Invitation to Ruin (11 page)

“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
.

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