Foie De La Vierge
Copyright© 2010 by Grim Williams
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 8 - An erotic horror tale set in France at the time of the French Revolution, where in the catacombs beneath the streets of Paris the victims of the terror are laid to rest. Here, a beautiful young aristocrat on the run from a blood thirsty mob finds herself locked in a tomb facing unspeakable misery, but she isn't alone. There is a sex-hungry man there, and as a result her virginity is assuredly doomed. But when her identity is revealed, that becomes the least of her problems.
I'd been asking Christine to undress since she'd first entered my cave and so her question was a redundant and irritating one. Of course, I wanted the woman to undress and I wanted to fuck her but that didn't mean that I wanted to eat her. How many times did I have to repeat that I don't like what I do?
I hated it.
Even so, I foresaw the possibility that I'd eventually be tricked into doing it because there's an inevitability to these things and despite not wanting to eat her, I'd be left with no choice, for let's face it, there was no way out, no happy ever after. If I did nothing, Christine would starve.
However, instead of reminding her of this and upsetting her, I covered my frustration by opening the nun's bodice and I found the corset inside and some laces and I felt compelled to play with them while Christine watched me, wide eyed, intent, frightened, her lips shaking as she tried to make sense of my actions.
She could see that the many sets of clothes had been arranged on the stones just as the owners would have worn them in life, and suddenly there was something that clicked in her head and she frowned. "Do you want to unfasten my dress?" she gasped. "Is that it? Is that next? Do you want me to take off my corset?"
I shrugged, upset and troubled, and I loosened the laces of the nun's corset. Again, as I felt her watching me a heavy, overwhelming wave of guilt pervaded me, for I couldn't imagine Christine living on the outside as a fugitive, hunted by the mob. Neither could I imagine her scavenging for maggots and vermin as I do, and I could feel again that sense of inevitability. I guess the Marquis must have sensed it too and concluded that I was the most practical solution. Maybe that was the thing: he'd passed the buck. That's why he'd suggested that Christine should come to see me, because it was better than the untenable alternatives. And maybe Christine did prefer to be fucked by me than face the vagaries and terror of the mob.
Even so, it didn't seem right that she should be making these plans and so when she took two more hesitant steps towards me I immediately stepped back. "Monsieur. This isn't a game," she croaked. "Tell me what to do! There are soldiers out there and they'll do terrible, unspeakable things when they find me. They'll come here, looking for me ... Maybe not now, but soon..."
"And they'll cut off your head," I muttered bitterly.
"Monsieur! This isn't a joke!"
"And it isn't intended that way." I griped, sullen and resentful. "It's true. They'll bake your flesh into tiny meat pies. They'll strip you of your clothes, baste your skin and roast you over a wood fire. You see, I don't run from such talk as you do because I know what I am, what I do. It displeases me and I loathe myself, but for better or worse, I'll always be the monster who ate the corpses of dead women."
Another small step, unconsciously and nervously done, and she slipped a button of her dress, high up, just below her chin. Then she refastened it, her eyes lowered. "You drive a hard bargain, monsieur. You want everything. I see it in your eyes. Not just my dress ... but my body ... my breasts..."
I said nothing, thinking of the oil running upon Christine's skin and her roasting upon an open fire as had happened to dear Isabelle, her naked body turning slowly on a long metal spit. I imagined them lowering her down and cutting her up and then turning her into a thousand meat pies and I turned up to the Gods in frustration and displeasure, erasing the thought from my mind.
But before it was gone, Christine shivered and a crack suddenly appeared in her voice. "Monsieur? Do you want me nude? I'll do it if I must, but you must tell me - ask me - because I am a lady, not yet a whore or your joint of meat, but I'll be either of those things if you ask me. I'm yours. You have only to ask..."
I could see a rat clambering up a stalagmite, using it as a staircase to a better, finer place. "That would be pleasant..." I agreed sarcastically. "As a start..."
"A start? You frighten me, monsieur. What more do you want? Please? Do you want me to touch your ... thing? Is that the next step?"
Christine was biting her lips, and in her head anticipating what she considered to be a loathsome, diabolical agreement. She accepted what she'd agreed to do it because she'd known that there was no alternative, but she was just eighteen years old and an innocent and she had no real idea what she'd agreed to. Her entire sexual experience was confined to the rapes and the horrors she'd witnessed outside, and as for the rest...
I smiled sadly.
"Very well, monsieur," she shivered. "I have no choice but to comply. I'll touch your penis." Her top button was now completely unfastened, and the rest of her was on offer, and so I waited, as she did, both of us expectant of the other.
And then, at last, she broke. She had youth and beauty on her side but she hadn't the patience. There was a wail, a howl and a cry. She dropped to her knees and melodramatically and tenderly grabbed my hand, and she was pleading with me to help her. "Please, monsieur! This isn't easy. I know that you're determined to screw me, so yes, you must screw me. I'll lie on my back and endure it. And if afterwards you're going to kill me, then yes, please kill me. If you're going to eat me, then do. I consent. I'll do whatever you ask. I comply, but please, don't betray me to the bandits outside. Help me! Tutor me! Show me what I must do!"
I didn't budge. Instead, I was imagining her lying on her back, wriggling with discomfort as I coated her skin with pig's fat with the aid of a coarse horsehair brush, teasing the grease inside her cracks. Then, with this done, all that remained was to coax a dry hickory fire into life.
I stroked the nun's tunic, angry at myself and annoyed at my weakness, consulting my conscience and it beat me for these thoughts. Christine also stared at me accusingly, and I felt her eyes searching my face, exploring my contours and my hard duplicitous features.
Not that I owned any pig's fat or hickory, or even a horsehair brush ... but I couldn't help but imagine them and her...
"Please, monsieur. You want my lips? My tongue? You want to kiss my mouth? Monsieur, I give them to you. You've got it! I give you my mouth! You'll eat every part of my body, and I'll suck your cock. I'll tease you and bring you to heaven! You want to tie me? Beat me? I'm here to be beaten ... and if it's not that, then what, monsieur? Please tell me. Guide me! Tell me what I must do! I have no idea because although Father explained the things men desire, what they do, I am a virgin. I've never done it. Certainly, I have seen those women being raped, whipped and plundered, and if that's what you want, I can do it. I know how to scream and to beg! I know how to crawl. I know how to open my legs. Is it my ass that you're after, monsieur? Then it's yours: absolutely and decidedly. Will you whip me? Then do it! But for anything else I need to be taught."
I shuddered with disgust as she spoke, baring my black, decaying teeth. Then I smirked tiredly, deciding that it was time to make my next move. "I don't want any of those things. I want something else," I said softly.
There was a bare uncontrolled exasperation about her now. Tears streamed down her face ruining her cheeks. Her powders and paints were spoiled. Her hair was wet and dirty. She groveled about on her knees, reaching into my trousers and searching inside for my cock. "I can do it," she insisted, frantic and desperate, finding my cock and hooking it out. "I can do whatever you desire, anything, however horrific, however obscene but please ... They're out there. I sense it and I've seen what they do. It takes days for a woman to die when they do it, and in such pain! I beg you, monsieur. Don't humiliate me that way!"
Her fingers suddenly tightened upon my cock and pumped it ineffectually which was frustrating because she was doing it wrong. "Use your tongue," I told her unwisely. "If you're going to seduce me, then at least do it right."
At this, she tried to suck me and she was certainly eager, but too eager. It was immediately apparent that she had no idea how to do it. Isabelle was a master at sucking cock, but this one wasn't. She was an amateur.
I held the sides of her head in my hands, straightening it, imagining it was Ann Marie that was sucking my manhood, or Isabelle, or Esme, but Christine's face kept reappearing as if to haunt me. Oh sweet Jesus, Christine was certainly a cock-tease, but doesn't the good book teach that the sins of the father will be visited upon the daughters?
Doesn't it say that?
I swallowed hard, my face darkening, and I begged that Christine turn round and look at the stalagmites - difficult as this was with a mouth full of cock. "Those are the stones that I haven't yet used," I declared, indicating the ones that were still empty. "Choose a hanger for your clothes. On which shall I hang them, for I don't think you'll need them again?"
"Monsieur?" she gobbled. "Is it right? I won't need them?"