Seven Kisses: A Beauty and the Beast Dark Romance

Giselle Renarde Erotica

Seven Kisses: A Beauty and the Beast Dark Romance
© 2014 by Giselle Renarde

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

Cover design © 2014 Giselle Renarde

First Edition 2014

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Seven Kisses

A Beauty and the Beast Dark Romance

by

Giselle Renarde

Part One

Chapter One

“Sounds like a fun vacation, Daddy.  I’m getting a little jealous.”

“Gabby, I’ve told you a hundred times: you’re more than welcome to come along.”

“Nah, I don’t want to cramp your style.”  Holding her phone to her ear, Gabrielle looked both ways before crossing the street.  “Anyway, car shows aren’t exactly my thing.”

“Oh, that’s right,” her father said with a chuckle. “Instead, you’ve opted for… what’s it called, a hermit holiday?”

Gabrielle burst out laughing as she jogged across the road. “It’s called a staycation and you know it.  You’re so corny, Daddy.”

“Made you smile, though.”

“True.” 

As she walked past yet another perfect house with a professionally manicured lawn, her father asked, “What are you up to?”

“Thought I’d take myself on an urban hike in Loindici Woods.  There’s supposed to be a back entrance somewhere in this neighbourhood.”  She glanced at her hand, where she’d drawn a little map.  “I’ve never come this way before.”

“Well, promise me you’ll pick up a nice bottle of wine on your way home. Start that staycation in style.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I can’t, Daddy. I didn’t bring any ID. You know how they treat me at the liquor store: like I’m fourteen years old. Can’t they see all the fine lines across my forehead?”

“Gabby, your forehead is as smooth as a baby’s butt.”

She was sure going to miss her dad’s incessant compliments while he was away.  “Hey, remember to turn your phone off as soon as you get to the border, okay?”

“Yes, Gabrielle, you’ve told me all about the whopping bills some people end up with after using their cell phones in the states.”

“Yeah, like
thousands
of dollars.  I saw this consumer report where one guy’s charges were over ten thousand bucks!  That’s insane!”

He always gave into her. “I promise to keep my phone switched off while I’m driving across America. Oh, before I forget: is there anything you want me to bring back?  Your sisters wrote up a list of items you can, apparently, only buy in the good old U-S-of-A.”

“Yeah, they would,” Gabrielle grumbled.  “No, Daddy, I don’t want anything.  All I want is for you to enjoy your holiday, maybe meet a friendly car-loving lady while you’re down there.”

“Honestly, Gabby…”  Her father sounded irritated.  “How could I do that to your mother?”

“Mom’s been gone almost fifteen years.  It’s okay for you to look at other women now.”

“And what about
you
, young lady?”  His paternally friendly voice warmed up again.  “Tell me, when was the last time you went out on a Friday night?”

“Daddy…”

“You’re young, Gabby. Don’t put yourself in solitary confinement. Trust me, you reach a certain age and men stop looking your way.  You’ll have missed your chance.”

“Daddy!”  Gabby’s heart fell, not because what he was saying was particularly mean, but because his evaluation of her life was so spot-on.  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I just want you to be happy,” her father said.

“I just want
you
to be happy,” she replied.

And then a thought came to mind: a piece of art glass he’d bought her the last time he went on one of these road trips.  He’d talked at length about the artisan who’d made it—described her in detail.  She was a car-lover, too.  The woman had obviously caught his eye, whether or not he was willing to admit it.

“I know what you can bring me back from the states,” Gabrielle said to her phone.  “One of those glass roses. Remember the one you got me last time?  Another one of those.”

A brief pause, and then: “Sure. I can do that.”

“Have a good time, Daddy.  I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Gabby. Have fun painting your apartment. Make sure to call your sisters if you need any help.”

She laughed.  “Yeah right, like they’d help me.”

“Well… you know they’re always around, even when I’m not.”

That seemed like an odd thing to say, but Gabrielle didn’t question it. “Bye, Daddy. Talk to you when you get back.”

“Bye, Gabby. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Gabrielle listened while her father disconnected, and then sighed softly into her phone.  A woman her age had no right relying on Daddy for emotional validation, but she’d rather not consider what that said about her.

Consulting the map on her hand, Gabrielle tucked her phone between her skin and the strap of her yoga top.  Almost there.  She was looking for Besta Avenue… and there it was, right up ahead. That wasn’t too difficult.

But Besta Avenue didn’t culminate in a cul-de-sac backing onto the Loindici ravine like she’d expected. Instead, there was a driveway with one of those very official-looking parking lot control arms blocking the path.  No guard or attendant on duty.  Just a placard that read
Loindici Rehabilitation Centre
.

“That’s weird.” Gabrielle consulted the map on her hand.  Yes, she was in the right place.  When she gazed across the manicured grounds, past the mulberry trees and the geranium beds, she spotted a pathway leading to the forest.

Okay, so the map was right after all.  All she had to do was cut across the lawn and she’d be on the right path. Once she’d slipped under the parking arm and cleared the imposing stone wall around the property, a giant establishment came into view.  Was it Victorian?  She wasn’t good with architecture, even though there’d been a section on it in the art history course she took at university.  All she remembered were Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns, and this house had none of those.

House, yes—it looked more like a mansion than an institution: all brick and stone and peaks and lead windows.  It reminded her somewhat of a castle because of its size, but there was also something dark and foreboding about it.  Castles stood tall and proud.  This place slumped and shrouded itself, as though it were ashamed of what went on in its belly.

Loindici Rehabilitation Centre
… what kind of rehabilitation, Gabrielle wondered?  Rehabilitation as in people with broken spines learning to walk again?  Or rehabilitation as in drug addicts trying to kick the habit?

The building was hauntingly beautiful. How come she’d never heard of this place? She tried looking it up on her phone, but it didn’t seem to exist online.  Maybe the building had been abandoned.  Or maybe she’d stumbled onto a film set without realizing it.

Just as she tried one more page of search results, a creaking noise sent her heart into her throat.  She pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, breathing a sigh of relief when she realized it was only the gate arm lifting to let in a shiny black town car.

Oh no... was she on private property?  Would she get in trouble for being here?  Would she be arrested?

The vehicle honked and she scurried off the driveway so the town car could pull up to the fearsome Victorian mansion.  Standing on brilliantly green turf, she watched it in awe.  And then she noticed the “Keep off the Grass” sign and jumped onto the concrete path.

A smart girl would have taken off down that path, enjoyed a pleasant hike in Loindici Woods, and never looked back.

But Gabrielle couldn’t stop staring as the driver stepped out of his vehicle and circled around it to open the back door.  Who would get out?  Somebody famous?  If this rehab clinic wasn’t findable online, maybe it provided super-secret service to the stars.

Who’d been arrested lately?  Which celebrity’s addiction might require medical intervention? Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention to the tabloids last time she was standing in line at the supermarket?

As the driver unloaded suitcases onto the curb, a purple high-top running shoe emerged from the back seat. The shoe was followed by a leg, a bare leg… a bare thigh… and then a denim mini-skirt.

Her outfit was a throwback to the eighties, though the girl couldn’t possibly have been alive back then.  How old was she?  In her teens, for sure.  Her splattered neon T-shirt hung so low off one shoulder it would inevitably give way to a nip slip.  The girl had a canvas messenger bag over one shoulder and a book tucked under her arm.  From the book, she pulled a bill, and handed it to the driver. He tucked it in his pocket, then raced back to the car and squealed away like he’d just pulled off a bank robbery.

When the eighties girl fixed her gaze on Gabrielle, panic set in. She’d almost forgotten this scene was playing out in real life, not on TV. It was so much like a reality show.

Standing on her toes, the girl in the denim skirt waved wildly.  Gabrielle had never seen anyone so happy to start rehab. No tears. Just a bright sunny smile.

Raising her hand to shoulder level, Gabrielle wriggled her fingers in a half-hearted attempt at a wave.  The girl raced to her at quite a clip.  It must have hurt to run like that without a bra on. 

The girl reached out with both hands. At first Gabrielle thought a big braless hug was coming her way.  Nope.  The girl in the denim skirt clasped her shoulders, gave her a shake, and said, “You! 
You’re
Suzanne! Got it?”

The girl’s beaming grin burned Gabrielle’s retinas as she watched the young woman flee down the concrete path and into the ravine. 

Staggering in that direction, Gabrielle asked, “What?  I’m
who
?”

Too late. The young woman ran into the woods without so much as glancing back.

Gabrielle kept asking herself if she recognized the girl. Her face, though striking, was totally unfamiliar.  Maybe some billionaire’s daughter—not the Paris Hilton type who flaunts herself in public, but the kind who causes her parents untold stress by acting out, begging for attention.  According to the tabloids those kids were always hooked on drugs by the time they turned fifteen.

And then a deep, dark voice came out of nowhere to say, “Come, Suzanne. You must surrender to your fate.”

One hand landed heavily on Gabrielle’s shoulder, and by the time she’d turned to see who’d touched her, another hand had landed on the other shoulder.  Two men in scrubs hovered over her like statues.  She looked into their eyes, ready to tell them they’d made a big mistake, but their faces were stone…

Chapter 2

“We mustn’t keep Madame de Villeneuve waiting,” one of the men in scrubs said.

The other man nodded.  “Madame de Villeneuve is not a patient woman.”

Gabrielle couldn’t see their mouths moving. They both wore white surgeons’ masks.  The harder she squinted to look at them, that farther away they seemed. And yet she could feel them dragging her body toward the mansion house.  Her feet conspired with the hired hands. What was happening?

“I’m not Suzanne,” she told them.

Her body was not her own. It moved with them as they chuckled in a gritty, cruel fashion.

“Honestly!  I’m not!” She wriggled, but their hands were too strong. Anyway, she felt partially hypnotized, like they were controlling her in some weird way.  “You don’t believe me?  I’m telling the truth. My name is Gabby, not Suzanne. Whoever you think I am, I’m not
her
. I’m
me
!”

They said nothing as they led Gabrielle to the grand entrance of the manor house.  They didn’t even laugh.

As they stepped past a line of suitcases and up the wobbly stone steps, Gabrielle asked, “Are you looking for the girl from the town car?  I saw her.  She ran away. She ran into the ravine. That’s her luggage.  She’s not me. I’m not her.”

Both men’s hands slid down from Gabrielle’s shoulders to grasp her arms. Hard. Their strength made her feel about as hefty as a drinking straw. One false move and they could strike her dead, easy as pie.

“Will you let me go?” Gabrielle pleaded as the men pushed open a set of wooden double doors.  “I can walk on my own. You don’t need to hold me like I’m a child.”

Their thumbs dug into her arms as they heaved her into the Victorian mansion. 

The moment Gabrielle crossed the threshold, she felt like she’d gone back in time.  The afternoon sun gleamed across the highly polished floor. The walls were panelled in dark wood, and in the centre of the plaster ceiling hung the most glorious chandelier she’d ever seen.

“Wow,” she said, more to herself than to her escorts.  “This place is like a movie set. It’s like… I don’t even know what. Like England!”

She stood still as the two men tugged her arms.  It wasn’t so much that she was afraid—more that she hadn’t finished taking in the full glory of the vestibule.  To one side, there was a dark wooden staircase with carvings on the risers and a gorgeous sculpted railing.  When the men pulled her down the hallway, she realized there was a stained glass window at the top of the staircase. It painted a gorgeous gemstone spectrum across the mouldings.

Celebrity rehab!
Who knew it would be this glorious?

Gabrielle didn’t whine as the men dragged her down the ever-darkening corridor.  There was too much to take in. She couldn’t think and speak at the same time. To her right, two doors with leaden glass windows let her spy on an empty drawing room complete with a magnificent grand piano.  She could just imagine evenings there, when celebrities took to the keyboard, performing duets for one another’s amusement.

On her left was a luscious library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and leather armchairs. It even had those old-timey ladders on rollers, so you could climb up and reach the top shelves.  There was nobody inside, as far as she could see beyond the open pocket doors. That library would be Gabrielle’s go-to hang-out if she was a patient at this facility.

A heady aroma hit her, just then.  Turkey and stuffing?  With mashed potatoes and candied yams and pumpkin pie?  Were they really serving a big meal like that in the middle of the summer? Oh, no dispute—if she was a patient here, she’d split her time evenly between the library and the dining room. Okay, and she’d also join the evening’s celebrity sing-along. Just for fun.

When they arrived face-to-face with a panelled door, both men knocked simultaneously. Their solid raps echoed through the hallway, which was starting to feel smaller and darker than it had before, like some kind of creepy Alice in Wonderland tunnel.

“Madame,” one of the men in scrubs called through the door.  “We have brought you your latest arrival.”

“Thank you,” a sultry voice called back.  “You may show her in.”

The men opened the dark door and pushed Gabrielle beyond the threshold.  She fell to her knees and skidded across the floor.  By the time she’d turned to scowl at her captors, the woman they’d called “Madame” had already closed the door behind her.

“Hello, Suzanne.”  The woman stood tall in a pinstriped skirt and ruffled blouse.  Her clothes looked nearly as old as the house, and her office décor wasn’t much newer.  There was even a Freud-style fainting couch along one panelled wall.

While Gabrielle was busy taking in the sights, the very proper woman repeated herself. “Did you hear me, my dear?  I said hello, Suzanne.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”  Gabrielle picked herself up off the floor with the help of an oxblood leather chair. A nameplate on the desk caught her eye: it read
Mme de Villeneuve
in gold lettering. “I tried to tell your guys, but they wouldn’t listen. See, I’m not supposed to be here.”

Pursing her pink lips, Mme de Villeneuve cocked her head and considered Gabrielle.  “Many patients feel that way when they first arrive at Loindici Manor.”

“I thought it was a rehab centre,” Gabrielle cut in.  “That’s what it said on the sign. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mme de Villeneuve shot Gabrielle in intrigued look.  “You are not at all as I thought you’d be, Suzanne.”

“That’s because I’m not Suzanne.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose with curiosity.  “I see. Who are you, my dear?”

“Gabrielle. Suzanne ran away. She ran into the woods. I don’t know where she went.”

“I see.”  Sitting swiftly at her desk, Madame de Villeneuve pulled a set of what could only be called spectacles (you wouldn’t call them glasses, that’s for sure) from a desk drawer.  She uncapped a wooden pen with a fancy nib—a calligraphy pen, looked like—and dashed a few lines on a creamy piece of paper.

Gabrielle could see the thick black ink staining the paper, but she couldn’t read the words.  “What language is that?”

Madame did not respond. 

“What are you writing?”

She didn’t acknowledge Gabrielle’s question in any way.

“Is it about me?  I’m not Suzanne, you know.”

Setting the calligraphy pen beside the paper, Madame removed a blotting sheet from her desk and set it over her writings.  “Your parents are very concerned about your behaviour, as I’m sure you are aware.  That is why they wish you committed to my care. Now that I have met you, young lady, I must say I am concerned as well.”

Gabrielle sat a little straighter. In her house growing up, “young lady” always went along with “you’re in big trouble.”

“Your parents are of the opinion that you present a danger to yourself and to others.  Would you agree with that assessment, Suzanne?”

With a nervous laugh, Gabrielle said, “I’m not Suzanne. Remember?  I told you Suzanne ran away. She ran into the woods.”

Madame removed the blotting paper and continued writing, filling the sheet and then moving on to another.

Gabrielle didn’t want to intrude, but she’d been waiting long enough.  “What is this place, anyway?”

At first, Madame did not respond. Then, setting down her pen, she said, “Did your parents not explain it to you?  Loindici Manor is a facility for those with afflictions—and with money.  My novel therapies can cure any disorder.  Anything at all.”

So Gabrielle got it right: this place really was a celebrity rehab centre!  And the girl who’d run away was probably some billionaire’s daughter. Oh, what Gabrielle wouldn’t give to see famous people hitting rock bottom.  And, hey, if she snapped some pictures she could earn a few bucks selling them to the tabloids!  This staycation might just turn into an unexpectedly lucrative holiday. All she had to do was play along.

“Okay,” Gabrielle said. “Tell me why I’m here.”

Madame de Villeneuve shook her head.  “No sense playing games with me, child.  Your parents have been concerned for some time about your sexual digressions. You engage in risky behaviours. You have come home beaten and bruised after an evening unchaperoned. Why do you allow such things to happen, my dear? I will tell you why: because the beast in you has not been tamed.”

“Oh. Wow.”  So, Suzanne was a sex addict, was she?

“Your parents tell me you have been a chronic masturbator since infancy.”

Gabrielle’s cheeks blazed.  Even though she wasn’t really Suzanne, she wouldn’t want anybody thinking she was… eww, she didn’t even like the word…
masturbator
?  And a chronic one, at that.  Since infancy!

“And now you step into my office and tell me you are not Suzanne, but rather you are Gabrielle.  This indicates, to me, a severe fragmentation of the psyche.”

“No, no.” 
Damn
, she shouldn’t have said she wasn’t Suzanne.  Now Madame must think she was crazy—or Suzanne was, at least.  “Sorry. I just… I was scared about being committed against my will. That’s all.  I’m Suzanne.  I’m all those things you said.  So, can you tell me when the sing-alongs usually start?”

Madame de Villeneuve furrowed her brow.  “My dear, we do not commit patients against their will.  You are a legal adult and, as such, your parents’ signatures are not sufficient to gain entry to my program.”  She pulled a document from her drawer. How odd—the papers were put together not with a staple but with a brass tack.  “It is up to you to commit yourself to my program, Suzanne.”

“Oh.”  Could Gabrielle really go through with this?  Could she really pretend she was someone else, some rich nymphomaniac?  She hadn’t acted a part since the Grade 8 Christmas play, and she wasn’t very good in that.

Handing Gabrielle the wooden calligraphy pen, Madame said, “I must warn you: my therapy is intensive but it yields results. When we begin, you will more than likely wish to return home to a world of comforts. But this, I will not allow.  Once you sign my document, you are committed to my care.  You do as I instruct. You will not leave until I tell you to go.  If this is understood, then sign your name at the bottom of the page.”

The contract, or whatever it was, hadn’t been typed on a computer.  The whole thing had been written in Madame’s dense calligraphy hand.  Gabrielle couldn’t read a word of it, yet all she could think to ask was, “My parents are paying for this, right?”

Madame nodded solemnly, seeming offended by the mention of money.  “Your stay has been paid in advance.”

This place was basically a five-star resort masquerading as a rehab clinic. What was the sense in letting the booking go to waste while the real Suzanne camped out in Loindici Woods, or boarded a plane out of the country, or whatever she was doing right now?

“Once you sign that page, Suzanne, you are mine to treat. You give up your right to say no. Are you prepared to do that, young lady?”

Her right to say no in exchange for a week with celebrities crying into their ice cream and shivering in front of Victorian fireplaces? Yup, Gabrielle was willing to go for it. You only live once.

It was only after she’d signed her name that she realized she’d written
Gabrielle
and not
Suzanne
.  What was Suzanne’s last name, anyway? Hilton? Trump?  Ooh… she could be related to anyone!  But Madame de Villeneuve didn’t appear to realize she’d signed the wrong name. In fact, Madame de Villeneuve didn’t even look at the signature before covering it with blotting paper.

“Very good, Suzanne.  Your treatment will begin tomorrow.”

Her toes tingled.  “I can’t wait to see my room.”

Madame offered a blank stare and then replied, “You will not see much of anything in the beginning, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”  What was that supposed to mean?

“Are you familiar with exposure therapy, Suzanne?”

Gabrielle considered, and nodded.  “Yeah, that’s like if you’re afraid of snakes then your therapist would bring a snake into the session and you’d learn eventually that it wasn’t a danger to you.”

With a kind smile, Madame de Villeneuve said, “Quite right, my dear.  My method of addiction therapy, for you, will be overexposure therapy.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” Gabrielle responded. 

“Perhaps you are familiar with the practice, if not in so many words.”

“I don’t think so…”

Rising out of her dark leather wing chair, Madame said, “Recall those antiquated television programs you might have seen as a child. The father catches his young son smoking a cigarette. He sits the boy down and says, ‘You are going to smoke this entire carton of cigarettes.’”

“Oh yeah.”  Gabrielle laughed. “That was, like,
Leave It To Beaver
and all those shows.  I never got why the dad would do a thing like that.  Wouldn’t the kid just get addicted to nicotine?”

“My dear darling girl, he wishes for his son to find the beast in the drug. All things in moderation—we have Socrates to thank for that rationale.  Too much, even of a good thing like sexual pleasure, leads the body to torment.”

For a moment, Gabrielle had no clue what Madame was talking about. Then she remembered she was supposed to be Suzanne the sex addict and she nodded.  “Oh. Right. Sure, that makes sense.”