Chapter 2

I tipped my head casually to the side as a gentleman does when he's standing before a lady, because the woman in the bright red dress was in front of me, frightened, covering her pretty little breasts with her arms. "Who's chasing you?" I growled, staring at her dress while wondering how best to remove it. I hesitated, and then I smiled, imagining it gone. "What have you done, my lady?" I drawled. "Have you broken the law or something? There must be a powerful reason for you to have fled here."

"I've done nothing!" she protested, blushing in sweet, girlish confusion because I was peering at her tits and apparently this wasn't good manners.

I reminded myself that I must be patient, and that while I wanted to undress her and study every inch of her flesh close-up, touch it and hump her, I mustn't be rude. Good manners are the foundation of a polite society and these manners shouldn't be ignored simply because a man is divorced from it.

Patience is a virtue.

I tried again.

"Why are you running, my lady?"

I enjoyed the spectacle of Christine's cleavage and its steady rise and fall but I was more guarded now, careful not to stare too deeply into the top of her dress, although anxious to do so.

"Soldiers," she choked, and her body quaked as she spoke. She was crying; frightened. "They're ... burning fields, houses, everything. They're burning, looting ... even raping the women."

My attention focused and I inched towards her. "How terrible!" I murmured, acting my part. "Is that so? They're raping the women?" I nodded sympathetically and repeated the phrase privately, savoring its sound, liking the way that the words sounded in my ears. Suddenly the future seemed rosy and I was immensely pleased that there were ringlets decorating Christine's brown hair. They were nice. They were natural, unlike the wigs that I encounter so often. Christine smelled good, exotic, sensual. I heard rumbles from the direction of my stomach, but then I felt a stronger interest emanating from my cock as it roused itself, and that's when I moved in.

I had to, because her hands were twisting like the limbs of an insect at the approach of a spider. They were clutching at nothing: clawing, searching, and yet somehow managing to communicate hidden and secret emotions. A woman can tell you a lot with her fingers, and Christine was telling me a story.

Gently, I lifted her hands and I smelled them. I kissed them. Then I licked her fingers and ran my tongue under the edge of her nails, at which she hurriedly pulled her hands from my grasp and shivered, glancing at where I'd licked with distaste.

"So tell me a little more," I demanded authoritatively, feigning a composed and dignified pastoral interest. "Where did you see these women being raped? Was it in town? In the street? You must tell me, Christine. You must unload yourself of this appalling burden."

Christine turned from me, visibly pained, hurt; and I saw that she wasn't listening. "It was awful," she cried softly, lost in the memory. "The women were kicking and screaming and they were powerless to stop what was being done to them, and the soldiers - louts - they took turns ... Oh mon Dieu! It went on and on, and the girls. Many were so young! I saw their misery and desolation and I felt empathy for them because I was like them, one of them. We were bundled along like we were horse flesh with no minds or opinions. We were commodities, meat, and there was nothing I could do to get away."

As my eyes feasted on her dress, I knew that I needed to remain dispassionate and offhand to avoid rousing suspicion, but this was an impossible task. "These women," I questioned her breathlessly. "They were pretty I suppose because men will generally pick the pretty ladies to rape." I shrugged, offering a sly, wry smile. "After all, given a free choice no man is going to rape an obese, cowpox infected country girl."

"No, monsieur."

"So in a way it's a compliment."

"Monsieur? In what way?"

She stared, and despite my audacity she seemed to take my comments at face value. "The soldiers chose the pretty ones but there was a far greater prize," she said. "It was the rich girls that they were particularly after. That's why they chose me, not for my looks, but because of my money. I saw by the way they looked at my clothes that they intended to make an example, and the things they threatened ... Awful. I was hiding in the cellar when they stormed the house. They dragged me out and goaded me along the road with picks and forks. I was with various maids, cooks and peasants from the village but they were singling me out, and then, at the edge of Paris they encircled us, soldiers all round. They mocked us and teased us and herded us at the insistence of guns, bayonets, knifes and daggers. They pushed us and kept prodding and lifting our skirts with their scythes and spades and forks; in fact, any implement you can think of. They were waving them at us and poking and tossing up our dresses and saying, 'Excuse me, my lady! I beg thy pardon, my lady!' I was thinking I'd be killed, but instead they made us stand singly in front of them. They placed a servant girl in their spotlight and told her to dance, and when she did it, they poked her with the end of a pitchfork and played with her dress, but they kept looking at me and smirking and saying that I would be next."

"So then it was your turn?"

"Yes. I mean, no."

"No?"

"Non, monsieur." She was studying my face, and her eyes were clear and intense. "I wasn't next. They kept saying that I would be, but then instead they'd choose another girl to drag it out further. Then, finally they did draw me forward, intent on causing maximum humiliation and embarrassment, but I escaped." She paused. "Well, it was a kind of escape. You see, I had a gun and I'd been taught by my father. I'm not proud of it, monsieur. God will condemn me, but even so, I was there long enough beforehand to see the other women being forced to remove their clothes and raped, and the sight of it made me sick. So many of them were just girls. Girls, monsieur! They were shaking and crying, on their knees and praying to God; and I confess I was doing this too. I was on the ground, supplicating the Almighty."

"But you escaped?"

"Oui, monsieur. I did."

"Because you had a gun? You shot them? Is that what happened? Is that why you're here?"

"I told you what happened, monsieur. They started with the servant girls because they wanted to prolong the misery for those such as myself of the upper classes. So these less fortunate women were told to undress and forced to the ground." She was breathing deeply, puffing out her cheeks. "I saw three men attacking one girl. Can you believe that? While one of them was attacking her from the front another would be doing it from behind, in the rear - you imagine such a thing? It was terrible. I'd not known that a man could do such a thing. And another one had his thing in her mouth. Can you imagine? They were like animals. Worse. They did it in the streets and the gutters with people watching, and there were boys joining in: young boys attacking grown women and doing it just because they were allowed to. And then, when they were finished with the rape, they did worse."

She paused because she was finding it difficult to talk now. Her voice was faint, shaky and broken. Her poise was haphazard as she ran her fingers nervously through her hair. "These were reverent women, monsieur, but they strung them up against trees and posts, anywhere they could and they beat them. Do you know what I mean, monsieur? The front. It was everywhere."

I coughed. "Are you saying that they beat their pussies? Is that what you mean?"

"Please, monsieur. I ... I can't ... Oh my God. I don't want to remember what they did. I want to forget, to die."

"But you mustn't forget, Christine. You must remember. You must tell me what happened. Tell me what they did. Go back there. You were waiting for your turn in the crowd. You were scared and you saw various women being forced to undress, and then, afterwards, you saw them being tied to posts, fences and trees, and you watched them being flogged. You heard them screaming and their begging for mercy. You saw the lines appearing on their tits and on their thighs. They were pink, then red, then purple. And you saw the whip aimed between their legs. You heard the screams. You felt their fear. But what happened? Tell me Christine. Be honest, what happened?"

Her shoulders shook and she was holding her head with her hands. "Yes, monsieur. I can see that you know because you describe it so well. That was it."

"What's it, Christine? You must be precise. What happened? You mentioned their breasts. They beat their breasts?"

"Yes, monsieur. There too."

"And their stomachs?"

She turned away but I could feel the heaving of her shoulders and I could hear the regular rasp of her weeping. "As you say ... they beat them ... their tits, backs, everywhere, and I was next. They told me to come forward and I stood there in front of them, facing them, and I knew I couldn't bear it. They were giggling, aroused. I could smell their excitement and lust, and when they told me to unbutton my dress and walk in my petticoat, I tried. I tried, and I couldn't, and that's when I used the gun. I hated doing it but what else could I do? It was hidden inside my gown and father had told me to use it and he'd taught me ... And then, afterwards, there was so much blood and you can't imagine the blood."

I sighed. "Of course not. It was terrible, but it was a relief and in a way, and maybe even exciting to be suddenly in control. To hear the report of the gun and to know it was over..."

"Monsieur! You're mistaken. Not at all! Oh my God! You're a monster. How could you think that? K ... k ... keep away. I am a lady!"

I lifted her hand, took it to my mouth and I kissed it, but then I rolled my tongue around her fingernails, pondering the gaps. "Why were the soldiers chasing you, my beautiful lady?" I mused, finally letting go of her hands and falling into a heap on the putrefying gravel, pondering that question. "You and these other women. What has happened so that they would tear off your clothes and beat your breasts and your pussy? And if they found you here, with me, what would they do then? Eh, my lady? That's a fine question."

As I pondered, an insect crawled beneath me and I tossed it into my mouth, allowing its taste to mingle with the aroma of Christine's fingers, which she watched in disgust. "Oh my God!" she shrieked, her composure and misery lost as she fled, vanishing into the blackness of one of the caves.

"Why were the soldiers going to rape you?" I repeated, munching reflectively upon the remains of the insect. "Soldiers always have a propensity to rape a beautiful woman. It's one of the reasons that an honorable man from a respectable family might choose a military career, but there must be an opportunity to do it: a war, a crime, a betrayal, something that makes the woman accessible. So what have we here? What am I missing? And if they find you, what then? That's a nice thought, one to be savored, to imagine the humiliating, obscene things that they might do with your body."