THE HOLY VESSEL

But do those things ever actually stay in the past?

She sipped her espresso and looked about the café, anywhere but into the eyes across the table.  She couldn’t quite go there either.  “….no, I didn’t see him.”

“Pour quoi?   C’etait l’appel du vide?

“English, please, Simone.  You know my French is rusty.”

Simone huffed in disdain.  “Because you do not practice, mon amie.  You Americans….”  She ceased her muttering long enough to affix a cigarette between her lips.  “… always making promises you do not keep.”  She exhaled a cloud of white and gave her companion an appraising look.  “He very much wanted to see you, comprenez-vous?  Jean –Miche… ”

“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand.  “Don’t even say his name.”  She couldn’t bear to hear it spoken.  For her, he was only Monsieur.

“You come to Paris… you travel all these miles… you take a taxi to his door and you do not ring the bell.”  Simone pointed the cigarette like a finger.  “Why do you refuse a man dying?”

She looked up sharply.  “You never said he was dying.”

Simone shrugged a Gallic shoulder.  “He cannot live forever.

“Is he sick?  What aren’t you telling me?

Simone took a long drag before answering.  “Maybe he has … a little of the cancer.  Did not Pere Mathieu tell you?”

“Father Matthew?”

“Oui, Pere Mathieu.”  Simone stubbed out her cigarette, swearing softly under her breath.  “I suppose he, too, you forgot?”

“No,” she said, turning her coffee cup slowly around its saucer confines.  “I haven’t forgotten him.”

No, probably never would.  How could she when he had occasionally joined the games she played with Monsieur.  But she wouldn’t allow herself to think about that.

Simone rattled on, spewing her disgust of all things Americain and their patent disregard for etiquette until her babble became a white noise backdrop to the creeping memories which refused to lie still.  Why did she come Paris if not to face her past?   Surely she could stand to remember that particular event, so many years ago…

It happened in her last year of high school. When her school mates were gossiping, full of giggles and sighs for the new parish priest, she was oblivious, caught tightly in web with her own piece of forbidden fruit.  She had no time for her friends after school because all her afternoons were spent naked with Monsieur, either diligently bent over her school work, or bent over his pleasure bench diligently taking him into her body.  He was a hard task master because he desired that she excel at both.

He made her quit her part-time job at the bookstore that she could devote herself more fully to both studies with her tutor.  He drove her to a discreet physician outside of Paris and had her fitted with an IUD to prevent “unpleasant mishaps” from spoiling her training.  Her grades improved so dramatically that her mother was ecstatic, giving full credit for her daughter’s academic turnaround to the novenas she recited nightly. Monsieur, too, was pleased, promising a special treat if she scored well in spring examinations.

When she arrived at his townhome one May afternoon, the proof of her diligence was in hand:  She passed with high honors and proudly showed him her certificate.  He embraced her with all the tenderness he could muster and told her to quickly undress as her treat was already waiting.

He trussed her like a game bird and suspended her from the ceiling.  When she was dangling in space, the door to the bedroom quietly opened and a naked man with stiffly swollen cock entered.  Unable to shrink away from him, Monsieur was still able to read her apprehension and soothed her with soft words.  She was reluctant, as always when faced with a new step in their sexual tango, but yielded to his requests, no matter how shameful she initially thought them.

The newcomer spent an inordinate amount of time pulling on her nipples and sucking greedily at her clitoris, wringing so many orgasms from her that a puddle formed on the marble floor beneath her.

He lapped up the puddle and politely asked Monsieur if he might have permission to fuck her pussy.  She was lowered from her perch and fastened to the bench where her new playfellow opened her up and pushed into her body.

Monsieur strolled to the bench and stroked her cheek with a tender finger.  “You may fuck her as long and as roughly as you desire, Mathieu.  She has been well-trained.  But take care not to mark her body; we don’t want to leave any clues for her maman to follow.”

His hand drifted gently to her breasts, bouncing wildly from the motion below.  “When she is 18, we will pierce these nipples together, my dearest friend, and maybe, if we choose, her little rosebud as well.

Fingers slid over her belly, lingering a moment before slipping past her mons and into the wetness beyond.  Monsieur probed softly, forcing another climax.  “That’s my good girl.  Take him inside you,” he said, soothing her as the thrusting continued.  “He fills you up well, does he not?”

Monsieur closely observed as the man fucked her, occasionally offering encouragement and frequently forcing orgasm to keep her soft and slick.  Her head was spinning with sensation and, to keep her acquiescent, he kept her drowning in it.

“I should so like to see this lovely belly ripe with our seed, Mathieu.  Wouldn’t that be an interesting little game? We could take turns filling her up.  When we tire of her, we ask new friends to join.”  He stopped to caress her belly.  “And you, my little princess, would this not please you?  Would this finally satisfy your hunger?

She could only whimper as Monsieur forced another climax.  “Did I not tell you, Mathieu, how obedient she is?  Look how easily she comes, how willingly she opens her legs and allows you to fuck her.  What fun we will have playing house with our little wife.”

The man paused mid-thrust.  “And what of the children born from our play?  You know I am not in a position to claim them.”

“Do not concern yourself with such things now, Mathieu.  Take your pleasure and fill her little hole as many times as you please. “

And he did. Several times until the man finally detached himself and lay panting on the marble floor. Monsieur positioned a goblet at her slit and told her to bear down, collecting their mingled fluids and topping it off with a splash of champagne.  “Drink this tonic, my sweet dove,” he said, holding it to her lips.  “Drink and be well.”

She drank and Monsieur removed the restraints.  He gathered her into his arms and carried her to the bathroom where the two men prepared a bubble bath and took turns bathing and petting her.  “Relax for a bit, cherie, but you must be dressed in your school uniform and home before six.  Your mother will be expecting you.”

And so the spring and summer passed, as the toy of both Monsieur and his quiet friend, until the autumn when she prepared to leave Paris to begin her freshman year at Stanford.  Her mother, worried that she would fall victim to horny American surfer boys, insisted she go to confession and be blessed before her  trip.

In the quiet of the confessional, she unburdened herself of everything and when the priest finally spoke, his low deep voice was familiar.  It rang a bell, and like a bitch in Pavlov’s laboratory, wetness suddenly welled and pooled in the crotch of her prim white cotton panties.

“You’re wet now, my child, are you not?”

“Yes, Pere Mathieu.”

“Show me,” he demanded.  And she lifted the hem of her plaid skirt, spreading her thighs to show the dark stain growing on the fabric.

“A quoi penses-tu, imbecile?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Simone lit up another cigarette.  “Why do I talk when you do not listen?”  She motioned to waiter to bring another coffee.  “I was talking about Pere Mathieu, the one you forgot.”

I USED TO WANT TO BELIEVE: The Vanilla Files

Case No. 452:  The Assman Cometh

Or not, in this case.  Mr. F, a fit and reasonably attractive man in this early 30s approaches his wife of five years and announces in a petulant voice that their sex life has become rote and anal sex is the solution.  He asks his wife to undress and immediately accommodate his request.

Mrs. F, an equally fit and open-minded woman, is dismayed not with the act, but with the brusque manner in which it was presented.  Reflecting on her own limited experience (see File 451:  High School Hijinx), Mrs. F asks her husband what knowledge or training he might have as her own was unreliable.

Enraged that his wife would doubt his ability, he avoids answering the question by repeating his demand that she strip and present her ass for immediate consumption.

Mrs. F attempts to defuse the situation by suggesting they both take some time to research the topic before engagement, if only to ensure safety and that a pleasurable experience might be had by all.

Mr. F is puzzled by the suggestion, prompting Mrs. F to realize that her health and pleasure were not factors in his decision.

Further dismayed and now wounded to the heart, Mrs. F tries to contain her anger and explains (using very small words) that if preparation had no intrinsic value, then surely he wouldn’t mind being pegged.

Mr. F becomes alarmed, perhaps because he finds her idea appealing, and rejects it violently, and instead delivers an ultimatum:  Give up the ass or face immediate replacement.

Though shellshocked, Mrs. F recognizes this event as a tipping point and must make a critical decision:  Either protect her health and sanity by walking, or endure anal rape by the man who was her lawful husband.

Choosing self-preservation, Mrs. F packs her bags and departs the marital residence that very night.  Six months later, the marriage is dissolved and the newly-single former Mrs. F reflects on her wasted years spent in vanilla marriage.  Were their conflicts representative of fundamental incompatibility or of simple ignorance of the other’s expectations, sexual or otherwise?  Would their marriage have survived had they engaged in frank discussions and written contracts before legally committing themselves?

The answers may never be known, and for that reason the case is here, buried in THE VANILLA FILES.

POST-COITAL SMOKE

He listened, actually listened without offering commentary, while the floodgates opened and the deluge of past events that shaped me poured out.  Some were odd, others poignant, and more than a few were hilarious.

But curiously, and fortunately because I didn’t want to appear like a total loser, I didn’t cry.  Even when relating the painful ones.  They, too, were only ephemeral.  This completely new perspective made me suddenly question why I held onto the pain and singled it out in the long chain of memory.

When the flood sputtered to a close, he asked me about my years in captivity and I had to laugh.  Yeah, that’s what they were, all right.

Nearly 30 years of coitus interruptus.  Sure, I was sexually active, even had a husband or two.  But was I really alive?  Did I truly give all of myself to these friends and lovers, or only a portion?

I recounted my experiences, counting them out on my fingers like a child and with each addition, I felt myself drawing closer to an elusive something.  And I paused.  Suspended.

Mr. Green Eyes watched me hang in the moment and I knew he was edging me.  “You’re almost there, aren’t you?  You know what that something is.”

Yes, I did.  And I could feel it growing closer by the minute, yet it remained indistinct.

“When did the cage door open?”  His voice was a murky as the mists he wove.

Down and down, I swirled into them and then my legs and scalp were burning as the sentences in a letter became clearer and the unrepentant desire within them set my skin on fire.  And I saw the man who wrote them open my cage only to draw me out and fuck me so masterfully that the orgasmic tsunami hurled me miles beyond my vanilla prison and spit me out onto a far shore, weak and shaking like a newly born infant.

The key fell out of mist and dropped, bright and shiny, into my hand.  “I could never go back,” I said, refocusing on my date.  He was wearing a fine wool suit with a pale pinstripe.  Why hadn’t I noticed this before?

“You know,” he said, leaning in with a smile, “back in the day, a story this juicy would merit a post-coital smoke.”

I laughed and suddenly thought of the farewell scene in that old black and white film, Now Voyager, where Paul Henreid lights up two cigarettes, one for himself and one for Bette Davis.  Even if I did smoke, did I really want to say goodbye?

I looked at Mr. Gorgeously Attired who was elegantly sprawled against the leather banquette and thanked my lucky stars that I could see him in all his brilliant Technicolor Dom glory.

“Maybe so, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do without all the smoke and mirrors.”