Invitation to Ruin (3 page)

His hands closed around my hips like a vise
and he rammed his cock into me, my head bouncing once against the
banister from the force.

“Again!” I commanded him.

He obeyed, leaning as he pumped his cock into
me. His fingers, curled like meaty hooks, pulled at my breast,
pinching the nipple to a blood-red peak. With my opposite hand on
the floor, I braced one shoulder against the banister and began to
rub my clit in time to the deep thrusts of his cock inside me.

“Yes.” I panted my pleasure down the
stairwell, moaning and groaning to Maria’s torment. “That feels so
good, Louis. Sooooo good.”

My nails grazed the skin of the two swollen
sacs that hung from his cock and he shuddered against me, the
tremble of it filling my pussy. “I feel like I am on fire,
Louis.”

Just as that heat began to blaze across my
entire body, I felt his seed ripple through his engorged cock, felt
the muscles at its base twitch inside me.

“I am coming,” he bit out, his voice and body
exhausted as he yelled it again. “I am coming, Beatrice.”

That was the final thing he said to me last
night. His body locked mid-thrust, shooting so much of his seed
into me that it spilled down my thighs before he even withdrew.

Withdraw he did. Nothing sweet or lingering.
There was no need for tenderness, after all, was there? Not for
such a dirty little whore. No, enough that he had fucked me like I
wanted him to. When he was done, he picked his pants up from the
landing and left, his face a storm cloud of confusion.

Me, I scooted down the stairs and crawled to
my room. I pulled myself up onto the bed where I let my fingers
explore the angry flesh of my pussy. How I wished it was daylight
so that I could see the puffed red tissue, see the white pearls of
his seed still dripping from me. I spread my fingers in the
delicious mess, ran them over my clit and down along the crack of
my bottom to that other hole to gently explore its edges, more fire
bursting from my center as I probed deeper.

And that is how Maria found me this morning,
my hand still buried between my legs, my body rank with the sweat
and seed of her beloved husband, my lover.

March 22, 1787

She must have threatened him. How else can
his careful avoidance of the house be explained? That he didn’t
want me? Impossible! I saw in his eyes how his desire still burns.
And I have caught him looking up at my window each night since. But
he stays down in the stables!

Yet she could only keep him from me for so
long, now that we’d been together. Duplicity or fate was bound to
reunite us. Which it was, I still cannot say. Did I mean to cut
Mother’s finger at tea this evening or was it really an
accident?

She was reaching for the bread, which was
alongside a bar of butter. And I was reaching for the butter…with
the saw-toothed knife Maria had used to cut the bread. Looking out
the window, I was thinking of Louis and didn’t realize which knife
I was holding until I heard Mother’s bloodless gasp.

The lace tablecloth, on the other hand—not
bloodless at all. Who would think that one bony little finger could
channel so much blood? Even now, I wonder whether she sent me to
the room, to him, because of her finger or the precious scrap of
fabric.

That she sent me, of course, is all that
really matters. I had to bite down on my tongue to keep the tears
of joy and laughter from rolling down my cheeks. Maria raced into
the room, begging forgiveness for my clumsiness. Even telling
Mother that it was sinful to send me for a beating! Sinful, yes,
what would go on in that room, what had already gone on in that
room. Still, I would wager my opal earrings that Maria will be on
bended knee tonight at church praying that her lie be forgiven
while I lounge in my bed, still playing with the wet field of
today’s lust.

His gaze was wide, frightened even, when he
came in from the stables, Maria having been sent to fetch him. He
smelled of sweat and horseflesh, but it only made me hotter for
him.

“Maria says you cut your mother?”

Maria was standing in the kitchen, watching
us, and he glanced back over his shoulder at her. She didn’t look
away and he turned back to me.

“It was an accident,” I told him, my voice
trembling. How different from the last time I had sat on that
wobbly stool with the broken pottery resting on my skirts. I had
feigned being innocent then, now I truly was. But still I craved
his punishment. I realized I had missed the feel of the board
against my flesh, of his forced dominance of my body when he
otherwise would shrink from his own desires.

“This can be no accident, Beatrice.”

“It is,” I protested. “I…I was thinking of
you.” I looked at Maria as I said this, saw her eyes shimmer with
unshed tears. Louis stiffened, his body freezing half an instant
before he would have looked back at her.

I hardened my tone, wiped any trace of
timidity or fear from it. “But I am ready for my punishment despite
such innocence.”

His nostrils flared at that, his sensuous
mouth pressing into a hard line. “You dare claim any kind of
innocence?”

“Yes.” So sweet was my voice, as sweet as the
honey that pooled between my legs. He must have smelled my
excitement, too, for his stance softened. “Look at me, Louis,” I
entreated, still sweet, still light with youth. “I am just a girl,
barely eighteen years on this earth.”

I raised my hand and gestured around the
room. “This house and the convent are all I know of the world.
Mother, the sisters and girls at Sacred Heart, you and Maria, Mdm.
‘Bilodeaux’—these are the only people I know.”

I let my gaze play over his safely cloistered
cock, its swelling already evident, and then raised my head to
stare him down. “If I have lost any claim to innocence, where,
among so few people and places, should blame be placed?”

His arm shot out, pushing the door to the
pantry open. “Get inside!”

“Louis, no!” Maria moved across the kitchen,
her hand extended as if its frail strength could stop him. “Do not
do this.”

Ah, my own entreaties thrown back at him in
his wife’s voice. No, Louis, do not. Stop. Do not stop, Louis. Yes,
that is what I had meant all along, perhaps even that first day
when I thought my struggles real. And I had made him immune against
such pleas. What were her tears and threats compared to the
pleasures my body offered him?

I was still sitting on the stool and he
grabbed me by my upper arm, pulling me to my feet. She reached us
before he could shove me into the room and I let each of them tug
at me. I tugged back, feeling my bodice stretch as husband and wife
yanked at a sleeve. The lace binding loosened and I smiled in
anticipation of a breast popping free as Louis tried to drag me
into the pantry and ravish me while Maria tried to stop him.

He let go of a sudden and I crashed against
Maria, my full breasts pressing against her smaller ones. Our faces
came so close I could have kissed her on the mouth, let my tongue
play over her thin lips before charging beyond the pearl gates of
her teeth. She must have seen some of my intent written across my
face. She scrambled away, but not before Louis caught her. She
paled beneath his tight grip while I thrilled at the raw passion
that blazed across his features. He would not let her come between
us again.

“Get inside,” he repeated, not looking at me,
knowing innately that I would obey, that my whole body was shaking
with the need to obey.

He released Maria and dismissed her with a
stern command to return to the kitchen. He closed the pantry door
and dragged a heavy sack of flour against it, then looked around
the room, measuring and discarding potential implements of pain and
pleasure.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered.

I started stripping, stopping every now and
then as I watched him arrange the crates in the room. Each time he
would urge me on in my disrobing with an enraged gaze that promised
a painful retribution. At last, I was naked in front of him, my
hands across my breasts as I tried to calm my excitement.

He had made a rough set of steps with the
crates, one serving as the bottom step and two more stacked
together to form a top step or platform. Grabbing the paddle from
next to the door, he tapped the lower crate.

“On your knees, Beatrice.”

As I moved to comply, he shoved me forward
and pressed my chest against the top platform. Slamming the paddle
down next to my head, he grabbed my arms and pulled them back until
one of his large hands encircled both my wrists. He fished a loop
of leather lacing from his pants and bound my hands together.

“What—”

“Quiet!”

God help me, a fresh burst of cream coated my
pussy at his barked command. I shut my mouth only to have him pry
it back open when he forced his belt between my teeth. Only my
moans were tolerated, his breathing growing heavier with each
delighted squirm of my body as I waited to find out what he would
do next.

Keeping one hand on the belt’s ends, he
twisted the strap until I was forced to look back at him. His pants
fell to his ankles and his cock, purpled with his readiness,
pulsing in the air like a third arm. He stroked it a few times, my
mouth and the leather between my teeth growing wet as I watched his
hand sliding over his shaft. I squirmed some more, damning the
string that kept my hands from touching him or relieving my own
need.

Releasing his cock, he picked the paddle back
up and delivered the first blow to my bottom. The wood of the
crate, unsanded, scraped at my breasts as the power of his arm
pushed me across the crude platform’s surface. Again he hit me, my
bottom surely purpling to match his swollen cock. I jerked, pain
and pleasure combining until my pussy was a mad throb of need.

Another hit and frustrated tears rolled down
my cheeks. Yes. More, please. Take the gag from my mouth so that I
can beg you for more, Louis. Unbind my hands so that I may grovel
with them clasped around your ankles!

Another hit and the dam broke, my body
thrashing violently as my pussy constricted with pleasure. He
dropped the paddle and took a belt end in each hand, pulling my
head back as he kicked my legs to the sides of the first crate,
stretching my pussy tight before he rammed his cock into me. Louis
worked the makeshift rein, pulling back again and again as if we
were at full gallop, playing the roughrider to my tender mare.

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.”