("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
_________________________________________
Scroll down to view text
Archive name: yvette.txt (Mf, ped)
Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planer-save.com)
Story title : Yvette la Triste
--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------
Yvette la Triste
by Alasder (alasder@planer-save.com)
***
A pedophile love affair turns to tragedy. (Mf, ped)
***
I was a sad child. This has to be said: I was also an
extremely lonely little girl, which may seem strange,
considering the circumstances, but which also may go a
great length in explaining the otherwise inexplicable
things that happened later in my life.
My father was professor of political economy at a
world-famous university. His talents involved him in
lofty dealing with great institutions like the World
Bank, the IMF and the United Nations. Consequently I
saw very little of him, indeed he was a comparative
stranger until I was in my middle teens.
My mother was equally famous in her own right as a
fashion designer who, in the course of a single week,
could be in Paris, London, New York, Tokyo and
Singapore. This is no childish exaggeration. Although
she appeared at home oftener than my father, it was
usually little more than a stopover between flights.
The actual personal contact was only marginally more
frequent, but was certainly no more intimate.
By the age of seven I had come to the soul-shattering
conclusion that I had been 'an unwanted child'. So-
called 'normal' people cannot possibly have any idea
what it is like to feel like this. The conviction was
not in any way depleted by the fact that, when I was
eight, I was sent to a private boarding school in
Geneva for rich, unwanted girls such as I, but at that
time the new environment was assimilated as a blessed
relief from the isolation and desperate sadness of home
life.
Our family, that is, my father's family had lived in a
fairy-tale chateau in Savoie, in possibly the most
beautiful corner of France, for centuries. The place
had been destroyed several times as a result of natural
decay, tempest, war, peasant rebellion, revolution, and
rank carelessness on the part of the servants, had been
rebuilt as a outpouring of pure family bloody-
mindedness and a refusal to allow others to get the
better of them, and with each rebuilding the place
increased in size. I was born there. It was virtually
the only place I knew until I started school.
The estates were extensive, sweeping down from a
backdrop of Alpine foothills to the sand dunes and
pebbled beach of a little lake. There was everything a
child could desire. We had high meadows covered in deep
grass, buttercup and poppy with solemn-faced, bell-
ringing cows and cheeky goats that gambolled as
friskily as any spring lamb.
There were vineyards and apple orchards and groves of
greengages where a child could devour a lifetime's
vitamins at her leisure. I had parks for playgrounds
and woodland wonderlands to explore. We even had canoes
and a motorboat on the lake. The only thing that was
lacking was the one thing every child desperately
needs: human companionship and love of any sort.
There was a regiment of servants at the chateau, around
the estate and in the home farms, vineyards and
orchards: maids and man-servants of every description,
each one who hated and despised me and treated me with
utter contempt more than they hated each other and
treated everyone else with suspicion. It was a sad
atmosphere for a child. I was a prisoner in it until I
entered the liberating world of the girls' school in
Geneva.
The only exception to the rule in my life was Raoul,
the only break in the canopy of oppressive cloud. He
was the chauffeur. For most of my young life his time
was spent driving my father around Paris or Marseilles,
or transporting my mother to and from the airport.
On the rare occasion when he was at the chateau, and
when he did not have other immediate demands, he would
take me for drives into the countryside and down to the
lake where he let me swim naked - indeed when we were
alone he insisted that I swim naked - or he would climb
the foothills with me or play hide-and-seek among the
fruit trees. He was the one person who treated me as a
human being and who had time for me.
As far as I was concerned he was the handsomest man in
the world and the kindest, most courteous and nicest
person in my life. That he was a paedophile meant a
million times less than nothing to me at that time. And
looking back on the things he did to me, I mean
allegedly sexual things, hand on heart, I would swear
to this is the highest court in the land, he did
nothing to me that I did not want to happen, and
nothing he did to me as his sex object left any mental
stigmata or psychological hang-ups.
I truly believe that it was Raoul who helped me hold on
to some shreds of sanity and provided brief glimpses of
pleasure in an otherwise totally miserable existence.
It was the desolation and the loneliness of my
childhood that left me scarred.
It was the end of the first year at the school in
Geneva, the beginning of the long summer vacation when
things took a weird turn. I was broken-hearted, for it
meant that I had to leave my friends and playmates, the
companionship of the classroom, the chatter and the
scandalous gossip of the playground, the secret rough
and tumble and the pillow fights of the dormitory and
the secret intimate touching in the toilettes. The only
brightness in the presuming gloom was in that Raoul was
there in person, immaculately liveried, and alone, amid
a thousand parents, real and alleged, nannies and
bodyguards and other chauffeurs waiting for their
wards, to take me home.
The greedy look in his eye was unmistakable and it was
the first time I became aware of its libidinous
significance. He wanted to do me as much as I did not
want to go home. The official uniform (since changed to
be more socially acceptable and politically correct) at
that time, for the preparatory school anyway, was a
severely abbreviated skirt that scarcely made it
halfway down the thigh, a white cotton blouse, dark
green jacket and a silly felt hat that was shaped like
an inverted soup-bowl. Raoul seemed fixated by the
short skirt. Under it we were compelled to wear
extremely tight, white legless knickers.
I flew at him, wrapped arms and legs around him and
planted a wet kiss on his lips. Kids were doing similar
things all around, so no one paid any attention. Raoul
held me by a great spade-like hand on my bottom under
my skirt. He massaged the flesh of my backside and
explored with a finger. He found a way inside my pussy.
He wiggled, it tickled and I laughed.
"Did you miss me?" he demanded gruffly as we drove
south.
I answered honestly. "Not really!" When he pulled a
face, I added, "But I am really glad to see you." I
have always been truthful, simply because I never
really saw the point of telling a lie, even the softest
of options: the nice innocent socially acceptable lie,
or the pointedly political correct one. "I was not
looking forward to going home."
We drove away from Geneva and my Garden of Eden. I
wanted to explain that school was the only place where
I found friendship (apart from his) and that all the
servants around the chateau (except him) were insolent,
beastly rude and unkind to me. But before I could
explain the most extraordinary thing happened.
Raoul had driven the Mercedes off the main road and
into a bumpy lane half way between school and home. It
had been overgrown with years of high rye grass neglect
and stinging nettle abandonment. He pulled to a halt
and threw open the driver's door. Before I could even
think about offering a questioning glance, he drew me
from my seat and laid me face down across his lap. I
felt the short skirt brushed back and la petite culotte
manoeuvred down past my knees.
For several minutes he rubbed and massaged my bare
backside and the groove of my pussy while he struggled
with the buttons of his flies before producing his
enlarged and very hard 'bite' which he slipped between
my thighs. He rubbed himself with a vigor approaching
fanaticism; his throbbing masculinity rammed sidewise
into the slit of my pussy, now sticky wet. He shot off
only a few minutes later and rubbed the semen on his
hand into my bottom and along the groove of my pudenda.
We remained there in that position for another five
groping minutes. Raoul took a large handkerchief,
almost like a dinner napkin, from inside his tunic, and
wiped both of us clean. He bent over and planted a
slobbering raspberry kiss on my buttocks. He rearranged
my dress, buttoned himself up, and smoked a cigarette
with the door still open.
"AprŠs l'amour la fum‚e," he said and sniggered like a
mischievous boy.
We reversed to the main road and continued our journey
as if what had happened in the deserted lane was of
little consequence.
That was the first time I was aware of being
'molested'. Later that night, when I was getting ready
for bed and was having a good look at my body for the
first time ever, I started to remember and reflect upon
many of the previous things Raoul did when we were
alone. Up to that moment, they had only been bits and
pieces of a play pattern that I welcomed.
Quite suddenly it seeped through to my senses that it
was something males did to females as part of the
natural order of things. The girls at school had talked
in whispers and told little secrets of sex and the
things brothers and cousins, gardeners and teachers,
had done to them. To me it was a kind of fairy tale
fictions that little girls make up, without real
substance. It began to take on a new significance.
When Raoul had time to play with me, if ever I turned
up in jeans, he would send me back to change into a
dress, skirt or shorts - the shorter the better! Then
he would 'inspect' me by lifting my skirts or probing
between the legs of my shorts. When we played roll-
about in the meadows, invariably my skirts ended up
around my waist.
Raoul showed me the right way to execute handstands and
cartwheels and held me upside down, legs widely splayed
while he rubbed my crotch. When we were bird-watchers
in the woodland or foothills, he usually lay over me,
and again my skirt was brushed back over my buttocks.
Raoul had playfully smacked my bare bottom and wiped me
with his napkin-like handkerchief when I peed out-of-
doors.
We made pretend love as maman and papa where his hands
explored my chest, belly and pussy. But, as I said,
these things at the time were part of the play routine,
and I accepted them without comment, indeed I
thoroughly enjoyed the kind of thing he did to me.
The homeward incident in the car was different, and not
only in the intensity of the experience. I had only
just turned nine, but even at that immature age I fully
realised that the kind of relationship I had with this
man four times my age had taken a completely new twist.
It had ignited a smouldering fire inside me, like
smoking twigs and leaves that produce little but smoke
and hope. I had no idea of its precise nature, but I
knew I wanted something physical and deeply emotional
from Raoul, something to satisfy an ill-defined, but
persistent longing deep inside me.
The following day, the first full day home, I sought
him out in the suite of garages about two hundred
metres from the main building. He was doing something
to the underside of an ancient Rolls Royce. He wore
brief shorts in place of his usual livery. His legs
protruded, one bent at the knee, providing me with an
unobstructed view of his thigh, down to his naked,
thick-haired pubis. As I stared, an avalanche of silent
emotions crashed down on me, and I was conscious of a
longing for a sexual closeness, which I could only
dimly and fractionally understand, but which I knew had
something to do with what he had done in the car on the
previous day.
I crouched down. I was still wearing the short school
skirt and the very latest fashion in miniature panties.
I deliberately splayed my knees and called his name.
His flat trolley wheeled from under the vehicle and
stopped with his face directly at my crotch. He stared
for more than a minute. He licked his lips and half sat
up.
"Do you fancy a ride?" He tapped the gleaming vintage
Rolls with greasy fingers, while still studying my
splayed thighs and my brief knickers. He stretched out
a hand under my skirt and ran an oily finger along the
middle ribbon that covered the groove of my pussy.
"This is ready for its test drive. Wanna come?"
Without waiting for my reply he washed his hands at the
cold water tap in the lavabo in the garage.
"You have oil on your leg!" I giggled.
He threw a dampened cloth at me. "Give the boy a
treat!" he joked. "Wipe it away!"
Close up, the shorts were more abbreviated than I had
first thought. The hamstrings on his thigh were
powerful, like those of an athlete and his buttocks
were firm, solid muscle. I ran the rag up and down the
tanned skin, and tingling emotions, delicious but
uncomfortably frustrating, stirred deep inside me. The
internal telephone rang its urgent alarm inside the
garage, echoed by the ringing for the telephone in
Raoul's living quarters upstairs. He went to answer it,
and returned grim faced.
"Our ride will have to wait," he announced. "I have to
pick up your dear maman in Marseilles this afternoon. I
shall have to leave as soon as possible." His face
broke into a smile. "But not before we have a little
play. Maybe a little probe at my little girlfriend, and
maybe a little branlette as I have a little feel at her
little pussy."
I was thrown over his shoulder and carried upstairs. I
screamed laughter as he spanked and rubbed my bottom.
He dumped me on his bed and removed his shirt and
shorts. He was massively erect. It was as if his
testicles had been inflated. He kicked off his canvas
shoes.
"A shower!" he declared. "But first let's have a look
at you!"
He pushed back my short skirt and hauled my knickers
down past my ankles and threw them aside. He pulled up
my knees and separated my thighs. For a long time he
simply stared at me, devoured me with his eyes. He
climbed on the bed and positioned himself, kneeling
between my feet. He began to masturbate, rubbing my
vulva with his free hand. It was only a few moments
before he spurted his semen everywhere - between my
legs, on my clothing and face, and on the bedclothes;
the stuff seemed endless and indiscriminate.
"Some time soon it goes into you," he gasped and
collapsed over me. "In there!" His face was deadly
serious as his finger invaded me. "Then it will be for
real!" He gasped. The intensity of the effort made him
breathless. "OK?" and I nodded. More than anything else
in the whole world at that moment I wanted to take his
huge, hardly deflated cock, into my mouth and suck it
back to life. He showered, donned his black livery,
kissed my forehead and departed.
That was the last I saw of him that summer. I heard
later that he had taken my mother to Paris where she
met up with my father, and from there they were driven
virtually all over Europe. And, once again, I was
abandoned to my drab, aimless loneliness. Several times
I tried to recreate the fire that Raoul had stirred
inside me by touching myself the way he did. It was
interesting, but not the same.
All that summer I went about as in a half-dreamlike
state of awareness; I had an aching, hungry longing. I
had no precise idea of what it was I wanted or needed;
I only knew that somehow it had something to do with
Raoul. I missed him. As summer drew to a close, a
feeling of almost suicidal depression overwhelmed me; I
hated my life, my home, my parents. I even had to take
the bus, train and a private taxi back to school in the
Autumn. And it rained all the way!
The Christmas break from school brought no relief.
Raoul had been called away: his parents had been
involved in a road accident in the Pays de Leon and
both were in intensive care in hospital in Brest. The
old man who replaced him as temporary chauffeur was
glum-faced and distant and proved to be every bit as
insolent as the others in the chateau.
For the following Easter break, I had to fly to Paris
to spend the holiday with maman and papa. From there we
went to Rome for some kind of religious festival, but I
could not have been less interested nor have felt more
rebellious and impious. I wanted only Raoul. In fact,
it was nearly three years before I got him to myself.
He collected me from school again for the long summer
vacation. Both my parents were with him on this
occasion. We went through the cold formality of a hug
and a kiss on both cheeks. When I finally made eye
contact with Raoul, the signal was unmistakably clear:
he intended to fuck me at the earliest opportunity.
Maman and papa sat in the luxurious rear of the plush,
custom-built Mercedes; I sat in the front passenger
seat beside Raoul. I giggled as we passed the spot on
the road with the overgrown and deserted lane where we
had made a crude sort of first love. Raoul smiled
conspiratorially. He brushed my skirt as far back as
the space would permit, he spread my knees, and several
times during the journey let his hand wander up to my
crutch to get a finger inside me.
I sat on the edge of the seat to make it easier for
him. There was an added thrill in being felt up with my
parents in the back of the automobile. There was little
danger; only the chauffeur's head and neck were visible
from behind. And before we finally landed, Raoul had
straightened my clothing. But I was soaking! Love
juices poured from me.
Still it was another two weeks before we were alone
again; it was as if my parents were doggedly determined
to monitor my every movement, and had, for the first
time ever, planned activities for every minute of the
day: swimming, riding, playing tennis and croquet,
visiting, dining out. Finally, father was off to Japan,
mother was in Italy for a fashion week. I sought Raoul
out at the garages. He was sitting in the midst of a
thousand bits and pieces of a sports car, carefully
sticking labels on each part. Again he was wearing
tight shorts. The bulge in front of them was
unmistakable and he made no attempt to conceal it.
"Give me five minutes," he called out when I appeared,
dressed for the kill in the shortest shorts that could
have come from any fashion house in Europe or America.
He ran appreciative eyes over me. "Then I'll be right
with you! Right in you!"
I slid into the driving seat of the latest acquisition,
the last word in German engineering. I pretended to
drive the massive machine through busy streets and the
dangerous hazards I had seen on television adverts,
avoiding avalanches skirting wild beasts on the road,
making appropriate noises with my mouth. It was
strange; I was so lost in play fantasy that for the
first time in several years Raoul slipped from my idle-
time thoughts.
Suddenly, a large hand groped for, found and mauled my
small breast. My head was jerked round and my lips were
kissed and a tongue, with the slightest taste of
alcohol, filled my mouth. Then crude fingers slid past
the crutch of my shorts and the middle band of my
panties and slipped inside me. It was the most
delicious sensation I had ever experienced. My vaginal
muscles pulled him in and my buttocks began to shudder
and jerk crazily. His probing found my maidenhead.
"Know what this is?" He growled almost like a dog as he
flexed his finger. Without waiting for a response, he
said, "Not that it matters! You won't have it for long.
But it is the mysterious veil between being a little
girl and being a woman." He sniggered and again I got
the faint whiff of alcohol. "In other words, my sweet
little piece of sweetmeat, it is your virginity, which
I suspect you are about to lose!"
He withdrew as suddenly as he had appeared. He locked
the doors of the garage - a thing I don't ever remember
him doing before. There was no possibility of
misinterpreting the glint in his eye when he returned.
The seats of the Mercedes folded back to form a bed.
Raoul climbed into the vehicle and lay alongside me.
His kisses had never been more passionate not his
exploring fingers more exciting. By the time his mouth
was at my cunt, I would have died from sheer
frustration were his progress towards fucking me to be
aborted.
His entry, after a seeming eternity, was as life-
fulfilling as it was nerve-jangling and bone-rattling.
I yelped at the ripping away of my virginity. The sharp
pain of it soon faded into pure pleasure; a million
separated sparks and shocks gradually melded to become
a crescendo of massive blazing flame and an earth-
shattering eruption in my abdomen as I raced into my
first ever orgasm.
The sensuousness of it was multiplied by the feeling of
Raoul coming inside me almost at the same time as warm,
hot, boiling semen bursting into my womb in unstoppable
spurts. On and on, till he emptied himself completely
into me. I laughed and wept and clung to him and kissed
him, and never wanted this emotion ever to end.
His withdrawal was like the closing of theatre curtains
at the end of a drama. There was a sense of
completeness and loss. I felt his semen, mingled with
veins of virginal blood, seep from my violated cunt.
Raoul seemed fascinated by it; he fingered it, and me,
then finally wiped me, and his dripping cock with a
huge white handkerchief. And lit the inevitable
cigarette despite the 'd‚fense de fumer' notice on the
wall. I made to get up.
"Where do you think you are going?" He crouched over
the open door of the car and pushed me back. He
devoured me systematically with his eyes. "I'm not
finished with you yet!" He finished his cigarette and
positioned himself over me. "I think after this 'baise'
we shall go for a little ride into the country." He
slid into me with no difficulty, first one finger, then
two, then his cock guided between his fingers, and
began to ride gently.
"Perhaps you can tell cook that you won't be in for
dinner. We shall find some romantic little tavern and
eat there. Then we can have an evening of passion." He
reflected on the proposition for a moment. "It would be
too much to expect them not to ask questions if you
slept in my bed all night!"
Then he raced into his second coming. He exploded
inside me and hammered into me with such force that I
felt he must do some irreparable damage. There was an
almost insane glaze in his eyes as he completed his
ejaculation. This time he seemed reluctant to pull out.
I could feel his cock relax and soften. We lay like,
with him embedded in me, that for nearly half an hour.
We had our romantic meal in a countryside inn within
sight of Mont Blanc. Raoul knew the proprietor, a tall,
skinny individual, called Luc Maurice, whose eyes had
stripped me and examined every curve and corner of my
body as soon as we entered his low-ceilinged
establishment.
The peculiar leering had the odd effect of making me
feel important. There was everything a young girl in
love could have wished: candle-light and violinist,
exquisite cuisine and heavenly ice cream. A handsome
man who made me feel exquisitely special. After which,
Raoul took me by the hand and led me upstairs to a
bedroom.
"Luc has offered me a hundred francs to let him fuck
you," he said as he pulled off his shirt. I sat on the
bed. I felt the muscles in my lower abdomen tugging and
really thought I was going to be sick. I stared at him
in disbelief. He made it sound as if he had seriously
considered the proposition. He grinned wickedly.
"Relax!" He pulled off his underpants and threw them on
the bedside chair beside his other clothing. "I said he
had no chance, but that I would ask you - he really
fancies you! And he is giving the room for free." He
laughed. "But you are mine! All mine, and I don't
intend sharing you with anyone, ever!"
He had pulled me from the bed, unbuttoned my dress and
kissed me with a violence that began to get me ever so
slightly scared. He groped and squeezed my breast until
it hurt, then threw me backwards across the bed. He sat
beside me rather than lay. He spread my thighs and
tugged the crotch of my knickers to one side and
started to probe. Quite suddenly he plunged into me and
started to finger fuck.
In only a few minutes I responded in a frenzy of
pushing and twisting, my hips lifting and falling and
circling to get more and still more. And then I
exploded into the most exquisite and abandoned orgasm.
It went on for minutes, and when it finally subsided
Raoul still had his fingers full length inside me. He
pulled them away and began to suck my love juices, his
tongue replacing his fingers. It was too much; I could
feel the shuddering and jerking starting up again
instantly. This time it was if all the sensations were
happening apart from me, and I was a mere spectator at
another's seduction. Even when I felt myself coming, it
was a distant, almost out-of-body experience. I was
utterly fatigued.
Raoul let me relax for a while. He smoked a couple of
cigarettes. The taste of tobacco was strong on his lips
when he kissed me again. He shifted my position to lie
along the bed rather than across it. He hauled the
knickers from my legs, plunged his two fingers deeply
into me, then crawled on top of me. His entry was
instant, his huge, hard cock guided between his fingers
into its goal. He fucked me for only a few minutes then
came in great throbbing pulses of semen that felt as if
it were filling me. He did not pull out. He lay dormant
until I was sure that he had fallen asleep.
I made to shift his weight from my body when his hips
began to rise and fall; he started to pump back and
forth into me with a mechanical rhythm. Incredibly his
cock hardened and lengthened even more until it began
to be extremely painful. Mercifully it was brief, for
once again he fired his hot heavy substance deep into
my belly. He collapsed on top of me, lay for a minute
longer then pulled away. He smoked two more cigarettes.
He referred to his watch.
"It is time to get you back!" There was something in
the voice that suggested that he had his fill of me for
the evening. He dressed and returned me to the chateau.
His kiss before I left the car was little more than a
formality. "See you sometime," was his parting word.
The garage seemed comparatively empty when I went round
there the following morning. Raoul was not there, the
huge Mercedes was away. I assumed, and had it confirmed
later that he had been called away to Paris or
Marseilles. And once again, my summer was spent in
isolation. I tried the consolation of rubbing myself
off, and although it proved successful, and I did it
alone in the high meadows, in the motor boat on the
lake and nightly in bed, it was never the same as
Raoul's physical presence.
For the next two years Raoul became more of a shadowy
remembering than a present reality. For whenever I saw
him is was always in the background of the coming and
going of my parents. Most of his time was spent in
Paris where both maman and papa worked for most of the
time. I was fifteen, and really well developed
physically for my age, when two things happened that
were to alter the course of my life. The first, and the
lesser of the two evils, was that maman was killed in
the Concorde tragedy in Paris.
My father was absolutely shattered by the event, and
had to take prolonged leave (which became permanent
over the next two years) from his prestigious post at
the university. And only then did he begin to notice me
as a human individual with needs. The other, for me,
much more important event, happened immediately after
the first and has to be told in some greater detail.
For the third time in succession from school (I was now
in the senior school and, according to my parents, was
of an age where I could be expected to take care of
myself) I had to find my own way to the chateau. My
father was making preparations to return to Paris after
the funeral. I bicycled to the garage complex to seek
out Raoul. I was wearing what I considered to the
sexiest outfit in my wardrobe. I was desperate for
love, almost insane with lust for the man. I had to
have him before papa snatched him away from me again.
Unusually, the garage door was locked. It puzzled me.
Raoul seldom bothered. The only time I could remember
his securing the door was when he fucked me that first
time in the Mercedes. But it was a simple task to prise
the barrel of the lock back. The door did not even
creak as I prised it open; Raoul was fastidious in
things like that - creaking door would have been an
offence to his sensibilities. I mounted the stairs to
his living space cautiously; already I could hear the
giggling and squeals of delight. His bedroom door was
half-open. I gasped. And held a hand over my mouth to
negate the sound and prevent any other.
Raoul, naked on his bed, was tickling and kissing an
equally naked girl. I supposed her to be from the
nearest village, I did not recognise her as a daughter
of any of the servants, and I guessed her age at nine
or ten. My heart was thumping uncontrollably and the
blood of anger boiled in my veins. I withdrew as
silently as I had approached.
I knew that maman had possessed a hand pistol. She kept
it in a bottom drawer of a desk in her study. I knew
nothing about its calibre or any possible effects it
could have on a potential victim. These details were
irrelevant. I had shot several times when papa had
shooting parties; I had even been congratulated once on
my marksmanship by an officer in the Foreign Legion who
was one of the guests. I loaded the weapon with its
five bullets, stuck it into the waistband of my shorts
and covered it with the bottom of my sweater.
When I returned to the garage, Raoul was fucking the
child. Her legs were high in the air and his buttocks
were racing as he pumped into her. He was moaning and
groaning, she was squealing. I pushed the door wide
open and approached the bed. The little girl saw me
first and gaped stupidly. It was several thrusts before
the man was aware of my presence. When he noticed the
gun his face became as if sculpted from marble, his
eyes widened in sheer terror, his jaw dropped.
I fired. The muzzle was less than half a metre from his
head. The noise was so incredibly loud I was sure that
they must have heard the bang up at the chateau. The
physical effect was even more astonishing. Raoul was
blown aside and half his shattered face disappeared in
blood and brains. The little girl screamed and made to
rise. I pointed the gun at her right eye and pulled the
trigger. The disintegration made me feel sick. I ran to
the tiny toilet at the top of the stairs and threw up
into the lavatory bowl.
It took almost five minutes to get control of my
heaving stomach. I flushed the toilet, cleaned vomit
from around the rim with tissue, then flushed it again.
I took one last look at the blood and the mess on the
bed. It was the saddest moment in a sad lonely life.
I stuck the revolver into the waistband of my shorts
and left; it was burning hot against my belly. I took
the key from the garage door and double-locked it from
the outside. There was almost a sense of finality as I
slipped the key into my pocket. I cycled to the lake.
There was one old man, with his back to me, fishing
from the farthest end of the quay. I canoed, out of
line of his vision, to the middle and deepest part of
the water where I dropped the still warm weapon and the
key. I circled and paddled towards the quay from the
angler's side. He waved as I approached.
"You still here?" I asked politely when I climbed the
steps to the wharf. "You were here when I started out."
It was not a lie. I was tempted to expand as I sat
beside him, but it was a case of 'least said soonest
verified'. I was pleased to see his eyes, almost as a
masculine reflexive instinct, search out my bare thighs
and settle on my crotch.
"Patience, my girl," he said. "That what you need for
fishing." He offered his flask of coffee. "Gets cold on
the water after a while."
I sighed contentedly, and poured some steaming hot
coffee into the plastic cap. It was the sweetest, most
satisfactory beverage I have ever tasted. It gradually
crept up upon me that there was something vaguely
familiar about the man. It also occurred to me that he
was fishing private water in a private estate.
"You know my papa?" I ventured the question after a
prolonged silence.
The man turned his head slowly. "Professor Fourier?" He
smiled and nodded. "Yes! I know him. I also knew your
dear late maman!" He returned his attention to his rod.
"As a matter of fact, I painted her portrait many years
ago - before she married the professor."
Suddenly it clicked. "You are Adrien Masette!" I made
it sound almost like an accusation, and perhaps it was
intended. "The artist! You paint young girls! In the
nude!"
The man gave a quiet laugh. "I did! Sometimes!" He held
the rod in one hand and extended the other in my
direction. "Before this happened!" The hand was white
like that of a leper or an albino; the fingers were
gnarled. "Arthritis!" he exclaimed. "It's all I can do
to hold a fishing rod. There is no way I could handle a
brush!" He indicated a house on the hill beyond the
boundary wall of our estate. "Would you like to see
some of my work?" He sniggered. "You can come and look
at my etchings!" It was a kind of catch phrase at the
time for an invitation to 'come visit me for a fuck!'
"Indeed I insist that you come. Shall we say, the
morning after you return from the funeral. We can
discuss topics of mutual interest!"
END
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Kristen's collection - Directory 27