16 November, 1641
The Master has taken a liking to me, and I to him. He sees a greater need for me now, I am more than a servant who fetches his wine when he is thirsty and breaks his cheese and bread for him when he is hungry and too drunk to paint or sculpt. He sees me now as his companion. His friend. His lover.
Two nights ago, for the first time ever, he asked me to pose for him. One of the greatest artists of our time suddenly took me by the hand and pulled off my tunic. I was carrying a tray at the time, and the half-empty chalice crashed to the floor, spilling wine like blood on the stones. But Videlle did not care. He took my jaw in his large, paint-stained hand and turned my head this way and that, then said, "I have never seen your beauty before. Why is that?"
I stammered my reply, "S-s-sir, I am not beautiful. M-m-merely dutiful."
My Master smiled. "I will make you dutiful indeed." With that he tore off the remainder of my clothing and stood staring at my naked body. His wide palm, his outstretched fingers, traced invisible strokes along the curves of my torso - down my chest, my trembling stomach, my unashamedly aroused cock. He squeezed the shaft of it gently in his hand and a groan escaped me. He played with my balls, he pulled at my cock, he slid his fist up and down my aching dick until my eyelids slid shut and my head rolled wildly on my shoulders and the hot stream of my manhood spilled into the red sea of wine at my feet.
When he was done, he did not release me. Instead he held my still-hard cock tight in his fist and listened to my breathless sighs, and whispered in my ear: "You are the one. You are the one I shall use to create the most daring, sinful work of my career."