It’s been a while I know. This post, although exercising the writing muscle, is for the older women. Those of us still able to appreciate the fantasy of something or someone beautiful, uncorrupted. It’s for the middle aged and yet exquisite women who still find the young barista at the local coffee shop attractive, those of us who go to gym and spend an inordinate amount of time just watching a springy bicep curl with tempting appreciation, perhaps a student, if , like me, you lecture (grin…inspiration is everywhere I’m afraid). I wrote this some years ago and it is still a work in progress. Imagine if you will France during world war II. A governess, with a past, in her mid to late twenties, hired to educate two wealthy, elite French boys. One on the cusp of manhood, the other on the cusp of puberty. They are left alone with an abusive mother and absent father. I will place you early into the story where our protagonist, finds herself attracted to the older son…
Days were getting warmer and the gardens had come back to life. Colour had suffused the grounds. Summer had come gradually and groggily like a waking sleeping child, unwilling to let go of the warm bed. The north remained under German control, oppressive, incessant. James had just come from another unavoidable meeting about the noise in the house, with her employer apparent and this time her spirits had been driven to shattering point. She shook from the sheer force of will she had used to control herself. The woman was cruel, there was just no other way to describe it. James left her employer in the solarium where the woman preferred to waste her days.
Needing a release from the suffocating woman, James managed to find a way out of the chateau and as she was preparing to head toward the servant quarters to visit with her aunt, she caught a glimpse of Marcel heading in the direction of the stables. The sight of him always had the effect of stopping her breath mid reflex. She stopped, remembered to breath and then watched. Walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, his swagger comfortable yet his shoulders hunched slightly, protectively, insecure. James couldn’t resist the impulse even if she had tried. She was going to follow him
Things had been difficult between them since she had locked her bedroom door some time ago. She had completely taken for granted the fact that maybe he had been trying to reach out to her, needing the compassion another woman could offer. Someone to smooth the ripples of disease his mother wrought on them. James had remained vigilant about the abuse the woman had inflicted upon her sons, making notes of the kind and extent of it. She had attempted to pry the history of it from the children but had been unsuccessful. Until she had stumbled upon something she would much rather forget, it explained, at least, some portion of the circumstances they found themselves under.
One January morning James had accidentally walked past the solarium on her way to the kitchen when she had heard sounds coming from the room. The kind of ‘ooohhhs’ and ‘Aaahhhhs’ that made one uncomfortable. She was about to investigate when she realised that the door had been deliberately left open. What she witnessed, had become a become a recurring memory, a disturbing and unpleasant memory. The kind of memory you cannot erase and will try to hide from your expression every time you encounter the perpetrator.
Mrs. Du Pont, her skirts pulled up to her hips, was pushed up against the wall by a rather rough looking man. James had no idea who he was or might have been. His semi-naked buttocks and thighs sweating and heaving as he pummelled viciously against his lover. James remembered hearing the slaping of skin, the excruciating expression of painful pleasure crossing the woman’s face with each agonising thrust. The woman was moaning out loud, in ecstasy. James shocked, had to hold her hand to her mouth to stop herself from emptying the contents of her breakfast. James understood all too well the different forms that physical love could take, this was neither loving nor physical. It was beastial. The woman was not only mad but clearly in a state of desperation to do such a thing with the door wide open. If that had been her husband, James doubted that their compromising position would be the same. Oh no, the man had definitely not been the elusive Du Pont but rather, as she would come to learn, Mrs. Du Pont’s lover.
Everybody in the house had, at one time or another, run in on their escapades. It was scandalous but common knowledge. It was even rumoured that that was the very reason Mr. Du Pont had banished his wife to the country estate and to spite him she continued to do as she pleased. James was beginning to understand the reason behind the boy’s constant punishment. Mrs Du Pont was a woman on the edge of madness, troubled by her addictions, her desires and burdened with a sinking weight of children she resented. Punishing him, through them.
After reporting the incident to her aunt, she had been forbidden from ever mentioning it again. She understood immediately, as a servant herself, that things that were observed, were not seen. To James, the goings on of this aristocratic home were becoming more and more troubling but as her aunt had put it ‘The goings on of the rich are no concern of ours’.
* * *
Marcel stopped in front of the stable doors and glanced around cautiously. When he was satisfied that no one was watching, he entered. James watched his weary antics, partially hidden behind a bush when his gaze crossed her direction. She froze, her body tingled like a child in hiding, desperate to urinate. That frightened and urethral excitement spurring her on. She hoped he hadn’t seen her. She waited for him to enter, then she waited some more just to be certain that he wouldn’t come out and catch her on her way there. She decided to walk along the grass as quickly and quietly as she could to avoid detection. Stray leaves and branches crunching beneath her feet with betrayal. She desperately wanted to see what he was up to. Maybe to even talk to him. It would be tempting fate, but she had to know.
She came upon the stables from the rear and waited to hear any sound of activity from within. The hazy fading orange glow of dusk was descending, catching and painting the wooden beams of the stable in a warm amber. The night air was beginning to cool against her skin, yet she remained outside listening. ‘Nothing,’ she could hear nothing. irritated at what she was doing and determined to stay, she crept closer to the windows. Not really meaning to, she peered through the partitions in the shutters and then she heard it. A soft, rhythmic, feminine mewling sound came from one of the cubicles. Instinctively, her body comprehended what she heard. A simultaneous weight dropped in her lower abdomen while a pervading jealousy mixed with curiosity took root. The need to see if Marcel was somehow a part of it overrode all sense. Consumed with a perverse desire, James crept closer with her body now in full view of anyone who might be in the gardens above and behind her.
The all too familiar noises were coming from directly in front of her. For a moment she took note of her shaking hands, here palpitating heart-beat, the restlessness of her thrumming pulse, the gathering wetness between her legs. It was wrong, it was so wrong. James closed her eyes tight before doing what she was about to and she made a quick silent prayer that it might be someone she didn’t know. Her heart stopped beating and then of its own volition it started again, climbing to a voilent crescendo.
Marcel was lying on a bed of straw, naked, on top of a young maid James knew as Margot. His entire body exposed to James’ view. He was moving slowly and powerfully between the girls’ widespread legs. Every muscle of his young taught body, contracting and easing with the snake-like movement. Margot’s eyes were shut intently, her sweaty blond head thrashing from side to side, from the throes of passion, her legs wrapped possessively around his hips. Angry at her possession, he parted her legs and spread them wider, she moaned out in pain and he didn’t care. He continued to move, to thrust. The whimpering seemed to motivate him. Too soon his actions became rapid, aggressive. His expression appeared almost painful. James couldn’t, wouldn’t breathe, her fingers tightened white around the window ledge. She clenched her legs, one hand moving involuntarily over the joint of her thighs. She felt his every thrust deep with in herself. It was like watching herself beneath him. She watched how every muscle glistened with sweat and how every muscle strained and relaxed against under his warm skin. She imagined that she could smell him, taste him from where she stood. A sexual musk infusing the air with sweat and female arousal heightening the senses and intoxicating the mind. Knees buckling and lightheaded, James crashed to the dirt painfully. Wave after wave of drugged dizziness swept through her. Her hand still cupping her crotch, her entire body convulsed. James reached for and gripped the sill once more, hoping to find stability in the structure. This was sinful and wondrous.
The noise outside had been so slight that Margot hadn’t even noticed, Marcel had. His eyes rose to the open shutter sill slowly, not once letting on that they might have been seen. He ground harder into the maid beneath him, punishing himself and her, for not being who he wanted her to be. Instead her moans turned into agonising cries of ecstasy. Marcel smiled to himself, triumphant. He knew who was out there and it gave him even greater pleasure to know that she had been listening, perhaps watching. God, he hoped she was watching. When his eyes found the sill empty, his pleasure was short lived and he abruptly extricated himself from the girls’ tight wet hold. She simply wasn’t who he wanted her to be.
“What’s wrong,” asked Margot sobering instantly. “Nothing, dress yourself,” he commanded coldly. She reeled with the force of his words tears brimmed in her eyes. “Didn’t I please you,” she asked pathetically, reaching out to touch him. “Leave me,” he said harshly throwing away her hand. She rose to her feet quivering, her legs feeling the after effects of their lovemaking. She dressed hastily and left the stables weeping. James watched her leave. James was still sitting on the grass outside her own body descending from what she had undergone. Tears were beginning to sting her eyes.
James had never thought it possible again. It was insanity, a torture far worse than she remembered. She tried to get up but couldn’t. Her body had gone through the act of consummation from simply watching it and she was numb and languid from it. James had the sinking sensation that things would never be the same for her. Marcel was going to prove a difficult drug to resist. One she now wanted more than anything in the world.
Marcel sat on the hay, his back to the sill. Cold air sweeping his skin, calming his nerves. He wept silently. His eyes burned with it and his heart ached with it. He had long ago fallen in love with his governess and it was getting worse. Not even the milkmaid satisfied him anymore. The only sobering thought was that he would never be able to have her because she wouldn’t let him. He had far too much respect for her to even voice the issue. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Running fingers through his hay strewn hair, he got up and got dressed.
James stirred and got to the sill again. Marcel was crying with silent desperation. She watched him wipe his eyes and run his fingers through his hair. She wanted to comfort him but wouldn’t dare. Instead she turned and ran.
Marcel heard her run and half dressed, he followed.
He ran as fast as his legs could take him. Desperation was his motivation. He had to do something. He reached her on the path to the forest where they had first made eye contact. Marcel reached out and grabbed James’ arm forcing her to stop, she almost stumbled in the falling darkness.
“Don’t do it, I beg you,” she pleaded through sobs. “I can’t resist it,” he said pulling her to him. Marcel wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and drew her to him. Her breaths came in short sharp gasps, her eyes were pleading with his. If he kissed her she would die. When their eyes were almost level he looked into hers and said, “You’re mine.” Then he slammed his lips against hers so hard that his lips began to bleed. The kiss was hungry and desperate, each devouring the other. James had put her hands up against his chest in protest and with one powerful heave she shoved him away. She wiped her lips with the back of her shaking hand in disgust. She could still taste his blood, his lover’s scent still clung to him. He was breathing heavily and looked furious enough to take her right there on the pathway.
“You have no shame,” she said crying. “Right now that poor girl could be carrying your child and you want me,” she shouted. Tears were sliding down his face unrestrained. “It’s you I was making love to,” he whispered, defeated, vulnerable. James’ body began to shake violently. She walked backwards and he followed, prowling. His eyes glowed with a predatory gleam. “It isn’t right,” she said wiping her eyes. “You feel the same and don’t dare deny it,” he accused forcefully. “I need this position,” she said as her back hit a tree. Marcel closed in and pressed her hard against the bark.
He closed his eyes and came close enough for her to feel his hot ragged breaths. He inhaled her, running his nose softly against the length of her neck. From nape to jaw. Lightly, he pressed his face to hers and touched her gently with his skin. His hands slid slowly up her arms, leaving shivers in their wake. “I can’t do this,” said James trying to shove him away again but her body didn’t respond to her commands. Her eyes began to close and instinctively she arched her back to press herself against him. “For goodness sake, I can smell her,” she pleaded trying to regain some sanity. Something about the fact that he had just lain in another woman’s arms added a queer eroticism to the moment. She had watched after all, imagining that it was her. he body began to pulse, liquid.
Marcel brushed his lips across hers lightly ignoring her words. James cried but her arms came automatically around his neck. He touched her gently with his fingertips. At first just touching her rib cage and then her stomach. Then her neck and then her breasts. His fingers barely touched her nipples and they burned. Her senses came alive when he finally cupped and squeezed her breasts. James wanted to scream. His manhood was harder than she ever imagined and it was pressing possessively against her own femininity. His gentle rocking rwas almost her undoing and her hips arched to meet his.
Marcel’s hands grabbed her hips and pulled them toward him. It was sweet agony and though the lunacy might not end, at least today she would be his. His hands reached behind and grabbed her buttocks. James moaned. Her body had surrendered. He began to open the buttons of her dress and he slipped his hand inside. James gasped. She hadn’t been touched like this in years. The reminder and the memory acted like a bucket of ice being poured over her. She stopped abruptly and stilled his hands. She leaned her head against the bark and waited for her heartbeat to slow. Resting his forehead against her, Marcel studied her wearily, but he seemed to understand. He held her pinned to the tree while she wept in his arms. He simply held her, comforted her. He didn’t touch her anywhere else except around her shoulders. He hugged her so tightly to him she thought she would collapse if he let go.
“You’re my student and the son of my employer. You’re only seventeen,” she whispered. Marcel was about to protest but didn’t. He stood back and allowed her to move away. James sniffed loudly and looked to the sky in frustration. “I think you should go home,” said James. It was more of an order than a request. Marcel didn’t say a word. He stood there for a brief moment of indecision and then he began to walk away. James hugged herself, weeping softly.
to be continued…