Warren's Ice

The ballroom was filled with fashion’s throng,
It shone with a thousand lights;
And there was a woman who passed along.
The fairest of all the sights.
A girl to her lover then softly sighed,
“There’s riches at her command.”
“But she married for wealth, not for love,” he cried,
“Though she lives in a mansion grand.
“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she’s happy and free from care,
She’s not, though she seems to be.
‘This sad when you think of her wasted life,
For youth cannot mate with age;
And her beauty was sold for an old man’s gold;
She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”

I stood in a churchyard just at eve,
When sunset adorned the west;
And looked at the people who’d come to grieve
For loved ones now laid at rest.
A tall marble monument marked the grave
Of one who’d been fashion’s queen;
And I thought “She is happier here at rest,
Then to have people say when seen;

“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage…

When Warren brought Gloria to my studio, I was prepared to meet an ice queen. Beautiful but remote, and by some accounts, a harridan. In fact, he had arranged her visit some weeks before, especially asking me to set a day aside in which no other “ladies” would be about. I suppose he may have expected me to be honored, to photograph a great lady of society such as his wife – a proper lady, and rather a social butterfly of the time.

Her beauty and style was renowned, much talked about in the society section of the newspapers, and it was more than a little bit clear that Warren was proud of the pretty bird he carried on his arm. Gloria’s credentials were impeccable, a good old family who traced their ancestry to the governors of the first American colonies.

Some said they were “wrong side of the blanket” British royalty. But they did not say it very loud.

Gloria had attended the finest charm schools for girls, was said to sing in a lovely voice, and to be able to accompany herself on the piano as well. Her sense of style was perfection itself, bolstered by frequent visits to The Continent. Her husband probably supported a dozen dressmakers largely on her behalf (and a bit on the side, too, as we know).

Though she was always refered to as being gracious, and did her share of charitable causes, even in her own circles the other ladies regarded her as a bit aloof. Even her ladies maid, often the one woman a great lady would talk to with total frankness – given that the maid was beneath notice and thus nearly as safe as telling tales to your lap dog – said that Gloria treated her as if she were a piece of furniture. Not cruel, no never even inconsiderate, just as if she weren’t quite there.

Warren’s electric car pulled up in front of my studio, quiet and lovely to look at – the perfect bit of transportation for this cold beauty. He came around the front of the automobile and opened the door, proffering a hand to his lady wife.

Taking her husbands hand with only the lightest touch, she alit from the vehicle. Her clothing was immaculate, of course, right down to her white lace boots. I had expected her to wear something extravagant and fluffy for her portrait, with acres of lace and hand beaded décor. Instead she was elegantly understated in a dark silk dress that followed the lines of her graceful body, the more erotic for being so plain.

This was, indeed, a lady who knew what she was doing.

Warren brought her through the door perched on his arm, his nose in the air with pride. He raised an eyebrow at me as we were introduced, as if to remind me to be discreet. That was hardly needed, and he knew it, but I suppose he had to satisfy himself. With a flourish he left us ladies to our oeuvre, excusing himself to attend to “man’s business” with a promise to return for his lady in a few hours time.

The door slammed shut behind him and we two women sat and stared at each other over our teacups for a moment.

Gloria sat down her cup, decisively. “How is it you know Warren?” she asked.

Caught by surprise, I believe I must have blushed bright red.

“I see.” She says, her voice as cool as a breeze over a frozen lake.

There was another long pause while her eyes roved over me. Knowing that I was entertaining the Queen of style this day, I had done my best to remain true to myself while not giving her cause to distain. Well, not too much.

Thus after a great deal of thought, I had donned a lovely suit made for me by a personal friend – well, a former client – who was a tailor by trade. He had created for me the jacket of a very proper businessman, cut to flatter my somewhat curvier shape. Below that, even he balked at actual trousers, so he had consulted with a seamstress of his acquaintence and between them they created a long skirt of the same material of the jacket, and very similar cut although full for freedom in walking, bending, and kneeling as I often did to capture my images. The end effect was not quite feminine, but certainly not masculine either, yet conveying an unmistakable effect of both stylishness, and professionalism. And not the sort of profession you usually think of in relationship to me, thank you very much. Underneath the jacket I wore without apology a man’s white shirt and collar cut full for a big man – or a woman’s figure – with an open collar and a very dainty gold choker with a small diamond pendant.

I suppose I couldn’t help feeling the need to wear something that said, “I’ve got a sense of style, too – my own style!”

In silence we each took another sip. She played delicately with a biscuit, breaking it into tiny pieces as if she might deign to eat it in tiny cruel pecks like a sparrow. Recovering from my momentary shock at her first question, I couldn’t help but start looking at her as a model. Her face, hair, dress and jewelry were perfection itself but she was missing something I had expected to see. That flyaway, gad about, foolish joyousness that often even the lowest who came to see me radiated. Given her reputation as a social butterfly, even a frozen butterfly under glass, I somehow had expected more vivaciousness.

Instead, what my artist’s eye, or maybe it was a woman’s eye, observed was a bird in a gilded cage. Singing without quite knowing why, looking longingly out at a sky she had never been allowed to fly, a beautiful shape with no inner light shining through.

Her midnight blue eyes flicked up and met mine and I knew that she knew in that moment that I had pierced her armor without firing a shot. Her eyes dropped to the now crumbled biscuit on her plate. In a moment, a single tear dropped into the crumbs.

I saw her take a deep breath, and don that outer veneer of polite sophistication as she looked up and past me, but spoke to me.
“Well, then, shall we begin?”
“Yes, of course.”
I rose and led her to the studio.

There among the props I stood with head cocked and then chose. Gloria sat perched on a hard, high backed gilt chair against one of the brocaded backdrops. I took a few photos of her there, her skirts swirled artfully and head tilted this way and that to test the light against her aristocratic bone structure. But those were just test shots, whatever she and her gentleman husband might think when presented with them later.

I brought the brass plated wrought iron headboard away from the other things, and stood it on end in front of the plainest grey silk backdrop. At the bottom I propped it with a few large heavy wood blocks. Gloria watched from the hard chair with distant interest, as if watching a rather boring play, a small smile playing about her lips.

Standing back, I moved a few lights here and there to illuminate the backdrop, so that the shadows would define her beauty. I held out a hand to her ladyship and she looked at me, blinking a little as if I had awoken her. The touch of her hand was as light as a hummingbird landing, as she unfolded her lithe body to stand entirely of her own strength.

She looked at the ironwork, standing shining in the light. Her eyes darkened and filled with unshed tears as she took her hand from mine. Walking as if in a dream, she moved to stand behind the gracefully knotted metal bars, turned to face the camera and ran her fingers over the unyielding curves. Her eyes rested somewhere far beyond my room, on skies she would never fly.

I took the picture.

I cannot hate her.

Firey Louise

“I was a matchstick girl – when I met Warren.  No, really I was!” her laughter was like the rest of her; big, full chested and round; it seemed to boom around my lofty studio.  “There I was, bare headed, bare footed, in that thin little shift that was my only dress at the time.  That horrible thing!  How I hated it!  It had all the style of a burlap bag with armholes – in fact, that’s probably what it was at one time!  Well, as I said, it was all I had, and so I had rather outgrown it and my legs stuck out the bottom like fat little matchsticks!”  She laughed again, kicking her thick legs up in the air.

She was romping all over the brocaded divan, her generous curves and thick mane of fiery red hair seeming to fill the room with her heat and passion.  I despaired of ever capturing on film her sheer zest for life, let alone the heat of her passion for Warren.

“I don’t know what he saw in me, unless it was my hair.  It was long then – it has never been cut – not since I was born.”  She ran one hand underneath that crimson cape and spread it over her arm casually shaking it, teasing the tangled curls into some sort of order as she spoke.

We had been working together for hours, trying to get just the right photo for “her Warren” as she said, “to keep him nice and warm at night when he’s got to be home with the Ice Maiden”

“He was with some other businessmen, and he bought every single one of my matches.  They laughed at him and he winked, then bent down and told me to stay right where I was until he returned.” She gave a bark of laughter, like the foxy little vixen she was.  “Little did I know he wasn’t coming back for hours and hours.  Until after dark!  I was half frozen and I needed to pee and oh, I was so hungry!  But I waited, right there, just like he said.  I knew! I knew from the minute he bought all my matches, that Warren was the man for me.  The only man, ever!” She brought her feet abruptly flat to the floor, her eyes now wide and steady on mine, her gaze quite serious.  “The only man, ever.” She emphasized.

I wondered then if this wildly sexual wench was actually trying to put me in my place – as if being a rich man’s kept woman was a higher station than my own.  I may have begun as a whore, but I was now a professional in my own right.  I owned my own business.  Photographing women from whores to mistresses, and sometimes even wives.

Maybe that was her issue.  For though she trumpeted that Warren was the only man for her, she surely knew that she was hardly the only woman for Warren.  Warren, I knew for a fact, had quite a collection of my photographs – purchased from various ladies of pleasure whose favors he enjoyed.  And while he may have been keeping Louise in high style on her side of town, uptown there was a wife whose desires would always come first.  Something else Louise waxed verbose about.

“That Ice Queen!  He says that she has only slept with him once – on their wedding night!  And he says he almost expected her to display the blood stained sheets from the windows – you know, like they used to do in the old days to prove the bride was a virgin, and that the marriage had been con-con-con-“ the redhead stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

“Consummated?” I supplied, my voice flat.

“Yeah – that’s it!” she snapped her fingers and grinned.

I liked Louise.  But a full day of attempting to get her to sit still for the few moments the camera needed to capture her was really beginning to tell on me.  Especially since she chattered non-stop.

If it wasn’t bright birdie cheeping about how much she adored “her Warren” it was harsh cawing about “that Ice Queen” that was his lawfully wedded wife.

“Every holiday – every holiday he has to spend with that dreadful witch.  And then there are the balls, and the parties, and the social events – and of course, she has to go to The Continent, to get her dresses made, don’t ya know!”  Louise’s full lower lip protruded in a pout but couldn’t hold it for long before spreading into a wicked grin.  “Sometimes when Warren orders her dresses, or well she orders, but then he calls and he has them make two.  One to her dried up stick measurements, and one for me.”  She preened and wiggled, well aware of her sexy voluptuous curves.

If everything said about the wife was true, she really was quite a bitch.  However, if I was to judge the veracity of Louise’s’ statements by what I knew personally to be true of her adored Warren compared to her description of him, I thought the wife just might not be the horrible witch she was being made out as either.

As far as Louise was concerned, Warren was saint and satyr combined, with a generous dollop of business genius poured over all.  She seemed quite unconscious that every time she spoke of him she put her hand between her legs and stroked, her legs opening and closing like the wings of a bird, her sex swelling and growing red as the hair around it as she masturbated, either unconsciously or just completely uninhibited by my presence.

She was kind of turning me on – if only I could have somehow turned off my ability to hear her endless, irritating chirping.  I entertained a brief vision of her bound to a four-poster bed.  And gagged.  I wondered if Warren ever had a similar idea.

Her little whimpers and finally a birdlike hiccup noise brought me back and I realized I’d been daydreaming instead of trying to focus on Louise through the camera lens.  Blinking, I shook my way out of the hood and peered at her over the camera.  She was licking her fingers.  Her swollen pussy gleamed with dampness.

“I’m sorry” she simpered, clearly not at all apologetic, “I just can’t help it when I think about Warren.”  She leaned against the arm of the divan with a sigh, smoothing her tangled tresses – and I finally got the picture.