Invitation to Ruin

by Ann Vremont

  Tender, indeed! He speared me again and again, his shaft too massive for such sport. I could feel the inner walls of my pussy protest each time his cock slammed into me, feel the tearing of the fragile tissue that surrounded its entrance. And I loved him for it! More so than I ever had. He was master now, if only for today. And I, his dirty little whore until, shaking and coming, I fainted beneath him.

  March 24, 1787

  Saturday has come at last! It is not joy with which I punctuate my sentence, but despair. I write this from the coach that will return me to the Sacred Heart before evening mass tomorrow, stopping only for the evening at another convent along the way.

  How long will it be, I wonder, until Louis fills me again? Never? It seems likely that we part now forever. His lust and shame threaten to destroy him—even as I revel in this new freedom, my thoughts drifting now to the fine young coachman hired to transport me back to the school. How much transport, I can’t help thinking, is he ready to provide?

  Wanton of me—to already desire another lover? I don’t know. I am only certain of what I saw in Louis’s eyes this morning as he came upstairs to my bedroom to force me to pack. Maria even encouraged his approach, confident, perhaps, that she would shame him back to her after my departure. His gaze was hollow, as if his soul had been sucked out of him, or, more accurately, pumped into me, for he had not yet let me set my lips to the plump shaft of his cock. A man on the gallows, that is what he was. As he should be! If he lamented my departure, why not tell me to stay? Why force me to pack? Why carry my luggage down to the coach? I would have defied every thing and every one but him had he done so. I would have lived in the gutter, bathed in the sludge and piss on the street if he would but promise to master my body each night.

  But no, he came to me this morning as a hollow man, with nothing to offer save what I could squeeze from him with ridicule. I wish I could say it pained me to goad him on like that. I wish I could say it, but I was wet and hot the entire time, from the first glimpse of his dark locks as he climbed the staircase...until he spilled the last of his cum in me.

  “I am here to make sure you pack.” He stood in the doorway with Maria looking over his shoulder.

  I was still in my robe and nightgown and I started to take them off. Maria’s face hardened to a polished alabaster and I imagined I could see her fists curling behind his back.

  “Leave us, Maria,” I said and turned to examine my body in the mirror, sad that something as innocent as a length of glass and its frame were banned from the convent.

  “I shall tell your mother,” she threatened.

  I smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Do that.”

  She must have thought me the devil because she crossed herself, praying to Heaven for protection and intervention.

  “Maria, do as she says…or would you have me imprisoned?”

  She wasn’t sure where or how she wanted him. I could see that and it only made my smile grow wider, more voracious. Perhaps I should have bid her stay and watch us fuck?

  His gaze never leaving my body, he ordered her to leave. “Go, now!”

  She turned, a leaden saint, and retreated down the stairs.

  “You,” I turned and crooked a finger at him, pulling him into the room with no more than a gesture. “Close the door.”

  “What is it you want, Beatrice?”

  “A proper good-bye, that is all.”

  “How can you do that to Maria?” He was earnest in his question and it made me laugh in his face. A flash of anger lit his gaze, narrowing the pupils to black points that threatened to tear out my heart.

  Good, I wanted him angry. It made him hard, as much as he might wish to deny it. So it had been between us for so long, my fighting him, rubbing against him, exposing some bit of forbidden flesh. He could not know me without being the stern enforcer of Mother’s petty punishments. And now he had so much to punish me for and I intended to give him even more!

  “I owe Maria no duty of kindness!” I spat the words in his face and he raised his hand to me for an instant before slamming his fist against his thigh.

  “Is it my fault?” No longer looking at me, he stared at the floor and numbly shook his head. He glanced up, remembering that I was there, and shook his head again. “You have wantonly tempted me for so long.”

  “Pity you did not take me sooner…before marrying that cow.” I thrust my breasts out, my chin following suit as I dared him to raise his hand again.

  My words shocked him, apparently filling him with horror that I should have suggested so early a taking. And then some false chivalry over Maria’s honor fell across him like a black veil and he grabbed me by the throat. “That you, a whore, should talk about her—”

  “Your whore,” I reminded him and stroked at the hands that threatened to squeeze the life out of me. “And what is she anyway? Is it her wifely duty that keeps her at your side still? Or, like me, does she want you to fill her with your cock, to fuck her with it, to let her take it into her mouth and suck—”

  He backhanded me and I fell across the bed. On hands and knees, I crawled across the mattress, playing the naked, disheveled penitent. I stopped a hand’s width from him, not looking up at him, my gaze centered on the outline of his cock pressing against his pants. My tongue slipped out to wet my lips. “You are so hard,” I observed.

  My breasts, ripe with need, brushed against my arm and the sensitive nipples stung as if I’d drawn a blade across them. “I need you, Louis,” I begged, sincere at last. “This last time before I lose you forever.”

  “No!” He grabbed two handfuls of hair and pulled me against him, hugging my face against his erect manhood. “Why do you say that?”

  So he wanted me to stay! But would he admit as much?

  “When I return…” I started, looking up and faltering as I saw the truth scratched across his features.

  “I will still be your mother’s coachman…and Maria’s husband.”

  I rose up, pushing angrily at him. “I will be mistress here, soon,” I warned. “Do you think that old woman, with her headaches and her vapors and all her hateful misery will ruin my life for much longer?”

  I shook my head, my hair whipping once around my shoulders. “No, this will be my house! And you…” I slammed my fist against his chest, my voice breaking. “You already are mine!”

  “Yes, Beatrice.” He pulled me to him, hiding his face against my hair, rubbing his cheek against the satiny strands.

  “Then show me!” I reached for his belt, tore at his pants to free his erection. So thick, wanting my touch, wanting me to taste it. My mouth descended, swooping down all at once, feeling the head stretch my lips and press against the back of my throat. I bobbed along the shaft’s length, sucking, licking, my hands workings the heavy sacs below, gently squeezing them until he put a hand on each side of my head and began to fuck my mouth. I let him control me like that, fondling his balls with one hand while I reached between my legs to pull at my clit.

  “Blessed Beatrice,” he cried out, his skin along his cock rippling with the first of his cum. “Keep sucking, keep sucking.”

  He bucked inside my mouth a few more times before withdrawing and collapsing along the length of the bed. He was panting, his body weakened from the past few weeks of fucking and fighting. Whereas I had only grown stronger. I scrambled to the head of the bed, turning quickly, one leg arcing over his head as I planted my pussy against his mouth.

  Louis didn’t protest, only stopped his breathing for one surprised moment before he began laving the walls of my pussy. My whole body was alive with the sensation of his tongue stroking my labia before plunging into me. I wiggled against his face, his chin biting into the hard bone that ran beneath my clit.

  The mirror was up against the wall and I watched myself squirming against his mouth. I cupped my breasts, fondled them as I began to bounce up and down. He stuck a finger inside my pussy and I cried out, my body hovering at the edge of climax. I grabbed his other hand and guide
d it to my bottom, forcing his index finger apart from its brothers. He licked the length of his finger and then swirled it in the thick juice that coated my pussy before ramming it into the tight hole that winked above.

  My lust-filled scream pierced the morning quiet, but he kept driving his fingers into me, licking my pussy with long strokes, while he finger fucked both of my holes. I came then, a shuddering climax that thundered through my body and left me quivering above his still feasting mouth.

  Louis pushed me forward onto my hands and knees and dipped his cock into my wet slit until it was heavy with my cream. Then he grabbed my bottom, his thumbs parting the cheeks. I felt the heavy tip of his cock wedge against the small opening to my bottom. Another wave of anticipation washed over me and I moaned my encouragement.

  How can I explain what it felt like as he plundered that tight hole? Was there pain? Yes. But it only quadrupled my pleasure, my protesting muscles gripping his cock tighter still. His thickness filled me beyond the narrow borders of that other channel, seeming to fill my pussy with his manhood as if each stroke was inside its wet, grasping depths. The pressure on my clit was stacked so high I thought urine would spill from me before I came. Everything tried to pull him deeper into me. Every muscle rejoiced as he put his first tender, exploratory thrusts aside and began to drive hard inside me. I was moaning…crying…tearing at my hair…my face flat against the mattress as I screamed my pleasure into it until, with a bone-deep grunt, we climaxed together.

  There was nothing for me to do then but get dressed and pack my luggage. Already, the livery bells were jingling outside, announcing the coach’s arrival. He carried the trunks outside while I bound my hair and walked down the hall to Mother’s room. There was the polite knock, the polite good-bye, the polite assurances that I would write her once a week even though she would never write a return letter. It was not my custom to approach her bed, but I did this time, nurturing with each step closer some perverse hope that she would smell Louis on me and that the shock might stop her heart. I had told him that I would do as much, but the blank mask had already fallen back across his face and he no more than shrugged before taking the next bag down.

  So here I sit, journal in hand, the spot between my legs—that delicious area that I can only think of now as my pussy—still moist, still hungry. And I wonder, would the coachman notice a little more sway to the trap? Would he hear an escaped moan over the clatter of the horses’ hooves? And if he did, what would he do?

  Interpreter’s note: This is the last entry in Beatrice’s diary. What we know of her fate is revealed only through the letters and journals of the other young women sheltered at the Sacred Heart.

  GABRIELLE

  Transmitted May 1, 1787, from Candacis Vremont to her publisher, and cousin, Philipe.

  Dearest Cousin,

  I received your letter today. How can it be that so few words can bring such profit?! You did not supplement it, did you? Promise me you did not!

  I know I should not be thrilled at the sum; the image of poor Maria’s face haunts me now. My enrichment has come at the cost of her pain (although she is rather accustomed to such things, it seems).

  You said the public clamors for another entry! How I wish I could be standing alongside the vendors as they distribute them or disguise myself as a man and sell them on the streets myself. The thrill it would bring to watch their greedy fingers pull the pages apart in their eagerness to read my words! There was, so the gossip goes, a copy smuggled into the convent and now the rumors fly. How many Sacred Hearts, the girls wonder, can there be in France? Is the convent in Beatrice’s story truthfully named or merely modeled after that most famous school? Is there such a girl as fatherless Beatrice here and, if so, where was she in March? It pains me that I have not seen the copy, although it is, perhaps, for the best. I am thought so innocent of potential wrongdoing in this matter that several of the girls here have pulled me into their confidences that they might mine me—much as they would a servant—for information as to Beatrice’s identity and that of the author!

  You will, perhaps, recognize the young woman in this installment, the end result so widely reported.

  As ever,

  Candacis

  GABRIELLE

  April 10, 1787

  Sebastian! The very name makes my chest swell with love and a most immodest passion. It seems miraculous that I may soon be in a position to tell him as much. And the bringer of this miracle? That is another miracle in and of itself. Long have I chronicled my attempts to win over Veronique as a friend so that I might gain some access to her cousin. And, while her family is, indeed, quite anciently titled, you would think I was a commoner grabbing at her skirts on the street! But, no more. She has finally accepted me into her confidences and I her. When she learned of my unrequited love for her cousin, Sebastian L’Aigle, she, of all people, agreed that we would make an excellent match. And now, in a few days, she has promised to present me to him at the masquerade.

  And I without a costume! No time to write more. I must prepare!

  April 13, 1787

  Be still my heart! How things move so quickly when in love. Sebastian, through Veronique, has agreed to a private audience during the masquerade. I am near faint at the prospect that we will be able to discuss our mutual feelings. Yes, mutual! He has confessed as much to Veronique. It seems impossible that I wondered a mere week ago if I might ever capture more than his casual notice. Now, it is not a child’s query to wonder whether marriage is far off.

  His secret gifts this week are enough to convince me his interest is not some shallow flirtation. The gilded masks and gold laced gowns and gloves, fine flame red wigs (the color not so far off from my own) so that Veronique and I may pass as twins at the masquerade. Their cost is a small fortune.

  And the intrigue—so much more thrilling than what passes for formal wooing among our class. My heart (and more!) flutters at the suspense surrounding our first meeting—so masterful his courtship.

  Father, of course, will be easy to convince and pleased, no doubt. But I do worry as to Marquis L’Aigle. Ambroise is such a rough brute compared to Sebastian, despite father and son being near mirrors of one another in physique and coloring. But then, Sebastian is the stone lovingly polished by his blessed mother (may she rest in peace). A world of polishing would still find Ambroise jagged and tearing at the hands of the lapidarian. And yet, such men may be easily manipulated by a woman’s soft manners. At least, somber bore that he is, I will not have to worry about Ambroise remarrying and producing a rival heir!

  April 15, 1787

  It is the morning after the masquerade and my body is sore. Not from dancing or perching at the edge of some ancient dame’s seat while I pretended to be enthralled with some cruel story of her maid having burnt a stocking and the beating that followed. No, not from anything so mundane am I sore, but from an evening of thorough lovemaking! Yes, I confess as much, here, in secret.

  I arrived at the masquerade in the company of Veronique and her parents. Quickly, Veronique made her way to the masked Sebastian to identify him to me as such. He looked my way once, across the room, while they talked, but then he disappeared! I felt as if I would die there on the floor. But then Veronique, after many more minutes of talking with some of the assembled lords, made her way back to me, detailing where and when I should find Sebastian waiting for me. The soul of discretion, he feared harm to my reputation should anyone realize we had arranged a private conversation.

  How long the evening dragged—how many lesser men bruised my feet as I danced with them. With each new partner, I longed to see before me one dressed in the dark blue velvet and feathered half-mask Sebastian wore, to have a supple blue leather glove take my hand. Ah, did he have another dance in mind so early, or did the evening’s forced separation make him long for my touch as it made me long for his?

  It was after ten when I made my way to the appointed private drawing room. Some unused suite. No fire blazed despite the room’s chill.
Not even a candle was lit. Instead, he stood by the window’s open curtains waiting for me. With a soft whisper, he bid me lock the door and sit on the couch. I trembled as I obeyed.

  When I was seated, he moved across the room and sat down on the far end of the couch. My heart cried foul! I wanted him closer. I raised my hands to my mask, but he halted me.

  “None know what face lies behind that mask tonight, do they, dearest Gabrielle?” he asked.

  He still whispered and I squirmed in my seat, desperate for the sound of his light tenor. “No, all night Veronique and I refused to reveal ourselves—so too her parents,” I assured him. My low tones matched his, but I wondered at the necessity. Surely we were far enough from the party that we could abandon our hushed tones.

  “Then keep the mask on, as will I, should some unannounced guest intrude on our…conversation.”

  For an instant, I was glad of the half-mask for it kept him from seeing what disappointment might show in the faint light. He must not think me petulant, or domineering, or anything less than perfect. And so I nodded my agreement although I ached to see his fine features.

  “And will we talk like children in a game of hide and seek the whole time?” I asked, keeping my words as sweet as I could despite my mounting impatience.

  He moved closer and, even in the faint moonlight, I could see the trace of a smile along his lips, or so I believed.

  “It is best, don’t you think, for what we have to discuss?”

  Apprehension gripped me—I feared I would make a fool of myself with assumptions. Would we discuss it so soon—were we even thinking of the same thing?

  I took on an evasive air. “And what,” I asked, “will we be discussing?”

  Sebastian moved closer still. I could smell his perfume and deeper, more masculine scents. Had I been so close before? Of course not. Always had we been separated—he at one end of a far table, me at the other. Occasionally we might find ourselves close enough to exchange a few pleasantries. To think the same passions were building in his breast as stormed inside me.