Invitation to Ruin (9 page)

-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.

So, instead of allowing Ambroise to throw me
a coin or two for a proper artist, Gabrielle gives me Christophe’s
name and studio address. I went to interview him, only to avoid
insulting Ambroise!

Yet something about his work captured my
interest. And he was very attentive in seeing to my comforts as I
posed for a few preliminary sketches that he might show me his
vision. Such vision! Passionate even on charcoal and paper. How
accurately he captured the essence of my spirit while preserving my
beauty. That those rough materials he used should be made to reveal
my sublime grace—surely he is as talented as any painter at
court.

So, it is done! The money for supplies went
with the letter of commission this morning and I will see him this
weekend when I return home for another week’s stay—Gabrielle having
somehow convinced my parents that the city is safe.

June 9, 1787

He has drawn secret pictures of me! I know
because I saw them today—having searched his drawing desk while he
was busy setting up his supplies and staging the posing area. I
could not help but do so, his manner at my arrival made me
suspicious. He was in a great hurry to hide (not merely put away)
the sketch books when I came. It seemed too facile a possibility
that he was trying to protect my delicate nature by hiding common
nudes. Since he could not think me so ill-educated a school girl,
it stood to reason that he must be hiding his sketch books
specifically from me.

And I was right, though I had no idea how
thoroughly impudent a beast he could be. The pictures start out
innocently enough, such that I might consider them more refined
exercises as he formulated his final vision. But, oh how the series
progresses. It moves from a study of my face to one of me sitting
on a chaise. From there, he has me reclining with a leisurely
grace, my clothing much as I might wear to bed, only loosely
fastened. And then he has me alone in my flesh—no covering of any
fashion! Only my hair is down, falling in loose waves over my
breasts.

Even there, he did not stop and I marvel at
where he found the time for so many sketches—have I possessed his
thoughts that he has done nothing but draw me since our first
meeting? For there were dozens more—all in an unclothed state. No
mere studies of my form, either. He has drawn me at the height of
my passion. Images of me touching myself, images of me on my hands
and knees, lips sensuously parted. Pictures where my legs were
thrown wide as if I were inviting the whole world to come and take
a peek.

How difficult it was to softly answer his
summons to come and sit…to demurely pose before him while feeling
as if he already knew me in a most intimate manner! Again and again
he had to correct me as I sat there...for I could not sit still. I
had to look at him, see him, try to figure out what had driven him
to make those sketches.

So, too, was I enchanted by his very
presence, for he is a most handsome and virile looking young man.
What response, I wondered, had these images of my body so wantonly
exhibited produced in him?

Now I sit here debating what I should do when
I next pose for him. Do I tell him I have seen the pictures?

June 11, 1787

What a difficult man! When I confronted him
about the pictures, he acted nonchalant and showed me sketch after
sketch of nudes, male and female, some of them in the very act of
copulating with one another. When I thanked him, with honeyed
sarcasm, for not pairing me with one of his sick imaginings, he
only gave me a sly smile! What depraved acts has he drawn me
engaged in? And why do I want nothing more than to go back through
those books and find myself down on my hands and knees with
Christophe’s manhood impaling me from behind!

June 12, 1787

A letter today from Christophe—canceling the
day’s session because something “more important” has arisen. Vile
beast that he is, he sent me a picture of his phallus drawn, he
says, to scale—though he must lie!

June 13, 1787

How accurate his pencil! I must confess, I
could not throw away his degenerate token. I spent the evening in
my room, studying it, learning its every detail until I could think
of nothing but taking its living twin into my mouth before
sheathing it deep inside me.

The shaft is of a generous size. Not so
frighteningly large as to scare me away, but far more than most
women can hope for in a lover. Its greatest feature, however, is
the network of thick veins that run near the surface. Oh, what a
sensation to have felt their texture inside of me!

The head, too, produced feelings I still
cannot calm. It sits on top of the shaft in a most unusual manner
from what I have seen and felt of other men. It is meaty and
bulbous, too thick at the sides to form the arrow tip to which I am
accustomed. Yet how it found its mark as he thrust into me this
afternoon! I could hardly walk from his doorstep to the carriage
that would return me home.

It was evident from the moment I arrived that
he intended to seduce me. A blank canvas was prepped and a flat
table covered with a velvet throw and silk cushions had replaced
the chaise.

“You are not prepared for my sitting?” I
asked.

His gaze swept over me like a furnace blast
and he arched one brow in actorly contemplation. “I am,” he
answered after spending another long minute in pointed appreciation
of my breasts and hips. “You, however, are not.”

I bristled at the challenge, more with
impatience than anything else. He was moving quickly in his
seduction of me, but still too slow for the need that burned inside
me. I had not yet decided whether I would acquiesce or shred him
into the mere memory of a man, but I needed the game to progress
more rapidly – such have been my frustrations these past weeks with
Ambrose and his precious Gabrielle and their counseling of my
parents.

“Explain yourself,” I demanded.

“If you are to sit for me today,” he answered
flatly, “you need to strip.”

He turned then and began mixing colors.

I could not even pretend to misunderstand his
meaning—the blatant monster!

“Young ladies of my social standing do not
pose nude.” I spat the words at him and moved as if I would leave.
When he made no effort to block me or call me back, I stopped.

Maddeningly slow in the process, he finished
mixing a soft peach color that matched my skin before replying.
“Young ladies,” he started, drawing the second word out with a
disdainful sarcasm, “of your social standing do whatever the fuck
they please—as you well know, my lady.” He finished with a deep,
mocking bow and returned to ignoring me.

“The actions of a few sluttish peers cannot
be attributed to me,” I said and then a delicious possibility
occurred to me. “Just because Gabrielle disrobed and spread her
legs for you is no indication I would ever do the same!”

That seemed to give him a moment’s pause, but
then I realized he was choking back laughter.

“Marquessa L’Aigle did not pose for me…her
parents did. And do not mistake your desires for mine.”

Some confusion must have shown on my
features, however vigilant I was in keeping my expression schooled,
because he smirked in a most unbecoming manner and offered me his
explanation. “I never said I wanted to fuck you.”

Oh! I was seething by this point, although
few would have known. And, yet, he is an artist, long accustomed to
making careful studies of people’s emotions—could I hope to keep my
feelings veiled? I stepped toward him, still confident he would be
begging me for my favors before our little meeting had
concluded.

“Gabrielle recommended you,” I turned with my
hand outstretched to mock his pictures as if only his cock could
have earned her praise.

Ah, the beast! He had replaced the tame
pictures of the previous days’ sittings with pure pornography!

Christophe moved closer to me and grabbed me
lightly by the elbow. “And I am quite grateful that she did,” he
murmured. “Now, disrobe so that we can begin the day’s work.”

“I did not pay for that type of portrait,” I
protested hotly, trying to remind him—and myself, I daresay—who was
servant and who was master.

“Yes, money.” He withdrew with a sneer and
returned a few seconds later with the advance I had given him.
Without paying me any more attention, he started cleaning and
putting away his brushes.

“What is the meaning of this?” I threw the
money at him. I wanted to strike his face, but something in his
tightly coiled muscles told me that a mistake could be lethal.

“You are wasting my time, Veronique. There
are other women to paint.”

The supplies were all but put away! He was
about to remove the canvas from the easel when he tilted his head
and saw how I trembled so. (With anger! I wanted to smother the
life out of him with my cunt.)

“Why do you refuse? Are you afraid?”

It mattered not that I knew how calculated
his question. I would let him think it had done its trick. We would
see how his skills abandoned him when he beheld my undressed
body!

My fingers flew to my bodice, racing from
there to the strings at my back. In a short time, I was before him,
utterly naked—making no attempt to cover my breasts or the dark
blonde triangle of fur between my legs.

Grabbing me by the elbow, he led me to the
table, his hands touching me almost everywhere as he helped me up
onto the cushions. Unceremoniously, his hands pinched my
nipples.

“Do not think to touch me,” I snapped,
disconcerted that, while I grew wetter with each moment, he seemed
to have no more interest in me than if I were a bowl of fruit.

Christophe smiled briefly, his eyes still
unreadable, and gave my cheeks light but stinging slaps. “What
would you have me do, Veronique?” he asked before I could lodge
another complaint. “Paint some cold marble bitch?”

I started to rise, but he placed his palm in
the center of my chest and pushed me onto my back, his other hand
shoving its way into the pocket between my thighs.

“I thought you would have some passion for me
to capture on canvas,” he accused. His fingers smeared the cream of
my arousal across my thighs. “You are wet enough inside—why the
arid exterior?”

“You have no intention of trying to paint me.
You are only interested in seduction!”

“Really?” He backed far enough away that I
could see his cock as he tugged his pants down over his hips. “Do
you still think so?”

Damn him! He was flaccid, that thick,
magnificent cock as limp as a dead fish. Yet he had seen me naked,
had brushed his fingertips across the entrance to my slick
cunt.

Christophe pulled his pants back up and
returned to the table. I was too shocked, too humiliated to protest
as he rearranged my limbs to his liking. He shook his head sadly,
as if I still would not do.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. I did and he
parted my lower lips, thrusting a triangle of his fingers into
me.

“What makes you hot, Veronique?” he asked as
he stroked hard against the spongy knot of tissue just inside my
pussy.

I did not even stop to consider my answers.
“Power…money.” I was panting now, my body flushing a warm rose in
response to his vigorous rubbing.

With his free hand, he slapped more color
onto my tits, my body convulsing in orgasm from the rude treatment
of breasts and cunt.

“What else?” .

“You.” My admission was punctuated with a
moan and an arch of my body.

“Good.” He slapped my face again, a little
harder than the first time and then he began to sharply tap at my
cunt lips with the flat of his fingertips.

“Tell me you are hard now, Christophe.” Any
pretense of pride had fled my manner.

He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his
still relaxed manhood. The humiliation of his disinterest knotted
its fist in my gut and I pulled my hand back.

“I am ready to start” He pulled his supplies
back out.

“Christophe!” I was sitting up now, tears
streaking down my face.

“You must stay as I placed you!”

His shouting should have frightened me by
this point, but I could only rejoice that I had forced some more
passionate emotion from him than mere artistic interest.