A painter’s apprentice chapters 1 and 2 (more to come) - Sex Stories

A painter’s apprentice chapters 1 and 2 (more to come)

Chapter 1 fifteen year old Lecretia Della Rizzi lay huddled for warmth. She was half delirious, soaked from the rain and chilled down to her core. But she preferred this to what was waiting for her back home. Suddenly she felt two hands wrap gently around her shoulders. She knew without a doubt that they weren’t the rough hands of a man, but the soft hands of a woman. Even in her exhaustion their touch seemed to stir up some mysterious desire in her flesh. They were warm and soothing on her bare skin. Maybe she had just imagined them, but they made her feel safe, and she could conjure no strength do anything but put all of her trust in them. Suddenly she heard a silky voice whispering in her ear and opened her eyes to see a woman’s face. “Hello. It’s going to be all right. I’m Mesalina.” Lecretia had been running all night and was so exhausted she could only nod her head feebly. “You nearly died of the cold. I found you huddled behind the barn.” She was now dry and wrapped in a blanket. “You have nowhere to go?” She shook her head listlessly. Mesalina’s hands were still soothing Lecretia’s trembling skin. Even in this state, the attention that this woman was giving her made her briefly aware of a fluttering in her stomach, and a brief tingling between her thighs. It only lasted for a split second. She hoped it would pass. It was like when she saw a pretty girl at the market. She couldn’t explain it, and it troubled her. “I think I might be able to help you.” Lecretia let her ...

... head drop weakly into Mesalina’s lap. She had no choice but to trust her. She needed help. She surrendered. She didn’t care what happened anymore. Anything was better than what was waiting for her back home. Since Lecretia was little her father worked her to the bone as a milkmaid, and he sold the milk, butter and cheese at the market. She went to mass every Sunday. She loved the incense, the choir, the windows, and the arched vaulting in the ceiling. She seldom listened to the priest and didn’t like the way he shouted. The cathedral stood in the center of the village of Muro di Pietra, with a steeple for all to see and bells for all to hear. All of the other buildings were sagging, and dismal, but the cathedral was the people’s pride. Lecretia felt honored to be in its presence. What she loved most of all was a painting in the center of the altar. It was of a bloodied man nailed to two beams of wood being carried down a crowded road. She hadn’t listed to the priest enough to know with certainty, who the man was, but for some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. She felt immediately sorry for him and was transfixed by the paint strokes. They were as luminous as the stained glass. His bloody naked body was so vivid and life-like it was made beautiful. It seemed there was some innate feeling in her that was so stirred by the painting it made her insides ache. She couldn’t explain it. She would sit in her pew and dream of being an artist as great as whoever painted the ...