A short (ish) erotic story about coming of age, female sexuality and the oppression, abuses of... Set in a small, very Christian farming community in 19th century France, so the titles to each chapter and the few pieces of dialogue are in French, as a nod to and attempt at authenticity.
“Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy” Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus
Her desire for him is virtually pathological. And as darkness descends, she is routinely seduced by dreams of being taken, forcefully, although not against her will, by animals bearing his face. Prostrated on all fours, enveloped by the sounds, smells and textures of an array of vulpine and equine like beasts, until her screams are indistinguishable between pain and pleasure.
In waking hours her fantasies are not quite so aggressive but no less vivid. No less speaking of her innate desire to be consumed by his ardour, burnt to a mere flimsy crisp by the yearning she knows he harbours for her too.
She can still taste the sweet saltiness of that yearning, from that one night he let his passions loose upon the moor. Returning home from her evening errands, she saw him walking in the distance. Even silhouetted against the twilit sky, he was a fine figure of a man, the sheer mass of him made her feel safe, warm and many other ungodly emotions too. Her heart (quite literally) felt as though it skipped a beat... and understanding that this could be an opportunity, she ran towards him, knowing full well how gallant he liked to be, and purposefully tripped and fell, grazing her arm and face. Bustling over he galloped, his wanting little face awash with concern and purpose. Her smile lay hidden from sight, and so it began; this game of push me - pull you...this game of cat and mouse - of cat playing mouse, in which our earnest young man had very little control or understanding of.
After easing her back to her natural pallor and offering to walk her home, our protagonist led her quarry across the dark moors - a short cut she assured him. She spoke freely and wild of her desires to leave this small farming community, to run away and experience life in exciting, new pastures. He, being somewhat pious not to mention more sensible and reserved than she, chastised her for having such thoughts. Told her they were impure and immoral. Our young maid (in dutiful reverence) dropped to her knees and clutching at the helm of his trousers begged for forgiveness and for him to keep silent about her indiscretions. She cried (real tears actually; of pure sexual frustration) and buried her head just below his belt. He was... moved by her emotions… and seemingly by something else too, because his normally well behaved distraction began to rise. He stroked the back of her long, dark, silky hair and felt the moisture from her tears soak through the material of his trousers onto his sex. She looked up at him; eyes wet with tears, big, round and dark, edged with long delicate lashes... She was an innocent in his (innocent) mind but those eyes said something entirely different. He was confused but knew he should above all respect this innocence, respect his own, but his sex would not comply... And her mouth... Full and moist and open looked so inviting.
Our gallant Knight has always felt deeply ashamed of what he sees as him taking advantage of this innocent girl. Taking his sex and burying it in her sweet wet mouth, debasing her as he saw it... Pulling that mouth onto his sex by her hair and releasing his tension in that full, tight, wet little space whilst looking into those beautiful but dangerous eyes.
Our young maiden on the other hand, so excited by the sweet, brutal intimacy, rubbed gently at the weakness between her thighs as she took him in her mouth and had her first ever orgasm that night. Whilst he felt bad about violating her, she has replicated that moment in her mind at least once a day since... She wants that beautiful sex of his to replace her fingers as she pushes them deep inside herself. She wants him to loose his control inside her like he did that night upon the moor... But alas, the shame he feels decorates his angelic face like The Last Judgement, and our not so reluctant ingenue is all too aware that her supplicant lover, in his right mind, would never allow such a thing to happen. The torment she feels is matched only by his, this much she knows, so she simply must have him. Must find a way to make him lose that control once again, force himself to submit to his earthly desires... Unfortunately, she also knows that one of the things he (thinks he) admires in her, is her innocence, naivety and purity... So... She must play the reluctant ingénue... play his sub like a thespian for the foreseeable.
And so our story begins. Our young maiden - Marié - plays this game (of cat and mouse, push me - pull you) with Bernard for years, attempting to seduce him, chase him until he catches her, but unfortunately she lacks subtlety and grace. And Bernard. Bernard cannot forgive himself for that one indiscretion, all those years ago upon the moor and just grows ever closer to his God.
Chapter 1 - MARCHANDISES ENDOMMAGÉS
Married now with two young children, Marié attended church three times a week and not, as her children, husband and family would fancy, due to her utter devotion to God but simply because of her love for Bernard, who was now the parish priest. A love which began as a childhood fantasy and over the years had not faded. Even on the day she got married (an alliance her parents had forced her into after the son of a family friend had gotten 'carried away' and impregnated her) she stole looks at and had impure thoughts of he. His large, gentle hands, his soft eyes and the tension of his ardent restraint.
Her husband, Maurice, was a terribly lazy lover but actually this worked to Marié's advantage. She had no desire to have to endure long, love making sessions with him. She had no desire to experience her precious petite mort with that vile animal. The only human (other than herself) that she had cum with, was her beautiful Bernard... that night when he had given in to his primal instincts and made love to her over eager mouth. She had replayed those precious minutes over and over in her mind thousands of times over the years... She had all but given up on the hope that one day she would have him more fully, feel him shake between her thighs. Let him feel her waterfalls cascade as she broke and melted over landscapes of moonlit skies... yes, our protagonist has this little fantasy in full Technicolor glory detail. But she now realises that it will more than likely never happen. Apart from anything else, she is now a far cry from the innocent, naive, farm girl he once so admired. Sullied by the birth of two children and the violations of her husband's desires. She was damaged goods now...
CHAPTER 2 - PENANCE ET HONTE
Each morning he awakes to the sound of silence. 4am is a deathly time of day, where neither man, beast nor child stirs. This is how he wants to, nay, needs to enter the world each day. Alone with just his thoughts and his God.
Bernard's routine in the morning is strict and has not changed in the 10 years since that dark moment when he allowed the beast to take a hold in him. That moment that drew him further towards his God and into the practice of lifelong celibacy.
Each morning, as the birds were just beginning to rouse from depths of sleep, Bernard would meditate upon his daily transgressions. The meditations took the form of silent prayers, seeking forgiveness from his God (for the impure thoughts from the day before), to enacting his own penance for any actual sins committed, in particular those of the flesh. He found it hard when the darkness began to descend, to control the thoughts he still had about Marie. It was hard to erase thoughts of her from his memory, especially living in this close knit community. He saw her daily, sometimes just briefly out at the market buying food for her family. Other times more intimately, at one of the three services he held each week at Our Lady of Lourdes, his beloved Church and sanctuary.
Yesterday though, he had seen her on the moor. She was feeding one of her children. He could not help but look longingly at the milky curve of her large breast as her new-born suckled. He tried to pretend it was a reverent image, like Mary herself, doing what God had intended with her body, giving food and life to her child. But as she looked up and caught his gaze, with those big, dark eyes, he was propelled right back to that night 10 years ago on this self same moor and the reaction he experienced was beyond torturous.
That night, last night, whilst trying to sleep. Thoughts of her large, white breasts, leaking milk tormented him. Those breasts... Those eyes... That soft, wet, taut mouth. Enveloping his woe and pain... But he wanted more... He had always wanted more... Always craved knowledge of what it would be like to part those milky white soft thighs and pierce the soft flesh of her sex with his own. Carnal, impure thoughts of taking her upon the moor took a hold of him. He wanted to believe that he saw desire too in her eyes. He didn't want to take advantage of her. He wanted her to invite him... He imagined her parting those silvered thighs, the sweet smell of oceans and galaxies as her sex called to him in the depths of nights (so long), her breasts; heavy, pendulous, soft, tactile… her eyes – beckoning him forth in that slightly disturbing and knowing fashion and that mouth - he could take it no more. He had to relieve the pressure that had built up. He sinned. All over the sheets of his bed and thighs... But at least the sleep he fell into was deep.
This morning though, he must pay. Taking the knotted rope from the wooden case beneath his bed, he stripped himself naked and began his penance. He should have done this last night to stop the thoughts as they began. But he was weak. Without God he would be nothing but a beast. With each searing stroke of the rope whip, he felt cleaner, closer to being the man he wanted to be. A man deserving of the cloths he wore, the respect he commanded within his community. 120 lashes he gave himself. 1 for every month since the initial violation of sweet Marié (and himself) had taken place.
Bernard's body was covered in scars from countless lashes he had given himself over the years. Lashes of penance and of shame.
Chapter 3 - LE PETIT CHIEN DE LA MORT
Marié's life, for the main part, was all work and no play. Between keeping the family home she shared with her husband, his elderly (and exceptionally lazy) parents and her two children clean. Cooking for everyone, looking after her children (aged 7 years and 18 ) and of course the arduous and loathsome task of allowing her husband to violate her body as and when he saw fit (which was unfortunately as regular as it was unsatisfactory). There was very little time left to call her own.
Last year, a man who lived alone in the next farm had died of tuberculosis. As Marié was friendly with his dog, she had been allowed to keep it. She loved that little dog and secretly (so no one else could hear) called him Bernard. He was a sandy colour and had Hazel coloured eyes, just like her Bernard, her love. She adored him, not just for the physical resemblance but also because he gave her good reason to go off alone on long walks, away from the pressures of real life.
Marié and her petit chien went for an early evening walk after all her chores were complete. She had seen her Bernard walking through the moors earlier that day when she was with her children. He had been watching her as she fed little Jacques... She sat down for a while to think some on that small pocket of intimacy... He had watched her. It looked like he had enjoyed watching her naked breasts. She felt somehow that the image had aroused him and she wondered some on where his mind might have gone. As she did so, her light summer dress had blown up from a sudden warm gust in the wind. Her husband would be angry at her for leaving the house with no undergarments but she liked it that way... And anyway, her sex felt too hot currently - thinking of Bernard's arousal inspired her own, so opening her legs to the breeze, she lay back in the long grass and allowed nature to take its course. Her fingers; long, soft, delicate, rubbed gently at the tight bud of her clitoris as she imagined Bernard's sex, before her. Dripping with desire and heat. The skin taught and smelling like the deer in late August... The landscape of her sex became a river as she rubbed harder and faster, pushing herself closer to that sublime brink of obscurity she so enjoyed...
Bringing her back to reality, her petit chien, her little secret Bernard, had come back from his play. As dogs do, he sniffed at this new scent emanating from his mistress... his wet nose nudging at the tight bud of her swollen clitoris... Marié knew she should shut her thighs and stop him but looking down at her little sandy coloured Bernard, she felt weak with arousal...
Bernard began to lick... Deep, intense licks at the opening to her sex... As he licked, she produced more of the moisture he was enjoying the taste of so much... Marié had touched herself many times before and more often than not, it resulted in petite mort but this was different. The contractions building in her stomach were intense and paralysed her whole being, she could not stop even if she tried... As she opened her legs wider, her petit chien drove his strong, wet tongue deeper inside her sex... She imagined it was her Bernard, taking her, there upon the moor. Thrusting his hard sex inside her until they were both spent.
Crying out his name as the landscape of her sex became indistinguishable from her petit chien's tongue, Marié dissolved against the opaqueness of the most earth shattering petite mort she had ever experienced...
Chapter 4 - RÉPÉTITIONS DE L'HISTOIRE
Maurice had first seen Marié in the days after her experience with Bernard on the Moor. He had of course seen her about the village before this time, he, Bernard and Marié had all grown up together but something about her encounter with Bernard changed the way she held herself... The sway of her hips, the way her fingers traced the soft tendons of her neck absentmindedly, the way her mouth somehow hung more sensually than before. That first sexual experience, taking her beautiful love into her mouth at 16 changed something deep within her. Switched something on. Bernard had always admired her, seen her beauty both inner and outer but Maurice only became interested once he saw this change in her demeanour. So he began to pursue her.
This 'love triangle' went on for a few years, with Marié, desperately trying to gain Bernard's attention (and him feeling degraded by the feelings she bought out in him) and Maurice taking every opportunity he had alone with Marié to persuade her to marry him. She always said no. She felt nothing for Maurice. And everything for Bernard.
One night, as he was just finishing up clearing out his father's stables, he saw Marié head off onto the moors alone, as she often did. So he followed her, taking a bottle of his father's wine for Dutch courage. By the time he found her, sat alone, in the darkness, he had drunk half of the wine already. He tried to get her to drink some with him but she seemed agitated at his presence and wanted to leave. But he couldn't allow that. He had spent two years wanting this girl with the dark eyes and pale moonlit curves and he felt he deserved to have her. So... Maurice took her. There, upon that self same moor that she had given herself so unreluctantly to her one true love.
Rape was common in these times and in many ways was viewed as a rites of passage for women, whose sexuality was viewed only through the lens of it needing to be taken, awoken by force. Because good girls were always reluctant. No one knew of the passions that burned hot and ardent within her for Bernard. So when it became obvious she was with child and Maurice offered to marry her, Marié's parents agreed with pleasure, for they did not want the stigma of having a daughter with a fatherless child. And thus Marié's life of servitude began.
At 26 now, Marié was a woman, not a girl and in many ways, to Maurice, had lost her charm. It was lack of opportunity, not commitment to his wife that had stopped him straying thus far but one afternoon, upon leaving the local tavern, half drunk, he spied a beautiful girl with her mother. He offered to help carry the shopping home and befriended the new family. But his eyes were firmly on this new ingénue... She had the look of a child upon her face, pure innocence. And breasts that looked too full to be contained in the bodice and blouse she wore. Annalise was just 15 and did not understand the ways of men or boys, for she had attended an all girls boarding school.
One early evening, as Marié took her petit chien out for a walk, Maurice headed down to the local tavern. On his way he saw young Annalise and suggested they go for a walk on the moors. Excitable, for Annalise had not explored the moors yet, she agreed.
I do not need to detail what occurred. The only difference being that this time, Annalise's parents did not brush this assault on their daughter off so lightly. Maurice was taken to court and prosecuted. A first in this village. Fortunately Annalise did not fall pregnant and although the scars of her trauma will live on in her for many years to come. She was at least not forced to marry, live with and bear the children of her rapist. Unlike Marié... Who incidentally, was now free.
Chapter 5 - NOUS AUTRES
By the time Maurice was released from jail, Marié had found a job, working in the local school and had moved out of his parent’s home. She was an independent woman, supporting herself and her 2 children. She was happy and more radiant than ever. He begged Marié to come back and live with him in the family home. Ordered her.
'Qu'en est-il nous autres ? `
He asked, so earnestly, that Marié could not help but laugh.
'Nous autres ? Il n'y a pas nous autres. Je ne suis plus ton esclave !'
Shame faced, Maurice returned to his parent’s house, packed some things and left to catch up with a travelling fair he had heard was 20km away from their village. He had also heard on the grapevine that in his absence, Marié and the priest, Bernard, had become close. That he had consoled her, helped her and his two children in the last few years... No... He and Marié no longer had any semblance of nous autres anymore...that was seemingly something she now shared with another. And knowing full well he could not win his family back, because he had failed, his ego led and his pathetic little legs followed.
Chapter 6 - JOUISSANCE
One Sunday afternoon, after his service, Bernard, for the first time in 10 years, looked Marié in the eyes and spoke to her. He offered his deepest sorrow for all she had had to endure with Maurice over the years and apologised that he had not been able to protect her more. He also promised he would help her to rebuild her life, if she would allow it.
With both of her own parents dead now and very little experience in the world of working outside of the home, Marié was not simply grateful for a return of Bernard's gaze in her life again. She knew his help could mean her ticket to freedom. For she needed to get away from his parents home before Maurice returned. She had spent so many nights, for years, losing herself in the pleasures of her body, thinking of Bernard, that she had almost lost touch with the reality of how dire her everyday life had been. So she accepted his help and through that, a closeness blossomed.
Both Marié and Bernard, as we know from this bittersweet tale of tragedy and love, had been yearning, secretly, for one another for many, many years. Bernard knew that as a man of the cloth, he could not entertain the idea of anything more than a supportive friendship with Marié because of his vow of celibacy to his God, and Marié respected and loved him too much to attempt to seduce him in the ways she used to as a girl all those years ago. But still the tension grew between them, stronger every day.
One afternoon, after having been out walking her petit chien, to gather her thoughts as much as have some well needed time to herself, Marié returned to collect her children from Bernard, who had become like the best friend she never had but always craved before. Everything she needed, he offered - often more. She did not understand what this feeling she carried was, but really it was the content of feeling loved and cared for.
Jacques was 3 years old now and Geneviève 9, so they were both running around the courtyard of the church when she returned. Bernard was nowhere to be seen, so Marié and her petit chien, set off to find him.
She had never looked beyond the main public rooms of the church before, never into the private living quarters where her love spent much of his time. It felt like taking a step back in time through her wildest fantasies. For she had dreamed so often, not simply of the pleasures of the flesh but also of just being close to him...of knowing him.
The smell of vegetables cooking and bread baking invaded her senses and she saw wine and apples upon the table. With an urgency, her petit chien darted from her side through the darkened corridors of this building which contained so many of her dreams. Running, she called out after Bernard; her petit chien Bernard, but also somewhere deep down her love too...
Running through the corridors of her mind, Marié faced her darkest fears... the weak light stuttered softly and half caught in this petite mal she hears the heavy silence of Bernard's pain and feels the potential of loss...
Light floods her retinas as she throws open the door at which her petit chien is whining and scratching. Floods her retinas and the darkness of her surrounds...
Bernard sits on the floor. Holding his knotted rope in both hands like a ceremonial sword. He is naked and crying and mumbling prayers, gibberish. Marié knows the time has come. And although it doesn't fill her with excitement in the way she had always dreamed it would, she knows that this will be one of those reverent moments that will stay with her forever.
Marié stands before him and undresses... slowly... He does not watch but places a hand upon her ankle. Bernard is frozen... Caught between wanting and feeling degraded by his desire to feast his eyes upon the vision before him, a vision he has imagined a 1000 times over in his mind and the shame that this has bought upon him each time. The knotted rope in his hands the embodiment of that disgrace. Yes, he has dissed grace so many times for this woman in his mind alone, that he is unable to look up.
Marié, sensing his torment moves forward and speaks...
'Bernard, Dieu comprendra sûrement... nous avons assez attendu'
As if in prayer, our tormented lover looks up - his face adjacent to her warm soft fuzz... He can smell her arousal running concurrent with his own and sees the sweet elixir of her anticipation run down her thighs...
Guiding his face by taking a gentle handful of his sandy hair, Marié cannot help but think of the many times she and her petit chien had enjoyed sweet moments of bliss such as this... Bernard opens his mouth as if to receive sacrament and is met with the sweetest of wine. He drinks deep and dropping his rope clutches the soft, fleshy buttocks of his long awaited love to anchor her against the pleasure coursing through her being.
Le petit chien watches from the corner of the room, as his mistress gives herself to this man. Watches, as she lays him back on the floor and lowers that part of her body that he so enjoyed the smell and taste of, onto him. Watches, as she envelops his sex with her own, them both cry out in pain and pleasure as she does. Watches as their hands caress each others bodies, their mouths touch as they move as one against each other with urgency and poetry... Watches and hears the sounds of their ardour flood this sparse room and paint it with the colours and the smells of late August...
The vegetables on the stove bubble away gently... the apples and wine upon the table await the urgent consumption of mouths hungry yet sated... The jouissance of eternal summer can finally commence.
Hail Mary, full of grace
(I was born on a Tuesday, so I waited in grace & patience for this temps de l'amour to open up a rift in time & space and allow heat to glow and lava to flow into ravines and fissures, previously hidden from sight... I. Am. Alight. And have no desire to be put out.)
The Lord is with thee.
(With the correct amount of reverence I look up at you, towering above me like an inferno, I am Dante and Venus and Persephone...you are both my nemesis & my relief. I called to you in the depths of nights, so long, and now here you stand... above me, in all your glory. I am kneeling at the foot of your well. You offer your sacrament, you are dripping with need and pure unadulterated lust...the sinner in me wants to submit not repent...)
Blessed art thou amongst women
("...I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands upon me, who does not doubt my courage or toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman..." Anaïs Nin)
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
(you do not wish to make a vessel of me, I am of no use to any vain or earthly desire in you to plant your seed in fertile soil... my womb is of little significance... all you desire is to touch the beauty that God intended as a hook in the action of co creating little baby Jesus's of the future... to harness that reverence and lose yourself in the pleasures of the flesh... I am more than simply a willing participant... I am awash...)
Holy Mary, Mother of God
(I want you to worship at the cup of this, my alter, drink deep of the river that flows betwixt my thighs... I am open... wanting...minus reserve...and as all the best night time flowers do, as the darkness of desire descends, I emit the scentual blooms of the incandescence your ardour brings... Waterfalls have nothing upon you or I...as we cascade down, drowning out all that came before...)
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
(If God had not intended procreation to be used for anything other than making babies, then she never would have made it feel so earth shatteringly good... a design flaw in what is supposed to be an image of perfection. Technically we are sinners... That old Catholic guilt pecking away like sharp rapture at our broken souls, entwined, we lie empty, spent and glowing, full to the brim with reverence. That design flaw deep within my sex pulses as the contractions course through my being... If this is sinning then I do not want your prayers...all I seek is loves sweet release, as worlds collide... petite mort)