~lo sono il segreto della nostra Regina~
Those Lips, Those Eyes (Francine 3) © June 9, 2010 by Donna L. Faber as Jupiter enters the sign of Aries for the first time since the year 2000, and I feel more myself than I have in six months. This piece is done on Strathmore Bristol Vellum, 100 lb. paper, with Prismacolor markers, a Sharpie, and Pips. The original is 11’ x 17”, and she’s four separate, assembled pieces. This portrait has been 6 months in the making. I started it in January, was stricken with an enduring case of artistic ADD, and got side tracked by work and work related stress. I filled the artistic void with short-term projects like my art journal, tarot cards, and the occasional blogpost.
I often wonder what women would do with their lives if they had more choices. What makes them submit to unhappy or toxic domestic situations?
Francine is forever the eternal and relentless lover. She seeks love in all places, without boundary, without rest, and in defiance of convention and standard morality. She is also the embodiment of my internal creative muse; she who will not be quieted.
In this piece, she is from another life, another time, but she is still Francine. She states, “I am yours forever,” and explores love through submission.
This is her story.
I live here.
In these chambers.
I know nothing but these ornate walls and the plush gardens outside them. Born into servitude, and gifted with beauty, I was hand picked for this purpose. I am hand-maiden to the Queen. She is my soul purpose and my reason for living. This is what I was put on the earth for, and in being here in service to her I fulfill my destiny. She is the Queen of the realm, and the Queen of my heart, and I am her tiny secret.
It seems I am always waiting. Even though I was born to do so, at times I find myself wanting. I live for the moments when my Queen expresses her satisfaction. To me, her smile is akin to the rays of the sun, shining approval down on me, or the radiance of the full moon. Those moments are not easily won, but I strive for them readily. I wait for them constantly.
She is not a young Queen, and speaking of age is anathema to her. She is a fully bloomed flower, ripe and colorful, and while it is by force of will or in defiance of nature, her bloom has not wilted where others surely have. She is strong. Soft, pliable skin covers muscle and bones made of steel. I’ve learned she relies on this physical strength and endurance. Her grip is tight. It is as tight as the back of her hand is hard and as sharp as the ascerbic cut of her tongue. Her moods are mercurial and her needs undefined, but when those needs are not met she is quick to punish either corporally, which is not intolerable or unpleasant, or by leaving me alone here in this place for days on end. No matter how empty I am rendered, when I am left without her, by days’ end, I pine. Within two days, I weep. After that ...
And then she appears again, and I am resurrected.
When she is present, I am at my most content. I am completely fulfilled in that particularly delicious service, the tasting, feeling, emotional whirlwind which is indeed the truest focus of my singular existence. Every inch of her is like nectar, and I drink deeply, memorizing every curve, fold, and hidden valley. She smells like fragrant lilacs. Her body is a map forever burned in my memory, and I travel it’s byways in my dreams, my imagination, when she isn’t present. Her voice ... ah her voice. When she whispers in passion, I am transported. It is the lock set on my captivation. It is why I surrender to her persistent demands. All this and love. All mundane details fade against the persistence of this desire, when my skin becomes alive with a million hungry mouths aching to be kissed, fed, and filled.
Only she can feed this hunger.
When she leaves, I begin to wilt.
I wait for her return, dangling on the string of our psychic rapport. I feel her each and every moment of each and every day and night no matter if she is here or not. That silver cord transmits every feeling, every concern, every fleeting moment of unhappiness, and every triumph. It reveals to me when she is in the arms of another.
This connection is my salvation as much as it is my eternal torment.
I am left only with the sureness of my intuition, and the hope that she will open the door to my chamber and enter in all her glory, thus releasing me from this suspension and into her service, delicious as it is, once again.
Until she does, I remain here wrapped in a sheet, rifling through memories of the last time I saw her.
I am her secret, and I am content.
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