Prologue

Legs cross-uncross in amber light, dress slipping away, creamy thighs glowing. I burn to touch her. I burn to taste her.

Black dress, white skin, gold light. I may as well be the supplicant to this Goddess. Unworthy to breath the same air, let alone to be so close. To be so alone.

She whispers in the darkness; "Touch me."

Hold; a moment longer of this perfect torture. I watch. Learn. See how she reclines. See how she sighs. See the pale flash of her waist as that blouse slowly inches itself higher. Imagine my name on those lips, my hands on those breasts. Hold that moment longer.

She whispers again, my name at last, and from her mouth its poetry.

Enough.

What good are questions? She wants me. I want her. There is nothing else worth questioning.

Her feet. How could I not start at her feet? Caress her. Slowly. Gently. This is mine to savour. Touch them, kiss them, trace them, up past their toes, up to her perfect calves, up to her perfect thighs, up higher-

Hold. Again, hold. Let her feel me there. Let her be as tortured by my breath as I am by hers.

Above us, her wrists twist and strain against their bindings.

She moans, barely loud enough to be heard. She will scream before I am done, scream with the voice of an angel taking that first sweet bite of Eve's apple.

I will cut away that dress that has clung to her for too many hours. With smooth movements I will slit it and watch it slip off her, the silk as water running over stones.

Her perfect skin will sit there, untouched. Begging. Give her what she wants. Give her what she begs for.

A series of ringing slaps on the inside of each of her thighs.

Then nothing. Hold. For God's sake, hold. Let that sting take hold.

She will still be watching. Still be keeping my gaze. I will take that from her. The blindfold will be tight and dark; let her live in a world of darkness until I tell her otherwise.

Her buttocks will be smooth, soft beneath my fingers, her anus warm and inviting.

One finger. Two. An unexpected, but seemingly welcome intrusion.

The tight whorl of her sphincter is slick, already running with her own moisture. I open her like a flower, spreading her, teasing her, my fingers moving slowly, inexorably; they slide deeper inside.

Soon she will be shaking, waves of pleasure racing through her, all built from nothing but the simple movement of a few long fingers. Fire dances along her skin, a blush that starts as little more than a little colour upon the very tips of her cheeks, but spreads, rushes, down her neck, her shoulders, dancing along the tops of her swinging, heaving breasts to the tips of her stiff, erect nipples. She is enjoying it far too much. I take it away from her. My Goddess. Mine.

She will beg me to return as I slip from that tight, dark grip. She finds courage in her bondage. Teach her. Tease her. More slaps; harder. Harder!! Her thighs, her breasts, nails clawing at her back, at her neck. Feast! Let that sting turn to a burn!! Let the lion roar for just a moment.

She will learn. I will be back in control, for a little while yet, and she will bend to my will.

Ages pass. She is my plaything. In time she will earn her release.

I am inside her to the hilt, her velvety blackness clenching, relaxing, with each movement within her. I throb deep inside her, calling her name. With every thrust I find new depths, new sensations; I ache and burn, all control lost in the pleasures of her perfect body. My fingers find her dripping slit, clench her supple breasts, pinch her aching nipples. Bites blend into kisses, pain into pleasure, she writhes, she moans, I have tamed the goddess I have made her my slut I have made her my whore I have made her mortal

And in that moment

she is done;

I am vanquished;

and at last, I untie those bindings. I give her back her eyes. I kiss her lips and together we entwine, until the line between goddess and supplicant are blurred and all that remains is that perfect moment, glowing eternal until the sun rises and the spell is broken...

...

I awake, my head upon my desk, these very papers beneath my cheek, and but a single name upon my lips. 'Nanette. Outside, the moon is low, but it is not yet the dawn. I will return to my bed, and sleep a whiles more. Perhaps I will dream of her but still.

It is December 17th, 1897.

Paris sits cold outside my window, like the lover you wake to in the middle of the night, their face to the wall, their arms already too full of their own small, sad stories to dream of cradling yours. I sit within, scribbling by candle light, wasting away with my fellow dregs and errata of our never-golden bohemian nation. We are the shadow-city, the wastrels in corners of the inns and alleyways, with too many words, dreams in abundance and not a Franc to our name. This merry band of disappointing sons and run-away daughters, artists and scoundrels, yes, these are my people. This book shall be my record of them and I, of our misdeeds and desires, our dreams and our failures; our meanderings through this rotten and most vainglorious age.

My name, for what little it may be worth, is Benoit Bastille. Aye, it is a foolish name perhaps. It is certainly not the name my father and mother chose for me; nor that which the priests will claim the Lord knows me by; but it is my name none the less. I chose it for myself. That makes it true.

I lodge in the second attic of number 37, Rue de la Harpe. It is a ramshackle house, falling at the seams, held together as much by the prayers of its occupants as by any architect's design. Were the civil authorities more of a mind to care I am sure it would be condemned and burned, along with all within it. Its comforts are few, its faults many, but for those of us of little means, little desire to be found, or indeed a blend of both, it is a haven; a welcoming base for our more esoteric ventures.

Forgive me; I talk too much. It is the poet in me, screaming even now. But the hour is late. I will drown his screams in bottled oblivion and watch the guttering candle flicker, dance, fire burning upon drooping eyes...

...

And she is there before me once more.

*****

This piece is intended as the prologue of what is planned to be a much longer story, involving a large cast of characters and many forms of BDSM couplings, as well as many other erotic encounters. This is my first time writing anything like this, so all comments and criticisms are more than welcome. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next time!