By Princess Plum Jade. Angelus/Ramadevi (Original Character). This fic isn't mine, it's one of p. Plum Jade's, and she's working off her "Southern Hospitality" series. The series can be found on p. Plum Jade's website . There you will also find a spinoff series called "Resonance", by the author Willowluv. The Princess has allowed me to post this fic here, and I am hoping to get her and Willowluv to let me post other parts as well.
Lights begin to dim
Curtains begin to rise
Standing there
In the darkness
I see my prize
Beautiful as a rose
In first bloom
Yet wild like an
Untamed animal
I saw you first
My hunger not sated
With just your touch
Now someone wants
My treasure
Could I let him
Take you away?
Can I treat you
Like as before?
The game of
Cat and mouse
That was once
My allure
Shall I let you
Burn in the flames
Of his passion,
Let you taste
Sweetness in pain?
Torturing your mind...
Hasn't that always
Been my goal?
Remember that
I have no soul
Keeping up the facade
Truths are hard to be told
Held in your arms
The deception can
Finally grow cold
"Deception" by Slayerdee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~Paris Late Spring 1818 ~
"Monsieur DesLourdes, I must speak with you privately. A matter of great importance."
"Later." I never take my eyes away from the beauty seated at the pianoforte. The music she plays on it is nothing compared to the sweetness coming from her lovely throat. She is singing in Spanish, fanciful nonsense about a white child of the moon.
"Mademoiselle Ramadevi is very gifted musically," Paul Charrier adds patronizingly, "for one so young and new to the art."
If I tear his damn windpipe out he would shut up. But then, everybody else in the room would start a rumpus and I still wouldn't enjoy my pretty godchild's performance. This stupid, puppy-faced boy is right, anyhow. Ramadevi does have a gift for music. All of my guests are enchanted with her.
Even from this distance-I am standing at the opposite side of the grand parlor-I can smell her blood burning in her plump cheeks. She isn't embarrassed being the center of attention. She feels how hungry I am.
Charles deMoncrieff glances at me, eyebrows raised. His wife, Ligeia, is weeping quietly, her delicate human heart touched by Rama's sweet singing. Charles leans closely over her, their bodies touching, comforting closeness.
Beside my oldest friend and his wife, Paul Charrier's family is watching Ramadevi's recital. Charrier and Madame are barely civil: they despise Ramadevi and loathe their only son's puppy-love for her more than I do. Paul's younger sister, a prettily plump and emotional creature named Melisande , is smiling with unabashed admiration at my god-daughter.
I catch Melisande's eye and she colors up, dropping her eyes to fidget with her lace-trimmed fan in her lap. She's a pretty little butterball and thinks she's in love with me.
I encourage Ramadevi's friendship with Melisande because I know such a sweet foolish creature would bring out Rama's protective instincts. It would be so easy to hurt Melisande, then kill her in ways that increased Rama's suffering.
Rama has been very good this last year. She comes to my arms and feeds me just as I want her to. There is no need for me to threaten Melisande.
And she never takes off her slaves' bracelets unless I tell her she may. Poor little thing! She was so afraid to come to me when I had Alain take the bracelets out to the jewelers and have the settings checked and cleaned. I didn't bother to tell her about it and Rama thought they were lost.
I can't take my eyes off of her as she finishes the song. Her silk skirts swish as she rises from her bench and curtseys, very properly, to the crowd.
"Bella Rama!" Some of my guests call out and I agree with them, though I don’t say it. She is so beautiful.
But she is so much more.
I walk towards her slowly, reminding myself not to move unnaturally fast in front of all these people.
"You look heated, my dear." Gently, I touch her flushed cheek. "Let me take you out into the garden." Let me back you into a shadowed corner and strip you naked as I can get you so I can adore the sight of you before I drink...
"Please allow me, Angelus, surely you want to mingle with your guests more."
God damn that puppy! I will break his neck!
Rama feels the lusty heat in me turn to scorching anger. She is trembling a little bit, nervous. I fix my face into a semblance of a host's gracious smile.
"By all means. Thank you, Paul."
The boy-man grins and preens like an idiotic rooster, clueless that his neck will be wrung. Paul Charrier’s bony shoulder brushes mine as he offers his arm to Ramadevi.
"Go with them, Melly, the exercise will do you good." Madame Charrier nearly shoves Melisande off the velvet ottoman she is seated on. The dumpling blushes blotchy scarlet, embarrassed at being treated so shabbily in front of her 'secret' crush. Smiling, I retrieve her fan, offer her my hand to help her up.
"Yes, cherie, " I tell her smoothly. "Watch my Rama lest that brother of yours makes away with her." I wink at Melisande and her unbecoming blush darkens. Her skin is ruddy to begin with, blotchy from acne. Melisande has neither beauty nor wit, and her mother despises her for it.
When Ramadevi blushes, it looks like roses blooming under her clear honey skin.
"Well, Angelus," Ligeia de Moncrieff, stately and elegant in plum-coloured silk and a monstrous amethyst brooch, stands alongside me. "Your princess has conquered France without one blow! Napoleon should have taken her to Russia!"
"She is-a lovely young lady." The closely pursed lips of Madame Charrier clearly suggest she would prefer Ramadevi buried by an avalanche in Russia.
Perhaps, one day, when I no longer care to do business with Charrier, I'll chop off this bitch's fingertips one by one. Toss them into the fire, let her smell her own flesh cooking while she shrieks over it. The thought brings a little smile to my face.
Ligeia is hard-pressed not to laugh. She is psychic, unusually gifted; she probably knows every thought that just went through my head.
"It is marvelous what you've been able to do with her in only-three years?" Madame Charrier continues blithely. "Who would've thought she was all but a street urchin when you took responsibility for her?" She glances resentfully at the backs of Paul, Melisande, and Ramadevi strolling out into the courtyard. A harsh sound comes out her mouth, a brittle laugh. "You could almost mistake her for a real lady!"
Ligeia gives her a blankly polite smile, the kind of look all diplomatic personalities use when they are put out with someone, but have no wish to offend them. I just stare at her, inscrutably silent until she is clearly uneasy.
I could tell her the truth, that Ramadevi is far higher in status and rank than any of the guests at this party.
I've seen it for myself. The devoted on their knees lighting candles and burning incense. Offerings, gifts of food and clothing on an ancient altar. I know who Ramadevi really is. More than she knows herself.
I've heard her worshipers chanting... Living Goddess, the Beautiful One, My Mother Who Gives...
I taste those memories in her blood. Rama is so sweet, so intoxicating, the most precious, purest waters in the rare springs deep in the desert. I want more.
And Paul Charrier would like to speak to me. Something important. Private.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch the three young people strolling through the Byzantine garden paths in the courtyard. The puppy, trying to be gallant, rips some night-blooming jasmine from a small tree near a trellised wall of dark ivy. Paul tosses the sweet-scented petals over the top of Ramadevi's head. The dumpling sister smiles prettily, giggles a little bit.
Ramadevi laughs, a rare sound, more lovely than her singing voice. Moonlight sets her diamond necklace glittering. Paul clasps one of her hands in his briefly.
I know I'm going to kill him. Sooner or later.
*************************************************************
The first time I ever heard Rama laugh was the day she met the Charriers.
Not that she'd had much to laugh about before then. In that first year he lived with me we fought constantly. She hated me, which I just adored at first.
It just made it more exciting, chasing her through my house, cornering her, wrestling her before I sank my teeth into her flesh and tasted that damnably sweet liquor inside her.
She was too proud to weep in my presence. I would stand outside her bedroom and listen to her sobs, so angry, filled with despair.
But not afraid. I don't think she has feared me since the night I killed that servant foster-mother of hers and bribed the Paris Courts to grant me legal guardianship over her. Just anger, hurt, humiliation, confusion, and despair...Nectar, those tears, though I never tasted them.
The day finally came when lingering at her door simply wasn’t enough.
"Go away!" Her rounded little face glared at me. "I don't want you here, you've taken what you want, now GO!"
Hard little fists on my chest and shoulder, I cradle her writhing and kicking body to me.
Baby girl, I love your tears, they smell and taste so good. When you finally relax, exhausted and hurt, I'll hold you while you sleep and savor your pain.
I love your pain.
Monsieur Charrier brought his wife and children to pay their respects on a cloudy Sunday afternoon.
Like most astute businessmen, Charrier is an insufferable bore. I do business with him because, after all, he is astute. Socialising with him is a distasteful duty. Madame, his wife, is rather too haughty for a woman of little beauty and less taste. Like most of the bourgeoisie, now that the French monarchy was gone, the Charriers aspired to form a new aristocracy.
I brought Rama down to introduce them all after a gentle promise to her that I would beat her maid if she didn't behave nicely. She was on her very best behaviour and I was quite proud of her.
Charrier and Paul's faces lit up with the warm appreciation most men have for a beautiful face. Madame's thin lips folded tightly, disapprovingly envious. Melisande, shy, stuttering, but the best mannered of the lot, was the only one who came forward to greet Rama with any sincerity.
The young people went through the business of getting to know each other better whilst Alain served tea. Melisande and Rama became fast friends and Paul joined them in the gardens outside for 'fresh air.'
"I must say, she's remarkably well-mannered, Angelus." Madame lifted her cup with practiced simplicity to her thin mouth. "How did you manage to civilise her? I'd heard she was a theater strumpet."
I smile at her sardonically, don't bother to answer. Jealousy in ugly women is priceless.
Outside, in the courtyard, Paul was pushing Ramadevi in the garden swing. I don't know what the skinny half-grown schoolboy said to her.
Her laughter rang out, sweetly effervescent, lyrical and rich. I recalled that the governess I'd hired to educate her on European lady's manners and behaviour assured me she had musical talent. The delicious song became infectious. Melisande was laughing too, a cheery gurgle. Paul was grinning ear to ear.
It was the first time I understood that there were things I couldn’t make Ramadevi give me.
**************************************************************
Prejudice in humans is such a stupid thing. They waste too much time on it. Who's richer, who's poorer, who's more successful in business or loving. And every last one of them bleeds exactly the same.
Ramadevi was too exotically beautiful not to incur the jealous prejudice of many Frenchwomen. These days, a shocking level of racism had developed in a country that once prided itself on its diversity. Even the lower classes thought they were above a foreigner.
The downstairs maid complained to Alain that "that damned brown savage" liked to bathe daily. It took her the better part of an hour to heat enough water to fill the tub. More time to heat still more water because "the little bitch" liked to dawdle and languish in the water for up to an hour or longer. Rama would not heed her warnings that bathing is unhealthy, even sinful.
I ordered a larger tub, hired three new maids.
The first maid, the one who complained, is found a few days later, drowned after constant repeated ducking into the Boulogne River. Probably the cleanest she's ever been in her whole life.
Sometimes, I watch Rama soaking in the steaming tub of sweet-smelling water. She lies back, her neck supported by a rolled velvet towel, her abundant hair cascading behind her, so long it brushes the floor. Her eyes are closed, just the trace of delighted pleasure in her lips. The younger maid scolds her good-naturedly when Rama asks for more hot water, tells her she will scald.
Rama only laughs and tells her stories of the giant baths in the women's quarters of her father's palace. Huge, marble bathing pools where the ladies went to be washed, massaged, groomed for their master's pleasure. Fresh flowers, cold sherbert, figs and dates and honey...the more she speaks the more incredible the tale must seem to this little farm girl from Gascony who I pay well enough to bathe this woman as often as she likes.
Indeed, the Indian palace baths sound like paradise, even to a vampire. I daydream of visiting them and mauling, drinking, killing, until the hot water in the shallow pools turns red...
No wonder Ramadevi won't talk to me about her family...
"Angelus, for pity's sake, try to look pleased. They really are a handsome couple."
I don't answer Ligeia. I blame her as well as everyone else. She was the one who told me that I had to let Rama meet people, learn to socialise with my "friends."
Swept around the immaculately glossy floor, in Paul's arms, Ramadevi is a beautiful picture. They are dancing in a scandalous, trendy new style where the partners clutch each other face-to-face. It's called waltzing.
All the sourpuss dowagers glare, rabidly offended by what they consider an obscene display. Some openly forbid their daughters to join in the dancing, those sweet young girls pout prettily. The permitted girls bridle saucily, making the most of their glory.
"Angelus." Charles has joined his wife, gently guiding her behind him in a protective gesture. Does he sense how close to losing it I really am? "Perhaps it would be best for Rama to change partners?"
"Why?" My voice is flat, surly.
"Surely you're the best partner for her."
"Hardly."
"You'd like to be." Charles gazes at me steadily. There is an understanding in his expression that infuriates me.
I want to kill them all -everybody in the room except-
Take Rama without mercy, make her scream, plead with me to let her go even as she begs for more of me. Why do I want her so much?
I should let Paul have her, when he asks for her tonight. Act the proud guardian, provide a wedding feast to be that year's talk of Paris. Sell up and move on. Darla's good at catching up with me. It would hurt Rama, too, which is bread and meat to me. Rama forced to have her life dictated by that boring, petty, ridiculous young man, so beneath her in birth and intellect.
She does not love him. That alone would be a good reason to give her to him. I could live off her misery for months and be well rid of her too.
Maybe she'd even miss me.
I picture Paul covering Rama's body with his, plowing her, filling her with whelps each year until she's old and worn before her time. Growing old with her. For one purely hateful moment, I want to be him more than I want to kill him.
Living Goddess, the Beautiful One, My Mother Who Gives...
Paul doesn't even object when I stride across the floor towards them, lay a proprietary hand upon my legal ward's arm and draw her away. He merely bows with that idiotic rooster's grin and withdraws. If a man did to me what I just did to him, I wouldn't even waste time torturing him before he died
"Come, precious," I urge her, my voice low. "Show me this dance and its niceties."
I sweep her back into the waltz, barely missing the next bar of music. I have my hand on her slender waist to guide her, her left hand rests on my shoulder and we hold the other hands. Her body heat rises as we dance together, her breathing quickens. I feel better, knowing she is short on control as well.
"The musicians you picked are very fine." I offer her a compliment.
"Ligeia recommended them. She has an ear for such things." Her voice is rich and soft.
"Your English is getting better, Egypt," I use the old name patrons called her when she danced in the Wolvesgarden gentlemen's club.
She is silent. Her eyes are large and dark, more brilliant than stars.
"I work very hard on my English, Angelus. I want you to be pleased."
Her meaning is plain. She wants me to be pleased, but she does not want to please me. Ever stubborn, always resisting. Would she want to please that puppy?
"Well, my dear." Spite creeps into my tone. "I hope your good efforts continue. You wouldn't want your tutor's tongue ripped out for not teaching you properly, would you?"
"No," she whispers, defeated. "You know I would not."
"Good." I bend my head nearer to hers, absorbing the blend of her wonderful fragrance. "There are things I want you to say to me, and I want to hear them in English."
"Yes." It isn't even a word, just a sound in her throat. "Write them down, Angelus, and I will practice for you."
I chuckle, can't hold it in. Stubborn Egypt! I guide Rama off the floor, holding her gloved hand in mine as I squire her away from the ballroom, through the salon into the main hall to my study. Quietly I shut the door, locking us in.
Ambling over to my ornate writing desk, shrugging out of my jacket, I reach for a pen.
"Viens-ci," I tell Rama. The girl is standing mutinously still, near the locked door. "Come here. I will show you the words."
I watch her approach me slowly, gliding over my fine Turkish carpet . She looks so fine in her white evening gown and the pink rosettes at her bosom. I'll have her portrait made in that gown, those diamonds at her throat. But I want her hair loose and free.
She is cautious, slow to come to me. She senses my intentions, perhaps. We've both gotten very good at that. To encourage her, I open a desk drawer and lift out a sheet of paper.
She doesn't trust me, but we both know she really doesn't have a choice. If she doesn't come to me, I'll simply go fetch her and bring her where I please.
Ramadevi rounds the right side of the desk, glances down at the blank paper. I inhale, tasting her scent.
It takes only a moment to place her as I want her, wedge her body between me and the desk. A soft whimper dies in her throat; her huge black opal eyes accuse me of deceiving her, but she says nothing.
I smile, genuinely amused. Ramadevi tries so hard to resist the rising heat between us. She fights it like an ill-tempered mule, she does not want to feel it...I enjoy that, it gives me so much more satisfaction when she finally yields.
"Say 'I want you,'" I tell her.
Comprehension dawns on her face, followed by a flash of pure rage.
"I don't. She shakes her head.
"Liar." I smell it all over her, taste it in her scent, her blood. She's almost as hungry as-I grab her by the back of her head, sinking my fingers into the thick heavy knot of curly hair.
If I pull hard enough, I could rip the entire knot out of her scalp. I know this for certain, from experience with others. Her hair is warm and silky, heavy and soft. It smells of rosewater imported from Cologne. Briskly I pull her hair free of its jeweled hairpins, ignoring her wriggling protests.
I even like it when she wriggles against my body and complains, cursing me in her heathen languages. It gives me an excuse to punish her.
Lightly, I swat her delectable rump with the flat of my hand. Once, twice, a third, sharper slap. She glares at me, wide-eyed.
"Speak English!" I reprimand her.
Her gloved hand cracks against my face with a surprising bit of force. She stomps on my foot, I don't budge.
"I said you were the misbegotten offspring of a camel and a hyena!" she flared at me.
I have to laugh at that. What an insult! Of course, my laughing just infuriates her more.
Her knee slams into my groin and she utters a string of unspeakable swearing in very clear, very precise English. For Heaven's sake who has she been talking to? In one colourful sentence she has called me a Godless, incestuous, whoreson homosexual! And my poor balls!
Rama is scrabbling over the desk on her hands and knees. My desk clock, cigars, pens, and other accessories are flying pell-mell to the sides onto the floor. Some priceless porcelain bric-a-brac shatters on the ground.
I grab her by both ankles and jerk, dragging her back towards me when she falls down on her belly.
She is humiliated, crying a little-but not nearly as much or as loudly as she is going to when I've blistered her ass.
I rip at the buttons on the back of her gown, feel a tinge of regret (the portrait won't be done in this dress after all.) Rama gasps or cries out each time more of the silk-covered buttons pop free and scatter. It doesn't take long for me to tear her gown and her petticoats off of her.
"Angelus-don't-we have guests outside-" She pants as I flip her onto her back. She is breathless from crying, her cheeks flushed, biting her lip. "You-you have no right to do this!" Her frustrated fists thump angrily on the smooth wood as I lean over her. "I- don't -want-you!"
I don't even try to hide my anger at her words. What must I look like to this little innocent? My skin so pale, my mouth tight with rage, my eyes glittering, furious.
I kiss her mouth cruelly. I suck, I nibble, I lick her lips, then bite them, batter them open to taste the silky warmth inside her. Ah, the sweetest triumph, her hungry little moan, her tense, struggling limbs going soft, pliant.
Yes, baby, lift your hips like that, arch your body against me. Your body is so beautiful. I've had more women than I can remember and killed practically all of them. No one else ever looked like you. Felt like you. Tasted like you. Smelled like you...
I want to be inside you...
"Je te veux," she says softly. I want you.
My demon's body springs into hardest arousal at her words. I am a gauche farmer's son with his very first woman. Her warm tongue massages my cool one. She is sweet, even without honey smeared on her lips.
But my darling is still disobedient. I must teach her to mind.
She is frightened when I clamp my fingers over her satin-smooth lips. Her eyes widen and she wriggles delightfully. She is hurt, did she not admit what I wanted?
"English!" I order ruthlessly. "Say it!" Slowly lifting my fingers away, I fondle and trace her pretty mouth.
"I-I want you." Her sweet voice trembles over the words in an irresistibly sexy foreign accent.
"Do you? Really?" I lash her with my voice as I rip open her corset and bury my face in her naked breasts, lush, round, and firm. Her heart is thudding gently beneath her silky skin. I rub my chin over her nipple, lower my mouth to kiss it. The satiny flesh ripens, blossoms, darkens to a rich rosy cocoa colour.
She gasps as my teeth sink into her breast. I pinch her other nipple, tease her with my fingertips. I've drawn just a smear of blood, enough to whet my appetite.
"Angelus."
I love it when you give up, baby, I feel you surrendering to me. Your body is so incredibly hot, fevered with passion. I smell your hunger for me, can damn near taste it. You're still afraid, though, you flinch when I rip the silk ribbon drawstring at your waist and my hand glides over that taut belly of yours.
I have to be careful, chew gently on your nipple, lash you with my tongue. You're so close, baby. That's how I want you. Just this close. You don't fight it when I drag your pantalets down, you even lift your hips, make it easier for me to strip you, yes, that's very good.
The wet little cleft between your legs radiates heat, it damn well nearly smokes.
"Angelus!" you beg softly when my hand covers you.
"Did you tell me," I ask coldly, hateful. "That you don't want me?" I pinch your smooth pubic mound hard.
"Angelus!" Yes, baby, plead, you need to practice.
"I have no right !" I bite off the edge of each word.
My fingers slip into your slickly heated cleft. Burning liquid musk coats my cool fingers as I explore you.
If I want to, Rama, I can legally give you away right now to a flaming imbecile from a supercilious family who despises you! You are powerless to stop me! If you run away from me, I can appeal to the authorities to have you arrested and returned to me and I can even institutionalize you!
You writhe, hips rocking against my fingers. Your beautiful eyes are wide, desperate, afraid...
It's completely legal for me to beat you! As long as I use an object no thicker than my own thumb. I can beat you if you deserve it and even if you don't!
I slip two fingers into her tight little sheath and she sobs. It hurts you, I know, baby, you're still so little. I'm sorry.
If I killed you, I wouldn't even stand trial for it!
I withdraw my fingers, lick away the nectar on them. Rama watches, wide-eyed, as my lips squeeze the last bit of her essence off my fingers to my tongue.
"You are mine, Rama." Mine to keep, mine to punish, mine to torment, mine to provide for, mine to touch, mine to hold., mine to pleasure, mine to..Mine alone!
Her mouth is ardent on my own when I pull her to her knees on the desk, tasting her own intimate juices on my tongue. My hands roam behind her, cup her buttocks, gently petting, squeezing.
"Do you want me, Rama?"
"Yes!" Beautiful! In English, just as I asked. "Please Angelus!" Even better!
"Did you lie when you said you didn't want me before?" I nibble the top of her ear, tease a painfully erect nipple with my fingertip. My cock is on fire.
"I-I-" Poor lost little girl!
"Tell the TRUTH!"
"I lied-"
SMACK! My palm comes down hard on that gorgeously round ass of hers. Her hips rock forward from the force of the blow.
"Don"t lie to me again, Rama. I smell the heat inside you miles away. I know you want me."
"How do you know it's you I-"
CRACK! WHACK! SMACK! I have to grip her with my other hand since she loses her balance from the force of the blows on her buttocks.
You want my touch, Egypt, only mine, respond only to me...Damn it! It's got to be I who puts you into heat, Rama, some crazy connection that explains why I can’t stand the thought of you belonging to someone else!
"I want you!" She clings to my neck. Blessed submission.
(Living Goddess, Beautiful One, My Mother Who Gives...)
I hug her closely to me, my eyes shut as I rub my face in her hair. Can she feel my shoulders shaking?
She moans sweetly-my name again. I gently caress her warmed bottom, stroking her, loving the rosy welts my hands left on her body. They're warm, pink. They prove I don't love her. Would I spank her bare ass hard enough to mark her if I really-
"Angelus-"
I cover her lips lightly with my fingers. I want her body to speak right now.
I trail my fingers gently down her belly with my free hand. I slip my thumb into her mouth, stare down into her passion-darkened eyes.
She knows what I want. I love her soft whimper! It's not really I who frightens her, it's her body's traitorous responses to feelings she doesn't want. I know, baby, you are not alone. Her lips close over my thumb, and she bathes it with her tongue, rhythmically sucking.
I want to pull her from the desk and drop her on the floor, jam myself down her pretty throat. Choke her with it. Damn it! I don't really want to do that, but I should want to.
Her clitoris is hot and swollen. I trace it lightly with a fingertip, barely touching her.
I kiss her mouth again, hard, demanding, with everything I have. Our tongues dance and duel together. I moan with her as I squeeze and fondle her sore bottom cheeks, pinching them gently.
Just a little pain, darling, just a taste for me.
"I want you to speak to me-in English," I remind her, my voice unusually soft. "Tell me that you want me."
Her huge obsidian eyes stare into mine. There is a wonderful hopelessness to her look.
"I want you."
"Do I have the right, Rama? Don't you want me-" I stroke the length of her spine, caress the silky tendrils on the back of her neck. "-to put my hands on you?" I tickle her clit relentlessly. "Tell me! Don't hold it back!"
"Yes! Yes-Angelus!" Ah, she's almost crying, poor baby. I do this for your own good; it's best to get the lies out of the way. "I want you to touch me!"
I trail a line of gentle kisses over her shoulder. She is dancing for me, soft little movements of her hipline on my hand.
"Very good." Tenderness creeps into my tone. "Now, I want to hear you say you are my Lion."
The tears she has forced back finally trickle down her cheeks. Snarling softly, I pull her body against mine, pet her, stroke her, cuddle her warm flesh to me. She does not want to say it, accept my control and admit she is mine now. I respect her for it, but it doesn't change a thing. She will respond to me when I use the old pet name her father once used for her.
One of my hands drops back to her ass, seeking the center crevice behind her. I use one finger, still slick with her own juices, to open her anus. Ramadevi makes a choking sound at this unexpected violation, but she doesn't resist me. I invade her body until my first knuckle stops me from going further.
She is so hot, incredibly painfully tight. Ramadevi is moaning, a pleasant medley of enjoyment and pain.
"Rama." I begin drawing my finger slowly back and forth, fucking her gently. Her body responds, tightening on me, almost sucking my finger back in as I gently draw it out, then press back inside her.
"Everything you are is mine, Rama. Everything. Say the words now. Don't make me spank you again."
"I am-I am your Lion," she whispers hoarsely. Her tears are dampening my shirt-front. Tears from her most intimate core are dripping onto her smooth pretty thighs.
"Louder," I insist, keeping my own voice soft.
"I am your Lion." Her hips ride the rhythm of my thrusting finger behind her. My free hand cups one breast, stroking the erect nipple.
"I want you to say 'I am Angelus's little Lion,'" Do it! Admit you are my pet, my toy. Do it so that I can believe it myself.
A sob-delicious humiliation-breaks from her. She is so miserable! I smile down at her suffering confusion, lower my face to hers. I want to drink her tears.
"Rama, my Lion, be good." I rotate the finger inside her and she cries out.
"I-I-"
I thrust harder, almost a stabbing movement and she cries out louder, more despairing.
"I am Angelus's little Lion." She takes a deep, trembling breath. "I am- Angelus's -"
Oh yes! Yes! I kiss her hard, passionately, drinking in her sweet breath, slipping my finger out of her stressed opening.
Are you groaning in relief or frustration? Sometimes it's hard to tell.
Anyhow, it doesn't matter. It was never my intention to take her to completion tonight. I won't take her, here, like this. Not when I've driven her to this point and made her want me.
I lift Ramadevi bodily from the desk and settle her in my lap, cuddling her all over. I give her gentle, lover-like kisses, stroke her mussed hair. She is trembling, exhausted, frightened of what I've forced her to feel, frightened of herself for feeling it.
I take her upstairs to her own bed, wrapped in the ripped remnants of her ballgown. She clings to my neck as I tuck her into her muslin and eiderdown bed-covers, settle her into thickly soft downy pillows.
Only the very best for my little girl.
I would tell you a bedtime story but none of them are very nice. They always end badly.
She doesn't want me to leave her. I sense it, as surely as she senses I don't want to leave her. I kiss her, a purely chaste brush of my lip on her smooth forehead. I touch her forehead with mine, our hair mingles. Ramadevi closes her eyes, her long sooty eyelashes caress my cheek. I close my own eyes to savour that delicate caress.
I want to be inside you. ..Almost as much as I want you to want me, invite me, welcome me inside you... Without force, cajolery, or cruelty.
Until then, I'll wait.
I twine one of her soft ringlets in my fingers, then settle it on her pillow, before I let myself out, closing her bedroom door softly.
Downstairs, my guests welcome me back. How funny. I wasn't even gone for an hour. This soiree seemed ages long before that.
Charles flashes a knowing grin. Ligeia meets my eyes, she looks troubled. My most jaded and sophisticated human guests don't bat an eye when I make Ramadevi's excuses, she has 'gone up to bed, has a bad headache.'
I can almost hear their debauched reasoning that, after all, she is so young and beautiful: who wouldn't take advantage of my position? Mon Dieu! If they felt the burning ache in my crotch right now, they wouldn't be so amusedly envious.
Ligeia and Melisande are the only ladies present who genuinely care about Ramadevi's 'headache.' Being beautiful, exotic, and fascinating does not win a woman many friends in Paris.
Paul Charrier is terribly disappointed. He dances the next waltz with some Creole heiress from Martinique.
I'm no longer worried about my conference with Paul at the night's end. I know what he wants to ask me. The bull-calf wants to marry her. I am ready to answer him fairly. Even honestly.
**************************************************************
"It is most kind that you agree to see me, Monsieur."
I hate these elaborate formalities! Will he just say what he wants so that I can answer him?
Some part of me is still conscious of Rama-something in her blood that ties us. She sleeps fitfully, fretting. She dreams of her past-memories of her old life-where she is being stalked by some awful inhuman monster. I should go lie down with her, hold her in my arms, and make the bad dreams go away.
Instead, I listen to Paul blather on about what a wonderful orchestra I'd engaged for the evening, how the cook's menu was vastly superior to his mother's last party, how liberal and sporting I am to permit waltzing.
"-and Mademoiselle Rama was every inch an enchantress tonight."
"She would be pleased to know you thought so," I reply gravely. This fool would never guess that my polite smile stems from my imagined scenario of flaying him alive.
"She is a rare flower, Monsieur. It is too bad, being of her background, that she is ineligible to marry well in any kind of decent society." Paul leans forward in his seat. "My family has long had your acquaintance, and I feel our intimacy liberates me to speak freely..."
At last, Paul has my attention. As always, he is too stupid to realise he shouldn't want my attention.
No, he would not marry Mademoiselle. Though she is blessed with beauty, charm, and substantial wealth (I've lived too long to leave anything to chance. Old Charrier must have told this baggage of the extensive properties and funds I've set up in Rama's name.) She is still a foreigner, of questionable parentage, unknown in France, a nobody really. Also, his mother's Christian sensibilities would be offended if her only son married an Eastern heathen.
I laugh softly, my old accent fingering my words, always a bad sign.
"That lady is miles above you, my lad. In her own country, she is reverenced as a divinity."
Paul laughed, the harsh careless laughter of a Parisian who thinks he knows all, and that what he wants is his for the asking.
"Beauty such as hers should always be reverenced as divine."
It is not her beauty, you insufferable ass! She is a goddess! Her ancestors have been served by millions of generations who believe!
"What is it that you want, Paul?"
Paul explained that he wished to take Ramadevi out of my protection and place her in a house of her own. He would employ proper servants to look after her and he would visit her often. She would have every care and luxury she was accustomed to. He would make proper provisions to make sure that any children of the union were properly raised and educated. I need never worry that Rama would ever be treated with anything but genuine affection and respect.
Paul has astonished me. How did this puppy ever find the gall to ask me to sign away Rama's rights and properties-not to mention her person-to his care? To be his mistress?
I suppose he deserves some credit. I just don't feel like giving it to him.
I feel like smashing his uptight bourgeois face in.
The first blow actually glances off his nose and fractures his cheekbone. I hear it snap.
Paul's eyes bug out in shock. He must have thought his offer to take Rama off my hands was a very generous one. It probably is, but it doesn't matter.
I pull him up by gripping his overly pomaded filthy-dishwater blond hair and knock his head against the side of my desk.
Does the imbecile even see that his nose is bleeding on Rama's pretty white pantalets? How can he not be aware of her, the scent of her wonderful sex permeates the entire study! I shove his head into the desk again, disgusted by his stupidity. The solid oak joints of my ornate desk groan at the force of the blow.
He's a stupid, weak, asinine human!
Would Rama prefer to be his mistress, be a concubine to this pudding head, rather than be my Lion? My Goddess, My Beautiful One, My Mother Who Gives...
Paul can't hear me anymore. That last knock must've busted his eardrums. He is ghastly pale, his limbs gone cold with shock. He almost looks like a vampire.
I've done a messy job of Paul Charrier. He's too insensible and numb at this point to torture, I might as well kick a dead dog. For torture, it is too short and painless. For killing, it is too long and ugly. And messy. I'll have to take care of him, clean things up.
Dealing with his carcass will keep me from Rama's bed an extra hour or more. That makes me angry. Again. I kick his torso, hard enough to shatter his ribs.
Now his body is contorting and writhing about like a beached fish. He is spitting up blood on my Turkish carpet! Roughly, I yank his head up by the back of his hair, shove his face into a wastepaper basket.
"You must understand, Paul," I try to explain, "This is not personal. Well, actually, it is very personal. I don't like to share my toys."
There is a thick, obnoxious stench, Paul’s dying body is relieving itself. I'm going to need a new carpet anyway.
As for Ramadevi...she is a goddess, an immortal. Like me. Part of me.
I can't hate her any more than I can hate myself.
I hate what I feel about her, but I could never hate her for it...She is my little Lion.
**************************************************
~Several days later...~
Ramadevi is gorgeous in her severely simple black suit. It's very well-cut, I hope I paid the dressmaker what she deserved. The broadcloth has a fine sheen to it, and the jacket fits nicely over her breasts.
Melisande is quite heartbroken, poor little dumpling, and she looks like hell next to Rama. Crying off and on has made her face more blotchy. Mourning black doesn't suit her complexion at all. Rama remains very close to her, keeps an arm around her, quietly supportive throughout Paul's funeral.
I'm really very proud of Rama. She's growing into a remarkable woman. She is all warmth and compassion with the entire Charrier family. Madame stands poker-stiff beside her husband, the haughtiness and contempt for Ramadevi stripped away like leaves from a supple willow switch. Both Charrier and Madame look twenty years older than they did at my party last week.
Of course, I cannot leave the coach, to attend the funeral in broad daylight, but I remain quiet, showing Paul all the respect his memory deserves. I can hear various people talking to each other, expressions of comfort and sympathy.
"Who could've done this, Ramey?" Melisande's childish treble thrills me. Such a sensitive darling, of the whole family, her grief is the most genuine.
"I don't know, Melly. I don't understand why anyone would do this to Paul." Is there guilt mixed in Rama's sorrow? Does she know? She's never asked me, and I've never offered the truth to her.
"Paul was not-he didn't-go to-places like where they found him!" Melisande insisted.
"Sweetheart. The inspector said the criminals might have simply dropped him there, the patrons of the house said they did not know him."
I wonder if I should end business ties with Charrier. Many others are doing so. His dead son was found in such bizarre circumstances outside a cheap sporting house of extremely perverse tastes. Little boys and exotic animals and the like. I could actually ruin the entire family if I set my mind to it. Charrier looks like he might commit suicide anyway, I could seduce and kill that silly little dumpling, and torture the old hag just as I thought of doing at my soiree last week.
The thought makes me smile.
Best of all, is Rama's own reaction. She was sorry to hear of Paul's scandalous murder and discovery. But she is not heartbroken, she mourns him as she would any friend of hers.
It is time for the burial. Slowly, the mourners depart. I am impatient for Rama to come to me, I want to take her home and feed her. She needs a nice bath for comfort, warmth.
Marcel hands her into the coach. When the door is properly shut I watch her settle her skirts carefully around her as she sits beside me. In another moment, Marcel calls the horses and we drive out of the cemetery.
"Thank you."
I am surprised to hear her say that and it must show on my face.
"You've been very kind to the Charriers, allowing me to visit and spend time with Melly. I know you don't really like it. I'm-grateful."
"Come here, my Lion, I think you are tired." I am fighting the urge to laugh out loud and tell her everything.
I draw her gently to my lap and she snuggles down upon me like a trusting child. Yes, you can trust me, my precious, you are safe. The monster won't get you. Not like he got Paul anyhow. Let me take off your bonnet, lean your head on my shoulder. Your heartbeat feels so wonderful to my corpse-body. Ah, you are tired, I knew it! You're worried about the dumpling, don't worry too much, my sweetling, or I will kill her to rid you of that worry. Sleep now, here's a kiss for that pretty forehead.
Soon, my precious, soon, I know you'll let me in.