her further.
Wriggling his tongue, he pushed in further, deeper with every thrust. At the same time, he slid his thumb into her dripping sex. His lover was going out of her mind.
Another few seconds would pass and Terry would feel the evidence of her orgasm coating his chin with her warm fluids. He would feel her body tense and then quake with multiple spasms of uncontrollable lust. He would hear the unbridled and unthinkable words from such a pretty young maiden. Had he known the years she had gone without the touch of a man, he would not be so surprised.
When she calmed herself from her long-awaited release, Terry rolled her onto the bed beside him and repositioned himself, mounting her in a missionary position. He needed a release but he wanted to see and feel her as she again climaxed under his ministrations. With age, even though it had been a few years, he had learned control.
With her eyes looking directly into his, she guided his erection to her still-spasming sex, placing him in a position to penetrate her. After so many years, she felt like a virgin again, the wide head of his erection spreading her labia when he slowly pressed forward. He felt huge inside, inch by luscious inch, filling her so completely.
Terry watched her eyes close and saw her biting her bottom lip, softly moaning her approval. His cock rested deep inside her wet opening, his heavy balls, so full from three years of celibacy, rested on the valley of her rear. He didn’t want to move. Her body perfectly matched his like a key in a lock. He felt himself throbbing inside his lover and watched her head slowly turn side to side, softly cooing his name with every breath. Wanting to please her, Terry began to slowly rock himself in and out, feeling her wetness and the tightness of her sex.
His young lover wrapped her creamy, white legs around his hips, drawing him tightly to her with each thrust. Rolling her hips, she gave him optimum access, taking every inch of his very thick manhood. He filled her so deeply and completely that she never wanted him to stop. Her words said as much to him. With one hand on the back of his neck and the other caressing his hair, she pulled him to a kiss more passionate than any he had experienced.
The warmth of her body, the scent of her sex, and the supple softness of her skin drove him to an ever-quickening pace. Her words of approval and dirty cursing fueled his lust. Her body trembled under him with another climax, and her tight pussy gushed with every spasm. Every thrust of his cock brought obscene words from his young lover. He felt her sex gripping his despite the amount of lubricating fluids that she secreted. He could no longer hold back.
With a fire building in the depths of his loins, Terry pounded his beauty for all he was worth. The sunbeams now shone lower in the room with dust particles dancing like fairies through their glow. His lover’s eyes sparkled like diamonds of blue, her hair as if dusted with gold. She smiled sweetly at him and said, “You’ve freed me. I’m yours now.”
That took the last of his reserve. He thrust deeply and held tightly as his cock ejected a thick stream of molten seed. Another and another followed, filling the womb of the young beauty under his body. His emissions continued, squeezing around his shaft, pooling on the sheets under her. Terry grunted and cursed through his orgasm, breathlessly pumping until he collapsed on her, kissing her again, his cock still throbbing inside her.
She returned his kiss with passion, her hands pulling his head to hers. Still impaled by his huge, throbbing member, Rose rolled him onto his back and straddled his body. Rocking her hips, she ground her sex on his, riding him slowly. Terry watched her face as she rode his erection. Her warm sex drooled their combined juices onto his balls. His hands busied themselves, sliding over her small breasts. Perfect in his mind, her nipples so puffy and erect.
His loins, once spent, again started to build heat and pressure, soon to unload his seed into his new lover. She could tell by the throbbing of his shaft inside her sex so she rode him faster. The room was bright now with the light of the morning sun. Her tangled, blond hair clung to her sweaty skin. Her blue eyes looked lustfully down at her hero, “Come for me, Terry. Come for me again.”
There was no holding back, his cock twitched, contracting inside her, sending his second volcanic ejaculation into her depths. Not as heavy as the previous one but considerable, nonetheless. Rose clamped her pussy tightly onto his cock as she rode him slowly now, milking every drop he had to offer. His fingers tugged at her nipples as he cursed through his orgasm, bringing his lover to another climax. Her body convulsed atop his, giving evidence of the pleasure that wrapped her like a blanket.
After collapsing on her man, exhausted and spent, they slept through the morning, his cock slipping from her as it wilted. Their sleep was a quiet and dreamless one, leaving them refreshed and energized. Terry woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. His young lover stood beside the bed, tray in hand, offering him breakfast.
“You didn’t have to,” he said, sitting up as she set the tray over him.
“You freed me,” she smiled sweetly, “I owe you so much more.”
They enjoyed their breakfast and the company. After so many years of being alone for both of them, it was a welcome change. They drank coffee and ate their fill, laughing and talking. They talked about sex and the plans for the day. Setting the tray aside, he led her to the clawfoot tub where they bathed together, kissing and petting one another.
On the settee with sweet iced tea, they sat, wrapped in terry robes, rocking the afternoon away. Weighing his mind, Terry needed to know more about this young, beautiful girl that snuggled at his side, ‘Who was she and where did she come from,’ he wondered, ‘How did I Free her?’ He had to ask and finally did.
“My name is Victoria, not Rose,” she said softly, “You can call me Tory if you like. I’m two hundred and sixteen years old.”
Terry looked at her in disbelief as she went on about her life and the curse that bound her in the body of Mamma Rose for the last two centuries. She told him of the loneliness and frustration and needs of a girl of her age. Needs and desires that for so long were denied her, needs that he filled just hours before.
“But how did I free you from this curse?
After looking at him for several seconds, trying to gauge if he believed her story, she took his hand and led him to his studio, “This is how,” she said, pointing at his masterpiece.
Terry looked from her to his painting, his face changed in a split second. On the canvas was not the beautiful Maiden Rose that he had worked so many hours to complete. Replaced by the image of the old shopkeeper that sold him the supplies just weeks ago. He stood in front of his work slack-jawed and shaking his head, “How?”
“The paints and the spell I cast that day at the store,” she began, “Remember the line I traced on your forearm?”
Terry turned his attention from the painting to his arm, the remnants of the black line, long since washed away. His left hand slid slowly over his arm as he looked up at her, waiting to hear the rest.
“The paints were the anti-curse. Mixed with her blood,” she said, pointing at the image of Mamma Rose. When they dried deep in the night, she replaced the picture of me and I was freed from her body. The dreams that you saw in your sleep last night were your past freeing you, my love. I am yours now if you want me.”
“Tory, this is too much to believe,” he said, “But, somehow I know it’s true. Of course, I want you but I’m too old to make you happy.”
Shaking her head in rebuke, his young maid took his hands in hers and closed her eyes, chanting something in her language that he did not understand. The room seemed to spin and colors became a fog. A sudden flash and she dropped his hands and stepped close to him, kissing him passionately again, “Life will be long and happy, my love,” she whispered, turning him to face a mirror on the wall.
After another minute of disbelief, he looked at her with a smile then back to see himself in the mirror again. He saw himself young again. No more than sixteen years old, he took her in his arms and held her tightly, kissing her again, “Of course I want you.”
