“Merde”
Draped in layers of soft velvets, sheer silks and trinkets of lace, I sat centered in the room as his visual ornament of luxury. Auburn hair imitated the black waves of fabric that flowed from the curves of my bodice to the floor, illuminating the sickly pale of my skin. Candles were sparse within the room but I needed no light to know that his facial expression matched that of his perverse intentions. Yet there he stayed, reclined in silent thought upon his settee whilst one clammy hand held a sweaty grip on the pipe that he tugged upon, and the other laid in an anxious clench by his side. Godforsake those moments. The dreary twilight where I must endure his extended games of nonsence, where he tries to fool me with undecided actions. Merde! That bastard knew exactly how he will have his way with me from the moment he awoke. And yet there I am left to dwell on my impending fait.
Alas! Monsieur had finally arisen, causing the shadows that laid dormant upon his face to shift and allow a frightful glimpse. He approached me with timid steps and sullen eyes, but my startled jump seemed to have sparked what most men believe as a frivolous fetish. A slight glance of my fear had turned up the corners of his mouth into a lipless sneer, revealing an incomplete set of ill kept teeth stained yellow sour. But it was the brief flicker of malice upon the corner of his eye that made me close my own.
The rapturous wrath of those clammy hands did not prevail. In a fit of passion and seized by lust, he grabbed me like a careless child with a patience that matched, prodding, grasping, tossing and turning my limp body that had melted into the fabrics I wore. Most of the other girls fail to realize how resistance only provokes Monsieurs ‘seizures’, yet I lay submissively with a limp mind and a limp soul.
Perpetual is this moment of agony. His clumsy fingers clambered at the tightly wound strings of my bodice, sententiously showing defeat as they moved down to strife with my material maze. Fool! Swindled out of his passion by the very petticoats he had me dressed in not long before. “Merde! Merde!” He cried and cursed between exasperated breaths, looking around until he retrieved a pair of Mademoiselles fine fabric scissors. I imagined silent threaded screams as he ripped them apart, yet all I could hear were the pathetic pants and wines coming from the pit of his swollen belly. “Merde! Merde!” He cried in anxious gasps as he finished cutting the last of my fabrics and pounced onto my trembling body, “Merde!” He cried one last time whilst he shuddered in an odd sort of frisson spasm until he lied limp as my own limbs.
