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citizen-sade · 9 months

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“Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute imagination the like of which has never been seen, atheistic to the point of fanaticism--there you have me in a nutshell. And kill me again or take me as I am, for I shall not change.” ― The Marquis de Sade

À la claire fontaine lilted softly from the prisoner's lips as the demanding, bloodthirsty howls of the crowd outside his window swelled and came crashing down with the guillotine blade. The Marquis stood at the solitary window of his room; hands clasped behind his back. A corner of his mouth quirked upward at the ensuing applause, though the smile did not touch his eyes. He imagined the blade slicing through the delicate white neck like that of a Christmas goose; the vitality of the lithe, supple young body that would go to waste in a pauper’s grave. What a shame. He considered the different ways in which the poor girl might yet be of use and hypothesized that the corpse would remain warm long enough for a proper send off, as her disembodied head looked on before the curtain of darkness fell. He grinned and mentally stashed the scene away for a future manuscript.

~~~

The Abbé de Coulmier strolled through the courtyard at Charenton with the grace and enthusiasm of one who found genuine joy in their life's work, greeting each patient with a gentle hello and blessing from God. Though their minds might be impaired, albeit some more than others, he had made progress on a few. Cleante no longer communicated exclusively as whatever animal he believed himself to be on any given day, preferring now to use the Alsatian dialect of French he had previously forgotten upon his admission to Charenton. Abelina no longer shrieked and hid from him or the doctors. He was proud of his work at the asylum thus far. Yet, there was one who seemed immune to his efforts; one whose proclivities were so infamous throughout France that it was a marvel he had not yet found himself on the executioner's block. It was to this particular patient's cell that the Abbé headed next. Though little, if any, progress had been made with him, he was at least far more coherent than many of the other residents and provided ample conversation. As was his habit, the Abbé offered a quick prayer to Saint Benedict before entering the cell.

He scanned the room before the voice at the window drew his attention.

“You’re late,” quipped the ward without peeling his eyes from the spectacle in the yard below. Before the Marquis' visitor would have a chance to respond, he beckoned the Abbé to join him at his post.

“Apologies, Marquis. Buchon fought tooth and nail to see the execution. I thought it best he be restrained and prayed over to ease his afflicted mind," the Abbé replied. He whispered a Hail Mary under his breath as he approached.

“Of course you did, mon ange,” he teased fondly, and shifted the topic to his current means of entertainment, “See there? Adultery, with an elected official; and hired an assassin to murder her husband,” he stated in a whisper that suggested lurid gossip, his eyes widening in feigned shock. He tsk'd softly, “Waste of a good cunt, surely—” he cocked a brow in the Abbé’s direction, “or is it?”

The priest grimaced at the crass remark, “A shame for her to die without last rites. And knowing the crowd’s barbarity, no proper burial either," he frowned and turned away to shield himself from the sight, and to face his most vexing patient; one who often horrified him, and ever so slightly stirred something else entirely within him—something which he dared not admit aloud, even to himself, “Besides, I thought you preferred your partners alive and squirming?”

"Beggars can't be choosers, darling," the Marquis sighed melodramatically.

The Abbé chuckled and shook his head. His attention turned to a nearby bookshelf, checking to see if there were any recent additions. “The staff said you were given a new book from an admirer. An edition of Sappho, was it?”

The slate gray eyes tracked the priest's every movement, “Yes, indeed,” he considered the volume in question and smirked, “In the market for some new wanking material, Abbé?”

The priest’s face burned despite his finely-honed knack for ignoring the Marquis’ crude sense of humor. He inhaled deeply through his nose, knowing it best not to provide the notorious deviant with whatever sick pleasure he gained from plucking at his nerves like the strings of a fiddle. He instead busied himself with a randomly selected book placed just-so for him to snatch off the shelf.

“You might try reading a book of a different variety, Marquis. Perhaps Confessions by Augustine? Or John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress?”

He flipped through the pages of the maroon leather-bound copy in his hands and immediately regretted it as words such as “quim” and “sodomite” jumped out at him, and he snapped the book closed before he could be subjected to further vulgarity. He did, however, admire the detailed filigree along the spine. Donatien watched the Abbé’s graceful fingers card through the pages of the book and ghost over the decorative cover.

“The purpose of your stay at Charenton is to be healed of your uncouth inclinations, not to worsen your condition," the Abbé continued, and returned the book to its original position, careful not to touch anymore of the perverse volumes in the Marquis’ library lest he contract something grisly from them.

While his back was turned, the Marquis slunk towards him, stopping short of trapping the unsuspecting Abbé between himself and the bookcase. He breathed in the Abbé's sweet, delicate scent. It was a welcome contrast to the sweat and lye of the mischievous young chambermaid that came to indulge her baser curiosities with his writings, and he found himself wondering if the flesh beneath the young man's robes was half as soft as hers.

“And what condition would that be, pray tell?”

The Abbé startled slightly and heaved a sigh of frustration, but quickly disguised it with a polite smile as he turned to face the man.

“The same condition that compels you to commit heinous offenses such as blasphemy, adultery, and... sodomy”, replied the Abbé with disdain, “The kind of condition that led to the poisoning of those poor brothel workers," he contemplated this for a moment and pitched his voice to a more covert volume, "Does Spanish fly even work... like that?”

The Abbé wondered if aphrodisiacs would hold any sway over him. It had been so long since he first buried any semblance of craving for the touch of another; so long since he’d heard the Devil whisper temptations in his ear like the sirens of mythology.

Donatien always got a rise out of this little dance of theirs, both literally and figuratively. He tipped his chin up and stared at the Abbé’s lips just enough to make a show of it.

“You might be surprised at what can... arouse the senses,” he purred, testing the waters of the young cleric's staunch convictions.

François rolled his eyes as one long-suffering and met the Marquis' flirtation with a smirk, "That depends on what you think might arouse mine?" he swallowed the forming lump in his throat as he boldly held eye-contact with the libertine, longing to discover for himself if this rogue was as ferocious as the masses claimed.

The Marquis’ eyebrows shot up. This was a new and intriguing development. The tip of his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he smiled, “Wine?” He gestured towards his desk and the crystal decanter that sat atop it.

"I wouldn't turn down a glass," said the Abbé as he collected himself to the best of his ability. He could pray for forgiveness later, if necessary; but for now, he took a kind of pleasure in the idea of indulging his humanity.

The Marquis hurried to his antique writing desk, easily slipping into the role of gracious host. He poured both glasses, but rather than delivering the second to his guest, he left it on the corner of the desk and flung his coattails out from beneath him to sit with a flourish. He crossed one leg over the other and draped an arm over the back of his chair, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass.

Perplexed, the Abbé moved to retrieve the proffered beverage. Donatien fixed his gaze upon the boy over the rim of his glass as he tipped it to his lips. He then turned his attention back to his wine and shifted to prop both feet up on a corner of the table, “Some have said that Dionysus was robbed of his soul's judgment by his stepmother, Hera, who acted out of jealousy against the child of her husband, Zeus, and Semele. In vengeance, therefore, Dionysus brought in the Bacchic rites and all its frenzy. And with the same aim, he also brought the gift of wine.”

Focusing on the story, the Abbé also swirled his glass, wafting the bouquet to his nostrils. Though possessing a lovely floral aroma, it was not one he recalled. Donatien had fine but mysterious tastes, after all.

"From my family's ancestral region of Provence," the Marquis explained, as though privy to his companion’s thoughts.

"Ah," the Abbé chuckled and stared into the murky scarlet depths, "Though delightful, the frenzied madness it can induce is why moderation is best", he mused to the Marquis, "even our Lord Christ turned water into wine, yet he is known for displaying only one maddened frenzy." the Abbé smirked thoughtfully, "I wonder how comical you might find it that his display of indignation was carried out against members of the church? And not only that, but their punishment came in the form of a whip of his own making.”

As François spoke and sipped his wine, Donatien became aware of something different with the coy little priest. Something off. Some strange sense of apprehension colored his typically calm, pleasant disposition, as if prepared to flee at any moment. The Abbé himself was likely as ignorant to this incongruity in his own manner as anyone else might have been, but while he was a lot of things, the Marquis was not just anyone.

He smiled impishly, “You should know by now, cherub—moderation is not in my vernacular.”

He drained his glass before dropping his feet back to the floor, “A whip of his own making, you say?” he leaned forward on the desk; fingers laced under his chin, “A man after my own heart.”

It delighted the Abbé that the irascible Marquis appeared, by all accounts, to be in a relatively amiable mood this morning; but for some reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to match his energy. His usual smile felt disingenuous and forced somehow.

Again the distant sound of the blade disengaging and slicing through the air to land with an ominous thud in the lunette to the uproar of the crowd made the young man cringe and they sat in awkward silence. To keep his mind off the bloodbath outside, François found himself contemplating sinful delights and their consequences. He recalled how he had resisted much, not originally out of a desire to be Godly or to steer clear of the law, but due to fears drilled into him since childhood: damnation, lakes of fire, etc. He feared these, yet had met no one who had seen Hell, not truly; had met no one whom God had actively excommunicated from His eternal love and mercy. He had, however, seen many a devil walk the earth and inflict pain on many. And it occurred to him that he presently stood before, perhaps, the worst of them all.

Yet, the two men had forged a strange sort of camaraderie during the Marquis' time at Charenton, regardless of their drastically opposing views on life, philosophy and art. The Abbé would even venture to call the Marquis a friend.

“Indeed, you know no limits when it comes to... punishment,” mused the Abbé, taking a particularly hard gulp of his wine, as though to steady his nerves, “You know, it is a wonder that you call yourself a libertine when you would fit more along the lines of a hedonist: enjoying what is pleasurable for the sake of it."

"And why shouldn’t I? Tell me, Abbé,” he stood slowly, his voice simmering with contempt as it often did during these discussions, “why would your infallible God instill in me such compulsions, such desires, and go so far as to grant me the tools—“ it was at that moment that he gestured rather theatrically to the visible bulge that traveled down the right leg of his linen breeches—“with which to indulge them, if not with the intention of my doing so with every fibre of my being?”

For a moment the Abbé lost himself in a mental compilation of the Marquis’ known indiscretions and he blinked, returning to the conversation at hand, “Er... infallible..." he chuckled and paused, "even I doubt that as of late.”

The Abbé reminded himself to tread lightly around this prince of deviants—but how he craved to know more of his own humanity, his own capacity for moral abandon. Perhaps he should consider humoring modern ideologies. How better to assist the Marquis in his treatment, after all?

“Who would you worship, then," he continued, "if not the Creator who bestowed upon you your... tools?”

The Marquis placed both palms flat upon the desk and leaned menacingly toward the Abbé. “The only deity to hold any dominion over me, chérie—” he cocked his head to the side and declared solemnly, “—is myself.”

“Do you think all people should worship themselves? Or would you lift yourself up to be their deified savior instead?”

François would be lying to say the thought of worshipping himself did not appeal to the scrap of vanity he held close to his chest. He may be a man of the cloth, but that did not mean he could not appreciate his God-given form, or one such as the Marquis’. Though more than 20 years his senior, the nobleman maintained a lithe figure capable of a speed that startled the unsuspecting, and his hands possessed a grip that suggested he was accustomed to wielding more than just a quill to make others tremble. His angular face could be kind and inviting one moment, voraciously feral and ruthless the next.

“Is the common peasant worthy of being your disciple? Of being their own?” he ventured further.

The Marquis was stunned, to say the least, by this deviation from their usual course. He’d anticipated a fit of righteous indignation at the mere idea of anyone abandoning their moral teachings, much less the Abbé himself. But this display of curiosity from his appointed caretaker—the man whose sole purpose it was to remedy him of his blasphemous ways—was quite unforeseen, even fascinating; if mildly suspicious.

“I am not responsible for the actions of others. What anyone thinks of me or my work is their business. Not mine.”

He huffed and straightened, tugging at his jacket with affected umbrage. The web of tension between them drifted away and the Abbé chuckled in relief. As their eyes met, a snicker escaped the Marquis' pursed lips. This triggered fits of laughter from them both, which they indulged like errant schoolboys savoring a moment of familiarity.

When his giggling had subsided, the Marquis glanced sidelong at the Abbé as he finished what remained of his wine. He pondered how soft the young man's chestnut hair looked from where he stood; how it would feel to lace his fingers through the dark tresses; to make a fist and tug. How might the diligent hand of God react? With fear? Disgust? Or something very different? He inhaled sharply and put the thought from his mind. He was quite confident that he knew where the boy’s forlorn passions lied, and they did not stray far from his own—and they were certainly not with a decrepit madman.

Then it dawned on him—of course! What an ass he was not to realize it sooner, what an absolute imbecile! Why else would the Abbé seemingly come to him for advice regarding such urges, the fulfillment of which was as vital to the Marquis as the breath in his lungs, or the beat of his heart?

He stepped around the desk to the Abbé's side and placed a hand on his shoulder with comradely enthusiasm. His voice was devious, “Picture it, Abbé... pretty Madeline at your feet, gazing up at you adoringly with those big doe eyes... the warmth of her mouth—" —cradling the head of your throbbing member, he wanted to say. But he recalled the air of unease in the Abbé’s manner, and thus, allowed the words to die on his tongue.

François' heart sank. It was almost humorous how blind this worldly old man was to the opportunity that practically leapt at him, begging to be taken. Perhaps, however, it was for the best.

“We should not speak of such things,” the Abbé replied. He knew he mustn’t risk his position at Charenton, risk losing the occupation that had given him purpose, or worse: risk losing Madeleine and the Marquis both in one fell swoop to unholy fantasies, “Maddie is a good girl. Besides, she is far more interested in more... experienced men... such as yourself," he steeled his nerves, and, despite his better judgment, granted the following thought wings before he could rein it back in, “Not that I can blame her.”

He flushed as the words escaped his lips. Did he dare confess the storm that brewed within him, growing in intensity at his mere proximity to the Marquis? The yearning to explore his own baser impulses? With Madeline? With the king of depravity himself?

“That is to say... you see..." he sighed heavily in defeat and turned softly pleading eyes to the Marquis, "There is something in the idea of such carnality that beckons to me, Sir," he whispered, “something in me that cries out for release; to be given agency. God cannot save me from it, but—perhaps the Devil can.”

Even the notorious libertine was taken aback at this. Despite the lurch of his heart—as well as another noteworthy organ—he withdrew slightly and eyed the Abbé with suspicion.

“What is this?” he hissed suddenly, a note of accusatory trepidation creeping into his voice. Narrowed eyes darted to the door, to the window, and back to the priest, seeking some mode of hidden surveillance. His mind shuffled through various scenarios that included everything from the asylum’s strongest and most sadistic orderlies bursting into the room at any moment, to a particularly unpleasant social call from Dr. Royar-Collard himself. His pulse quickened as he imagined the last time he had been deemed... troublesome.

“Do not play games with me, Abbé,” his shoulders squared and the shadows beneath his eyes deepened, giving him a monstrous appearance; one, he reasoned, not unlike that which the general public certainly afforded him, “Glutton for punishment, though, I may be,” the Marquis snarled, “I do not appreciate being baited!”

The Abbé swallowed, shocked at his friend’s reaction and fearing he had ruined everything in that moment.

“I have never lied to you. Not once. And I would not start today," the Abbé insisted gently, as one attempting to calm a panicked animal.

If there was anyone who could possibly free him from the torment of his longing, he thought Donatien the most fitting; the most capable. He’d believed whole-heartedly that if there ever existed a being on this planet with a propensity for corruption, it would surely be the one who tempted and toyed with him at every opportunity, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Had he missed the mark so utterly?

His stomach churned as bile crept up the back of his throat; he lowered his gaze and moved to depart, “Forgive me. I was too forward. I forgot myself."

He tried to run, hide his shame, make a beeline to the chapel to pray for forgiveness, but the Marquis strode after him and reached the door just as the Abbé grabbed the handle. He placed one large, splayed hand upon the door to shove it closed again and took the young man’s jaw firmly in his grasp. He searched the angelic face, the innocent crystalline eyes. Against every synapse in his body screaming that this new and intriguing development was likely too good to be true, he let his thumb whisper over the boy's bottom lip.

The Abbé’s heart raced. He imagined the writer's lips tasting of wine and sin. How divine it would be to learn the ways of the hedonist. The Marquis’ piercing eyes saw right through him, and he knew he couldn't take any of it back now if he wanted to.

“I want to know how, even while locked away, you enjoy life more than I could ever dream to,” he whispered.

The Marquis squared his jaw and slid his thumb between the quivering lips. His breath hitched as the priest eagerly accepted it. The Abbé was surprised to hear himself moan, and he regarded the Marquis with desperation. Oh, how he yearned to be liberated of the prison of his vows.

“Please," the boy pleaded, hoping the Marquis would not leave him in this state, his body practically vibrating with hunger, begging not to be turned away unmarked and unsatisfied, "Show me.”

The Marquis turned to brace himself upon the wall, both hands on either side of François’ head, and tried in vain to steady his ragged breathing, “Assuming this is not some kind of cruel jest, mon ange... return to me tonight, and we shall see where your loyalties truly lie—as well as, perhaps, what that divine mouth of yours is capable of.”

“I look forward to it, Sir,” the Abbé opened the door and reluctantly crossed the threshold, emerging from the other side a different man. He pulled the door closed behind him, but he did not head for the chapel. He decidedly need not issue any prayers tonight—not to the God of Jerusalem, at any rate.

The Marquis leaned on the door, letting his head fall back against it, and listened to the receding footsteps. Half-crazed by the pulsing need in his groin, he cursed himself for not taking the boy right there on his chaise, on his desk, at the windowsill. But even the young priest deserved better than a frenzied, haphazard fuck. Though he wasn't entirely convinced that this was not some clever plot to lead him straight into another of the doctor’s savage contraptions, or even the gallows, he was equally as uncertain that such trivialities held any weight for him at this point. He would burn that bridge when he came to it.

He ran a hand over his wig and down the front of his waistcoat to smooth any indication of disarray. He swallowed as his hand lingered on his stomach before permitting it to travel beyond the waistband of his trousers to his twitching bulge. He sighed as he palmed himself through the thin fabric, imagining his beautiful companion in all manner of compromising positions. He wrenched his hand away to conserve his energy for the Abbé; to utilize his feverish agony as fuel for whatever his salacious brain could concoct to desecrate his most alluring quarry yet.

~~~

The Abbé hurried to his quarters and stumbled to the basin of water to splash his face. It was all he could do to stop himself from thinking about what might yet transpire. The water fulfilled its purpose of allowing a modicum of focus for his other duties. Surely, he could be patient and contain himself until nightfall, though it felt like a Herculean feat not to think of the devil that haunted his very dreams with forbidden fruits which grew more enticing by the day. Forcing such thoughts aside, he dried his face and prepared to finish his daily tasks.

~~~

Donatien kept a watchful eye upon the waning daylight beyond his cell.

As twilight descended upon Charenton, the Marquis hummed to himself and began preparing for his guest. He yanked the strings of the pale satin stays as tightly around his waist as he could manage, and then a little more. He shrugged into a heavy brocade robe and scrutinized himself in the mirror, preening like a harlot. He combed his wig and corrected any flyaways.

He grinned at the sound of the heavy door creaking open, “You are early, cherie—“

When Donatien glanced back to his reflection, expecting to meet the Abbé’s sparkling gaze in the mirror, his heart plummeted when he instead met eyes of steel, reticent and wary. His lip curled with disdain.

The woman cocked her head in confusion.

“Get out,” he demanded, going about his business.

“I know what you are doing,” the Marquise whispered hoarsely. It was clear that she immediately regretted her words, and although she stood her ground, her proximity to the door did not escape his notice.

He turned a cold gaze to his estranged wife and pivoted to take slow, deliberate steps in her direction.

“I—I came to visit you earlier... It is the eve of our anniversary...”

“Oh, yes?” he stalked after her.

“I saw him leave here, Donatien,” she blurted, “I heard you whispering; saw the flush upon his cheeks and the look in his eyes. A look I know all too well—”

“What do you want?”

“Don’t do this. Please,” she pleaded.

“Do what, mon amour?” he scowled, eyes flashing. He managed to flush her away from the door, positioning himself between the woman and her only means of escape.

“I’ll tell the doctor,” she stammered, “Prostitutes, servants—even my own sister—these I can overlook! But I cannot, in good conscience, stand idly by while you seduce a man of God!” she stepped towards him, hands outstretched in supplication, “As your only ally—for the sake of my sanity, and reputation, please. I beg of you.“

"Do you?" he grinned wolfishly as he drove her back against the wall. She avoided his eyes as not to further provoke her husband’s infamous hair-trigger temper. He brought a hand up to twirl a loose lock of her golden hair around his finger. He stroked her cheek with his knuckle and took pleasure in her grimace. “I might be persuaded,” he purred softly as he nuzzled her neck. His fingers danced over the swell of her breasts, and he sensed her resolve begin to slip as her bosom heaved at his touch.

“But first,” he kissed her throat and suckled at her earlobe, earning a curious but tense squeak in return, “be a good girl, and do something for me, my love?” his hand grazed her curves above the lush fabric of her gown, traveling ever further along the stiff boning of her bodice and over her hips until it reached the junction of her thighs.

She melted into him then, “Oh, you are wicked,” she swallowed hard, sighing as he teased and caressed her through the material, her body responding to his charms with enthusiasm, “certainly, my darling. Anything.”

She yelped as the back of his hand caught her cheek and slid down the wall in a daze.

“Wretched, prying harpy!” the Marquis snarled dangerously. He knelt and took her face roughly in one hand, “You will leave and speak of this to no one, or I will have your head mounted on my wall, effectively silenced for all eternity by a permanent phallus in your whore mouth! Do you hear me?”

He flung her away and rose, pressing both palms to his eyes. He trembled with the effort to quell the familiar rising tide of emotion; an old rage that seemed an entity unto itself and often roared to life at the smallest perceived slight.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she wailed, “I am your wife!"

“You were a warm cunt!” he spat as he rounded on her.

The Marquise gawked at him with wide, desperate eyes as a beat of silence festered between them, broken only by her pitiful sobs, “You made me love you.”

“I made you come! Anything beyond that was the doing of your own naïve, girlish fantasies!”

The Marquise's skirts rustled as she used the wall for leverage to find her footing, "You're a monster.”

Something insidious snapped inside him then and his hand shot out to twist in his wife's hair, yanking her to her feet as an arm snaked tightly around her waist.

"And you love it, don't you, my little coquette?" he sneered as he captured her mouth. She squealed against his lips.

He took pride in the muffled clamoring of onlookers through the sliding service window in the door. If it was a show they were after, then, by God, he would deliver! He had a reputation to uphold, after all!

He easily overpowered the woman, swinging around to drop her onto the chaise lounge. She screamed as he straddled her, his better judgment clouded by the infamous lunacy that all too often eclipsed his poet's heart.

"If a good screw is what you're after, my dear," he shouted above her wails, loud enough for his audience to hear, "all you had to do was ask!" he pinned her to the bench, laughing cruelly as he hiked up her skirts despite her futile pawing.

The Abbé tried to contain himself to the best of his ability as he made his way to the Marquis’ cell. A small voice urged him to turn back while he still could, to take up the whip and petition the Lord for forgiveness and relief of all earthly temptations in the only manner he knew how. He winced and banished the thought from his mind. If I am no longer to be a man of God, I should, at least, remain a man of my word.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed a handful of other patients gathered around his destination. A feminine shriek met his ears followed by the bestial laughter of a deranged lunatic—but not just any deranged lunatic.

The sea of milling bodies parted as he ran to the door to see what the fuss was about. His expression quickly turned from curiosity to horror as he saw Donatien clawing at his struggling wife, tearing at garments bought at his expense.

“Marquis!” he yelled through the service window as he banged on the steel door. Fumbling for the key, he unlocked it and threw himself in. He knew some of the other inmates would kill to join in on what they’d consider good sport.

“DONATIEN!” he shouted with authority, “Remove yourself from her or I will do so for you!”

Neither the jangling of keys nor the opening and slamming of the door could catch his attention as effectively as the unmistakable voice of piety.

He froze, providing the Marquise with an opportunity to get in a good enough wallop to send him staggering. She ran to the priest for sanctuary and he embraced her. She shot him a look that went straight to his heart like a sliver of ice.

"God help you," she whispered, pity and disgust at war upon her tear-stained face.

Before he could respond, she disengaged from him and fled the room with the help of an orderly, wrestling through the crowd to freedom.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much!" the Marquis shouted after her.

All his meticulous primping undone, he straightened and raised his chin in defiance towards the Abbé. It was clear that he expected a scolding; perhaps even outright rejection. François stared at him in abhorred confusion, then shook his head and quickly checked outside the room, satisfied that those gathered had mostly dispersed. With any luck, the more absent-minded of them had immediately forgotten what they'd witnessed and no one would bring this up with Dr. Royer-Collard. It would not be the first time the Marquis had attracted an audience, after all.

“What were your intentions?” the Abbé admonished in hushed panic, his anger flaring at the thought of being discovered due to the Marquis' indiscretions, “What were you thinking?!”

The Marquis grinned and swayed as though drunk, if only on the power he'd wielded over the defenseless woman.

“Drink, Abbé?” He didn't wait for a response before stepping to the desk to pour himself a glass of wine, appearing to dismiss the priest’s revulsion altogether.

The Abbé sighed and ran a hand over his face, “Yes... Yes, I think a drink is in order.”

He stared after the Marquis, unnerved by the shift from carnal predator to proper French nobility. Though he would be amiss to pretend he was not also somewhat intrigued. The longer he was in the Marquis’ presence, he discovered, the more enticing the urge to throw himself upon the blade of his own corruption proved to be—without thought or remorse.

“What was she doing here?” he inquired in an effort to ease the tension, though he dreaded asking.

"A bit of nostalgia, perhaps? A certain itch that can't be scratched by just anyone?" Donatien wagged his eyebrows at the boy.

He could probably have guessed the original reason for her visit. He imagined decadent sweets embellished with gold leaf and other lavish gifts to placate him into giving her what she wanted: further access to his accounts? Divorce? Emancipation from his abominable shadow? His blood boiled as he considered the implications of her threat. Well, bugger it. And bugger her! Just because she was miserable didn't mean he had to be! Let her rat him out to the doctor with her crocodile tears and declarations of false modesty. He had more important matters to attend to presently.

Unlike his guest, the Marquis hadn't noticed the white-knuckled grip upon his wine until he glanced down at it. He cast the incident from his mind and lifted his glass to the Abbé in a half-hearted toast.

“For they eat the bread of wickedness, and drink the wine of violence," he intoned slowly, "But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day... The way of the wicked is as darkness," he set his glass down, regarding the Abbé with a wry tilt of his head, "they know not at what they stumble."

The priest blinked and creased his brow, “Proverbs... 4:17?”

On any other day, in anyone else’s chamber, having the Bible recited to him by one of his more challenging patients would have warmed his heart and brought a smile to his face. Today was not that day.

The Marquis' gray eyes flashed and he moved to the Abbé as the cleric poured himself a drink and raised it to his lips. Donatien covered François’ hand with his own and gently lowered the glass, “—and don’t get drunk with wine, which leads to reckless actions..."

He might have been impressed with the libertine’s knowledge of scripture, if it weren't so utterly disconcerting to have the Word of God quoted to him by Lucifer himself.

The Marquis radiated a heat that both frightened and excited him. It was not a comforting warmth, but one that reeked of sinister intent. He locked eyes with the fiend before him, enmeshed in the trappings of nobility, and expelled a quivering breath, “How would you have me, Sir?"

The Marquis closed his fingers around the Abbé's neck and pulled him forward to claim his mouth with feverish intensity. His tongue slipped past the full, soft lips to taste the nectar of gods and the smoky essence of long-repressed desperation. It was enough to set his body aflame and he moaned against those lips.

The Abbé savored Donatien's mouth; the passion his moans revealed—every thought silenced save for one: allowing himself to surrender to blissful debauchery. He embraced the Marquis, partly to bring his lithe frame closer and partly to keep from losing his balance as his head swam. Each moment spent tasting the libertine further spurred his hunger.

The Marquis knocked the glass from his hand, unconcerned with the shards that went flying and the spreading crimson liquid upon the floor of his glorified cell. His throat vibrated with a growl as his fingers hooked beneath the priest’s collar to yank it from around his neck. He clamped it between his teeth with a wicked grin.

Allowing instinct alone to guide him, François tore open his shirt and dropped to his knees to present himself as a willing sacrifice to a hungry god, prepared to be torn asunder. His body burned with desire and a longing for rebirth into something that had no need of rules, of Paradise, or of Hell.

"What would you ask of me?" he inquired with wide, shimmering eyes.

Donatien was suddenly very aware of how limited his breathing was in the whalebone stays, not that he minded. The lack of oxygen to his brain made him lightheaded and aided his giddiness. He spat the priest's collar to the floor and made quick work of the lacing at the front of his breeches, grinning smugly at the impressive organ that sprang forth, ready and waiting.

"Surely that beautiful mouth is proficient at more than just spreading gospel," he purred in a voice ragged with need.

The Abbé gulped and gazed at the cock that hovered before him—in awe, the Marquis was certain, and no one could convince him otherwise. The Abbé had been inundated with gossip of the madman's singular talents and proclivities as soon as it was decided he would be transported to Charenton. One rumor, at least, proved true.

He reached beneath the faded robe to brace himself upon the Marquis' thighs, frowning at the protruding hip bones. It was not lost on him how thin his patient was, but he had not been entirely aware of the extent of the Marquis' emaciation.

Donatien met his concern with crazed eyes, "Only my work silences the voices."

From the very first day of his employment at the asylum, François had made an oath to be a source of comfort and security to all of his patients. But perhaps, in this case, he could be an outlet—a means of release for the impure thoughts that plagued the Marquis, rather than his indecent scribbling and the havoc he wrought on unwilling victims which landed him at Charenton in the first place.

It was to that end that he took the thick rod in hand, pressing his lips to the shaft. He closed his eyes and breathed in the man's scent: bergamot and coriander, flanked by a hint of amber resin—sensual and profoundly compelling. Appropriate.

“It’s not a holy relic,” the Marquis urged with a note of impatience.

François smirked in spite of himself and wrapped his lips around the head. A bolt of arousal crackled along his spine at the groan he elicited.

How long had he gone without proper release? An errant voice wondered in the back of the Marquis' head. How long had he been left unsatisfied and aching? Aching for him? His angelic caretaker with the gentle eyes that now stared up at him in wanton fascination.

"Très bien," Donatien sighed as he stroked the dark curls, "There's a good boy.”

The Abbé’s ministrations faltered in surprise at the effect those words had on him and he gagged, which drew a sharp curse from the Marquis. François leaned back to glance up at him in concern.

The Marquis chuckled, "Go on, mon ange.”

The boy smiled sheepishly and did as he was told. The fire that simmered low in the Marquis' belly flared to life. He tipped his head back and drew a hand down his face and throat, over his chest. His fingers clenched in the Abbé’s hair, forcibly moving his head in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips. As he shoved himself deeper, he felt the priest's throat work to accept him without choking.

"Fuck—" the Marquis gritted his teeth against the dawning of his release. No, not yet. He still had much planned for his beautiful young prospect.

In an effort to stave off his orgasm, he moved to withdraw from the Abbé's eager mouth. François slid an arm around his waist to hold him in place.

"Ah—now, cherub," the Marquis cooed, "that's enough—“

The Abbé raised dark, ravenous eyes to the Marquis as he brazenly lapped at the underside of his pulsing member.

"Stop," he commanded more firmly to no avail as François proceeded to consume him, his fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, "I said stop, damnit!"

The Abbé whimpered as a hand flashed across his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of what had come over him.

"I'm sorry—please forgive me, Marquis."

"It is not I to whom you should beg forgiveness, Abbé."

François blinked and glanced up timidly. The Marquis extended a hand to him and he accepted, rising to his feet.

"Shhh..." the Marquis cooed, guiding him backwards toward the modest four-post bed, “Before your Lord and Savior, young man—what is it you want from me?”

The Abbé's bottom lip quivered as tears welled in his eyes, "I—I don't know—"

"You do," Donatien growled, taking the boy's face in his hands, "You felt it, didn't you? That fleeting stab of yearning, for exoneration, freedom—the kind of freedom that can only be borne of destruction."

Compunction and self-loathing gnawed at his soul. He recoiled from the Marquis and turned away.

Donatien reached around him and splayed a hand on his sternum, drawing him back against his chest. He tipped his head to the side to lap at the curve of his throat and suck on the fluttering pulse. The Abbé inhaled sharply and his eyelids fluttered. He reached back to clutch at the Marquis in desperation. He nearly expected fangs to pierce his skin and drain the very essence from his veins like some hellish creature, but he wasn't disappointed when the skilled lips instead sucked a bruise into his skin, teeth grazing the tender flesh. Donatien opened his torn cassock and reached down the front of the boy’s torso to fondle him through his trousers. The Abbé stiffened before relaxing into him, a shrill whimper dissolving into a moan.

The Marquis’ breath was hot against his ear, "Tell me what you want."

François swallowed heavily as his body burned with guilt and need. His mind worked to voice the only thought in his head; to translate into meager words the yearning that had been tormenting him for longer than even he realized; a torment that he never divulged to anyone.

"Break me.”

The words rang in the Marquis’ ears and made his cock twitch. He shoved the priest face-first onto the bed. François caught himself and rested on his elbows. He hung his head in anticipation of what may come. He didn’t dare move, nor look at the Marquis.

Donatien stalked around the side of the bed, his fingers trailing along the gauzy curtains that obscured him from view.

“Why me?” he inquired as one who simply wished to hear the words uttered aloud.

“I can think of none more fitting,” the Abbé replied, “none more suitable to aid me in my... undoing.”

He was aware of the imposing presence behind him suddenly, like that of an executioner on the chopping block, straddling him.

“Please,” he started to panic at the daunting silence, “show me Hell, that I may understand Heaven.”

“It would be my pleasure, chéri,” the Marquis purred, “And with any luck—yours, as well.”

He rucked the thick cassock up around the clergyman’s waist and, grasping the band of the Abbé’s trousers, yanked them down over the firm curve of his buttocks.

The Abbé tensed when he felt Donatien nestle his scepter within the valley of his crevasse and rock against him, savoring the much-needed friction. François shuddered at the obscene noises his body coaxed from the Marquis, his own erection straining against the pallet beneath him.

“Is this what you want, precious? To be used like a common harlot? A mere instrument for the pleasure of others?”

“No. Not others,” François was quick to correct, stammering between breaths, “just—just you—Marquis.”

The Marquis' movements gradually came to a halt and he felt him withdraw. A beat passed in which he took the opportunity to steal a bold glance over his shoulder. The Abbé considered that he may very well be in the presence of Pan in mortal form, his divine manhood still at attention.

Driven solely by desire and unholy need, the Abbé stood and turned to face his patient. Careful not to break eye contact, he proceeded to discard the remainder of his vestments. The priest stood bare before the libertine, who regarded him with tears in his eyes, wonder and restraint evident in the tension of his stance.

"Exquisite," the Marquis whispered, "Narcissus himself would weep with envy."

The Abbé smiled sweetly as he closed the gap between them. He slid the heavy robe from the Marquis' shoulders and raised a hand to the elder man's face. He was surprised by the reverence with which Donatien leaned into his touch, and he raised his chin to meet his lips in what was possibly the most chaste and venerable kiss that the Marquis de Sade could recall having experienced. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the young priest an incubus in disguise with the sole mission of stealing the breath from his lungs.

He could have it. Take my breath, the beat of my heart, take everything I am. It's yours.

He returned the kiss with fervor, letting his hands explore the youth's body. Cliché as it was, the Abbé's lean frame felt as though chiseled from the finest Peruvian marble, just as he'd imagined upon their first meeting. As his hands slid to his back to pull him closer, the Marquis' fingers grazed shallow indentations in the skin between his shoulder blades. He prodded at them gently, eliciting a hiss from the Abbé. He disengaged from the boy's mouth and curiously pressed his fingers into a row of relatively fresh scar tissue. François whimpered against him and buried his face in his neck.

Self-flagellation, the last refuge of the inexorably damned. It wasn't until the slender body began trembling against him that he realized the Abbé was weeping.

"Never again," he stated solemnly as he tenderly kissed the tears from the priest’s face, committing the taste to memory, "Do you understand?"

"But—I—I deserve it," the Abbé sputtered. The Marquis' hands were on his face and the nape of his neck; soothing but insistent.

"What do you deserve?’ he asked, lifting the young man’s chin.

"Punishment.”

“For what, dear boy?”

“For my insolence. For straying from God; from my calling—“ he tried to steady his erratic breathing, red-rimmed eyes glassy and distant as though reliving some past trauma.

"Is that truly what you believe?" the Marquis interjected suggestively, "Or is that simply what you tell yourself?"

The Abbé struggled to regain his composure behind a choked sob.

"You crave pain because it feels right," he continued, "because it is all you know, in one form or another."

He cursed the Church. A rotting, festering den of degradation and hypocrisy that preyed upon the lost and naïve—that's all it was, all it would ever be. A gluttonous entity that served none but itself. Loathing flared within him at the notion that one so lovely would be driven to inflict such violence upon himself in the name of an absurd fiction! And for what? Absolution? Penance for entertaining the simplest of human instincts? It was grotesque. It should be a sin!

He lowered his voice to a tantalizing whisper, "But what if I told you that you needn't fear pain? That you could use it? Enjoy it?"

"Yes. Please, Sir," François searched the man's face, "Show me."

The Marquis pivoted and in one swift motion, pinned the Abbé by the back of his neck to the ornate writing desk. He caressed his smooth, round ass and pushed gently on the small of his back to straighten it.

"Clasp your hands behind your neck, mon cher," he commanded, "Ne bouge pas.”

François groaned softly at his touch and pressed his cheek to the cool polished wood. He was quick to obey the Marquis’ orders and half-deliriously relished in the irony of his situation. Never in his right mind would he have anticipated the idea of being naked and prone on the Marquis de Sade’s writing desk to remain anything more than a fantasy, and one that nearly drove him to denounce his vows far sooner on more occasions than he was comfortable admitting.

The Marquis withdrew, leaving the Abbé feeling cold and vulnerable. His ears registered a rustling sound in the vicinity of the bed, followed by approaching footsteps. Donatien pulled his hands away from his neck and circled both wrists with what felt like rope. He could have laughed. The drapery ties. Of course.

The older man hummed melodically as he secured the boy's hands behind his back and tugged upon the woven cord to test its strength. Satisfied, he proceeded to trail light, teasing strokes of his fingertips along his sides, chuckling at the small flinches that betrayed the otherwise solemn clergyman. He squeezed his buttocks and massaged his fingers into the muscle, eliciting a moan. Just as the Abbé would begin to relax, an open palm came crashing down on his ass, making him cry out.

François grunted through clenched teeth with each ensuing strike until the pain abruptly ceased. His breath hitched when it was replaced by a moist finger slipping into his anus. He whimpered and the Marquis growled low in his throat. He allowed the ring of muscle to become accustomed to the intrusion before pushing in further. He could almost feel the Abbé's body vibrate beneath him; felt him lock his knees to keep them from buckling.

"My apologies, darling, I suppose I could have warned you," he cooed mockingly, "But where's the fun in that?"

He hooked his finger towards the boy's prostate and the Abbé keened, his hands clenching and unclenching in their bonds.

"You are doing splendidly, mon ange.”

The Abbé's heart swelled, stunned briefly into silence at this display of affection from the man with a finger in his ass. The moment was broken by another breathy curse as the Marquis slid a second finger inside him.

"What—what are you doing to me?" he groaned, finding himself rocking his hips back into the hand that stroked his inner walls.

"I am surely preparing you, my dear," the elder man purred, "to meet your Maker."

François didn't know what to make of such a remark, nor did he care as he openly whimpered at the Marquis' ministrations. The fingers slid out of him and he whined pitifully.

"Please,” he panted, any other petition he had intended to offer fading on his lips as he turned to rest his forehead upon the desk's surface.

"Oh, don't fret, Abbé. I am not through with you yet,” came the salacious reply at his side. He moved away again and the boy whined impatiently, pulling at the rope around his wrists. He heard the sliding open of a wooden drawer and something heavy and solid landed with a thud upon the priest's bottom.

He flinched, more out of surprise than the pain of it. Though the blows started slowly, they soon came quicker and harder on each cheek, and they began to sting. His body stiffened with each thwack upon his reddened flesh. He moaned in sheer relief as the stinging was replaced by the Marquis' hand stroking his burning skin. The Marquis kissed his shoulder; trailed a heavy hand over his back. Then something slid along his anus.

"Deep breath," he advised, gently inserting a handle of sorts into the priest's orifice.

He went rigid with the effort to not wriggle away, though he relaxed around the makeshift phallus more quickly than he expected. Donatien coaxed his feet further apart and began twisting the instrument with each slow thrust.

“Ungh—God—“ François groaned mindlessly.

The Marquis uttered a shuddering breath that became a soft, dark laugh, “He’s closer than you think, chaton.”

The Marquis sped up as he relished the lewd noises that broke from between the Abbé’s parted lips. His own breath grew short and rapid.

François dropped his forehead back to the table. What was he doing? What manner of deplorable sin had led him here? his better sense chided and scorned, which served to make him burn all the more. Something blossomed in his belly and he banged his head against the table.

“Please,” he whined through tears, “I can’t—“

"Can't what, dearest? Can't take it anymore?" The priest could do naught but nod.

“Shhh,” the Marquis cooed, fingertips tracing the scars that crossed his back.

He withdrew the object and slammed it down on the table beside the Abbé’s head. The clergyman flinched and gazed upon the homuncular image of Christ nailed to the cross, the stem of which tapered to a rounded tip. His natural inclination to react with disgust melted into a kind of thrill that he hadn’t yet processed when he heard a match hiss to life. He raised blurry eyes to see the said match in one of the Marquis’ hands; a tall, red candle in the other.

The priest cried out as hot wax dripped over the small of his back. He was panting audibly with the effort to remain standing, half-crazed by sensation, and struck by the desire to show his gratitude; to wrap his arms around the Marquis; to take his cock in his mouth once more— anything. He squirmed as the heat traveled up his back.

A second curtain tie thrust in his face, “Ouvrir," the Marquis commanded, grinning at his expression of bewilderment.

He eyed the cord and allowed the Marquis to fix it securely between his teeth. It hadn't occurred to him what the rope in his mouth was for until hot wax pooled within the raw scar tissue that latticed his back and he clamped his teeth around it with a muffled scream.

The nobleman sighed dreamily and tipped the candle upright, marveling at how the boy's muscles and shoulder blades worked beneath his skin as he writhed. When the searing discomfort abated, the Abbé let his head fall to the desk, struggling for breath and drooling around the rope like an invalid. The Marquis chipped away at the cooling wax. Half-lidded eyes glanced to the figure at his side, towering over him like some demonic entity. In fact, in that moment, he wouldn't have been surprised to see a pair of great black leathery wings sprout from the Marquis' back.

He uttered a meek, uncomprehending noise as Donatien untied his wrists, “On your back, s’il vous plaît.”

Despite the simple request, he could not will himself to move. His body felt too heavy; too weak to generate the energy required to perform such an arduous task as turning over.

Luckily he needn’t think too hard on it. The contents of the desk rattled as the Marquis tossed the Abbé onto his back like a rag doll. His thighs ached from supporting himself, but his discomfort eased as the older man straddled him, pinning his body to the desk to relieve him of the task of holding himself upright. He felt an odd twinge of relief as the Marquis bound his wrists once more, this time above his head.

“Ouvrir,” he instructed again, briefly removing the gag. The Abbé worked his jaw to keep it from locking up and obediently took it between his teeth again.

François shivered under the intensity of the Marquis’ gaze as his eyes tracked down his body, possessive and hungry; his hands following suit. The boy gasped at his touch and exhaled a sigh of nervous anticipation.

The Marquis turned something flat and sharp over in the palm of his hand. Light glinted off one jagged edge and it dawned on the Abbé that the object which the Marquis wielded was a fragment of his smashed wine glass.

His attention shifted to the sudden pressure on his hips as the Marquis’ erection twitched against his thigh, and François realized it wasn’t so much to aid him in standing as to hinder his movement. His heartbeat tripled as his mind raced in panic. Was he going to slit his throat? Carve out his heart and eat it with a knife and fork?

"Now—and this is very important, mon cher," the lilting voice stated in a low, firm whisper, "I'm going to need you to stay... very... still."

Donatien pressed a sharp edge into his skin and dragged the point from sternum to navel. The priest’s body went rigid as he moaned around the rope in his mouth.

The Marquis' brain itched. His pupils expanded and his fingers convulsed restlessly. He had to swallow his mounting exhilaration to keep his hands from shaking.

He was almost ashamed of himself for further marring the young clergyman’s beautiful flesh, but the sight of the stalwart, virtuous caretaker writhing beneath him, issuing wordless pleas for mercy; shedding years of indoctrination to give himself to the Marquis’ singular brand of restitution—this was recompense enough.

He dipped a fingertip to the rivulets of blood that welled in the shallow wound and touched it to his tongue.

"Have you had enough, my darling?" he asked, holding the glass shard to his quivering skin.

“No,” the Abbé croaked with urgency, his chest heaving as he continued to mutter quietly.

The Marquis leaned over him, “What was that, cherub?”

“More,” he wheezed, “Please—“

"Comme vous le souhaitez."

His body blazed to life as the Marquis pushed the shard of glass into his torso, opening a deeper gash in his skin than before. He cringed at the acute sting and then yielded to the pain as the weight in his limbs dissipated. With each incision, all trace of shame and guilt seeped from him in thin scarlet rivers over his stomach, interrupted only by the Marquis’ insistent tongue.

Donatien straightened, his heart hammering in his chest and his pale eyes clouded with raw, carnivorous lust. A single word escaped his lips like a wisp of smoke, “Magnifique.”

François watched in fascination as the man above him licked blood from his lips. His blood. The Marquis undid the knot at his wrists. He unwittingly tried to stand, but his knees buckled, causing him to stumble into the desk. The Marquis wrapped him in a warm, strong embrace, smoothing damp curls from his forehead and pressing his lips to his temple.

The next thing he knew he was being ushered to the Marquis' bed and lowered to the edge of the mattress. He clawed at the older man, his shaking hands clumsily working to unfasten the stays. Donatien batted his hands away to undo the remaining busks and slid the cincher from around his waist to drop it to the floor.

The Abbé clung to the Marquis’ nude form, running his hands over his torso, kissing and licking at his chest in a mindless frenzy, his only thought to somehow get closer—to crawl inside the madman's ribcage and curl up beside his beating heart where the Almighty and His flock of hypocrites couldn’t find him. The priest’s tongue trailed a moist line from his navel to his right nipple and he lapped at it, making the Marquis arch against him. Emboldened by this reaction, he took the stiff bud between his teeth and immediately felt a hand on the back of his head. The Marquis moaned and tugged the boy's head back to greedily claim his mouth. François melted into him, convinced that he would be dragged to Hell any moment; and moreover, that he would be obliged to follow.

The Abbé broke the contact to shift backwards on the bed, eyeing his host coyly. He stretched out on his back to lie among the silk pillows and reached for the Marquis. Something wicked flickered in the slate gray eyes as he slowly crawled over him, caressing the arm that snaked around his neck. He turned his head to kiss the young cleric’s wrist, his palm; working his way up to wrap his lips around his index and middle fingers. The Marquis' eyes issued an unspoken challenge which the Abbé was all too happy to accept.

"How may I worship you, my pet?" the Marquis asked, his voice thick with desire.

Yet unable to find the courage to utter such filthy entreaties aloud, the priest reached down to stroke himself rigid by way of an answer.

Donatien watched his hand work with parted lips, vaguely curious as to just how experienced the Abbé was in matters of self-pleasure, “Use your words, dear heart."

François sighed, "Show me what it's like."

Hell, that was damn good enough. With a roguish smile, the Marquis slid down the young man's body, tasting the pale, sensitive skin along the way. He kissed and stroked his inner thighs, finding a spot that made the Abbé gasp and pinching the skin between his teeth; sucking blood to the surface. The Abbé whimpered and twisted, and Donatien gripped his thighs to hold his lower body still. He licked away a strand of moisture that streamed from the tip of the boy's eager member and gently fondled his scrotum.

Shadows churned behind the priest’s eyelids as he tried in vain to catch a merciful breath. Still fearing that this could very well be one of his bizarre fever dreams, François stole a glance down between his legs and sighed with delirious relief when it was, indeed, the Marquis that rolled his testicles between his fingers and not Lord Byron; or better yet—the Virgin Mary, herself. That was one particular nocturnal emission he fully intended to take with him to the grave.

The Marquis’ warm mouth was upon him suddenly and his back rose from the mattress. Donatien purred as he swirled his tongue around the head of the Abbé’s cock, humming as he took him deeper, letting the vibration of his throat draw sounds from the divine creature at his disposal that increased in despair the longer he worked.

He reached up to shove two fingers between the Abbé’s parted lips, encouraging him to thoroughly lubricate them with his saliva. He then slung the boy’s left leg over his shoulder and teased his entrance, circling the ring of muscle with the tip of one finger before sliding it in, followed by the second. He leaned down to take the leaking organ into his mouth again as he pistoned his fingers.

All manner of blasphemies clamored up the Abbé’s esophagus, through his clenched teeth and past the moist, pink lips. He muttered broken phrases under his breath that were not immediately decipherable to the Marquis, until he realized the Abbé was not speaking English, nor was he thoughtlessly moaning phrases in their native French.

It was Latin.

Some dark and voracious thing uncoiled in the depths of his soul and he licked his lips

“In nomine Patris,” the Marquis chanted as he slithered up the needy, panting thing beneath him, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti—”

“Amen,” the Abbé interjected, throwing one arm around his neck to pull the Marquis’ mouth to him.

Confident that his lips held the Marquis’ attention, François shifted and hooked a leg over the other man's thigh and maneuvered himself to quickly switch positions with the Marquis before he fully registered what had happened. Donatien suddenly found himself pinned to the bed underneath the Abbé, his glorious form outlined by a faint silver aura of moonlight that streamed through the window.

He laughed wickedly, “Careful, Abbé... God is watching.”

François shuddered, gasping as he pressed his hips into the sharp pelvic bones beneath him, “I hope so."

Donatien met his groin and undulated against him, making him whine pitifully, "Please, Marquis—”

“What is it, my beautiful heathen?”

He rocked his hips against the Marquis’, unable to do much more than whimper his torment. Just as Icarus had flown too close to the sun, so, too, did the Abbé de Coulmier drift ever closer to madness.

"Say it, mon ange," his own voice grated, thready with lust, "Let me hear you.”

The Abbé gasped when Donatien's hardened cock slid against his, his heart threatening to burst forth from his chest. He couldn't think; couldn't will his brain to form coherent sentences in the first place, let alone communicate them to his lips. The Marquis' hips stilled and he sat up to grasp a fistful of dark brown curls.

"Beg for me," he commanded.

François regarded the Marquis beneath thick lashes when a foreign urge took him, and he gave into the impulse to wrap his fingers around the Marquis' throat and shove him back down to the mattress. The nobleman grinned fiendishly.

"No," the priest bared his teeth in a feral snarl as he squeezed his windpipe, “You beg."

The Marquis wheezed, positively throbbing at this riveting turn of events. His eyes glinted feverishly and he grabbed the boy's wrist. The Abbé felt his Adam's apple bob beneath his palm; felt the quivering pulse against his fingertips. He tasted the Marquis' sweat as he ran his tongue up the side of his neck, smirking when he bucked under him. He increased the pressure on his throat again and relished the strangled note of encouragement he received.

Trepidation sprang to the Marquis' eyes as François suddenly reached for his wig. He tried to sit up in protest but the Abbé hindered his movement with unexpected force. He shushed him softly as he removed the wig and combed his fingers through the elder man's thinning hair.

Despite the Abbé's delicate countenance, those eyes returned to the Marquis' face, usually so clear and innocent, now clouded with lust and devoid of their familiar compassion. He felt the weight upon his throat disappear to travel down his angular body and circle his engorged cock. Donatien growled as the Abbé began to stroke him.

"Come now, Marquis. You want to defile me, don't you? Ravish me...” he leaned down to breathe hotly against his ear, “Fuck me?”

The Marquis chuckled weakly, "Démon," he gasped. His throat worked with the effort to swallow, "You know I do."

“Tell me,” the boy hissed with a coy smile.

“Mmm, yes, my little—trollop—“ he moaned, his typical humor edged with greed, “I want to fuck you. I want to violate and ravage you until you forget your own name. I want to show you what makes eternal damnation so enticing!”

He clutched at the sheets as though to keep from falling off the edge of the earth. Although satisfied with his answer, the Abbé did not cease his ministrations and Donatien panicked when he felt the telltale tightening in his groin.

“Mercy, my darling—“ he urged.

François slowed his hand, inner turmoil evident in the crease of his brow. The Marquis grinned as he witnessed various emotions flicker across the priest’s face.

“It’s a potent aphrodisiac, isn’t it, dumpling?” he panted, “having power over another man."

The boy looked thoughtfully at the turgid organ in his hand and inclined his head to taste it once more. He licked at the head, then shifted his gaze to the Marquis’ pained face, “Please—“

"Whatever you want, my pet,” he twitched in the Abbé’s grasp.

François locked eyes with the Marquis and hovered over his lap. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his shaft. He squeezed his eyes closed against the onslaught of stimulation as he opened to his considerable girth, nearly coming apart at the strained groan that came from under him.

“Look at me,” the Marquis growled, his fingers digging into the Abbé’s thighs.

The Abbé shivered and clenched around the Marquis’ cock, drawing a ragged moan from his lips. The room swirled around him like some surreal landscape, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was making a heinous mistake the likes of which he could never come back from.

God is watching.

Those words should have been enough to jolt him back to his senses; back to the light of the Lord’s love and forgiveness, to the sobriety of His wrath and away from this den of lust and depravity—away from the Devil himself.

But to both his relief and horror, they didn’t. Instead, those words clawed up his spinal column to drill into the base of his skull. They spurred the rhythmic undulation of his hips as he proceeded to grind against the Marquis, who gazed in awe at the glorious creature that rode him like his immaculate body was made for it, slack-jawed and mewling like a kitten.

The Abbé shifted clumsily, his movements faltering as his thighs began to tremble. The Marquis reached up to stroke the boy’s face and carefully slid out of him with a grunt.

“Turn over, darling,” he panted. Although the Abbé couldn’t make himself move, he was soon somehow on all fours as the Marquis positioned his prick at his entrance.

Donatien bent to sink his teeth into the muscle of the Abbé’s shoulder, eliciting a broken sob as he buried himself to the root.

“Mon dieu,” the Marquis moaned as the tight canal yielded to him. His fraying composure loomed in the distance and he pressed his forehead to the small of his back. He tried to will his rapid heartbeat to slow; to keep his greed at bay long enough to permit a moment of acclimation. François panted beneath him and he withdrew his cock to the tip and gradually sunk it back in again like the plunger of a syringe. He repeated this excruciatingly slow maneuver, taking advantage of the priest’s feeble groans and whimpers.

When he could no longer endure the torture, the Marquis pulled out and surged forward. The boy’s upper body dropped to the pallet with a muffled curse. Bursts of light blossomed in the periphery of the Abbé’s vision with each thrust. Donatien slapped and gripped the priest’s ass, grunting like an animal as he claimed him, fingers digging into his shoulder for leverage.

François then sat up on his knees and arched his spine to lean back against him. The Marquis held him to his chest by his neck, snarling lewd encouragements into his ear as he continued to drill into him.

“Marquis—” François struggled for breath against him, “Wait—“

The libertine growled in frustration but slowed his momentum, “Yes? Are you alright?”

“Mm,” he answered with a groan as he felt Donatien pulse inside him, “Let me look at you—“

“By all means.”

He gasped when the Marquis pushed him back down and reluctantly unsheathed himself before shoving the priest onto his back. The Abbé found he quite enjoyed the manhandling, the idea of being a toy, an unfeeling tool, a mere outlet for the Marquis' insatiable carnality. The thought was enough to elicit a quiet moan as he was maneuvered to Donatien's satisfaction.

The Marquis paused, trailing a hand over the flat, hard plane of his stomach, smearing fresh blood down his torso, and thrust his bloodied fingers between the Abbé’s lips. He tasted iron and bitterness tinged with something sour, but he held onto Donatien’s wrist and hungrily sucked his fingers clean.

“You make such a lovely whore,” the deep, sensual voice purred and he moaned around the Marquis’ fingers as Donatien teased him, “just as I imagined.”

The young priest keened at the praise as the Marquis stroked his cock. He bucked into his hand and let out a hopeless whimper of despair.

“What is it, precious? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I—I can’t think—,” the boy whined desperately.

Donatien snarled, “Tell me how you long for desecration. Confess to me, Abbé.”

“I admit it freely... since we first met—“ he stuttered, swallowing hard, “I have craved destruction at your hands.”

“Yes...” Donatien encouraged, his free hand moving of its own accord to fondle himself.

“Please—“ the priest moaned.

“You try my patience, chérie,” the Marquis grated dangerously, “I could just as soon finish in your wounds and send you on your way.”

“No! Please, I beg of you, Marquis.”

Donatien steadied himself between the priest’s legs and throbbed at the vulgar groan of relief from the young man as he sank his scepter to the hilt. He held fast to the Abbé’s hips as his body arched off the bed, thin waif-like legs wrapped securely around his waist.

"Yes...” the Abbé sighed heavily, as though he were an ailing man and the Marquis' pulsating cock was his only relief.

He drove into the Abbé slowly, giving them both time to adjust as he took in the youth’s slender, rigid frame.

The Marquis moaned obscenely as the boy’s inner walls squeezed him. He wondered when he’d last enjoyed a partner half as lovely and pliant as the Abbé de Coulmier.

“Fuck,” came a broken whimper from beneath him, interrupting his reverie. He shifted and hooked one of the Abbé’s legs over his shoulder. The priest jolted with a sharp cry as he went deeper.

“Ah—Marquis—“ the boy gasped.

“Mmm,” the Marquis’ voice simmered, “Yes, dear?”

“Harder."

That simple word was enough to make his precarious restraint slip from his grasp. His hands slid from François' hips to his waist, and he pressed his thumbs into the jagged cuts he’d made in the Abbé’s flesh. The boy cursed sharply, and the Marquis grinned as he caught a breathy plea for more.

“That’s right, beautiful,” the Marquis growled, “Do you understand now?”

The Marquis’ voice suddenly seemed far away, as though they were shouting at one another from separate ivory towers. Images flitted before his mind’s eye; long-forgotten visions of a former life—a life he'd been forced to leave behind... a naive, gullible youth at seminary school... an older boy, cocksure and defiant...with blonde waves and hazel eyes... soft hands that had never known a hard day’s work on his body, lips he'd denied tasting of tobacco, communion wine, and vice...

"If you, then, will worship me—"

“—it will all be yours.”

François tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue lest he wake the whole asylum. Warmth flooded his body, starting at his toes and blazing throughout his limbs. He felt as though illuminated from the inside out, but not by the light of the Lord, no; quite the contrary—by hellfire. Embers flickered in his eyes as they rolled backwards in his skull.

And whoever doesn’t fall down and worship shall the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace.

A primal howl echoed from somewhere above him, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears.

"Return to me, darling," cooed the Marquis as he stroked his face, allowing François a moment to coalesce. The glazed eyes fluttered open and fixed on him quizzically, as though waking from a dream. He hissed at a sudden intense burning sensation in his stomach and glanced down at himself, frowning at the milky white substance that oozed into the incisions in his torso and made them sting.

“Pardonne-moi,” the Marquis smirked, “I couldn’t help myself.”

Donatien then inclined his head to sample the concoction of his release mixed with the priest’s blood. Before François could react, the man’s mouth was on his. Copper and salt, ruin and revelation swirled on his tongue and he whimpered against the Marquis’ lips as he braced himself with one arm, throwing the other around the libertine’s shoulders. The Marquis moaned softly, gently lacing his fingers in the boy’s hair, and deepened the kiss with peculiar reverence.

He then parted his lips further to create a seal and claimed the clergyman’s breath. François leaned into him as Donatien exhaled into his mouth. For a moment they were one, sharing one breath, hearts fluttering in sync, until they both grew lightheaded and were forced to part. The Abbé pressed his forehead to the Marquis’, panting softly.

“One moment, dear heart,” the Marquis whispered as he shifted to rise from the bed, “Don’t move.”

François eyed the writer’s naked, moonlit form as he crossed the floor, contemplating different ways in which he could make his gratitude known. It then occurred to him that he would have to leave this room, eventually... leave the man who single-handedly banished his fears and made eternal suffering seem like the most exquisite bliss. Tears pricked his eyes.

Water sloshed in the wash basin as the Marquis dipped a rag into it and wrung it out. Returning to the bed, the Marquis knelt on the edge of the pallet and leaned over François, coaxing him to lie back. He distracted the priest with another sensual kiss as he carefully wiped his chest and stomach clean, dabbing with care at the cuts. The Abbé exhaled sharply, his body flexing, and Donatien froze.

“No, it’s alright,” the priest mused, “I... I think I like it.”

The Marquis cocked a brow and twisted his fingers into the priest’s stomach, drawing an overstimulated groan from his pretty plaything.

“Mm,” Marquis chuckled as his spent organ twitched.

He proceeded to gently clean up his little mess. When he was done, he rose to discard the rag, also retrieving a small tin and a little oval box from his desk. Donation lifted the ceramic lid, decorated with a hand painted portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte. The Abbé could but guess that the eyes had not been scratched out upon its purchase.

The libertine glanced sidelong at the priest as he extended the box in offering. The pale blue eyes lit up at the selection of Belgian pralines, and then fixed upon him with playful suspicion.

“Do you really believe yourself in need of coercing with aphrodisiacs,” the Marquis teased, adding in a sly whisper, “my little whore?”

François bristled and felt his cheeks redden. As he went to select one, the Marquis withdrew the box and plucked one out to hold to his lips. François lowered his hand and shyly opened his mouth for the Marquis to place the chocolate on his tongue.

Cream liqueur flowed down his throat as his teeth broke the chocolate shell. It was as rich and decadent as the Marquis' own seed. The pain of his lacerations was a distant memory as Donatien coated each of them with salve from the tin. The Abbé marveled at how the most trivial of actions could somehow be made sensual by the Marquis; but then, that had always been his modus operandi, after all.

Donatien set the box aside and François wondered how such a luxury could have slipped into the asylum. He then found himself questioning how such an instrument as the crucifix used to... prepare him... had also come to inhabit a drawer in the Marquis’ antique writing desk.

“Marquis...?”

“Yes, mon cher?”

“These chocolates, the... crucifix...” he shuddered with the memory, “Where did you—?”

“That insufferable bitch is, at the very least, good for one thing...” he paused and sneered, rolling his eyes, “Alright, two things.”

The boy chuckled and decided not to press the matter, despite his curiosity as to what other manner of things his patient had secreted away in his chambers. The reference to the Marquise, however, lodged in his heart as he suddenly recalled the incident earlier that evening. His pulse quickened and he looked to Donatien in panic.

The Marquis calmly stroked his cheek, “Do not fret, chanton,” he soothed.

François scoffed, “My concern is not for me, Sir.”

Donatien grinned and attempted to quiet him with a gentle but possessive kiss, “It will be morning soon.”

“I don’t want to leave. Please don’t send me away, Marquis.”

“My dear boy, would you rather they find you here, with me?”

"Yes!" the young man cried, "Let them find us, tangled in one another beneath these coarse, threadbare sheets, to be thrown into the pit—together."

A dark stoicism flickered across the Marquis' face, and he eyed the frantic priest with something akin to amused pity. As he carded his fingers through the mussed chestnut hair, he noticed the boy's eyelids begin to flutter, “You have had quite the exertion, poppet," he responded dismissively, "Sleep. I promise all will be clear in the morning.”

A wave of drowsiness came over the Abbé and his racing thoughts seemed to falter. He blinked as the Marquis' image blurred before his eyes. Despite the twisting anxiety in his gut, François curled up against the elder man’s side, suddenly too groggy to argue, and surrendered to the fatigue as he took in the mingling scents of cum and sweat drying on their skin. Nails raked gently over his scalp, and he allowed the soft humming above him to lull him into slumber.

~~~

The Abbé was awoken the next morning by the sound of alarm and the howls of the inmates. He bolted upright and immediately clapped both hands to either side of his pounding head as his stomach churned.

The quiet of the room itself was immediately apparent to him. There was no breathing, no snoring, no shifting of another sleeping form in the bed next to him.

There was nothing.

Reluctant to open his eyes to the sunlight that streamed in from the single window, François pawed blearily at the cold void next to him, desperate to make contact with something—anything—as his heart began to race and the ball of dread coiled ever tighter in his stomach.

“Marquis?” he hissed, grimacing as he attempted to open his eyes, “Marquis?!”

It wasn’t until his vision had fully coalesced that he registered the door to the Marquis’ cell standing ajar, and a familiar face smiling at him from the threshold. But it was not a friendly face, nor did it grace him with a warm, comforting smile. It was a hard, false smile, meant only to mock and debase.

The young priest’s blood froze in his veins, and he scrambled backwards over the empty mattress until his back hit the wall.

“Good morning, Abbé,” Dr. Royar-Collard greeted him with a jagged edge of amusement as he meandered into the room, “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

#smut #period smut #Abbé de Coulmier #Quills #Marquis de Sade #fanfic #fanfiction #Quills fanfiction #niche post #quills 2000

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