Redux

She was an altogether beautiful woman--or "shemale"--and, as always, it was Danielson's blessing and curse as an artist to be captivated by beauty.

During the breaks that she took from her modeling, Danielson had begun to strike up conversations about her. Awkward at first, his halting speech, his indecisive manner, and his obvious embarrassment in conversing with such an exotic creature as the hermaphroditic Anne did not win her affections. She'd replied dutifully, in monosyllabic terms, to his questions, sometimes refusing to answer his queries at all, finding them "too personal."

However, slowly, she warmed to his brusque manner, his fumbling interrogations, and his unschooled attempts at civility. It did not hurt his cause, either, that he was both a fine artist and a handsome man. In the midst of one of their question-and-answer sessions, she, still undraped, had stalled his interrogation by probing his mouth with her tongue as she pressed her breasts--and her cock and balls--against his chest and groin.

Thereafter, from that moment on, he was hers, and the "detail" of her burgeoning manhood, clearly evident between their embracing bodies, was no longer an impediment to their love. Indeed, it became a significant factor in Danielson's attraction to her exotic beauty, just as, before, it had been a repellant. The artist now understood his patron's obsession with "shemales." Such a mania seemed, indeed, not a fixation at all, but natural and inevitable.

On the day of the painting's completion, Anne stood beside Danielson, her arm around his waist, and his around hers. He was clothed, as usual, in his boots, jeans, sweatshirt, and artist's smock. She was nude, as always. "What does it mean?" she asked the artist.

He looked at her, his devotion to the transsexual obvious in his loving gaze. "Mean?" he repeated, as if the concept were alien to him.

"The painting."

"It is the story of Jupiter and Io."