Giovannia knew, the moment she saw the woman, that she would have to paint her. Even if she didn't stop by her easel, by the waters, she would spend the night tracing her silhouette in her mind, the curl of her smile, the various shades of her blood-red hair. This was a woman made to be immortalized in art. Perhaps she wouldn't have the money for paints this week, but she would find a way. She watched the woman, her gaze lingering too long: she caught her eye and looked away from her smile, flushed as she approached. "Remarkable work, Miss," she purred. "Your use of color here, astonishing." She pointed here, there, her long fingers oh so close, close enough to smell the sweet herbs tucked away in the pockets of her dress.

She leaned close, admiring more than the painting. "I'd like to buy this. Will this do?" She pulled out a little coin purse, dumping gold piece after gold piece in her palm. Giovannia gaped at the pile.

"That's--I can't possibly take that much."

"No?" Her lips pulled into a gentle pout. "I never pay less than what an artist deserves. A woman of your talents shouldn't be working on the street, you know. They have a fool painting in that chapel, when Italy's real talent lies in women like you." Giovannia looked up at her, cowed by her presence. "You are... Too kind, my lady."

"Hmhm, I am neither simply kind nor am I your lady--but I would like to be."

Giovannia blinked. "You... Truly?"

"I never jest." She smirked, lifting the painting from its easel. "Clearly, men do not recognize a woman of talent and power. They'd have burned me at the stake by now if they did." She winked. "But, if you can produce such work here, imagine what you could do with real paints and food in your belly?"

Giovannia looked near ready to cry. "You wish to be my patron?"

"Of course. Though I must warn you, I am not terribly conven--"

"I accept your offer."

It was the woman's turn to look shocked. Then, she laughed. "Very well. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." She held out her hand. "I go by many names, but you may call me Mistress Dolce."

Giovannia settled in quickly to life in a noble's home.

At least, she assumed she was a noble. The rambling house, the endless gold, the decadent parties--she at least gave off an air of nobility.

At least, until night fell. Some nights, she would invite Giovannia from her little home in the midst of the gardens, to give her a place in her bed when she wished. At other times, Giovannia would watch, nude, with her nightly cup of tea as strange lights and shadows flashed in the windows of the massive home. Some nights she would draw the shadows--others, she would simply watch, mesmerized.

She became quickly used to the nudity. Mistress Dolce insisted that all breasts be bared at all times in her home, save at some parties, and Giovannia quickly grew used to the warmth of the midsummer sun on her dark shoulders, warming her in the absence of skirts and petticoats.

She grew used to quite a few things, but she only learned of just how different life would be in the Mistress's home when her first risqué commission came along. She was painting in the garden, her bare breasts speckled with spattered paint and careless sips of wine, when Dolce waltzed into her little clearing. "I will have a meal and model prepared for us this evening, my dear. Do be ready for that--it will surely be a welcome change from the usual severe-looking portraits of me. Though I must warn you, this will be a bit more lewd." Giovannia beamed. "I can't imagine that you're not beautiful at any angle, my mistress." She gave her a cheeky smile, braver now out of her rags and grime. The mistress's eyes gleamed at the sight of her bare breasts, and she leaned down to lick a fallen, dried drop of wine from the left nipple. It hardened under her tongue. "Hmhm, good. I will warn you, though, this make take more than one session. Though, I assure you, no cost is too great for this one. As many models as it will take." She grinned.

Giovannia smiled, a bit confused but mostly pleased to be branching out, to be doing more for the woman who saved her from the streets.

The woman who showed up on their doorstep in only a robe was breath-taking. Giovannia watched her in awe as she crossed the foyer, letting her cloak drop to the floor. She seemed to glide over the marble, smooth and unruffled by anything.

"Welcome, Isabel. We brought her all the way from Spain, you know. Terrible conditions, over there, couldn't stand it myself--but my do they make beautiful women." She grinned.

"Will the meal be delivered later?"

The two looked at Giovannia, then threw back their heads and laughed.

"You, my dear, are such a treat. Come now, I'll grab what I need from my study, and the two of you can get yourselves acquainted in the garden." She winked, disappearing up the stairs. When she returned, Isabette's face was buried between Giovannia's legs, and the painter moaned helplessly, tweaking her own nipples as she begged the model to keep going.

"Goodness, and here I am missing all the fun."

The model pulled away with a grin, her face damp ad sticky. "A last meal should be expected, no?"

The painter sat up quickly. "Are you well? Is something happening?"

She grinned. "In a sense, yes. But don't worry yourself with it."

Giovannia looked unsure, suspicious--but then Dolce was kisssing her, was kneading her breasts, was slipping behind her, completely nude now, and holding her close to her.

"That's it, show her how good you are at more than mere modeling, my dear." She licked Giovannia's neck. "She will immortalize you, you know. And then I will be the reminder of how fleeting things of this world are."

Isabel laughed, her face half-hidden by Giovannia's body, her soft thighs, her graceful hands flitting and settling in the model's hair with the gentlest of touches, as though she held a paintbrush already and was merely tracing the contours of the beautiful woman making love to her.

"What a beautiful pair we make, don't we, Giovannia? The creator and the devourer."

"Yes, Mistress Dolce."

"Mm, a little faster, Isabel. The night is young, but I still want my turn with our painter, and you, before the festivities must come to a close."

They moved out to the garden, where her easel and a clean canvas wait for Giovannia. She felt electric, emboldened by her mistress's touch, given a new fire to mold the paints to her liking. Isabel struck a pose, her dark eyelashes obscuring the brilliant hazel of her eyes, but Giovannia turned her attention to the soft, generous curves of her body, to the coy turn of her legs that led to a puff of hair, an implication of sexuality hidden behind her soft, soft thighs.

And there, cupping her breasts and sucking a bruise onto Isabel's neck, there was Dolce, holding the writhing woman still for the picture.

Giovannia had never worked so fast, with such skill, with such attention to the tiniest of details. When she stood back, she gasped--it was Isabel giving her that shy smile from the canvas, as clearly as she was before her on the grass, now sitting on Dolce's face as her mouth locked into an "O" of pleasure. Giovannia abandoned her masterpiece and stepped toward them with paint-stained hands. She left streaks of green on Isabel's breasts, saliva on her nipples, splotches of pink as she squeezed the model's ass and spread her for Mistress Dolce's tongue.

The three lay still, eventually, panting in the soft grass, thighs splayed and relaxed and damp with sweat and cum. Finally, though, Dolce rolled over to Isabel. "Ready, my dear?"

"For you, Mistress? Always."

"Good girl." She planted one last kiss on her, shimmying down to Isabel's feet and lifting them as Giovannia watched on, too tired to move.

That changed when Dolce opened her mouth and shoved Isabel in, not so much as pausing until she was in up to her knees. Giovannia scrambled to her knees, eyes wide, but Isabel only laughed.

"You look so worried, my love. Haven't you wondered what keeps this old crone so beautifu--Ouch!" She frowned at Dolce, who had bitten down a bit on her thighs, her mouth stuffed almost comically, were it not a lover in her mouth. "Rude, pendeja."

Dolce just grinned around her mouthful, her gulping audible as Giovannia sat, stunned, and watched her.

"Good luck with this one, little painter. She's trouble, and I can't imagine she's going to let you wander off to any other patrons." She winked. "Have a good time with my milk!" With that, the Mistress's mouth closed over her head, and Isabel was gone.

Mistress Dolce gave Giovannia plenty of time to think about the night's events, plenty of time to pace about her little home out in the gardens, plenty of time to think about all the odd little happenings around the manor and realize that perhaps this should have been more obvious.

She had been taken in by a witch. She had been seduced and made into a plaything, a toy, for a--

No, she must speak it now, now that her fears were certain.

"Mistress Dolce is a witch."

"How astute."

Giovannia stifled a scream behind her hand--she did not realize just how lost in thought she must have been, how worried. "Mistress--"

"Oh, please, my darling, call my Dolce today." She smiled wickedly, dressed only in the thinnest, sheerest robe. "I feel terrible for frightening you. I want to show you how sweet I can be, now." The robe fell to the floor. "Now, then, may we talk? Oh, you don't have to look so wary, my dear: I'm only here to apologize."

Giovannia did not approach, but she also didn't pull away when Dolce's fingers tilted her head back, up enough to look her in the eye, to smile at her, to press a gentle kiss on her lips.

"I will not hurt you, my dear."

"Just as you would not hurt Isabel?" Her voice trembled with fear and confusion and anger.

"Oh, sweet child, you have no idea how the power of witches and their wards work, do you? Come, my favorite little fool," she cooed, taking the painter's hand. "You have nothing to worry about, save for a thorn in your thumb or a stubbed toe on the path." She chuckled, kissing Giovannia's cheek with blood-red, warm lips. "Come, join me by the waters, and we will talk of what is next for you. Will you undress and join me?"

Giovannia stared at her for a long moment. "And you will explain last night?"

"Of course, my dear. I have much planned, now that you understand how things work, here."

"And you will not.. Do the same to me?"

She grinned, and for a moment, Giovannia's heart skipped a beat. "I only devour those who desire such. Now, come, my dear. There is so much more for you to see, my dear, before I would even consider such a thing."

They stepped into the garden, Giovannia's clothes trailing like bread crumbs behind them. The sun warmed her bare shoulders, and she closed her eyes, led by Dolce with gentle tugs. "Look, my dear."

Giovannia opened her eyes, then gasped. "This... This is what I painted last night?"

The portrait before her was far beyond anything she had ever done. The colors blended as naturally as the sunlight dappling through the trees above them, the poses flowed despite their obscenity, and the faces... She imagined for a moment that she had already become a witch, just like Dolce, and had captured Isabel's very soul in each stroke.

"This... I did not paint this."

"Ah, but you did."

"This is the work of a true master, Mistress, I could not have--"

"I am Dolce today, dear, do you forget so quickly?" She chuckled. "It is the best work you have done so far, for me, that is true. Not to mention, the most enticing.' She slipped behind Giovannia, her hands cupping soft, generous breasts as she admired the picture, admired the splayed legs, the fingers caught curled completely inside the mode, the mouth frozen in an eternal gentle kiss to the neck. Isabel's eyes were closed in ecstasy, but Dolce watched them from the painting, smirking and vibrant.

"Come, dear. I will tell you all. Ah, but the pool is so far away, and how I would love to admire your work for a bit longer."

They tumbled to the grass, staining their skin green. "What happened last night, Dolce?" Giovannia whispered, her lips finding Dolce's throat, her hands finding her nipples. She perched in her lap, uncertain but present, at least. Dolce laughed, her hands roaming lower. She cupped Giovannia's ass firmly, kneading it firmly. "You were there, were you not?"

"Yes, but... But I don't understand."

"Mm, bring your mouth to my breast, and I will show you exactly what happened to Isabel. She was so delighted for you to have her, you know." She grinned, watching as Giovannia shimmied in her lap, low enough that her lips could finally find her nipple--then laughed as she coughed and gasp, milk dripping off her soft lips.

"What sort of--What is this?"

Dolce grinned and wiped a bit of the excess off her breast, pushing her fingers into Giovannia's mouth. "Don't waste a drop, darling. What you are drinking is Isabel's soul. She wanted the best of it to go to the beautiful painter who she only knew through her works."

At first, Giovannia shook her head... But the milk was so sweet, so warm. She sucked gently, her tongue slipping between the offered fingers, before returning to the bare nipple she had only just begun with. She sucked, and nearly choked again over the hot, creamy mouthful of milk. She mewled, drinking and slurping, drinking up the model's soul in smacking gulps.

"Now then, now that your little belly is sated, I will sate your curiosity. You were correct, earlier--I am a witch." She reached around Giovannia's back, reached under her and pushed her licked-clean fingers into the painter's soaked pussy. She groaned and drank, faster now, faster. "But any woman with power in this land is a witch--few are like me, you know. Few are so powerful as I am. They would burn me if they knew the power I held, but you know that, don't you?"

Giovannia looked up at her, then nodded.

"Now, that does not mean I am evil. I did not sign the Devil's book. I did not sell my soul. I am simply a woman of power, a woman who has unlocked her true potential. It's a simple thing, really: all you need are willing souls. It's not easy at first, of course, to find agreeable sorts, but once you have money, influence... Well, they practically flock to you!"

"But you devoured her!"

Dolce shoved her face back into her breasts, pushing her neglected nipple into her mouth, and laughed. "You say that as though she did not wish for it! No, my dear, she approached me for such a chance. She requested me. She wanted me."

Giovannia's breath caught in her throat. "Truly? She chose to be eaten? But... Why?"

"Because, for some, becoming part of something greater rather than fading into obscurity is far more preferable."

The painter thought about that, then nodded: she could understand such thinking, if not the exact way that it was handled. "And you say that this did not hurt her?"

"Did you not watch me?" She grinned, wicked as Satan himself. "Did you not see me swallow her, unchewed? Did you not hear the joy in her voice as I devoured her whole?"

"But, if she is to digest, to be absorbed into your body--"

"To be shat out like any other meal?" She grinned as Giovannia shivered in her arms. "That part, I understand, is a bit painful--but nothing too terrible. She only barely squirmed in my belly. It is a shame you did not linger with me, that night: you could have pressed your hand to my belly, could have felt her wriggling about. It's thrilling, really. But, you will get to keep her yourself, now, now that you have drank her soul."

"What will this do to me?" she whispered. Her heart fluttered in her chest--she never planned to do something so illicit, so dangerous...

And yet.

And yet, it had not hurt anyone, according to Dolce, and for some reason, she felt in her heart that she was telling the truth.

And yet, here she was, still sprawled in the grass, still in her mistress's arms.

Dolce chuckled. "Ah, that is what I looked so forward to telling you. You, my little artist, are not a talent to be wasted, and it takes so, so little to spark your talent, your skill, to new dizzying heights!" She removed her fingers, damp and slick, from Giovannia, and grasped the painter's hands between her own. "I want you to join me. All it took last night was the sexual frenzy, the energy of the preparation for dinner. Imagine, darling, if you were the one to do the eating. Imagine the beauty you could bring into this world."

Giovannia imagined it. She looked back at the painting, one that she recognized as hers and yet--not hers, not hers in that it was simply too beautiful, too perfect. She imagined the masquerades that the mistress through had a new context, had taken on a new meaning once she retired for the evening.

She imagined the power that she could have here, and she remembered the days she wandered the streets, powerless and cold.

"I would like to know more about what it takes to become a witch like you, Mi--Dolce."

Dolce beamed, then kissed the painter. "We have much to prepare, then--my next little soirée is only a few days away."

To Be Continued