Twisted Oak: A Sexual Odyssey

by Blanche, Neige

  We sat at the table and Sunny poured out two cups of coffee, cream first.

  “This coffee,” I said as I sipped, “what makes it so good?”

  “New Orleans dark French roast with chicory. The chicory takes the bitterness out.”

  “What’s chicory?”

  “Some kind of plant. They use the root. It grows wild around here. During the Civil War, when coffee was running low, folks found out they could make it go further by adding chicory to it and now it’s become a taste that some prefer. I like it too. Ya know he’s in the coffee business, among other things.”

  “He and I talked about it and I have to say, I had no idea how big his company was. It’s interesting. It seems like he is into everything.”

  “Coffee, sugar, cotton, soybeans, bananas; if it grows and you can eat it or use it in medicine, he owns it.”

  “Wow. Like actual farms and stuff?”

  “Yeah, he has farms all over the place, in the southern US, Central America, and the Caribbean, too. He’s a commodities man, I suppose you could say. He’s into the shipping part of it as well. The whole supply chain has his family name on it. Logistics is his middle name.”

  “He must stay pretty busy.”

  “He has full days, but he also has good people working for him so he pretty much makes his own hours. One thing about Mr. Delacroix is that he isn’t one of these trust fund types who doesn’t think they have to work. He’s pretty involved in the business, he and Mr. Scott.”

  The oatmeal was warm, rich, and soothing. The hint of cinnamon and maple was delightful. I continued to eat and wondered how to tell Mr. Delacroix about the money. “He’s moody, isn’t he, or is that just a put-on?”

  “No, it’s real. He’s moody as hell and I think it causes him a lot of strife, but he can’t help it. I’m not sure what happens exactly to set him off, and I don’t mean to say that he always gets angry or has a bad temper. But sometimes he gets so sad. Just wait till you see it. It’ll break your heart. Then sometimes he’s as happy as a kitten in a milk factory, like he’s been lately since you’ve been around.”

  “Then what was his deal this morning and how do I know he won’t flip out when I tell him about the money I stole? I can’t imagine thievery is something he tolerates well.”

  “I dunno about this morning. You won’t tell me what happened.”

  “All I did was ask him to stay home from the roast. Well, I did more than ask, I kinda insisted, and he went berserk. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “You know he’s Mr. Scott’s sub, right?”

  “Yeah, but they broke the collar years ago.”

  “Right, but they’re like me and Mr. Delacroix. They still have an agreement, a contract similar to the one you signed. And aside from that, he has duties to Twisted Oak. I know he wanted very badly to stay with you today, so he was likely pissed off at the situation, not at you.”

  “It’s not like Mr. Scott would hate him for the rest of his life if he didn’t show once, and really, Twisted Oak isn’t even Mr. Scott’s at all. Couldn’t Mr. Delacroix tell Mr. Scott to take a long walk anytime he wants to?”

  “Yep, but the proper and disciplined thing to do is answer your obligations; it’s basic respect and self-discipline. Fact is, cher, you made a difficult thing more difficult for him, but you didn’t mean to. Above all else, you need to respect his obligations.”

  “Should I never say I want him to stay?”

  “Oh no, by all means say it. He needs to hear it from you.”

  “So what do I do when he spins out in a bad mood?”

  “Nothing. If he needs you, he’ll say so. Just be still in your heart for him because that’s what he needs, a still and true heart to keep him steady. And another piece of advice: let Mr. Delacroix and Mr. Scott work out their power struggles. It’s best we let that play out the way they see fit and not butt in where we don’t belong. Your only concern should be getting healthy again and pleasing Mr. Delacroix. With his pleasure, you’ll find yours. I promise, it’s not as complicated as you think it is.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon moving my new clothes from Sunny’s room to what became “our” room. Everything was very grand, oversized, and masculine. Interior shutters closed out the daylight when needed. A writing table sat along the wall opposite the bathroom between two French doors that faced the square. Gowns, dresses, lingerie, garters, stockings, shoes, and boots took up nearly half of the large antique-mirrored armoire that stood on the wall opposite the foot of our bed. The grand piece of furniture was ten feet tall and had intricately carved oak feet and molding around the mirrors. Drawers built in underneath the shelves held leather cuffs, belts, cables, silk ropes, scarves, chains, and whips.

  I placed my backpack on the large throne-like chair that sat in one corner of the room. The bed was the focal point; four posts with small spiral spindles across the headboard upon which I had been tied that very morning.

  “You’ll be spending a lot of time in here,” Sunny said, “so feel free to add your personal touch. He likes it that way. He wants you to feel it’s as much yours as it is his. This is your home now, Miss Nez.”

  12.

  I settled back into bed as the rain began to fall heavily again. The shutters were open, but the room remained dark. Monique’s journals beckoned me and I found myself compelled to learn more about the ancestor Mr. Delacroix deified.

  July 1, 1765: Jean-Pierre fears I will be lonely, so he gave me this journal to keep me company. What he doesn't understand is that loneliness has become a way of life for me since coming to Louisiana. He is well intentioned and anticipates my every need. He says I am his treasure and he will care for me and protect me with his life. I suppose this means he loves me, but he never says he does. His attentiveness makes me feel like Madame de Pompadour and it will take time for me to adjust to it. I have never had a man serve my every need as he does and it makes me feel fragile. I am anything but.

  Do I love him? Yes, I do, enough to leave the servants' quarters and come to Twisted Oak and wear my golden collar and my wedding ring. In his way, Jean-Pierre loves me and I love him in mine. He promises to protect me and our children, as he wants many. He sometimes behaves as if he were Catholic. He built a chapel at Twisted Oak, but there are no icons to Jesus or Mother Mary, only the family crest. We've never attended mass, even though I miss it. He commands we perform our duties not for the grace of God, but rather for the grace of our mutual human pleasure. There is no higher calling than that of two human beings who live for the enjoyment of one another, he says. He explains that through our shared experiences, we will reach our highest human potential. This, he says, is all we can possibly hope to achieve. He says that I am the virgin mother from whence all creation comes and that it is his duty to plant the seed of life.

  He has shown me impeccable desire, impenetrable need, and untold depth and beauty of human spirit, body, and mind. I have never been as clear or driven to live life to the fullest. With him by my side, I will succeed in creating a family and dominating the region by force of will and land acquisition. I have no doubt my decisions, though grave, have and will continue to serve me well. My body is his temple.

  This expanse of Twisted Oak is larger than the Houma plantation and we have not found a full domestic staff yet. When Jean-Pierre arrives home in two days from his trip to New Orleans, he will bring me a woman-in-waiting, a personal valet, as well as a chef from the city. We will begin to fill the servants' quarters with local well-trained laborers. He assures me there are many quality, trustworthy workers who, once trained, will understand our way of life. The farms, currently well tended by the blacks, assure we want for nothing. Every day brings us blessings of the bounty of this place, but if not blessed by God, then by whom?

  The home itself has yet to be finished. They still work on the north wing. More bedrooms for more children, he says. We will staff th
e north wing with nurses, tutors, and teachers of the arts and sciences. He says our children will thrive with the gift of insight and knowledge that only he and I can give. He tells me our children will be beautiful. I pray to the gods, any god who will hear, that I will be prolific.

  How courageous she was to leave everything she had to go with a man she barely knew. I wondered to what extent her relationship was similar to my own, and whether I could love anyone enough to stay with him forever. Maybe Sunny was right when he said I did not know much about relationships. How could I possibly show Mr. Delacroix what love is if I did not have a clue?

  July 28, 1765: Jean-Pierre punished me today. I urged him to do it, as I felt lonely while he was away. I wanted all his attention and he gave it freely and generously. I love him and became selfish for his time.

  The top floor of the main part of the house is finished and he designed rooms meant to complement his peculiarities. He fashioned parts of it from rigging on sailing vessels; various pulleys, ropes, hanging apparatus, and sails in the shape of a swing hang from the low ceiling. Benches, beds, tables, and pillows are scattered about the place with mirrors on every wall. He bound my hands and feet and laid me in the sailcloth, which allowed him to enter me and exit repeatedly in blissful agitation as I swung back and forth. My body aches for more. On my knees, I brought him into my mouth hungrily and swallowed his sacred seed. I am pleased we will share the bed tonight. I am cold without him, even in the heat of summer.

  I wondered if those rooms still existed at Twisted Oak. I wondered if Mr. Delacroix was in those rooms now. What was Mr. Scott doing to him? The thought of Mr. Delacroix bound in blissful agitation suddenly brought my excitement to a new level. My insides were churning with desire. The vision of two men having sex created a gush of dampness between my legs. My hand instinctually went there, but I remembered my orders and I dutifully followed them.

  I shook it off and began to think about oral sex and whether this would soon be on Mr. Delacroix’s agenda. I wondered if I could hungrily swallow his seed. I remembered my reaction to the oyster and went to the drawer at the bottom of the armoire to find the ball gag. Tying it tightly around my head, I pushed the ball down firmly on the back of my tongue. If Monique could swallow, so could I. Wondering what other tips she might have, I continued to read.

  July 30, 1765: Only now do I get out of bed. For two glorious days, Jean-Pierre and I explored our pleasures. The heat outside was unbearable and so we threw open the windows and allowed the bayou breeze to flow over our bodies. He is so eager to discover every square inch of me and give me the highest pleasure. He knows no boundaries and travels his temple with ease and comfort. I am open for him and fall to my knees in thanks.

  There is new pain this time as there is always, but this time Jean-Pierre discovered a new avenue of pleasure. The so-named “unnatural” act he performed is no more unnatural than it is to find a bird in flight. We have been working toward this goal now for weeks, and yesterday, I found I was finally ready to bend fully for the life-giving pleasure of Jean-Pierre.

  I find in general I prefer to be bound for the sexual act because it allows me to relax my body. Jean-Pierre, being deft at the art of binding, is expert at setting the position so that my entire body is available for experiencing pleasure rather than the distraction involved in maintaining a position.

  For anal sex, being bound is paramount and exemplifies the pleasure. Yesterday, Jean-Pierre laid me on my back and bound my hands to the top of the headboard. His sweet, swift hands gently secured me with leather cuffs similar to those used for the blacks, but tanned to a much softer texture. He cuffed my ankles individually, brought each one to my wrists, and fastened them together with carabiners.

  He sweetly supported my shoulders and back with piles of pillows, constantly asking if I was feeling well. He seeks my comfort on every level, at every moment. His smile is intoxicating. He asked me to relax as best I could, every muscle, starting with my head all the way to my toes. He reminded me to breathe and so we breathed together while his hands worked magic and his tongue tickled my world. He brought sweet floral oils to my vagina and massaged my buttocks and anus with his deft fingers. He helped me relax and breathe while he dripped more oils inside me.

  He mounted me with his hands on top of the headboard and slowly entered my anus, always conscious of my well-being. As I bent to his will, I understood the extent to which I could do so without breaking. I felt the fullness of him inside, pushing slowly, opening me anew, exploring a new human expression of submission, bending, obedience, giving pleasure. The pain at first was difficult, but through even breathing and relaxation against the bindings, I soon found the pain was not pain, but pure pleasure. God in heaven, I gave this temple to his every whim. I was his completely. As he pulled back and then forward, faster and harder, my body responded miraculously. The juices flowed as hard, if not harder, than when he took my virginity. Now I have a new pleasure, a new gift to give to my love whenever he so desires, and I shall be eager to do it again. Thank you, Jean-Pierre, for showing me this new expression of our mutual pleasure.

  I lay in bed, gazed at the headboard, and wondered if it would be here that Mr. Delacroix would bind me in preparation. My groin roiled and my hips moved. I held my hand steady on the journal, remembering his electric blue eyes as he commanded my pleasure. I was concerned I would not be able to hold out until he came home.

  It all seemed to make sense now, working with the bindings for my own pleasure. Even though Mr. Delacroix said it excited him, tying me up was meant not for complete domination, but for the complete experience of pleasuring me. I had never thought of this before and only Monique in her gentle way could explain it so well.

  My thoughts went back to Mr. Delacroix. While I did not want him to be with anyone else, I understood the level of giving and pleasure, his experiences with Mr. Scott. How selfish of me to try to deprive him of this. How very wrong and spoiled I was. Only, I hoped he was indeed with Mr. Scott and not some other woman. A wave of jealousy took hold of me and I knocked it away with a stiff mental riding crop. He and I signed together. He wanted me more than he wanted anyone else.

  My hands gripped the journal. Monique, I thought, let me be strong like you.

  13.

  “Sunny, did you do this?” I heard Mr. Delacroix say as he left the room. My eyes opened to see his back as he walked away and I realized I had fallen asleep with the gag in my mouth. The gag reflex was gone.

  He returned with Sunny on his heels as I sat up and removed the gag. My mouth was terribly dry and I could not speak.

  “Do what, sir?”

  “Gag her, Sunny. I don’t recall giving you permission.”

  “I didn’t,” Sunny said.

  I raised my hand and in a half whisper said, “I did it.”

  Their mouths fell open and four blue eyes looked at me in surprise; two electric and two like arctic ice.

  “Sunny, go get Miss Nez a glass of water. Apparently she has something to tell us.”

  Mr. Delacroix tossed my backpack on the floor, sat in his throne chair, and took off his shoes. He leaned back, crossed his left ankle over his right knee, and closed his eyes. “Nez, I missed you today, my love.”

  “I missed you too, my lord.”

  Sunny brought cool water and I sipped greedily. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now tell us why you gagged yourself,” Sunny said.

  Mr. Delacroix opened his eyes and looked at me with a wide smile. “Yes, Nezzie, whatever possessed you?” His giggle was infectious.

  “I guess Monique possessed me, sir.”

  Mr. Delacroix smiled even wider. “You’ve been reading her journals?”

  I looked around for the precious book and found it tucked under the duvet. “Sir, she inspired me, possessed me, if you will.” I held the book to my breast.

  “Oh, Nezzie,” Mr. Delacroix
said as he rose from his chair. “Sunny, I knew it. I knew she was the one.”

  “Sir,” Sunny said, “I tend to agree, but shouldn’t you give it more time?”

  “Time for what?” I said to no one in particular. I waited for the other shoe to fall. Nothing could be this good without a hitch.

  Mr. Delacroix’s eyes shaded over and bore into Sunny. I cowered, but Sunny stood fast, his eyes narrow and gray. Was Sunny protecting me or himself?

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Delacroix conceded. “You’re right. I’m sorry, friend, you’re right. I have to stop getting ahead of myself. I sometimes get so wrapped up in how I want things to be or how I think they should be that I forget there are others to consider. I lose my sense of reality.” His hand rested on my leg. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to delay gratification. I have dreams of how I want that place to be, of you being there, but I forget that it’ll take some work to get there. I just can’t shake this feeling that you belong there.” He trailed off as if listening to that internal voice in his head.

  He turned to Sunny again. “I need you here for supper tonight.”

  “I’ll call Abby and let her know she’ll have the bar tonight, sir.”

  “I’d like to have supper with my family,” Mr. Delacroix said. “It’s been quite a day. Ty will be joining us for supper too.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sunny said, and left the room.

  “My lord, are you tired? Would you like to sleep for a while?” I asked.

  “No, my love, I’m too wound up to sleep. These family get-togethers are draining. There’s so much pretense and honest-to-goodness bullshit,” he said.

  I wanted to touch him, to caress his body and show him what I learned today from Monique. But before I could do anything, he took the gag, washed it carefully, and set it out on the vanity to dry. “So, do you think sleeping with this helped you?”