Stripped

Stripped


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Beginning Notes:

This was a response to a challenge posted at a writing community of which I\'m a member. It\'s an improv, written under time pressure, but this version is an edited one, with passages added to the ficlet.

Again, please be warned of implied NCS here.

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Auguste ignored the boys who swept past him as he walked along the leaf-strewn path. In spite of the noise caused by excited, youthful voices raised in relief, celebrating the end of another academic day, the man found it rather easy to block everything from his mind as well as his senses. He had a purpose, after all—and his mind had been bent on it all day. In fact, he’d arrived at the academy well before his expected appearance, firmly urging the caretaker to keep his mouth shut while he proceeded to take care of business.

“I’ll simply show up when the time comes,” he declared, and the old man, awed by his presence, could only bow wordlessly in meek obedience before being dismissed with a sharp wave of a hand.

He knew where the chapel was—knew its schedule by heart. And he was confident that no one would be present there save for the person with whom he needed to conduct business that afternoon. The chapel, technically, was closed from further activity after three p.m., but one of the privileges of being a class leader was having the authority to be allowed inside the holy sanctuary at any time of the day.

Auguste smiled vaguely, one corner of his mouth curling at the idea.

The privilege of being one of the academy’s chief benefactors was also being granted access to the chapel at any time he so wished.

It was now a little past four p.m. The students had already gone back to their respective dormitories to rest and wait for dinner, with a handful loitering around still, foolishly braving the chill winds as they lingered in the shadows of the balding trees. Auguste’s tall figure wove its way through the autumn scene, his coat flapping jauntily in the winds, his top hat held down by a gloved hand.

The chapel finally appeared between the trees.

It was modeled, by and large, from some of the gothic cathedrals that one could only see scattered around France. It was a miniature version of sorts, its size considerably reduced yet its contents echoing its models almost to the last detail—one thing for which Auguste was quite pleased. The ambulatory, after all, while at first was considered to be nothing more than a frivolous add-on to boost the chapel’s self-importance, now held a more promising purpose to the aristocratic poet.

He walked up the low steps to the front door, pulling out his key from his pocket as he went.

The chapel’s interior wasn’t that much warmer, he soon discovered as he stepped quietly inside. The structure was much too high and broad and lofty to promise any heat retention from the final mass that would have been served just recently. But the academy, being caught up with its pretenses, had insisted on something that would bring the visions and the ideals that shaped the Notre Dame cathedral into their humbler h ofh of land.

At least, Auguste thought with a derisive snort, the damned thing was keeping the wind out.

He took a deep, refreshing breath as he gazed around the area, his eyes keenly piercing the gathering gloom, his ears sharpened for the slightest hint of another’s presence. He walked toward the altar quietly and slowly—almost predatorily in the way he seemed to stalk the area.

About three-quarters of the way, he finally picked up the faint sounds of movementind ind the altar—not surprisingly in the direction of one of the tiny chapels that constituted the ambulatory. He smiled and continued forward without once altering his pace, moving with his characteristically measured steps until he was finally swallowed up by the murky areas that cloaked the apse.

Auguste walked past the altar and soon found himself standing at the opening of one of the tiny side chapels, staring coolly at the figure that knelt before an antique portrait of the Virgin. The boy never even bothered to light a candle, opting to pray in the dark.

How droll, the man thought with a knowing smile as he leaned idly against the doorway, crossing his arms on his chest as he regarded the young devotee.

As expected, he was there. Predictable in his virtue as Gilbert had noted.

Carl Mise, he reminded himself. Gilbert had long pointed him out to his guardian as the one responsible for his current sleeping arrangements. The class president and the class brain—and, judging from the pious fervency of his praying, the class saint. Auguste’s gaze roamed over the unsuspecting boy’s form, taking in the details regardless of the dimness that was gently blanketing him.

The slender, youthful figure encased in that dull uniform—the short, dark hair fixed almost severely in place, every strand seemingly pasted in its designated spot—the pale, slender hands gently, lovingly entangling themselves with the rosary they held. The viewer smirked. Even before Auguste arrived to be with the boy, he’d already grown quite familiar with Carl’s person.

All the way to Arles, after all, he’d sat back comfortably in his carriage, gazing blankly out the window as his mind carefully went over that afternoon’s—planned transaction. He was several miles away from Laconblade Academy, and he was already familiar with the way Carl’s hair felt between his fingers—the way the short, dark strands fell away from his touch like soft silk. He’d already known every plane and every curve and dip that defined the boy’s body, his hands wandering languidly over skin that they were baring inch by inch, his fingers lazily undoing buttons wherever they ventured. He’d already familiarized himself with the boy’s fragrance—of soap and the musk of a day’s academic exertions ming tan tantalizingly on flesh. In his carriage, he’d already had his way with Carl—holding the boy tightly against himself, secured with an arm around his naked waist while his uniform hung uselessly from his body, with a couple of articles of clothing lying crumpled nearby.

Carl would be arching helplessly against his chest, his head thrown back and pressing against Auguste’s shoulder, his eyes pinched tightly shut, his groans muffled by Auguste’s mouth firmly pressed against his, forced open by the older marelerelentless demands. His cheeks would be flushed deeply, his hands clinging desperately to the arm that held him in place, his hips working to relieve the maddening ache that was gnawing at his groin while Auguste stroked, fondled, and squeezed his length, alternately coaxing and forcing it to completion.

The man would remain controlled through all this—oh, yes, he knew how to keep himself from succumbing so easily to the helpless state to which he’d be reducing the fevered, convulsing body in his arms. Nothing was sweeter to him than to demonstrate an easy triumph of his will over his senses—and especially during a moment of establishing complete mastery over another’s mind and body.

Auguste couldn’t help but draw a deep, shaky breath at the thought of breaking down Carl’s defenses—ripping off those layers of hypocritical chastity and exposing the real boy within—one who, by nature, wasn’t any different from his own protégée and therefore prone to deeply sensual needs that required attention.

The abnormal repression of true youthful senses was an abomination of the spirit, Auguste had always said, and Carl was certainly hurtling fast into stagnation and mediocrity with his prayers and near-fanatical adherence to church doctrine.

And perhaps what was worse was that this poor, misguided boy was exerting his unwanted influence over Gilbert by forcing him to co-exist with another misguided, wide-eyed innocent—a roommate who posed too great a danger to Gilbert’s development with his damned purity. Already, in recent visits, Auguste was beginning to glimpse vague hints of spiritual and artistic stunting in his ward, and he knew that it was that Battouille boy who was responsible for it.

Gilbert seemed a tiny bit distracted in his company, and there was the faintest air of reluctance in his manner that the older man was quick in sensing. A shadow of doubt briefly clouded his eyes during conversations and even during moments of intimacy between them. Auguste once was forced to harness his anger when the boy seemed to shrink from his touch as they lay in bed, his frustration and amazement giving vent to a near rape that left him stunned and utterly drained from his exertions. Nothing was what it used to be, and he could only trace it all back to the boy’s current living arrangements.

Auguste gazed at Carl, who remained oblivious to his presence, his mind much too immersed in his prayers. He watched the boy while his mind fixed itself on its resolution. Gilbert’s roommate would have his time soon enough. For now, Auguste needed to remove this current impediment—this current threat—and by all means the catalyst for his protégée’s unexpected downward spiral.

Carl needed to be made human. He needed to shed that insidious seraphic cloak he’d put on, whether by accident or by nature dictated. His purity—his damned purity—was an irritating obstruction to goals that he wouldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Slowly unbuttoning his coat, Auguste stepped forward, his gaze still fixed on Carl, his mouth opening to murmur the Salve Regina in time with the boy’s quiet chanting.

“Salve Regina,” he half-whispered, breaking Carl’s concentration and making the boy flinch. “Mater misericordiae. Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae.”

Here Carl glanced over his shoulder, wide-eyed and startled—an angel cornered, the violator noted dryly. Auguste regarded him with icy steadiness and continued his prayers, his voice low and lightly echoing in the small chamber, the words reverberating throughout in solemn mockery of the otherwise earnest and profound meditation in which the trapped boy was just then engaged.

“Ad te Suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle. Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte…”

Carl flushed and then paled, dropping his rosary as he tried to stumble to his feet. The cramped size of the side chapel didn’t allow him sufficient purchase, and he shrank away from the advancing figure, seeking refuge, it seemed, in the gloom that continued to gather and thicken around them, stammering his protests.

“Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobix post hoc exsilium ostende.” Auguste smiled faintly. “O Clemens, o pia, o dulcis Virgo Maria.”

Auguste’s coat dropped to the floor, immediately followed by his waistcoat and top hat and gloves. And he melted into the shadows before the faded Virgin, his arms reaching out for the seraph who was falling fast from heaven.

**********

He poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back against the comfortable armchair, surrendering himself to the warmth and the softness of the patterned cushion. He was exhausted beyond words, and, crossing his legs lazily and shifting around to accommodate his dully aching groin, he sought the spirit-enhancing effects of a good drink.

His gaze momentarily skimmed over his hands and the red scratches that now graced them. And it seemed as though being reminded of their presence also alerted him to the other injuries inflicted on him by his earlier captive, and he felt his cheek throb a little from the scratches that ripped through the skin just under his right eye. He shrugged them off rather easily; they’d be healed and gone in a few days, and questions posed by meddling types were always not much trouble to dismiss with an affectedly careless excuse.

He took a genteel sip and closed his eyes, leaning his head back and running a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. Nothing but silence filled his senses as he calmed himself with his wine till the door presently opened, and Gilbert stepped in.

Auguste glanced at the pale boy who lingered by the door, hesitating, almost—but this shouldn’t worry him too much now, he reminded himself. Gilbert might be experiencing an unexpected lapse for the time being, but he’d bounce back. Of that Auguste was certain.

Carl no longer posed much of a threat.

It would be that Battouille boy’s turn next.

The man gazed at his protégée with condescending affection, and he stretched an arm out and beckoned to him.

“Come,” he ordered quietly. “There’s no need to hover there like a shadow.”

Gilbert nodded and shut the door behind him. He approached his guardian, a small, relaxed smile now softening his features, his figure swaying in its usual languid, suggestive way with every step made. Auguste inclined his head slightly in approbation, his eyes fixed steadily on the advancing boy.

“How have you been behaving lately?”

“Like an angel,” Gilbert replied archly as he stood before his guardian, clasping his hands demurely behind him and dropping his gaze a little, and Auguste nodded.

“We’ll have to do something about that,” he observed before offering his wine to the boy.

(end)