by Ann Vremont
I did as he said, gasping as he raised the skirt of my gown and pushed my undergarments out of his way. Pinned to the wall, I braced my hands against his shoulders and watched him tug his pants down his hips until his cock sprang free. The damp spot that had built between my legs was refreshed, the new wetness coating my lips, making me ready for his heavy shaft.
How glorious his rod by day! I could see what before I had only felt. The tip, heavy and plumped, its coloring a swollen burgundy, was formed in the shape of a mushroom cap. From there, the stalk, barely narrower than the head, ran hard and straight to a base of dark blond curls. And the sacs that hung below! My mouth grew wet as I remembered the taste of his seed, how I had sucked so greedily at it, surprising both of us. Every aspect of his physique seemed magnified and ready to rob me of any choice. My breasts grew sore at the need to taste him again. Every inch of flesh ached for him. Even my tongue felt thick with the desire to dip into the opening at the tip of his cock and sample the bright pearl already beading there.
“Ambroise…”
“Do not ask me to stop, Gabrielle, please do not demand such a thing.”
He was begging me to let him continue! Could he not sense how hot I had become with my need of him? Did he think my trembling to be fear and not what it truly was—an appetite grown enormous at the sight of his thick cock pulsing such a short distance from my sheath?
“I was only tasting your name, my love.” I sighed and leaned my head against the wall, offering my throat to him as I thrust my hips forward so that my lower lips might brush his cock.
I had closed my eyes again and he softly bid me to look at him.
“Watch me fill you, Gabrielle.”
It was an impassioned request he made, not a command, and I opened my eyes to see the engorged head of his cock part the uppermost split of my lips and tease the spine of my tingling bud. Burying his shaft deeper between my lips without penetrating me, he withdrew for a second, showing me how my desire, wet and aromatic, coated his cock.
“You are so moist, my love, so ready.” Passion twisted his words into groans. “Do you now renew your promise to me?”
Ah, how I wanted to make him worry, to keep him thinking that I was anything other than enslaved by his touch. How miserably I failed at doing so!
“Yes,” I cried out, feeling him enter me a heartbeat later with a sharp thrust. “Only you, Ambroise.”
Again I was crying and he kissed my tears away before crushing my mouth with his. Salt covered his lips and tongue, and I licked at them as he continued driving his cock into me. My fingers dug into his broad shoulders in my fight to control my ecstatic moans—the prospect that my exclamations might draw Mama and Papa from the house with worried haste both terrified me and filled me with a wanton abandon.
“Mine?” He grabbed my bottom roughly and pulled me deeper onto his shaft.
“Yes,” I moaned, squirming on his manhood as the tension coiled like a snake in my belly.
He reached up and cupped my breast, squeezing it hard. “Mine?”
“All of it,” I panted, my vision blurring with the first wave of my climax. “All of me.”
Ever so gently, he put his hand between my breasts, covering my heart while his hips continued driving his rod into me in sweet torture. “Mine?”
The question was issued in a choked cry and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling myself to him, kissing the hard line of his jaw and answering before pleasure robbed me of all speech.
“Yours, Ambroise!”
...
Now I wait in my rooms, deliciously sore once again. True to his word, we shall be married within two weeks. I return to the Sacred Heart tomorrow…to remove temptation from him beforehand—so he had joked—and to gather my girlish belongings and say goodbye to my true friends. (Even now, my mind goes over how I shall take my revenge on Veronique for her duplicity. Is that fair, when I have what I did not know I wanted? Still, her intentions were far removed from the nurturing of love!)
And I must burn this journal, even though it nearly kills me to destroy a testament to the passion Ambroise and I have shared thus far. But I would not risk its discovery to the world, or even his discovery of it. I would not have him read of my silly devotion to Sebastian when I knew no better or of my unkind words. Nor would I have Ambroise know the full power he wields over me. I can only hope he is a benign (but dominant!) master.
I must trust that he is, for my body and heart can deny him nothing.
LUCILLE
Philipe,
I cannot tell you what a furor Beatrice’s story caused here at the convent. Now everyone goes around with suspicion in their eyes, tightly guarding their secrets (but not from me—I pass among them much as a servant does, invisible). Some of the sisters have even pulled burning diaries and letters from the fire. Ah, what I would give to read those charred, confiscated pages!
I fear, however, that it will become more difficult to find and record the stories. They have given me a roommate, so crowded have we become here at Sacred Heart. I did not know what to expect, she is of a very notable family. I thought I would come back to my room to find everything I own shoved into a corner or her endlessly complaining at being in no more than a broom closet (truly, it is that small). But she has been most gracious, although I sometimes wonder if it is not a subtle manipulation that she uses to ensure that she will always get the larger prize when the time comes.
But that is enough about AnneMarie. On to Lucille! I have moved beyond spying in diaries and journals to delivering a young lady’s love letters and intercepting their content!
Ah, I cannot tell you how hard my heart pounds as I prepare to post this to you. For, you see, I have not hidden the identity of Lucille’s roommate. It is Beatrice! And Lucy’s complaints of Beatrice tell us all too well that something dreadful has come to pass in Beatrice’s household. Yet, surely the pairing of the two stories will confirm the suspicions of the sisters and girls here at the convent. I write of them!
But please, dear cousin, you need not worry that Lucille will expose me, as you shall see at the end of this letter.
As ever,
Candacis
May 5, 1787
My dearest André,
It is night and I write this by candlelight. I should be sleeping but thoughts (most wicked) of you keep me awake. I know it is wrong, that I should feel this way for a man of the cloth—for any man I do not call husband. But my soul and body burn for you. Tomorrow, when I kneel before you, will you tremble as you place the wafer in my mouth? Well you should, for I do not imagine that it is some offering of our Lord’s body that I devour, but your manhood!
Will you not answer my cry for help—even if only by return letter? I plead with you to do so. My soul is imperiled and you are my only hope of salvation.
-L-
April 15, 1787
André, beloved,
I searched the drop point I suggested and still I find no word from you. And yet I know you receive my missives. I have gone to great lengths and expense to know that it is true.
Do you read my words or burn the envelopes unopened? You read them, I know you must! For your hand did tremble as you brought the wafer to my mouth this morning and when I was so bold as to look you in the eye, you cast your gaze to the side. So much more delicious this Sunday’s communion as I imagined the salty taste of your rod on my tongue and prayed that the same image ran through your mind.
I would fill your mind with more images since you do not care to make your own pilgrimage to me. Imagine, dear André, my body as it is now, while I sit here writing this letter. I have loosened the bodice to my dressing gown, allowing my hand to cup and stroke my breasts whenever Beatrice leaves the room. I count the minutes until she retires at last to her bed to sob into her pillow until sleep claims her.
Then, alone in my wakefulness, I lift the hem of my dressing gown. Do you picture this, beloved? Do you see the fabric sliding up over my bare calves, pooling between m
y thighs as one hand slips between my legs and the other fills these pages with promises of my love for you—promises I would give immediate physical form if you would consent and name a time and place!
...
Ah, I return to ink and paper now—Beatrice having finally retired for the evening. How she moans in her sleep! I worry her noise might call someone to our room and they should find me thus, my hand roaming my thighs, dipping into the wet recesses of my sex.
Would it shock you, André, if I named these parts to you, the parts that weigh so heavily in my mind? Pussy, cunt, clit, cock! How those words thrill my mouth, my tongue and lips silently shaping them as I write. Clit and cunt thrill me the most, the T’s delightfully thick and swollen, much as my own sex is as I think of fucking you.
But I do not say this to shock you—only to assure you that I would not suffer ruin at your hands—you are, my love, the only hope I have of my soul’s reformation.
Let me pray before you, on my knees, my hands clasped to your hips, your hands, divine in their touch, knotted in my hair. Please, beloved, do not continue denying me all hope of salvation.
-L-
May 8, 1787
André,
A letter from you at last. You will pray for my soul, you say. How kind of you. Have you done so already? God must not be listening for I still burn for you, still grow damp at the thought that I will see you at services tomorrow. Look for me then—see how I squirm along the bench, needing you so badly.
Do not mistake my intensity for religious fervor—it is a divine lust that possesses me. To sate it, until you take pity on me, I purchased a poor substitute for you. A dildo…I call it my Little André, although its circumference is not at all little. Little André is flat at the bottom, with a base that pushes at my thighs as I walk or sit with it embedded in my wet cunt (yes, love, even in the confessional, I carry your namesake at all times now). From the base, three rounded balls penetrate me. They are metal, melded together, and each has the circumference of a fat egg. My pussy folds around the balls and their little valleys, contractions rippling through me with the slightest movement of my body.
So picture that, dearest, when you look for me on the bench as you preach eternal love and forgiveness. Watch my body sway with devotion—not to the God you pay lip service to, but to your manhood and the sorry replica of it that my pussy clenches and flutters at.
-L-
May 9, 1787
Sweet Jesus! How you trembled at evening services. Have I undone your concentration? Tell me I have!
Heed my words, André. You can save me but you must touch me to do so—how else can the carnal beast that possesses me be driven out? A meeting will not be as difficult as you might think. I am alone in my room now, Beatrice having returned home to attend the trial of some mad family servant who killed her mother and a serving maid.
Do you not see how easy, then, it will be for me to sneak out and meet you?
You must agree or I will go mad with my desire for you—desire so long contained and so long denied!
Even now, alone, I do such things as to endanger my immortal soul forever. The metal dildo, my Little André, plunges in and out of my wet pussy as I write. To stop my moans, I have stuffed undergarments in my mouth, the cloth ripe with the pungent odors of my cunt. I imagine that it is your cock wet with the taste of my desire that fills my mouth, even as I pretend it is your cock simultaneously devastating my body with the vicious thrusts of the dildo.
Do you not fear for my soul knowing this? Will you not help me!
-L-
May 10, 1787
How short our meeting but how very satisfying! The next time we must have more privacy. I know we could have accomplished so much more today had you not feared discovery.
Did you find me wet enough, my love? I certainly found your fingers talented. I had heard you studied piano before taking your vows. I do not doubt this. I still tingle at the way your fingers stroked my clit, pinching and pulling me closer to climax before you thrust all your fingers into my pussy. (Was that all you thrust? It felt as if, beneath my skirts, your fist possessed me—so thick and firm. Ah, I am wet all over again!)
So, too, I remember how, dripping with my juices, your fingers dared to penetrate my ass. Do you believe, worldly as I am, that this was new to me? Now I fantasize of nothing other than you filling it again—your cock in one hole, your hand in the other.
If only there had been more time! I would know your taste, know the shape and length of your cock. When will you see me again?
-L-
May 12, 1787
Clever, daring man! Do you think Sister Orinthia suspected anything? Ah, she does not, as some girls here would claim, have supernatural vision that can see through wood and stone. She would have died straight away had she been able to see through your desk—seen me there at your feet, your robes pulled up and cock ramrod straight, bobbing with impatience for her to leave that I might take its full length in my mouth once again.
Do my words make you hard with the memory of it? I know my mouth waters still. You are, truthfully, the most well-endowed man I have ever seen. I turned my hand just now—examining my wrist and wondering how I managed to take something nearly so wide in its diameter—to have its engorged tip kiss the back of my throat.
And the taste of your seed and how much of it I drew from you. Though I loved it filling my mouth, sliding down my throat and hitting my stomach to spread its decadent warmth through my body—still, I have one regret. I would have you baptize my face and body with your cum. Can you not see me covered with it—face, neck and breasts glistening, my greedy tongue darting out to capture its taste.
How I long for the freedom that you might do just that! And I have devised a ruse to allow us to more fully explore one another, to sample every orifice the other offers until we grow sluggish and dumb from sated passions.
Do arrange, my love, a trip to the city this week and but tell me when. I shall tell you where. And do not worry as to clothes—you will be naked the entire time!
-L-
May 17, 1787
I am complete! You have made me so and saved my soul, without cost, I hope, to your own.
What luxury it was to lay beside you—a day of fucking before and behind us. Your juice on me and in me, your cock filling my cunt and ass. Your mouth—Sweet God, your mouth. Your tongue is as talented as your fingers.
And, my darling, your trust, your sweet anxiety as you let me penetrate you with Little André. We must have a mirror next time that you might see. It fascinated me so—the slide of the thick metal balls into your ass. My pussy clenched with envy as I saw your opening swallow each of the three bulbs. My heart constricted more tightly still with your heated demands that I pump the thick knobs in and out. How furiously fast we moved. I rode your legs as I fucked your ass. Did you know that? I rubbed my clit and wet pussy over your thick calf, soaking the hair, as I leaned against you, thrusting the dildo with one hand while I stroked your cock with the other.
Your cream on the sheets! I could have lapped it up like a cat in heat had you not thrown me on the mattress and devoured my pussy. Ah, your tongue on my clit, the nip of your teeth on that sensitive bud and my engorged labia. The thrust of your fist—your whole fist—inside my cunt. I am coming now in memory of it—my hands occupied only with paper and tit.
Sweet André, my beloved, my lover. I await our next meeting with near breathlessness—my hand and Little André poor solace until then.
-L-
May 19, 1787
That you must go away for two weeks saddens me, but all is not lost. Say, dearest, that you will write me. If you post in town, post in my brother’s name so that it will reach me without the sisters’ scrutiny.
-L-
June 3, 1787
Two weeks and I hear nothing from you, nor have I had any way to send you something. Surely you could have managed some note, however cryptically worded.
-L-
June 5, 1
787
You call me deluded? You would disavow our knowledge of one another? How, when I could tell Sister Orinthia every word of her conversation with you that day I hid beneath your desk. Do not do this, I pray of you!
-L-
June 8, 1787
If you will not hear my pleas as your lover, will you not hear them from me as the mother of your child? Yes, André, it is true. I have spent my mornings sick the last ten days, and the stream of blood that should now flow between my legs is a week late. I fear that I am with child and would have—no, I demand your guidance and comfort! If you do not offer it immediately, I shall expose you.
-L-
Author’s note (June 17, 1787): This is the last letter I intercepted between Lucille and André. She and her belongings were removed from the convent during the next day’s services. Her fate, as of the date of this report, remains unknown. But Fra. André delivered a fine, rousing service today.
VERONIQUE
Philipe,
No doubt, dear cousin, you remember Veronique? I am pleased she has provided me, however unwilling, with more material for my readers. To think, had I not seized the opportunity—in broad daylight, no less—to take her diary a mere five minutes after watching her finish an entry, all would be lost! Her family, I hear, claims to have smuggled her out of the country to ensure her safety from the rising chaos that threatens to envelope all of France. But you and I, and now our audience, know better!
As ever,
Candacis
June 6, 1787
I commissioned a portrait this morning by post, having met with the artist last week while visiting Mother and Father.
My feelings on the selection are quite mixed. Christophe is not yet well-known, although his brush shows great talent. I would have had someone more suited to my social standing, but the funds are not there. Already, I have run through most of the money Ambroise gave me for my part in his seduction of Gabrielle. I would have thought, since her stomach already carries their first child, that he would have offered me some bonus. But he is so enthralled with that insipid girl and she has made sure that he keeps his purse strings tightly drawn whenever I visit.
