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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 6, 2006 20:31:21 GMT -5
Crossing the courtyard of the house I stopped, drawn to a dark splash of brown on the flagstones. I closed my eyes, feeling sick in the bit of my stomach. I opened them and glared at the Heavens. Damn Elua and his Companions.
I continued across the courtyard to the large double doors and pulled the bell. I wanted to get this over with and return home. Another opium nap sounded good.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 7, 2006 10:16:05 GMT -5
I was in dire need of a valet – so wide-eyed pretty little thing I could bugger senseless on quiet evenings in. When I left the room, there was a fair quantity of servants (most of them young and moderately comely, ah my sweet Betta, a job done well) running around doing whatever it is servants do when they’re not attending to my needs. Last night’s terrors and this morning’s strangeness were fading rapidly with the return to something like normality, and I felt rather foolish for my superstitions and my scruples.
Conscience? Hah. Where lies that?
The entrance hall, I was glad to note, had been subjected to a thorough cleaning but there was still an air of chaos and confusion, so much so in fact that the doorbell was ringing and nobody showed any inclination to answer it. I thought about dispatching someone to do it but most of the servants hereabout were scurrying about with cleaning implements and less than pre-possessing. In the end – as much as it rankled that I was being forced into menial labour – I opened it myself.
There was a woman the doorstep, clad in what she, presumably, believed to be mourning and what I believed to be incitement. For a moment I could only stand there trying not gape and wondering whether I’d taken something so potent I wasn’t aware of having taking it. Hallucination or not, she was a very striking creature and her eyes were glazed with a temptingly vulnerable combination of grief and, if I knew what was what, opium.
Unsure whether I would do better to be grief-stricken too, I reluctantly abandoned the collection merry opening lines I had in mind for such a lily and settled instead for a polite “Good morning” on the assumption I could steer events more effectively if I knew in what direction they naturally tended.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 7, 2006 11:20:53 GMT -5
A rather youngish man opened the door, and he had too much pride to be a servant, best tread softly till I knew who he was. I took him in slowly, as that was the only speed my mind seemed capable of these days. Indolent was the word brought to mind, and a whisper of charming. I took a deep breath, trying to settle myself. I had noted the way his eyes lingered on me and wished again for a black dress.
"And to you. I am the Baroness Pharinet de Marchet and I have come to see the new Duc and pledge fealty for my House. I would speak with the Duc, if he is receiving. I also have a small boon to ask. The late Duc was..." Was what? How to explain a few stolen moments. "He was...dear to me, and I would say my goodbyes." Damn, my dress really should have been black.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 7, 2006 15:26:47 GMT -5
She seemed to be regarding me, much as I had regarded her, although her gaze was appraising rather than appreciative, and contained a fair degree of perception for someone I presume to be quite poppy-clouded. We edged around each other like fencers, unsure of footing, unsure whether the other was friend or foe.
“To me?” I repeated, my lips tilting easily up into a smile. “Who are you to other people, my lady? As for the new Duc, he’s ill-dressed to receive and currently reduced to opening his front door because his house is in uproar but otherwise I can assure you he’s very glad to make your acquaintance.” I offered a flourishing bow. My eyes fell again upon her sombre gown. Was I being too frivolous on this occasion? I went on smoothly, dropping the playful manner: “Although, of course, I lament the circumstances that have brought out what I am sure might otherwise be a fortunate meeting.”
I had noticed what I thought to be a stumble over the nature of their acquaintance. I could have crowed, it was so delicious. My self-righteous cousin had kept a mistress – a new bereft and lonely mistress, no doubt. Perhaps I could … comfort … her.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 7, 2006 20:45:41 GMT -5
He was entirely too smooth, this new Duc. I curtsied deeply to him, no doubt giving him an eyes full, but I wasn't about to jerk up the bodice of my gown because he flirted with me a little.
"Do you wish me to return at another time? Or will we simply converse out here in the brisk winter air?" damned cold was bringing tears to my eyes again.
Liar...liar, liar, liar. Gods how I wished for silence in my own head. I thought longingly of the bottle of poppy juice hiding in my bedroom.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 4:28:57 GMT -5
Mmmm….such a graceful curtsey, such a glorious vista. But I had sense enough to ensure my gaze was elsewhere when she straightened. I refused to her sharp words prickle me. She didn’t trust me, but, then, I’d barely started. I still couldn’t quite believe that Clovis had a little stashed away, I wondered for how long. And why this one? She didn’t seem like Mistress material, despite her beauty. She seemed far too much like hard work.
“Of course, of course, come in, come in,” I said expansively, stepping clear of the doorway. “I’m so sorry I kept you standing in the cold. My butling skills are abominable but then I haven’t had the training.”
I hesitated in the entrance hall, unsure of my new domain. “I’m afraid everything is rather chaotic at the moment,” I said. “I’m not really very familiar with the house yet but I believe there’s a cosy sort of drawing room this way. I shall see about a fire and … some tea?” I hesitated. “Something a little stronger?”
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 11:48:54 GMT -5
I stepped in to the Hall, glad to be in from the cold, he stood close and the fabric of my gown brushed against him. I dashed the tears from my eyes with a handkerchief and raised the veil off my face. I took in the chaos and the house and felt sad. So many things cut short.
"Tea and...and a little brandy would be much appreciated, Your Grace. And your hospitality is most gracious, considering the circumstances. Thank you for receiving me." I followed him deeper into the house, trying not to see any of it. My eyes stayed firmly on his coat. I should speak, should offer words of comfort or at least small talk.
But the act of speaking seemed so terribly hard. And who would offer me comfort? No one even knew I had lost something, and in all truth, it was only the promise of something. I walked in stillness and silence, holding my mind in delicate balance.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 13:20:15 GMT -5
I felt the whisper of her gown against my legs, as she glided past me into the house. I spared her only a brief glance when she lifted the veil – although, in truth, I was burning with curiosity, having only thus far received a flickering impression of beauty and sorrow as the light occasionally permeated the gauze. Ah, but she was fine, those deep, dark, tear-dimmed eyes and that figure, oh that perfect figure; much more to my taste than Clovis’s demure little wife had been. It was almost as if she’d been designed for a man to run his hands over her. But not to get ahead myself.
“Any friend of my cousin is welcome here, always,” I said, with all the simple sincerity I could muster. “And, please, call me Sylvestre. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the title.”
She walked behind me, silent and, I suspected, trying not to weep. I left her to her misery for now, there would be ample opportunities to provide her with much-needed solace later. As we approached one of the smaller drawing rooms, I was struck by an inspiration as brilliant as it was cruel, and casually changed course.
The room into which I ushered her was Clovis’s private library –a room more redolent of him would be difficult to find. But it had the advantage of a fire, as I had already ordered one lit, having been intending to spend at least some of the afternoon in there perusing the accounts and discovering exactly how obscenely wealthy I was. Besides, it would be the perfect location to take the poor bereaved creature to the pinnacle of misery … and to comfort her after.
Having seen her inside, I dashed back (urgh, I hoped she was going to be worth the expenditure of energy) to the entrance hall, ensuring I was well out of earshot and accosted the servant I most liked the look of.
“You there, are you ambitious?”
His eyes narrowed. “Yes, your Grace.”
“Then you are now my head footman. Consider yourself on probation. If you want to keep the job, get me a bottle of the cellars’ finest brandy and two glasses within the next few minutes. And then ensure noboby disturbs me in the library, do you understand?”
“Yes your Grace.”
Ah. Yes your Grace. I liked the sound of that.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 13:59:17 GMT -5
I barely noticed as Sylvestre left, my senses too entrapped in the feel of this room. It smelled like him, and I knew this was his sanctuary, the place he spent all his time and passion. I didn't know whether it was cruel or just unthinking of the Duc to bring me here, but I was grateful.
I wanted to see where Clovis lived, that one place each of us make our own and truly live in.
It smelled like beeswax, a hint of smoke, lemons and that beloved smell of leather and vellum that is books. I walked the perimeter of the room, taking everything in. A bookcase near the fire drew me. Poetry, histories, agricultural treatises. My hands lovingly traced the shelf.
Tears were falling down my cheeks unnoticed. The image of him standing in my own library in just the same manner made my chest tight and my throat swell. The heat of the fire beat against my skin, much as the grief beat against my veins.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 14:23:53 GMT -5
I returned, brandy in hand, to find her by the fire, weeping in earnest now. This room was so full of Clovis it was almost enough to choke you. It even smelled like him, vigorous wholesome countryside, citrus and a hint of dust. Clovis was strong here, and I felt like the ghost. How well had she known him? Perhaps they’d even made the beast with two backs in this very room while the little wife was away in the country. I wondered whether I’d made a misjudgement, but the idea of possessing everything that had once been his in the room closest to his heart was far too appealing to abandon, and I rallied. Clovis was dead. I was here.
I hurried forward. “Ah, this was unconscionable of me,” I exclaimed, darting forward. “I did not think … it was just the first room that came to mind … And you’re crying,” I added, as if I had only just noticed. “I’ve exacerbated your grief. How can I forgive myself?” I lowered one of the glasses and the brandy bottle onto a nearby table, having first sploshed a liberal measure of the stuff into the other glass. I came up beside her, and insinuated a comforting around her slender waist. “Here, drink this,” I said in my most soothing tones, holding the glass to her lips. “It will calm you.”
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 14:34:21 GMT -5
I took a sip of the brandy and felt it burn through me, easing some of the tightness I felt. Carefully I took the glass from his hand and with the other, wiped a few tears from my face.
"Indeed, I am crying, I hadn't really noticed." Delicately I raised the tumbler to my lips and knocked back a good half of it's contents. Again the burn flooding through me, easing things even more. I sighed, a mix of relief and gratitude.
"Forgive me, for my unseemly show of tears. I just...it's not fair, not fair at all." The feel of his arm around my waist brought another pang of grief, remembering the dance and the moon lit terrace. But it felt good to be held, comforted even just a little.
"Loss does funny things to people, so you're forgiven. And I'm glad you brought me here." Another sip of brandy and it's warmth.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 16:07:14 GMT -5
I barely blinked as she swallowed down the brandy without even so much as a maidenly cough. I had the feeling she was more closely acquainted with the stuff than any lady had a right to be. Not that such things bothered me. Indeed, they tended to make my life easier. Far from objecting to my arm, she had softened almost imperceptibly against me. I could feel the contour of her hip through the provocative grey gown. I hope people mourn for me so tantalisingly when I am gone, although I’m probably be looking up at them, not down.
“Shush,” I said, gently. “We should stop apologising to each other. I’d rather we were honest, wouldn’t you? And, in honesty, therefore, I’m glad he has so sincere and lovely friend to mourn him. My cousin was not an easy man to care for.” I snorted inwardly. And how. He was about as entertaining as suffocating.
I edged round until I was standing in front of her. I wished I looked rather less haggard. And, putting on my best harmless-fraternal manner, I flourished a silk handkerchief from my pocket and, resting one hand upon her chin to keep her face steady and turned up to mine, set about gently drying the tears from her eyes.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 16:19:34 GMT -5
I couldn't help but look at him as he dried the tears from my skin. The room was dim, the only light coming from mostly closed drapes and the fire. It softened him somehow, even though exhaustion, and perhaps too much drink were evident in his face.
My own had looked similar enough for me to know.
A part of me knew what he was doing, was still thinking and analyzing, still functioning beyond the grief. But the majority of me didn't care, was just sad and drinking in any softness shown to me. The silk swept over my cheeks, and his touch lingered more than was proper. Clovis would have stammered, gone gruff, but would have done the same.
"Easy enough to care for, Sylvestre, easy enough." Fool, you should be running, not standing here waiting for him to pounce. I ignored the voice, as I so often did. I deserved a little comfort.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 16:41:01 GMT -5
I kept my expression impassive and abstracted as I dabbed up the last traces of moisture from her cheeks, but I knew she was watching me, studying me. The small part of me that squirms and stammers like a schoolboy when I know I’m being judged, and found wanting, quailed. But I ignored it. Let her judge me, then. Let them all. What did I care for good opinions, when there was so much opportunity for gratification in the world? I was done, and I tucked the handkerchief away, but I kept my hand in place, fingers spreading out lightly across her cheek.
My heart was beating so quickly I felt almost dizzy with it. This was … glorious. Exhilarating. Wonderful. It had been so long. The chase. There is no greater thrill. Could I do this? Could I still do this? The impetuous part of me wanted to swoop down upon her now, but I knew I had to hold back … the timing wasn’t quite right yet. I had to soften her, somehow.
I met her eyes. My mirror shows me pleasing things when I subject it to a direct look. “I was a sore trial to him when he was alive,” I murmured, “and he was a good man. And he had the esteem of people like you. And now he’s gone I have no way to make to amends or learn to be more like him.”
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 16:51:28 GMT -5
My eyes closed, squeezed shut, and I'm sure a look of agonized grief rolled across my features. His words, like a blow, sent my delicately balanced composure toppling.
More tears came, after all his careful efforts. The hand not holding the glass rose, covered his as it cupped my face. I leaned against him then, he was so close, my forehead resting on the lapels of his coat. I didn't sob, or sniffle, or wail, just silent tears. His hand was oh so warm against my skin.
"I miss him, so much." I barely whispered, the words torn from me without volition. I did. I missed a man I barely knew and had hoped for so much more from.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 8, 2006 17:06:52 GMT -5
“And I don’t know what to do without him,” I whispered against her hair, in the most broken voice I could manage.
Wonderful. Well played, Sly. We were comforting each other now. So I was completely at liberty to take advantage of her.
I plucked the brandy glass deftly from her hands and put it to one side, before enfolding her completely in my arms, trying to subdue the gleeful triumph that I’m sure must have been blazing from my eyes for all to see, as I drew her to me. I stroked her back as she wept against me. Her body was soft, yielding and delightful. This, and the delicate dance of hunter and prey, inflamed my blood. I would have, perhaps, preferred it if I’d been able to suppress the eagerness of my body for a little longer, for decency’s sake, but I’d been mouldering in the country for ten years with only the vulgar rompings of ignorant peasants on which to subsist. I could forgive myself a certain degree of fervour.
I was also conscious of a vague feeling of resentment prickling up and down my spine. It was incredible that I could even find something to envy Clovis when he was dead! What had he done to inspire this woman with such love and admiration? Would someone weep thusly for me, when I was dead? Hardly. There would just be Betta by my graveside, howling like a werewolf at the moon.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 8, 2006 17:20:24 GMT -5
I wept for many things, cradled against his chest in a dead man's sanctuary. Myself, my children, Clovis, futures stolen and wiped out. His arms around me felt so good, the rhythmic motion of his hand across my shoulders and back soothing.
The brandy and the lingering traces of opium in my blood made me burn. So much death, so much pain and grief and... the subtle shift in how he held me rolled through my mind. He wanted me, I could feel the anticipation vibrating through him. His hands on me, the echo of my heartbeat in my ears.
I turned bright, glittring eyes up to his, saw eagerness and a hint of disquiet flash briefly on his face. I'd burn in Kushiel's darkest Hell for this.
I brought my lips to his.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 10, 2006 11:19:14 GMT -5
I let my gaze drift across the flickering shadows upon the ceiling as she wept and wept against me …she wept so much it was quite tedious, to say nothing of absolutely ruinous for my shirt. But something changed in her, possibly a response to the hunger I felt must have been thrumming off me like I was primed bowstring.
Thankfully I was looking down again when she turned her face up to mine. I saw her hesitate, saw concern and apprehension and a thousand things I couldn’t understand (not that I had any particular interest in deciphering them) and then I saw her dismiss them. I held absolutely still, a cobra enticing a mouse, and then her lips touched mine.
Triumph roared through me, richer and darker than any physical pleasure. And relief, as well. I had not realised how much of myself I had invested in playing this game through to its conclusion. This was the end of my endless exile. It was my ultimate victory over Clovis. She tasted of conquest and success … and brandy and opium … and tears. I pulled her hard against me, my mouth devouring hers, my hands buried deep in the soft masses of her hair beneath the veil.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 10, 2006 16:48:29 GMT -5
He tasted of hunger and desperation... with a hint of day old liquor. His hands buried in my hair tilted and moved my head to the perfect angle for those searching kisses. As if he wanted to devour me. I could taste the faint tang of salt on my lips from my tears.
My hands clutched handfuls of his coat, holding on to him as a drowning man would clutch another victim. Protests and warning were screaming inside my head and I ruthlessly silenced them. I would pay later, right now, right now I hurt and I needed to feel something other than empty and numb.
The softest sound of surrender left me and I sighed into his mouth, returning his kisses with equal hunger. Strangely, and oddly lucid, the thought came to me: It had been almost a decade since the last man had kissed me, and it hadn't burned like this.
My hands released his coat and moved down, pulling his shirt from his waistband. I wanted to feel skin. I wonder, would Clovis have kissed me like this? Would he have felt as good in my arms. I could see his dark eyes looking at me, and knew he would disapprove.
More tears as my hands found warm flesh, but I didn't care, not yet.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 10, 2006 18:53:30 GMT -5
Her breath swirled into my mouth, over my tongue, carrying with it a faint sigh of submission and desire. I think she could have made any sound and it would only have inflamed me. Her hands were clumsy with eagerness on my clothing, and I shrugged out of my layers with equal abandon, my lips still tangling with hers and my own hands moving roughly over her body as if I could brand her skin with my touch.
I tore my mouth from hers, gasping, my mind reeling with the frantic passion that had flared between us. We were two exiles coming home. Ten years. Ten years. And I had been as dead for all them. I remembered with a disgust that almost choked me rough rural seductions, tedious couplings with tedious peasants and their belated protests muffled beneath my hands and insistence. She could blot them out with her pale skin and her burning eyes and her sweet savage mouth.
Over her shoulder, my gaze travelled confusedly over the room. Although I was in it, I felt far from it. The world began and ended in touch of her body to mine, and the brush of her lips, the touch of her hands, they were not enough. My body still pressed to hers, I pushed her across the floor, almost tripping us both in my impatience, until we crashed against the edge of the desk. It would do. I tore the veil from her hair, along with a fine scattering of pins, releasing her hair across my hands in a tumble of silk.
There was a faint pattering of moisture upon my cheeks. She was still weeping. I could have wept myself.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 10, 2006 19:45:23 GMT -5
The hard edge of a desk behind my thighs, his hands on me, frantic and starving, I could hear each pin striking the desk and floor as he savaged my veil and upswept hair. I felt so vulnerable with my it falling around me like a waterfall, even with my gown still on.
I doubted it would remain there long.
He reminded me of Bacchus, an intoxicated godling pressed against me, coat stripped off, shirt untucked and coming undone, stark lust shining in his eyes. My breathing was shallow and labored, my breasts rising and falling with the strain. The gown really was too revealing now that I thought about it. I almost laughed, but instead quietly gasped into his mouth again.
Had coupling always felt this hungry? Had my flesh burned and throbbed like this with every man I'd lain with? I didn't think so, I could barely remember any man but the one before me, devouring me. And even if there was no emotion past lust swelling in me, at least I wasn't so damned empty. I'd take anything right now to fill up the shell that used to be a person. His demanding lips and searching hands were warmer comfort than a bottle of liquor or drops of poppy in my tea.
My hands found the flesh of his back, nails finding purchase as I molded my body to his. It could only have been better if we were naked. And if it was Clovis who consumed you so...
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 11, 2006 14:24:59 GMT -5
I thrust a knee between her thighs, pushing them wide enough to admit my body between them. I reached for her trailing skirts and yanked them up, sliding one hand all the way up the outside of her thigh to the curve of her hip. Her skin was as soft as her hair. My palms felt like they burned. My other hand I kept tangled in her hair, pressing her mouth against mine so hard I felt the indentation of her teeth against my lips.
She was as hot for me as I was for her. Can you see this Clovis? Are you looking down at us, and can you see this? I hope you can and I hope it sears you like the pains of hell. I have your Mistress on your desk, clutching for me and gasping for me. And I’ll take her like a whore. I don’t care if she’s thinking of you, I don’t care if she weeps for you while I have my way with her. She’s mine and she’ll never be yours again.
I pulled my lips from hers, tugged back on her hair and bent my head to the exposed curve of her throat, half-kissing, half-biting all the way down to the heaving mounds of her breasts. I brought both hands to the bodice of the gown but my fingers were trembling with ardour to the extent of being almost useless and, finally, with a growl of frustration that surprised me with its ferocity, I tore the fabric apart. The seams split with an eerie scream that sounded almost human and I buried my face between her breasts with a muffled moan.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 11, 2006 19:49:08 GMT -5
I hissed, half wild with the lust roaring through me, the faint taste of blood on my lips from where his teeth had cut me. His mouth on my fragile skin, lips and tongue and teeth covering every inch of my breasts. I wanted to curse him for ruining my dress, but instead I pulled him tighter to me, thrust the soft globes up for him. My hands pulled the shirt from his body, momentarily breaking the contact with my flesh, but the return! Oh Gods the return! He felt like a kiln against me.
A river roared in my ears and my breathing was shallow. I didn't moan or cry out, just gasped and clutched him to me, hands tracing muscle and sinew with mindless intensity.
They found the placket of his trousers and snapped the lace. With in moments, a fist was curled tight around the stiff proof of his lust and I wanted... wanted what? To be taken like a whore by a stranger? Yes! a voice hissed and sneered, it's nothing less than you deserve...
My hand squeezed, moved from tip to bottom with a devastating twist. The desk hurt pressing cruelly into the backs of my thighs and an deeper ache throbbed between. If I was going to burn in Hell, I wanted him to suffer with me.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 12, 2006 8:32:27 GMT -5
I cried out half in protest, half in pleasure, as her hand encircled me, and I had to drive my nails deep into to the palms of my hands to prevent me from spending then and there at the cruel, exquisite motion of her soft skin against my straining flesh. Shaking with the effort of restraint, I reached a hand between our bodies, grabbed her by the wrist and tore her away.
I pushed her back harder against the desk, my hands shifting through the layers of her garments, as I tilted her back so that I could press my desperate flesh against the inner heat of her. I heard myself utter another of those helpless, frantic cries as I shoved myself remorselessly into her, my hands hard and rough upon her thighs, holding her open. She was hotter than hellfire and she engulfed me utterly. The pleasure of it seared me as if it was pain and I pressed my face to her breasts again to smother my sobbing gasps.
The savage triumph had been all but burned away, and I did know what I found amongst the ashes – if there remained enough to ignite the dried leaves of what was left of my life I didn’t care. I lifted my head and fixed my eyes upon hers, as if I could discern what she saw just by the wishing of it.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 12, 2006 8:45:31 GMT -5
Oh gods... one never thinks they forget the particular delights of coupling but I swear I had. This was divine, painful and exquisite all at once. He had me supine on the desk, moving frantically between my spread thighs, head cradled to my breasts. The only sound I would make left my lips, a moan of acceptance, lust and want. I wrapped my legs high around his waist and clutched handfuls of his hair.
He looked naked and questioning as his cat green eyes bored into my amber ones. Would he see the emptiness inside me? The chasm of grief where a soul once lived? Could he know how good this felt, and at once how devastating it was. I didn't care, I pulled myself to him, sinking him deeper and brought my lips to his. I wanted that more intimate connection of a kiss, though we were two strangers brought together by capricious fate.
"Please..." I whispered against his lips, before kissing him anew. I wanted to taste his very soul, if he even had one.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 13, 2006 17:29:54 GMT -5
A sick kind of horror rolled through me … could she be thinking herself back in Clovis’s arms? Was she thinking of his eyes, his touch, his lips? Was that how she could abandon herself so easily to my eager embraces? Why did I even care? I drank Clovis’s wine, I spent his money, I occupied his house – why not his whore as well? I could still take my pleasure from her. The wine tasted no less fine though it came from his cellar. But the idea of Clovis between us, moving like some ghostly, victorious shadow, made me seek some reassurance in her eyes … and despise myself for such weakness.
“Please…”
The word travelled across my skin like a touch. How sweetly it fell from her lips. In the depths of her eyes I saw what every man seeks to see … his own reflection, reflected infinitely. Her lips moved up to meet my own and I let her claim her kiss, thrusting my tongue as deeply inside her mouth as my body thrust into hers.
Ah, she was mine. Like the house, like the wine, like the wealth. What foolish fears we have. Her legs were wound about my waist, pulling me tight inside her. I moved more urgently, less fluently. There was no point holding back the pleasure … this was not caviar to be rationed and savoured, licked from the fingertips, this was meat for a starving man. My eyes closed and a sigh of sheer rapture bubbled against her lips as I let my climax tear through me.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 13, 2006 20:04:11 GMT -5
Tears of an entirely different nature leaked out of my tightly closed eyes. Frustration. I was so close to that shining edge of orgasm, so close and yet it wasn't enough. He sobbed against my lips,a sound of ecstasy and relief and gratification. And yet still my hips urgently rocked against him. I just needed one little push to fall over the edge.
"Oh gods! Please, Sylvestre...my lord, please..." I begged, the shame of it would eat me alive later, much as this whole incident would but right now, his slick, sweating body against mine and my own pleasure so close... "Sly..."
I tilted my head back, my panting breaths echoing loudly in the room, the taste of his name still on my tongue.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 14, 2006 8:52:23 GMT -5
I collapsed against her, panting and shaking, conscious suddenly of damp, clinging skin, ravaged garments, the sound of ragged breathing in the silent room, and with it a certain sense of sticky disgust. Of all bodily pleasures, why did this one draw me so helplessly and completely, to show me a glimpse of something that glittered impossibly bright, like sunlight on the surface of water, only to abandon me to clammy skin and entanglements.
I looked down into the desperate, upturned face of my partner. Her hair was tumbled in wild disarray over the desk, there were red marks upon her white skin where I had pressed my teeth and fingertips. Perhaps even thirty seconds ago I would have found beauty in this sight of undignified ruination. But now. I wanted to pull myself out of her, away from her, leave her like that. Her pleasure was not my problem.
But her begging … I had to admit, it pleased me to hear such words upon her lips, pleased me in the same dark way I liked to see Betta cry. And to think she’d been so haughty on my doorstep. I pushed a hand between our still connected bodies and sought for Naamah’s pearl, stimulating it roughly with a thumb as I arched my hips to hers one last time.
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Post by Pharinet de Marchet (D) on Apr 14, 2006 11:14:08 GMT -5
My spine arched, my body touching only three points, my buttocks on the desk, my head and where his cruel fingers twisted and ignited me. I stopped breathing, stopped thinking, all I could feel was fire racing along my nerves, burning and consuming.
Just as quickly I felt cold. I came back to myself like a harsh slap, reality imposing itself on me once more. My skin was sticky, bruised and I ached between my thighs from his rough handling. Shame flooded me. Elua, what had I done? I knew, was entirely responsible for my actions and this disaster. And so was he.
I unwound my legs from about him and pushed him off of me. I slid upright onto the desk, yanked my skirts down and stared at the ruination of my bodice. Cooling fluid trickled down my thighs and I wanted to cry. My eyes remained dry and I stood on shaking legs.
Calmly and silently I bent and picked up his discarded shirt. He could afford it, and I was not about to walk the streets in a cloak and torn dress. I slipped it over my head and ruthlessly knotted it about my waist, turned and picked up my cloak. Once settled around my shoulders I twisted my hair into a lover's haste knot. I looked at him then, amber eyes numb, no doubt I looked like a well ravished whore and that's all he thought of me. The lingering pleasure swirling through me was at once sweet and humiliating.
"House Marchet pledges it's fealty, my lord Duc. I'll return the shirt later. It's the least you can do as a gentleman." I kept my spine straight and dipped a stiff curtsy. I hated myself more in this moment than ever before. And that hatred was only eclipsed by how much I hated him.
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Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 14, 2006 14:04:20 GMT -5
I almost fell over my own feet as she pushed me away, feeling more than a little humiliated, limp and sticky, beneath the sudden scathing emptiness of her previously lust-glazed eyes. I set about putting myself to rights, pushing back the damp, ruffled hair from my brow. I was just fiddling, and I knew it. I found I couldn’t I bring myself to meet her cold blank stare.
Hell, she’d let me do it. She wanted me to. She begged me to. The decanter of brandy was still where I had left it on the table. I strolled over to it with a pleasing semblance of nonchalance – despite the fact she’d appropriated my shirt - picked it up and tried to pour myself a glass but my hand was shaking so badly that I spilt more than I managed to get into the glass. The jangling clatter of glassware was hardly becoming so I gave up. For now. I could get myself a drink when she had gone.
“Your fealty?” I said, spinning back to face her, raising my brows enquiringly. I made myself look at her. All that fire, now ice. Was that a regret? A pang of guilt? Hardly. I pushed whatever it was away and, strangely, confronted by the wall of her re-assembled hauteur I felt a vague, distant resurgence of desire. I was far too shaken and tired and in need of a drink to do anything about it now, of course. But I wanted her again, wanted her soft, delicate skin beneath my hands, wanted my flesh beneath her mouth…
“I thank you for it, I’m sure,” I said, distracted in letting my eyes wander boldly across the body I had just heartily and callously ravaged. “And,” I added, “I’m as much as gentleman as you’re a lady.” A slow smile curled across my lips, dosed I’m sure with a fair quantity of tomcat satisfaction. “But I like to think we have more fun. And, by all means, take the shirt.”
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