Invitation to Ruin (8 page)

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 my 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, 1787

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.