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BACK TO FRASER'S FRACTURED FICTION Adventures in Decorating, part 10Aby A. Fraser and J. Hontz
© Copyright 2005 A. Fraser and J. Hontz. All rights reserved. This is the sexually explicit version. If you are looking for the PG 13 version, click here You have been Warned. "I am expecting a guest tonight, Elrich," said the lady of the house. "You will show him into the drawing-room, and then you and Jared may retire for the night." The ghoul--Gen preferred the term "little cousin" as being less off-putting--nodded and showed his impressive, razor-sharp teeth. Poor, misbegotten creatures that they were, he and his fellow "cousin" Jared had been overcome by the Relic Guardians who had broken into the chateau to hunt for Claude's ring. They were examples of what can go wrong with vampire turnings. Immortal, but carrion-eaters, not blood-drinkers, and with severely reduced mental capacities. They made faithful but slightly unnerving servants, and they worshipped Gen. When she had arrived home the previous evening, the first thing she had done was reassure herself that the little cousins were unharmed. Then she had alerted Bertrand, the estate manager, of her return; and he had shown her the new security alarms and other measures he had installed to ensure there was no repeat of her finding uninvited men in her bedroom. (Invited men, however, Bertrand did not mention.) Even Evan would have approved, although Gen regretted the necessity of turning her home into a, er, fortress. The chateau had been built to withstand seige and longbowmen, not modern thieves. That was now changed. "And the... garbage?" she asked. So many more of the monks had died in the raid on Armando's headquarters. Regrets, more regrets. Bertrand shrugged. "Who notices freshly turned earth on tilled land?" he asked. "All food for the grapes." He hadn't quite found it in himself to let the monks be food for the, er, servants. "You are a marvel, Bertrand. Remind me to increase your salary." He would not, of course, remind her, but had a shrewd suspicion that it would be done anyway. "I live but to serve," he said. "There will be a guest arriving tomorrow night," Gen told him. "Should he wish to stay more than one night, please make him comfortable." "Yes, of course," Bertrand replied. He had walked off grinning. And now it was the following night, and Julian would be arriving. Gen found herself looking forward to it. This would be more, she felt from her judgement of the mage, than mere crude coupling. So she dressed with care, in a simple but elegant gown, and twisted her hair up into a becoming style. Long, long practice allowed her to do this without aid of a mirror or maid. Would he have eaten? She asked Madame Bertrand to provide some simple food---brioche, cheese, fruit. Champagne, of course. A fire was laid in the grate in the drawing-room, a very pretty room that Gen had refurnished herself a few years ago. Aurore, banished from a Dior-clad lap, curled up slightly petulantly on a cushion near the fire. The scene lacked only an interesting and amusing man. ----------------- The doorbell rang and one of the little cousins answered it. A man stood there, blond, blue-eyed, handsome, of moderate height, and noticeably not dressed in Dior. Instead he wore loose raw silk trousers, dark grey, and a simplbe if obviously expensive tunic of fine white linen. He raised an eyebrow at the little cousin, possibly because of the baring of rather impressive teeth, but seemed otherwise unperturbed by the cousin's appearance or toothy grin. "I'm expected," he said with a gracious bow. The little cousin turned and Julian followed him into the - what was it? Fortress, chateau, dungeon? Julian suspected dungeon fit far better than any other descriptor. The place exuded the weight of the past, and Julian, an expert on that subject, already felt rebellion growing in his soul. Prince. Master. He mused as he followed his guide through the cold unyielding stone of the place. More prisoner, slave. Stuck with all the pagentry, responsibility, weight and limitations with few of the perks. He'd noticed how quickly everyone boxed Gen in. They all saw her position, not Gen. With the exception of Adele. Who seemed blessed with an ability to overlook - or perhaps defy - societal expectations and see into and sometimes through others. And he hadn't even had to teach her that. They came around the last stone wall, took the last dank stone-smelling hallway, and came to a door. The little cousin knocked on said door, made a motion to Julian and drifted off to its own musings, leaving Julian standing alone in the hallway. He heard Gen's, "Entrez." He entrezed. The room was beautiful. The weight of the rest of the building had somehow been banished from it. And it sang of Gen, not of the past, not of her dead husband, not of her status and her curse. A slight smile curved his lips as he saw her sitting there. He sketched a bow, but kept his eyes on her. "Genevieve," he said, scorning the titles, he gave the name the full beauty it deserved. She deserved. Her eyes sparkled as she stood up. She moved so gracefully; Julian hadn't seen her in a dress until now. Of course. She had been trained how to move in good clothes. And then her lips were on his. "Julian," she said, genuinely happy to see him. "Welcome to Chateau de Monet." He felt something butt against his leg and looked down. A cat glared up at him. "Oh, this is Aurore," Gen laughed. "She is very friendly." She took Julian's hands and led him over to a delightful little settee. "Have you eaten?" she asked. "And would you do the honours?" she indicated the champagne. He sat, refraining from commenting regarding Aurore's apparent sudden fascination with his shoes. "I've eaten lightly," he commented, as he expertly dealt with the champagne. The cork expelled itself with that satisfying pop and he filled the two flutes half way. He handed one to Gen and took the other one. He sat back, and laid his arm across the back of the settee. He did not touch her. "May I offer a toast?" he asked. At Gen's nod, he replied, "Forma flos, fama flatus." She considered this toast. Beauty a flower, fame is but a breath. She moved her glass to touch his. As they each sipped their eyes met. She didn't even once entertain the notion that she was being unfaithful to Jean. They had long ago agreed that, when they were not together, their love lives were their own. Jean hadn't been particularily happy to agree to this, mind, but Genevieve had no patience with double standards. There was a modern stereo cd player, which did not look that out of place in this lovely room, on a small table near Gen. She got up and slipped a cd into it. "I missed out on the dancing last night," she said. "And I do so love to dance. May I have the pleasure?" He rose and took her in his arms. "The pleasure is mine." It was a soft, sultry CD; setting the mood. They made quite a dazzling couple for the amused audience of one fascinated cat. Gen sighed and put her head on Julian's shoulder, enjoying the dance, enjoying having this unique man here with her. When the second piece ended, he lifted up her chin and kissed her hard. She extended her hand to Julian. "Shall we?" He took her hand and let her lead him to the bedroom. There was, indeed, a big bed. "Big" was an understatement. It was black, and massive. Whoever had carved the posts had definitely gone for baroque. Julian wondered, as had many others, how on earth it had been brought into the castle. "Do you like it?" Gen asked. "All the gods. It would be perfect for some wretchedly gothic bodice-ripper." She laughed, and reached her hand up behind her head to fumble at her hair. "Allow me," said Julian, and released the bindings that held her hair in its complicated knot. It fell in glorious golden waves, past her shoulders. She felt a strange sliding sensation around her neck, and realized that he'd also unfastened the catch of the gold chain she always wore. "No!" she exclaimed, startled, but it was too late. Julian held the chain and its attendant ring clenched in his fist. "Yes," Julian replied. "Don't worry, I won't lose it. But I'd rather not have the spirit of your dead husband looking on, criticizing my technique." He turned his back on her so he wouldn't have to see her expression and put the chain and ring safely in a convenient drawer. He continued talking. "I never met Claude de Monet," he said. "but I'm quite sure I wouldn't have liked him." He risked a look at her. She was frowning, but in puzzlement. "Why not?" she asked. "Because I tend not to like men who take something free and beautiful and lock it in a cage." Genevieve raised her head and stared at him. "What do you mean?" "I look around here," said Julian, "and everything I see is Claude's. "I see Claude's home, his servants, his winery, his version of the Brotherhood... even his bed. You are Prince and master... why? Because _he_ was Prince and master, and left you with that burden. Is there anything here that is _yours_, Genevieve? Is this what _you_ want?" She stood as if carved from stone. "I loved Claude." "I'm certain of it. He may even have loved you. Is that any reason for you to live his life?" Gen turned away, unable to answer. Julian sighed. "Genevieve," he crossed over to her and took hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him. He was hoping like hell he had her off-kilter enough not to kill him for the sheer effrontery. "Yes?" "I didn't come here tonight to have sex with a master vampire or a Prince. I've had sex with princes before. They're nothing special. But you..." he released her. "You are a beautiful woman. When was the last time someone saw you for who you are, not what you are? I would like to make love to that woman. If she'll let me." Silence. That perfect vampire silence. Had he offended her too badly? Hurt her too deeply? Then she took his hand. "Yes," she said. They were both experienced in the ways of love. They'd both loved, hated, lusted, all at once and none at all. Still the conversation, the words, echoed in Genevieve's mind, repeating endlessly: 'I want to make love to that woman.' When was the last time she'd looked at a man and not see that instant look, that immediate placement of her on a pedestal, the look that said she was apart, separate, that deferential subtleness that killed spontaniety? She didn't see it in Julian's eyes. His eyes were aflame, with her, with desire, with the anticipation of pleasure. Nor had he taken advantage of her momentary confusion. He stood close to her. She could smell him. His own subtle scent, his cologne, his arousal. One hand rested on her shoulder the other brushed her cheek. He waited. Patiently. Not as still as a vampire, but not that far from it. He knew when she'd made her choice, and he leant toward her lips. Hers met his, and she was never quite certain who led who back and down onto the bed. They sank into the cool sheets. His body gave off heat in waves. Yet he took his time, and when she started to hurry him he chuckled deep in his throat. "Not yet," was all he said. One piece of clothing at a time, tongues, fingers exploring, his heart beating against her, his breath on her body, the scent increasing as his skin was more exposed, his body heat seeming nearly enough to make her burn too. At one point their eyes met. He smiled into hers. "They've no idea what they're missing. The woman is so much more worthy of worship than the ideal." She laughed, deep in her throat, causing delicious ripples along her now fully-naked body. Then she gasped as his fingers, then his tongue, found a sensitive spot. Ah, god, no-one had touched her there in... she refused to finish the thought. He smiled more widely at her reaction. Ran his tongue yet again across her skin. Her lips parted. "Julian..." it was a sigh. "Make love to me. I cannot take much more worship." He laughed delightedly. And thought fled as passion took over them both. His sweat inflamed her, and she reached for him, guiding him to where she wanted him. His erection burning where it touched her, his tongue, his hands, her tongue, her hands, her legs open, inviting - his sigh as she reached her first orgasm, his delight when she gasped and urged him to give her more. She pushed him too, onward, toward orgasm, but he'd fight her off, backing off to prolong the acts, begging her to stop, wait, give him a moment, her delight that she could, merely moving one muscle remove all his control, but granting him that control anyway. How long it was, how often she came, how close he came, and then finally he could control himself no longer. She knew when he surrendered to it, and urged his orgasm on, making him push deeper into her, reach deeper within his own passion, urging him to thrust, helping him... And then the explosive release. He shuddered in her arms, exhausted, satiated, but clutching her still, his lips against her neck, his breath warming her as he struggled to slow his pounding heart. He would never know how much she longed, at that moment, to be able to stay like this, snuggled against him, his breath tickling her, until sleep claimed them both; natural sleep after the physical extertion, with sweet erotic dreams. Dreams. Could she even remember dreams? There was so much she'd forgotten. It was better so; the melancholy of remembering being human could drive a vampire mad. She knew those it had happened to. He stirred, finally, and kissed her between her breasts. Then on them. No, he couldn't possibly... so soon? "No," she said, firmly pushing him away and down, "you are exhausted. I shall do the work." Her lips locked on his, smothering any protest he might have made. She lay gently on top of him, rubbing herself along his body, tangling her fingers in his sweaty hair, kissing whatever she could find exposed. He groaned, back arching, as another erection began to form. She laughed and kissed him there, tongue darting along the shaft, urging him into full engorgement, and then she mounted him. He groaned, his hips rising with her rhythm. Gently, slowly at first, then with a more rapid rhythm. He obeyed her directives as she insisted on control. His eyes closed and he let himself flow with her as she willed it. But as her passion mounted as she neared orgasm then when she began to shudder, his hips rose and he thrust harder into her. His arms encircled her tiny waist pushing her downward onto him with the rhythm. She cried out and he laughed. One of those deep hoarse sounds that replaces words. He wouldn't let her stop, though, encouraging her to continue, urging her to climax yet again, and again and again, until she collapsed beside him, sliding off of him. But he was still hard and he turned sideways. She opened her thighs for him and he reinserted himself, and she laughed as the bed shook under them and his thrusts rattled the flutes sitting on the table beside the bed. But before he could climax again, she whispered, "Stop." He did. "As you will," he gasped back, shuddering as he fought his body's urges, willing himself to wait. She wiped his forehead and kissed him, then lay back. "So, what are you waiting for?" she asked. "Miserable woman," he said with a half choked laugh. He continued, right from where he'd left off. Gen found herself laughing, hopelessly, as he grunted and rutted. He gasped, "Wretch. You have no sense of propriety." Which set her off into fresh waves of laughter. He finally gave it up and collapsed beside her, laughing himself. "Gods. Anyone who takes sex too seriously lacks a sense of the absurd." "But you didn't climax," she said with a pout. "There's always later," he said and pulled her into his embrace. "I'm badly in need of rest at the moment and I enjoy the feel of you in my arms, just like this." "Yes," she agreed. "Frankly, even I am in need of respite." She drew the counterpane up to cover them both demurely, making him laugh. They snuggled, listening to the old castle creak and settle around them. "Julian," she said, remembering something from the first night, "tell me the truth. Did you really plan to fall off the roof, to let Armando hurt you like that?" "Well, not exactly. But I needed to see how powerful he was. To test his limits. It was a risk." "Crazy fool." "Yes, dear," he replied with a chuckle. Then, "So, tell me of this White Lion." "The White Lion was an inn in England. Some evil people-magic users and vampires-had taken over it, and used it as a headquarters for their game of harassing those who chose not to abuse their powers. They attacked a group of Druids who were travelling across the country..." she fed him the details of the founding of the Brotherhood, of Alex's tempestuous arrival in Paris, of the execution of Lucinda and the defeat of the little cabal in the inn. He obviously enjoyed the telling, but as her story wound to its ending, his breathing told her he was asleep. What a night! Julian was quite a lover. She ached in delicious places. She was sure he did, too. She forebore making comparisons with... anyone else. It was pleasant, after that frantic activity, to just lie with a man sleeping at her side. Unfortunately, it was a situation that could not be allowed to continue past a certain hour. She did not want him to see her dead. "Julian," she whispered into his ear. "It is nearly dawn. Wake up." He came awake talking. "Oh, Genevieve, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you wake me earlier?" "You've had a rough couple of days, cher." "Yes, well, it hardly excuses..." She put a finger over his lips. "Please. I would rather..." "Yes, of course. A kiss and I will leave you to peace." They kissed, he got up, collected his clothes, leant over and kissed her again, and said, "I swear fealty to Genevieve. Not to Prince and master, but to Genevieve. I am yours whenever you need me." And with that, he winked out of her bedroom. ________ She woke alone, which did not surprise her, since she had locked the door of the bedroom. She knew that wouldn't have kept Julian out, but it was her habit to do so. Genevieve was not a brooder. She looked wistful for a moment, then rolled out of the gigantic bed and prepared herself for another evening of being... Prince and master. Non, je ne regret rien. She had a long, slow bath, smiling to herself as she recalled high points of the previous evening. She found more practical clothes than the abandoned Dior gown to put on, and put her hair up in a more simple knot than last night's. Perhaps she should cut it? That would displease Jean, which appealed to her. Something was missing, and it took her a moment to realize what it was. She went to the nightstand beside that fabulous bed, and opened the drawer. She looked down at the fine gold chain with its heavy, masculine gold ring, for a long, long time. Then she shut the drawer again. The End |
