"Undress,"
Vanessa glanced back at the door as its closing thud echoed through her bedchambers, making sure no one watches them, not even the Crown Prince. She looked at him, unable to mask the hesitation from her face. Wordlessly and dauntingly, she undid the silky belt of her robe…
"What an amusing couple the two of you make," Forde said in a flat tone. He adjusted the pre-stretched linen canvas to the easel. "He really is fussy in immortalizing your womanhood," She identified his sarcasm, but decided to ignore it. She sat on the edge of her bed, the soft amber glow highlighting her pronounced, conceiving womb.
"Move back and lie down,"
She did as she was told so. Unimpressed, Forde stood up and he himself instructed her to recline with the sheer drape of lace on her breasts. The tips grew hard with the feel of the coarse fabric. He told her to look this way, hands in that way, knees and thighs spread quite a little, until he had achieved his desired position.
"This is more complicated than simply 'moving back' and 'lying down', Forde," Vanessa grunted, trying to keep her pose.
He never imagined them meeting again, especially in this fashion. Every moment he glances at her face, she sees the woman he fought alongside with. Her stubborn, unfazed attitude is remarkable in how the Prince wanted her not to smile in her portrait. Her short, jagged hair implies her neglect of self. She was once a knight, after all. To her, there was no place for long flowing locks in the battlefield. It would only get in the way to victory. Her rotund belly is a testimony of her submissive service. Pregnant out of wedlock to satiate the whims of her conceited Prince, she still 'carried her altruistic self with grace'- his euphemism of calling her a doormat of her ungrateful royal liege.
Forde paused a bit when he was drawing her womb. He was not used to see it as full as it is now. He shook his head and willed the charcoal to curve outward instead of concaving.
"It is a woman's essence to bear a child," Vanessa said, as if peeking through his soul.
Forde stood up, without warning, his face stern. The easel fell down the floor, the canvas with her half- done painting tumbled over. She stood up immediately after his commotion and lashed out at him, clinching her fist in a restrained manner, "I can't stand your impudence anymore!"
Forde simply shook his head. "I know, Vanessa. You can be mad now. Cry. Be desolate. Be ashamed. Be free to think and feel how you like it. THAT, Vanessa, is the essence of being a woman,"
She looked at him, looking and inching towards her. He picked up her silk robe and attempted to put it back on her again. However, Vanessa refused. With her eyes glazed with tears of longing and gratitude, she affirmed, "If I let you dictate what I must do, then I am as good as a door rug. You would not like that, would you?"
Forde slipped a satisfied smile as Vanessa pushed him down the bed.