by Ann Vremont
He caught my wrist, squeezing the nerves at its sides until I quieted. “That is the master,” he said. “No one will know the copies are of you.”
“Copies!”
Again, he caught my hand before I could tear the original up. My eyes burned with tears and shame and my voice was a squeak when I demanded he release me.
Letting go, he took the original and put a smudge-proof covering on top of it before placing it in an envelope and handing it to me.
“A remembrance,” he said before dismissing me. “In case you forget next week why you were so eager to agree today.”
And then I was at the door waiting on weak legs, my thighs soaked with his cum, while he hailed a carriage.
June 20, 1787
My ruin is nearly upon me—my fate all but sealed. Although it will not be quite the fate she envisioned! Still, I puzzle at the other causes of my downfall—too much pride and pleasure, not enough of either?
But I get ahead of myself and there is so little time to record this. It started with the arrival of a carriage. Ah, that is not exactly true…it started back in April, didn’t it? But I was too much the confident fool to suspect any foul play. Regardless, the carriage arrived, the emblem on its side and the invitation allowing for no refusal on the part of the sisters. As Christophe had instructed, I said virtually nothing, not knowing if the ruse was for tea or a funeral.
The coachman gave nothing away as well, tucking me wordlessly into the coach and driving away at a rough speed that quickly brought us to the country estate in question. Instead of going up to the main house, the coachman dropped me at a guesthouse (that eclipsed the size of most of the main houses of the nearby estates). With an unceremonious rap on the top of the carriage, the driver signaled me out and then disappeared with the same haste.
I walked to the door and knocked, waiting a few minutes before letting myself in at last. Christophe must have hoped that the surroundings would intimidate me and they did…for I meekly went inside, worried that I would be called out as a trespasser. Whether he had heard me knock, I know not, but he called to me from a room that jutted off from the main hall. The room was octagon in shape, the walls draped in black velvet without any windows visible and only freestanding candelabras blazing with dozens of candles to provide light.
The stage was already set and his body covered in no more than a robe. He motioned me into the room, bidding me to disrobe immediately. Ah, I was so damp at the prospect of our meeting and the mysterious coach ride I could have starched a week’s worth of undergarments.
“You smell wet, Veronique,” he said as I pulled the last of my clothing away.
I moved closer to him, keeping my body a study in softly swaying hips and breasts. “Touch me and see,” I offered, pressing my body against him and resting a hand on his chest.
He gently moved away, keeping me at arm’s length. “Bend over and show me,” he countered.
I did and he moved further away, off to one of the walls. Reaching up, he pulled one of the black drapes away from the wall to reveal a floor-to-ceiling mirror. A satisfied smirk on his face, he moved to the opposite wall and exposed another such mirror. Taking position behind me, he spread my cunt lips further apart and ran his fingers through my juices.
“Wet indeed,” he agreed. “Does it excite you to see yourself?”
Still bending at the waist, I strained to look over my shoulder. I saw the reflection of his fingers playing in my raw slit, saw and felt the quiver of my pussy. “Yes,” I confessed, already having to press my hands against my knees to steady myself as a pre-climactic tension filled my cunt like a fist.
He motioned at the other heavy drapes. “Then see yourself, Veronique…from every angle.”
I moved around the room in a slow tease, whipping a velvet covering away and then admiring some aspect of my body in the mirror beneath. I pushed my breasts together, squeezing the nipples roughly as I spread my legs wide and looked in the opposite mirror. Removing the pins from my hair, I freed it from the restrictive bun the nuns had sent me out in and spread it over my breasts. Next, I bent fully at the waist, hands on my thighs and ass seductively high in the air. I whipped my long blonde tresses in abandon, moaning, watching him through my slitted gaze to see if he was as enthralled by my body as I was. Never had I felt so wild, so free! All my other lovers had been child’s play - theatrical vignettes, always I played a role. Here, my pretenses were stripped away. I was a hungry cunt. Rank, family - these meant nothing to Christophe and so I could shed them as I had shed my clothes.
When the last mirror was uncovered, Christophe called me back to him, slapping the outside of his thigh like he was calling a dog. When I started walking to him, he stopped me, his voice cold.
“That is not how I called you, Veronique.”
I felt my spine stiffen, anger igniting within me. For a moment I wondered at his gall, remembered rank and family until he opened his robe. The sight of his cock, erect, painfully thick and wickedly textured with its heavy covering of veins, was my undoing. I dropped on hands and knees and crawled to him like the hot bitch I was.
He had made a bed of cushions and blankets on the floor of the otherwise furniture-less room and he rested on them, offering his rod to me with a familiar bored gesture. I licked my lips and started my descent, but he pushed against my forehead.
“As you did before,” he ordered and then leaned back and closed his eyes.
I dipped my fingers into my pussy, bringing up a rich load of cream that I smothered his cock with. Wrapping my mouth around the shaft, I began to pull his cock in and out, each time the engorged tip battering the back of my throat.
“Keep your ass up high, Veronique,” he complained, his eyes open once again, his head tilted to one side that he might see the wet red of my slit in the mirror behind me.
Another moment of doubt flitted through my mind at his churlish tone. Never had a man talked to me like this. I have had lords at my feet, begging for just the taste of my pussy and nothing more! How could I, who had spent a lifetime ordering others around, be aroused by his rough and childish commands?
“Higher, Veronique!”
I thrust my ass higher, my knees almost unbent, the added height forcing my mouth further onto his shaft until my lips were pushed against its base and the head was in my throat. I could feel the muscles in his rod begin to twitch, knew he was ready to come and tried to hold onto him, but he pushed me back at the last second, his seed spurting and hitting my face.
Pushing me onto my back and standing above me, he continued to spurt more cream into my mouth and onto my breasts. When he was done, he forced my legs apart and slid down until his head was cradled between my thighs.
“Lick it up, Veronique,” he ordered, offering stroke for stroke on my clit in exchange for what I was willing to lick off my body.
I swirled my tongue along the edges of my mouth and then smoothed his cream onto my hands, licking those and searching my breasts for more, licking when there was nothing left to lick so that his tongue would not stop its delightful torture of my clit and labia. But I was done too soon and his mouth abandoned me before release claimed me!
“I need…” I writhed on the cushions, unable to form the words, my tongue thick with cum, my mind only occasionally present.
“What?” he asked. I cannot even describe the manner in which he asked it! Bored, insouciant, quietly sarcastic?
“What do you need, Veronique?” he pressed, his finger flicking my labia to spur me on.
I bucked once at his touch. “Cum…” I moaned. “My cum.”
“Do you not know how to make yourself come?”
Arrogance! But it only made me hotter, more desperate. I wanted his cock and he would only give it to me, I knew, after I had utterly humiliated myself before him. Still, I tested his resolve, my body pumping the air as my arms searched the pillows for some purchase.
“Please, Christophe, fuck me,” I begged. “See how wet I am for you…have pity.
”
“Show me,” he demanded. “Show me how you make yourself come when you are alone in that little cell at the convent.” When I made no move to comply, he grabbed my hand and forced it between my legs, guiding me in touching my clit, in using my fingers to explore the slick entrance to my pussy.
I did not notice when he pulled his hand away, I was stroking myself too hard to notice. “Mmm, yes.” I jerked along the makeshift mattress. Legs bent at the knees, I spread my feet far apart and thrust my cunt into the air as I fingered my clit. Over and over again, I would collapse and thrust, collapse and thrust until I screamed out my climax.
Christophe dragged me onto my feet, my body still shaking with self-pleasure. He pushed me in front of one of the mirrors. Standing behind me, he pullied my lower lips apart. He dipped two fingers into my pocket and then smeared my cream across my face as he dragged me to the next mirror. “Smell it, Veronique!”
I inhaled, another small climax claiming my body.
At the third mirror, he forced my head back by yanking on a handful of my hair. He slapped my proud, firm tits.
At the fourth, he forced me onto the floor, shoving my head and shoulders down and rubbing my ass and slit against the mirror.
At the fifth, he dipped into my cunt again, rubbing my juices onto the mirror and forcing my face against it.
At the sixth, he merely showed me myself. I flinched, waiting for whatever abuse or theatrics he intended, but he merely dragged me to the seventh mirror. Here he forced my head back again, choking me on his cock.
As the thick gag of his manhood gentled to soft strokes, he pulled me to the final mirror. I was sucking his cock in earnest then, the other mirrors and what they had revealed forgotten. Again, he let my greedy lips devour him until he was at the point of ecstasy and then he withdrew, covering my face once more with his cum.
And then, he bid me look at my reflection in the final mirror. “This is what you are, Veronique.”
So softly he said it, I almost didn’t hear him. I started to cry then and he lifted me, carried me back to the cushions and wiped my face clean.
“On your stomach,” he coaxed, arranging my body to his satisfaction as he had done at his studio.
A shameful pleasure in his treatment of me had kept my cunt moist and he eased his erection into me, his strokes slow and tortuously sweet. Everything was forgotten except for where his body touched mine. The slide of his cock, the gentle milking of my breasts whenever he leaned over me, his hands on my hips, his thumbs rubbing against the opening to my ass.
I was moaning and grunting on the ground beneath him, totally enslaved, uncaring as to whether I would ever find myself liberated.
Reaching beneath a cushion, he pulled out one more instrument of my humiliation—a soft tube of oiled lambskin filled with rounded stones and tied off at the top. He pulled his cock from me and I whimpered in protests.
“Patience,” he said, slowly filling me with the lambskin, letting my juices add to the sheath’s lubrication before he pulled it from me, his sweet rod once again overfilling my pussy.
The tube of stones was narrower at the end but I squeaked my protest as I felt him spread the edges of the puckered mouth of my ass. “Christophe, please,” I begged. “Do not. I want only your flesh.”
“Shhh,” he said, his hand never stopping the slow forward push of the tube up my ass. “Trust me.”
Trust! Something that is never wisely given. I knew this, how well I knew. So too was Christophe’s nature plain. He was vile! Ah, but he was also talented, masterful, and he had a cock that many women would die for. They would degrade themselves, sell themselves…do whatever it took.
No, trust him, never. Desire him? Always, so I felt at that moment. Pressing my chest flat against the cushions, I relaxed the muscles that were desperately seeking to impede the tube’s process.
“Good girl,” he said, shoving the rest of the tube’s ample length into my ass before I could change my mind.
Ecstasy! Just as the veins of his cock delivered exquisitely textured strokes to my cunt, the ripple of the stones as they moved against one another in the tight channel of my ass threatened to drive me insane from the pure pleasure of it.
“God, yes,” I screamed, my pussy constricting around his rod, the muscles an iron fist that refused to let him withdraw. My pumping grew erratic, frenzied, as I approached some physical zenith that left me calling out the name of every saint I had learned, each name punctuated by a bone-shattering tremor of my climax.
Christophe came and pushed me off his cock. I could feel the vacant yawn of my pussy and ass as they were emptied, the muscles still contracting, searching for some purchase.
Half conscious, I gazed in the mirror and saw Christophe raise his hands high in victory, some sort of seated bow. My blood slowed and I stopped breathing as I realized just how complete my humiliation was.
“Gentlemen, will you not come out and congratulate us on our performance?”
To my horror, there was the sound of eight latches lifting more or less simultaneously, followed by the controlled rush of footsteps as the secret watchers gathered around my prone body. Wildly, I looked around, finding myself completely surrounded. With nowhere to run, I tensed, ready to claw them should they approach too closely. One laughed at my feral position and I looked at him, recognized him! More faces swam in front of me, dipping to peer more closely at my flushed skin, at my wet cunt. Ah, I knew most of these faces! They knew mine!
One reached down and ran his fingers between my lower lips. I lashed out, only to have Christophe catch my hand and warn me to remain polite. This man knew my father! He bent down on his hands and knees, one fist clutching a sheet of paper.
“May I?” he asked, his questioning gaze on Christophe and not me.
“Only a taste,” Christophe warned. “I do not think she can handle more.”
A chorus of snickers broke out at that. “We have seen exactly what she can handle, Christophe!”
The man who had made the inquiry had one hand against his chest. “To hell with what the bitch can handle…I am halfway to death’s door as it is.” He bent down then, his lips against my cunt, and laved the length of my pussy from the top base of my clit to the pouting rose of my ass.
“And how does my cum taste, my lord?” Christophe joked and slapped the man on the back in an effort to move him along.
All but one left then, each daring a touch or taste on his way out, each compounding my shame until only Christophe and a middle-aged man, the only one among them unknown to me, remained. Preparing to leave me with the man, Christophe bent down and shoved a folded sheet of paper in front of me.
“Gabrielle sends her regards.”
Mindful of the stranger’s presence, I carefully reached out and unfolded the paper. My face, as he had sketched it as I sucked his cock in the studio. Above that, the words “an Invitation to Ruin.”
I had helped Gabrielle gain title and wealth and this was how she repaid me?
“What will you do now, Veronique?” the man asked as the paper fell from my shocked grasp.
I looked up at him, my gaze still slightly unfocused. He was smooth featured, neither handsome nor ugly…just there. A face that might easily be forgotten if it were not for the intense green-gray gaze and sensuous mouth. His tone was empty of judgment…he neither approved nor disapproved of what I had done—of who I was.
“I do not know,” I confessed. I should have been trembling, but I was too tired, my endurance stretched too thin.
He bent down, gently taking me by the elbow and helping me to my feet.
“Wh…what are you doing?” I asked. Was this some fresh game of Christophe and Gabrielle’s?
“Helping you, Veronique, if you will let me.”
“Why?”
He tilted his head, a flash of compassion crossing his features before he smoothed his expression once again. “Because you need it,” he answered. “And because I think there might be some profit in it
for me.”
“Profit! Of course.” I recoiled, the anger I should have released on Christophe slowly beginning to build in my chest.
He did not protest, choosing instead to mutely stand there waiting for my eventual acquiescence. I would not give it. I would not!
I collapsed into his arms, tears bursting from me. I was naked, covered in another man’s cum, but he hugged me fiercely until my sobbing stopped.
“What am I to do?” I asked when no more tears remained.
He dressed me then and introduced himself only as “Daniel.” Quietly, he laid out my options. I could come with him, to England, and help in his “business” of gathering and selling information from the wealthy and powerful. Or I could trust to my family’s forgiveness.
Fool that I was, I chose the latter. I thought I could coax forgiveness from them…that I need not prostitute myself—for that is the nature of his proposition—to lure secrets when the prey is impassioned and vulnerable. To manipulate others as Christophe had manipulated me.
But now, I am to be forced, for the sake of my soul and father’s name (as if he had not already bankrupted his name much as he had bankrupted our estate on his stable of mistresses!), to take my vows. To walk as one among these drab gray ghosts! I will not. Father, confident in my shame, has allowed me to spend this last week walking free (if not unwatched) in the convent and its grounds. And so I go to Daniel! I am, I now know, a mere novice, but I already have learned so much about the art of deceit and betrayal this last week. In time I will be a mistress of the art and then I shall return to France, when everyone who disclaimed me or betrayed me has grown soft with forgetfulness.
I do this tonight at the evening sermon. While they pray for their souls, I pray for my escape!
Find More Releases from Ann Vremont at annvremont.com
I hope you enjoyed Invitation to Ruin. I have several more short stories available electronically, to include more in the Rococo Diaries series. For details on where to purchase, available formats and future distribution channels/formats available please visit http://www.annvremont.com.