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The Protege: Epilogue

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The Protégé: Epilogue.

Once again. My Muse has commanded me to add a ‘What Happens Next’ to one of my stories. I usually much prefer to have my readers’ imaginations do this for most of my stories, but this time I couldn’t resist again from offering at least a brief ‘Epilogue’, as my small glimpse into Ella and Rohan’s life after. To best understand and appreciate this, of course, the longer original story should be read. I truly hope you enjoy them both.

I sat on the cushioned, high backed stool gazing pensively at my unfinished painting on the easel in front of me. It was not that I was totally unsatisfied with my efforts so far. It was just that it still lacked something vital, some spark of essential substance that would make it sing and soar, and special enough for its ultimate place.

As I idly chewed on the end of my paintbrush contemplating my work, my bare feet rested comfortably on the chest and belly of my naked footrest, lying silently and still on his back in front of my stool. It was Rohan Bereau, The Master, the greatest living painter in the world, who was also my husband, my mentor, my ever enchanting lover, my always devoted servant, and most important of all, my all encompassing soul mate. And while he certainly embraced and dedicated himself to all of these, at the moment he was perfectly content in his current position as my ‘soles’ mate.

Though it still pleases me to pose for him at times, sitting still for hours while he paints can be quite the chore. That does not seem to be the case for him, as he is also required to lie motionless under my feet, as I paint. He has sworn to me repeatedly though that those many hours as such are for him like heaven on earth. Even as I sometimes mischievously try to goad him into forbidden movement, by having my foot wander over all parts of his face, or feather my toes along his sac and rock hard tool. The plaintive çukurambar escort moans this can produce are always music to my ears.

I have to admit that I have never fully fathomed the fascination and passion that he has for my feet. But I am more than happy to indulge him in all of its manifestations as long as he behaves, which is most of the time, and sees to all of my wants and whims, which is virtually always. And also because I love him dearly.

But truth be told, I also get a thrill when I place my foot upon his mouth, and feel his warm tongue dart up and through, to lick and lave around and between my toes in ardent adoration. Not that any other part of my body is ever neglected. His luscious lips and tongue, as well as his transcendently talented fingers, beyond their use with a paintbrush, have lavished and excited every inch and orifice of my body countless times. And not to forget his manhood, which while perhaps underwhelming in its length and girth, more than makes up for it in vigor and stamina, that never fails to propel me over and over to exhilarating peaks of pure delight.

This is not to say that it is all about my pleasure and none about his. I care for him far too much for that. But his innate nature always makes him put my ecstasy first and foremost, and his own only to be bestowed when I wish, and only ever with my permission. I grant it very often of course, because sharing it with him also gives me intense joy. But denial can also be an enjoyable diversion, and I deploy more than occasionally, as I find it is a deft demonstration of our relative positions in all of this.

Which is not meant to denigrate or demean him in any way. I hold my husband in the utmost regard. He is the preeminent artist of his time, in any field, The Master, and is held in the highest esteem by the world, and I include myself in that, and make my respect demetevler escort and love for him known to all. That he then defers to me in all things personal and private, makes this gift of himself all the more precious, and I cherish and safeguard it above all else. I did not seek this power which I now possess. In the beginning I had entered into his presence myself as a supplicant, hoping for any crumb from him to be cast my way. But slowly over time I came to see and understand that despite all that he had already achieved, he desperately needed My direction… and Me. And I accepted and embraced this. I unlocked the chains that had bound him back, and tethered him to me, and this has allowed us both to fulfill everything that we can be, as individuals, as artists, but most importantly, as a melding of opposites that has become far, far more than a sum of our parts.


As I had for the past hour, I continued to stare at my incomplete painting in front of me, completely frustrated by my inability to intuit the missing element that would have it become what I wanted and needed it to be. While my concentration was solely focused on this dilemma, my foot, which had been unconsciously roaming, alighted upon his lips. I felt his tongue slip through softly to caress the bottoms of my toes, sending, as it always does, trembles coursing through my body. This broke through my despair of the moment, and I couldn’t help but sigh contentedly. And pondered. Could this be just the interlude I needed to get my creative juices flowing once again.

I ran the toes of my other foot up the underside of his ever erect pole, much more firmly than the feathery touch I usually use to tease, and was rewarded with a more guttural groan. I further encouraged him by wiggling my big toe between his lips, and he responded by gently beginning to suckle it. I started to stroke demirtepe escort him more urgently below, and his lips and tongue now sucked and swirled around all my toes with increasing fervor and devotion. As I moved my lower foot more rapidly and purposefully, he broke off his worship to whimper between my toes, pleading for what he knew he must have before all else.’

“Please, Miss Ella… PLEASE.”

Exultant, I smiled down at him benevolently, driving his need relentlessly to a frenzy that would have been unconscionable for me to deny.

“Yes, of course, Rohan… You may.”

My toes danced furiously up and down his precum slickened shaft as he gasped out his gratitude in adulation.


He spewed out his torrential tribute to my beneficence in spasm after spectacular spasm until he was totally, gloriously spent. In a daze myself, I gazed at the copious pearly white puddle that was pooling in his navel. And was staggered by a sudden revelation. There it was. The missing element. The substance that would set my work apart and above that which before I could only hope and dream. And once again, as always for me, it was Rohan Bereau, The Master, my husband, who always gives himself fully to anything and everything that I require, who was at the root of it all.

I bent down and dipped my brush deeply into the shimmering sea of his emissive obeisance, bringing it back up to apply with a flourish onto the canvas exactly where it needed to be. And I did this again, and again, and again, to every point and part of the painting, as his seed exquisitely accentuated every color, enhanced every hue, and brought a literal source and meaning to our combined, existential act of creation.

And when there was no more to add, and it was fully complete, I sat back, captivated and mesmerized, as I knew he would be also. The finished work was now a more than worthy addition, and my very first contribution, of many more to come, to the ever growing… always enthralling…

Private Collection…

Of our fully united essence… and being.

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