Welcome to the Studio

“As I said, I should probably only require an assistant for the next few months,” Margaret said, as she led Samantha up the stairs to her studio.

Samantha was too excited to be disappointed by this news. As far as she was concerned, even getting to intern for four months was unheard of for a second-year art major. And with the famous Margaret Stinzano, no less. She was the city’s most famous abstract artist, and in a city of 5 million, that was saying something. Not to mention that she kept a very private life, and no one knew what she got up to. Samantha was a little curious herself, but mostly, she was interested in seeing Margaret at work. She hoped she could learn a thing or two from her, and really blow her instructors away with her portfolio next year.

“Here we are,” Margaret said, placing the key in the lock of her door and turning it.

The door opened onto a room full of windows. The windows were so tall that for a moment, Samantha was blinded by the sunlight. The darkness of the abandoned warehouse they’d passed through was a jarring contrast to the brightness of this room, and it took a second for her eyes to adjust.

Once they did, they saw the studio of her — or any artist, really — dreams. Every size of easel, canvas, paintbrush, tables and kilns, and sinks. And it was so vast, Samantha was sure there were things on the far side of the room she couldn’t see.

“Welcome to the Studio,” Margaret said, though her voice was cold, and not warm.

“While you are here, under my direction, there are several rules I will expect you to adhere to.”

Samantha nodded, silently.

“No shoes in the studio,” she said, and gave Samantha a pointed look. Sheepishly, Samantha removed her shoes, and quickly took them into her hands to carry.

Margaret gave them a disdainful look. “In future, I will expect you to leave them outside the door. There is no one else in the warehouse but me, they will be quite safe there.”

Samantha nodded. Other girls might have been put off by Margaret’s stern, cold manner, but not her. She wasn’t crazy about it, but the opportunity was too amazing to pass up, especially for something as small as a harsh boss.

“Second,” Margaret continued. “While you are in this room, you will not speak unless I request your input. I have hosted this internship before, and the last thing I want when I am in a state of flow is needless questions to distract me.” At that, Margaret took off at a brisk walk, and Samantha scrambled to follow her, shoes still in hand.

As they passed by a particularly large easel, she spoke again. “Thirdly, as I alluded to, there will be no questions. There will also be no hesitation — if I request something, immediately, you will do it. If you delay me in any way, or otherwise annoy me, consider your internship ended.”

As they came to a door on the far wall, Margaret cast a look over her shoulder. “I’m sure you know there’s a list longer than your school’s registrar of people who’d love to be in your position.”

Meekly, Samantha nodded.

“Good,” she replied. “I do not have any patience for people who waste my time, and I do not give second chances.” With that, she swung the door open.

Inside, canvases of every size were visible, and Samantha realized, to her amazement, that she was being shown Margaret’s finished works. She let out an involuntary gasp, unable to suppress it any longer.

“Whenever I complete a piece, I move the dried canvas in here for several weeks, before my representative comes to take it for demonstration to buyers. I have a very select clientele now, but I am a perfectionist, alas. I can’t allow a piece to go out immediately. Often, I find flaws to correct, so you will be moving back and forth between this room and the studio retrieving canvases for me frequently. I have a unique nomenclature for each piece, so I expect you to learn it as quickly as you can. I will give you one day’s grace only. Starting tomorrow, I expect you to be fully functional.”

Margaret pulled the door closed behind her, and for the first time turned to look at Samantha.

It was the first time Samantha noticed her eyes. A hard, cold grey. The steel in them made her shiver.

“This is your key,” she said, extending it to Samantha, who forgot all about the intense stare of a moment ago, and lost herself in the awe of holding the key to Margaret Stinzano’s personal studio. “I will expect you to always arrive before me and leave after me. I will not stipulate exact times, but I will always leave you with a list of things to see to when I leave in the evening, and I will expect you to stay until they are all done, and I will expect you to have the studio ready for me to use in any way I wish when I arrive in the morning.”

Samantha nodded along, fervently. Margaret fixed her with another stare. “I work seven days a week. I will expect you to do the same. There will be no sick days, no vacation days, and certainly no personal days. Your personal life will have to wait for your return in four months, when I am done with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Samantha’s eyes widened.

“You may speak now, Samantha.”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Stinzano.”

Margaret held Samantha’s gaze for a moment. Samantha shivered.

“Very well, that is all. As today is your first day, I will leave you to the studio to acquaint yourself with its trappings. Remember, if you fail me tomorrow, I will fire you and choose another intern to take your place.

Samantha nodded frantically, feeling her face pale.

“Until tomorrow, Samantha,” Margaret said, and Samantha did not move until the click of Margaret’s heels had faded into silence.

****

Alone in the studio, Samantha went through everything. Every drawer in every desk, every shelf in every cabinet, every closet and hutch, and then she went through them all again. And then a third time to make sure. And then a fourth. She memorized the name of every kind of paint, and finish, she memorized what was in each cabinet, what was on each shelf. She went over it all, again and again, pointing at cabinets at random and reciting what could be found inside, on each shelf, and the order of items of each shelf from left to right, and then from right to left. It was a buzz she’d never felt before — she’d never studied this hard in her life. Time seemed to slip away from her as rattled through item after item and her mind seemed to become a blur of names and objects and shelves and materials.

It was only after she’d finally gotten everything in the entire studio memorized, until she knew for a fact that if Margaret asked for shade B-52, Samantha could get it to her in 20 seconds (she timed herself), just when she was thinking about putting her shoes back on and going home… that she realized she hadn’t even begun to memorize the names of Margaret’s paintings, whatever they were.

The realization filled her with cold dread. It had long since gotten dark outside. The day had slipped away in a blur of memorization, and information. Samantha hadn’t even noticed the time pass — she’d barely had time for a private thought all day — but she knew it was late now. And she knew her brain could not memorize anymore. It was full, and even one more name would break it.

Yet, she knew she had to.

For a moment, she considered curling up in a ball on the concrete floor and crying from the pressure. There was no clock, but it had to be at least midnight, and she lived over an hour away. The brief glimpse she’d gotten earlier had hinted at a room full of dozens, if not hundreds, of completed paintings.

But, Samantha wasn’t the type to just give up. Exhausted as she was, she dragged herself across the studio to the door to the storage room and opened it.

Again, when she saw all the canvases, standing perfectly in tall metal slots, line after line of them, she felt that same crushing dread from before. But she forced herself forward. She had to make this. This was her big chance. If she could prove herself to Margaret, if she could even win the woman over, then she had a huge contact, and a prestigious network available to her.

Grudgingly, she slid the painting closest to her out of its slot, looking for a tag of some sort on its side. It was there, a plain piece of masking tape, in the upper left-hand corner, with neat handwriting on it.

“The Pleasure of Surrender,” Samantha read aloud. She did a double take, leaning in closer to see if it said what she thought.

Sure enough, it was still right there, staring at her. The Pleasure of Surrender. Curiosity overcame her, and she slid the canvas all the way out to look at it.

But the canvas was… a typical kaleidoscope of colors. There was nothing about it that insinuated anything sexual at all. It wasn’t even done in reds or oranges, or warm colors. It was entirely painted in blues. Samantha had painted her share of “passion” images, and seen many more than that, but this had none of those features — no quick, choppy brush strokes, no wide sweeping lines, no depth, no layers — just a mix of blues and purples thrown on the canvas. Nothing suggesting surrender, or sexuality at all.

With a frown, Samantha slid the painting back into its place. “Unique nomenclature indeed,” She grumbled to herself.

She moved through the rows of standing canvases, reading the names, only growing more confused. They all continued in a similar manner. “Total Obedience,” one was called, and another “the End of All Thought.” Still another, “Thought Stopping Pleasure,” and another, “Consumed by Passion.” After awhile they all seemed to bleed together, incredibly perverse, suggestive and crude adjectives of the same idea. None of them seemed to have anything to do with what was actually painted on the canvases.

For the first time, Samantha wished she could ask Margaret a question. Why would an artist as famous and established as Margaret was completely misname her paintings? Furthermore, Samantha had seen many exhibitions of Margaret’s works at Galleries, and none of them had had titles anywhere close to what was in the Storage room.

Not to mention that the titles completely clashed with the paintings. As an artist herself, Samantha almost took offense to it. She spent hours coming up for paintings with her titles, sometimes days, sometimes weeks, and she’d even been known to take months to do it, struggling to find the exact word that would fit what she was trying to express.

Frustrated, she forced herself to swallow her question. She had to find a way of memorizing all these now and try to ignore the disgust she felt each time she read a name. She had to bypass that disgust and lock the name into her mind so that when Margaret spoke one of these awful paintings to her, she could retrieve it.

So, she set out, pushing her already exhausted brain through the drudgery of memorizing each title. The “Realization of Helplessness,” the “Delicacies found Between a Woman’s Legs,” all of them. The more she read, the more she memorized, the more nauseous she felt. Who knew Margaret Stinzano was such a freak?

Finally, exhausted, she knew she had them all. If Margaret asked for any painting, Samantha could give it to her. If Margaret asked for any paintbrush, paint pallet, paint tube, canvas, or the like, Samantha could give it to her. She could finally go home and go to sleep.

But to Samantha’s horror, when she stepped out of the storage room, she saw sunlight again. The sun had already risen. She’d spent the whole night in the storage room with those filthy titles.

For the second time, she wanted to break down and cry.

Instead, she settled for locking up, going down to her car, and taking a thirty-minute nap in the backseat.

****

Samantha woke to the sound of a faint tapping on her window. Groggily, she opened her eyes, and for a moment, her heart froze in her chest. Margaret had caught her sleeping in her car. She was late, she was going to be fired —

But it wasn’t Margaret. It was a beautiful blonde woman, smiling at her. Confused, Samantha rolled down her window.

“You are Mistress Margaret’s assistant, yes?”

Hesitantly, Samantha nodded.

The blonde beamed at her. “I am her model for the day. She sent me ahead of her. As you can imagine, Mistress likes to arrive and get started immediately. She doesn’t like waiting.”

“Of course, she doesn’t,” Samantha grumbled, low enough so the blonde couldn’t hear. Audibly, though, she said, “I’ll let you in and get set up for her.” Secretly she was grateful the model had shown up first. If Margaret had caught her sleeping, she would have been fired for sure.

When the two of them re-entered the studio, Samantha felt depressingly like she had never left at all.

“So, did Mrs. Stinzano tell you where she wanted you?” Samantha asked, turning to the blonde.

To her shock, she found her stark naked.

“Why—what—what are you doing?” Samantha stammered. She was suddenly gripped by the paranoia that Margaret hadn’t sent a model at all, that she’d paid some woman just to come seduce her new assistant, to do all those awful depraved things she’d been reading about all night to her.

The model looked at her like she was the crazy one.

“It is Mistress’ studio. I am a thing of beauty, a piece of art, and it would be cruel to hide myself from the world. I’m modeling true beauty for her.”

Samantha swallowed. The blonde approached her. “Does true beauty make you uncomfortable?”

Samantha took a step back. “No.” She said. “I just don’t like girls.”

The model shook her head, like she couldn’t believe the insanity of that statement. “Whatever. She usually likes her models to pose on that stool over there. I will stand and wait for her.”

The blonde did as she said, posing herself on the stool in a manner that made Samantha want to blush. She could see more than she really wanted to know about — the model’s bare, shaved pussy, her full tits and hard nipples, and her slim hips and stomach. Samantha tried very hard not to look at her as she went about setting up an easel and canvas in front of her. She carefully prepared a paint palette, making sure everything was just so. At last, when she was sure it was all perfect, she allowed herself to breathe.

It was then that the tell-tale clicking of Margaret’s heels could be heard upon the stairs. Samantha’s heart caught in her chest. Could she really face the woman, knowing what depravity lay in her mind?

The door swung open, and there was Margaret, today dressed in a tight, red dress, with a sheer black shawl draped about her arms. She looked more like she was on the way to the opera than the studio.

Samantha ignored that, focusing on the older woman’s face, following her eyes around the room. She’d done it perfectly, she knew she had, so there was nothing for her to be afraid of, nothing at all —

She felt dread in the pit of her stomach when Margaret’s eyes fixed themselves on her feet. With a growing sense of horror in the pit of her stomach, Samantha followed Margaret’s eyes, to see that she was wearing shoes.

“What was the first rule, Samantha?” Margaret asked, in a quiet voice. It was somehow more terrifying than if she’d shouted.

“No shoes in the studio,” Samantha, replied, dejectedly. “Well, thank you for the opportunity, Mrs. Stinzano… I’m sure another girl will be happy to take my place.”

“Now, now.” Margaret said. “I won’t fire you over that. I will, however, punish you for disobeying. Samantha, strip naked.”

Samantha felt her cheeks burn. She only just stopped herself from spluttering.

Margaret raised an eyebrow at her. “If you disobey me a second time, I will fire you.”

Samantha didn’t need to be told twice. She unbuttoned her shirt without ceremony, balling it up and clutching it in her hand. Her bra came off next, followed by her skirt and her underwear, and finally, her offending pair of shoes.

It was even more humiliating, standing in the shadow of the model. Samantha couldn’t help but compare herself. Where the model’s tits were plump, and perky, full and large, hers were small and lopsided, barely an A-Cup. Where the model’s pussy was neat and hairless, hers was covered in unkempt, tangled coarse hair. She tried to hide herself behind her bundled clothes.

“Clothes on the floor, Samantha,” Margaret said.

Samantha dropped them without ceremony, more afraid of being forced to bend over and show her ass than anything else. The model’s ass put hers to shame, as lumpy and lopsided as Samantha’s was.

Margaret gave Samantha’s body a cool, disdainful scan. “That will do for now. Your own humiliation and inferiority in the face of perfection is sufficient. Today, I think I would like to review “Realizing You Are A Tiny Titted Slave to Your Betters.”

Samantha blushed an even hotter crimson, but she recalled memorizing that particular title the night before. Still, it was no accident that Margaret was requesting that one.

“Ah,” Margaret said, holding up a finger, as Samantha moved to retrieve the painting. “Before you retrieve it, state the title. Got to make sure you don’t forget when you’re back there.”

Samantha drew in a deep breath, ignoring her disgust once more. “Realizing You Are A Tiny Titted Slave to Your Betters,” she repeated in a monotone.

Margaret frowned. “Hmm,” She said. “You know, I just don’t think it’s the right title. I thought I had it, but it needs refinement.” Her brow creased in concentration.

Samantha allowed herself to steal a look at the blonde model. To her surprise, the model didn’t look bored in the least… or at least, she didn’t look impatient. Samantha hadn’t noticed, but the blonde’s eyes had a glazed quality, and she was wearing a dreamy smile on her face. She looked… peaceful, as if she were daydreaming.

With a gasp, Samantha realized the model was fingering her pussy idly with one hand. Something stirred in the back of Samantha’s head. “Teasing Yourself Into Obedience,” was a title she’d seen last night, she was sure. Also “Playing Mindlessly With Your Pussy,” and “Your Pussy Controls You.” There were quite a lot on this topic, she realized. More of the titles supplied themselves to her — “Your Hungry Pussy Drowns Out Your Thoughts,” and “Too Horny to Think,” and “Thoughts Erased by Pleasure…”

“I have it,” Margaret said, clapping her hands together in satisfaction. “The title should be, ‘I Am a Tiny Titted Slave to My Betters.”

Samantha’s eyes were still on the model’s hand, her fingers sliding slowly through her folds, rocking back and forth steadily. She could hear the sound of her pussy lubricating around her fingers. She was teasing her opening now, sliding in and out, and her pussy slurped around her fingers. Samantha could hear how wet she was. She’d never been that wet herself… she had no idea it was even possible…

“Samantha, recite the new title back to me, I want to make sure it sounds as good as I think it does,” Margaret spoke. Samantha didn’t look away from the model. She was using her other hand now to tweak her left, fully erect nipple, pulling on it and pinching it in time with the hand she was pistoning into her snatch.

“‘I Am a Tiny Titted Slave to My Betters,” Samantha recited. The model seemed to piston more quickly when Samantha spoke.

“Again,” Margaret said, her voice a cold command.

“I Am a Tiny Titted Slave to My Betters,” she droned. The model was kneading her own right tit now, still with that look of dreamy pleasure on her face… of course she had that look on her face. “All Pleasure Drags You More Deeply Under Mistress’ Control,” and “The More Pleasure You Feel the Less You Can Think”…

Samantha felt something wet on her inner thigh and looked down to see her own pussy glistening. She was… wet? She felt like she was getting a headache… something seemed wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it was… all the titles of Margaret’s paintings were filing through her head, and the model was thumbing her own clit with her thumb while she jammed her other four fingers into her whole, and her mouth was speaking the words, “I Am a Tiny Titted Slave to My Betters.”