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The Ruined Abbe	By : pip Category: M through R > Quills Views: 2537 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Quills, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Author’s Note:
I’ve been looking forward to this part of the story for some time, or have I? At times I’ve considered abandoning it, and doubted if I have the courage to write it. I know I don’t have the skill. Only time will tell if I manage to do the vision any justice at all.
As I refer to this part of it in my mind as ‘the business end’ it seems I now (mostly) leave the muses of the Quills film behind, and let myself be influenced by the Marquis de Sade himself. I’ve been very busy reading. While some of Sade’s work is not as depraved as you might think (especially in these enlightened times), the ‘120 Days of Sodom’ is certainly not for the faint of heart.
The following chapters will describe the dreams I imagine Coulmier is having. I’ve deliberately started with a rather tame one, though I have a feeling that somewhere down the line, this story will force me to write at least one of my own personal squicks (I don’t have many).
So, the question I’ve been asking myself, the one that you may well be asking, and the question I often wonder if Sade asked himself is this: if it’s so unpalatable, why write it down? And if you have to write it, why post it?
Because these things exist in us, the potential for them in all of us, regardless of if you know of it, or care to admit it. Because the furthest extremes of our lust also make humanity capable of the worst of crimes. Ignorance is a misplaced indulgence. We should know ourselves.
This isn’t beta read. I mean, who would?
Comments always welcome.
I will warn separately for each chapter, as follows:
Chapter Warnings (that I can think of): Slash, Anal sex, blasphemy, D/s, M/s, s&m, nightmare, night terror, dubious consent.

Chapter Eleven
It was dark when he awoke, and the crushing sense of grief and loss was already waiting for him. Not just grief for the Marquis and Madeleine, but also for himself, for his own life and beliefs. How had he managed to lose so much in what was, really, such a short space of time? He reached out to fumble awkwardly for the candle, and so he didn’t notice the visitor who was sat watching, waiting for him to wake up.
When his shaking fingers eventually managed to kindle a flame, the shadows in the room danced, making everything around him seem illusory and insubstantial. Everything, that is, apart from the man sitting by the side of his bed.
With a frightened gasp, he pulled the blankets up to his chin, and drew his legs up to cower in the corner of the bed, against the wall, as far from the apparition as possible. At first, he was difficult to recognise, given that he was resplendent in fine clothing and a powdered wig, but then Coulmier knew that face, knew very well the feeling of being subject to the Marquis’ attention, as he was now.
Sade sat there, saying nothing, in all of his finery, and for Coulmier, being forced to confront the fact that Sade really was nobility added a new dimension to his personal power.
“B-but you’re dead!” he accused at last, unable to stop his voice from quavering, wishing simultaneously for more light, and less of it. The shadows thrown by the one candle played on Sade’s face, so that every now and again, the insolent smirk was transformed into a malevolent and cruel glare. Coulmier couldn’t be sure which one was the true manner of Sade’s regard, but he knew which one he deserved.
“Am I indeed?” The voice was mocking, and still he couldn’t tell the temper of his guest. Sade stretched out his hands as if to study his fingernails. “I must say, despite that I feel perfectly well.”
Coulmier swallowed, his throat dry so that it clicked loud in the expectant hush. His hands gathered more of the blanket as though it could save him, and instead of staring at Sade, his eye was caught by the monstrous shadow cast on the opposite wall where his visitor was a giant. “Are you a…? I mean, do you haunt me?”
Suddenly, Sade leaned forward, capturing the Abbé’s full attention, his face coming properly into the light and then past it, so that he loomed over Coulmier, who uttered a frightened cry and pushed back with his legs as if the wall might sense his desperation and allow him to escape. It didn’t.
With his eyes closed, he murmured in terror. “It must be a dream, just a dream, and I can wake up. I must wake up. This isn’t real. He isn’t here. This is all me.”
“I don’t believe in those things.” Sade sounded so close that Coulmier stilled like a frightened mouse, even the unconscious trembling stopped. “Ghosts.” When nothing else happened he opened his eyes, to find Sade studying him thoughtfully. The bed dipped as the Marquis moved from the chair to dominate him, his knees on the bed, his palms slapping the wall at either side of Coulmier’s head to trap him there.
“But you do,” he said, while he watched Coulmier’s reactions, “so by all means, let’s get on with it.” He paused. “Abbé.”
One of Sade’s hands moved to grasp the blanket he still clutched for protection, brushing his fingers deliberately and the Marquis’ touch was so wonderfully warm that Coulmier almost sobbed, but in his fear it came out as an undignified hiccup. He’d been so afraid Sade would be cold like Madeleine.
“Let it go,” Sade advised, and Coulmier obeyed instantly, releasing his grip on the blanket so that it could be whisked away, landing somewhere on the floor.
Someone was whispering, the same thing over and over, and it was a few seconds before he realised the noise came from him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” All the while the Marquis studied him, and he raised his arms obediently when Sade lifted his nightshirt to remove it, and his heartfelt and terrified murmured apologies didn’t stop, they only became more urgent.
Sade raised himself up on his knees where they were at either side of Coulmier pressing the front of his breeches to the Abbé’s face suggestively. One by one, he undid the buttons, making a show of it while Coulmier continued to whisper fervently, as if in prayer.
At last, his rod sprang free through his clothing, hitting the side of Coulmier’s mouth. It was heavy, blunt and hot. “I’m going to keep you quiet for a while,” said Sade, and used a hand to direct his erection to Coulmier’s lips, pressing him to accept it. “Open up!”
Coulmier obliged without meaning to, and belatedly tried to take a breath as Sade pushed inside his mouth, the effect of that being a vacuum that made Sade groan happily. “Good, good,” he said, his voice deep and taunting with the praise. “If I feel your teeth at any point, I’ll knock them out,” he said pleasantly, and in response Coulmier opened his mouth wider, until his jaw protested. His eyes bulged as Sade filled his mouth, skidded heavily against his tongue so that he could feel all the veins and ridges on the underside of his prick.
Sade’s other hand pulled his head forward, but there was no room left. The Marquis’ erection was at the back of his throat, and still he pressed. Coulmier suddenly struggled, understanding what was about to happen, but he couldn’t stop it, and his throat opened to scream, allowing Sade to invade it.
These few seconds were the longest of his life, because he really was choking. Sade moved slightly back and forth, going so deep at one point that Coulmier could feel the man’s balls at his chin, the wiry hair catching on his stubble. Again and again his body tried to expel Sade, and when it couldn’t do that it made him swallow, the effect of which was a kind of stuttering of the muscles in his throat. The hand on the back of his head clenched, pulling his hair painfully and his eyes watered.
When he was sure he would die like this, Sade pulled away and out, and after a first breath, Coulmier coughed and gagged, frightened he would be sick since the coughing made his stomach heave, though it had been such a long time since he had an appetite for food, after a couple of minutes it stopped, leaving his throat raw and burning.
“You need practice to become proficient enough,” Sade said, unsatisfied, and Coulmier shook his head, his eyes wide at the implication. “For now I need to put this somewhere,” he said then, and playfully swiped his prick against Coulmier’s lips. “Lie down for me.” Coulmier hesitated. “Unless you want to practice again now.”
The threat made Coulmier compliant, and he scrambled to lie face down on the bed, even going so far as spreading his legs, trying to relax his body though he knew from experience the pain would be terrible.
Across the room, now undressed from the waist down, Sade searched among his things, knocking papers and pots out of the way inconsiderately so they landed on the floor. A vase smashed, a pot full of ink spilled like royal blood on the flagstones, and then he found what he was looking for. Coulmier often ate in here alone, and he kept a rudimentary stash of condiments, among them olive oil, which the Marquis used now on himself.
There were no kisses or fingers drizzled with oil now, not with this coupling. It was much like their first, oil or no, and while he had thought he remembered the pain, he didn’t really. That kind of pain didn’t survive in one’s thoughts. He screamed when he felt Sade’s prick opening him up, filling him, and his screams seemed only to spur the Marquis on. He felt the movements become more violent and brutal in response, and above it all, Sade insisted on telling him how good it felt.
The force of it moved him on the bed, so that he found himself with his hands against the wall, pushing back to meet the Marquis rather than hit his head on the stone.
After much too long, he reached the same place of reluctant acceptance as he had that first time, relaxing his body so that the pain wasn’t so harsh, so cruel, so punishing. His screams stopped too, and he lay quiet, submissive as Sade moved in and out of his body, using him for relief, or pleasure, or both.
Then Sade halted, buried deep in him, and leaned over, his warm breath tickling Coulmier’s ear in a way that made him turn his head to escape it. Why did you stop? He wanted to ask. He felt somehow disappointed, since he was beginning to feel that wonderful sinful pressure inside him that made his senses sing. It was there despite the pain, and he wanted it.
Sade turned his head slightly so that his eyes fell on the representation of Christ’s crucifixion that stood on his desk at the other side of the room. “Do you see what you forsake?”
“Yes.” He winced at the pain in his throat, and then sobbed, because for that last long moment he had forgotten. There weren’t adequate words in any language to express his despair at the loss of sanctity their dalliance meant. This faith he had kept and nurtured over his whole life, destroyed, no longer would there be any sanctuary for him from the evils of the world. These things hurt, but not as much as the sense of his own betrayal, for despite everything, the Abbé de Coulmier still loved his God. Some things were not so easily confiscated, and he could no more change that love than he could change the tenor of his soul.
“Ask me for it, ask me to fuck you,” Sade whispered.
Inside his chest, his heart lurched at what de Sade expected him to do. “No.”
As if in response, Sade moved once, out, then in again, so violent and deep that Coulmier heard and felt the slap of Sade’s balls against his arse cheeks. Against his will he cried out. “Beg me for it, or I will bring your old friend over to play with us.”
Coulmier shivered and made a sound of utter anguish. Sade sighed in response, and ruffled the hair on the back of his head, as if he had said something beautiful. “Please, don’t…” Even as he said it, he knew he may as well have invited the atrocity. Wasn’t this vengeance, after all?
“Beg,” Sade said again, merciless, and Coulmier knew it was the last time he’d give the instruction.
The suggestion was worse than the act itself. Sodomy was forbidden, so what did that make this? And yet, if he didn’t, there was no doubt in his mind Sade would make good on his threat. Coulmier moistened his lips, as always a conspirator in his own downfall. His heart must be lazy, since it kept missing beats, and yet the fear was not the same now. It was somehow tempting to play to it. The graver the danger to his body and soul, the more it tempted. And anyway, wasn’t he damned already?
“Please,” he said, wishing he could beg for a hint of the Marquis’ former kindness instead. Again his heart stuttered, even if his voice didn’t. His body tensed slightly, and he felt Sade there, inside him, deep, possessing. He watched the statue of Christ, wanting to keep it there where it was, far away from them, away from this: safe. “Fuck me.”
“Use me,” Sade said, expecting him to repeat it, and he did. After that he said so many terrible things in the intimate candlelight, all at the Marquis’ instruction. Things that he was sure could only originate in Sade’s mind, so that his belief in the nightmare faded, and his belief in a haunting was uncontested.
Fuck me, use me, hurt me – they were the less humiliating ones. Make me cry, break me in, torture me – those were the things he would refuse to remember later. And all the time, Sade taunted, teased and terrified him with horrific fantasies, each less wholesome than the one before, until Coulmier was sure he would go insane.
At one point, he even referred to Coulmier as a slave, and made himself into the Master – forced Coulmier to call him that again and again, and that seemed to amuse him most of all.
When at last Sade had spilled inside him, he thought it was over, and he shuddered, his throat sore and his body bruised. Nothing was comfortable. The Marquis pulled out of him quickly, leaving him feeling curiously empty, and then turned him over onto his back.
“Good,” the Marquis said, smiling, peering down at Coulmier in a maddening, satisfied way. “I might decide to touch you.” Coulmer stayed obstinately silent now, even though he wanted to be touched, wanted it so much that the words to make it happen were on the edge of his mind, pleading with him to speak them. “What say you, Abbé?” He waited.
“Nothing? Very well then, there is only one kind of release you deserve.” Coulmier was too tired to be afraid of anything now, his emotions and terror worn out from overuse. But he wasn’t too tired to gasp when Sade moved down his body, and he felt warm breath on his prick, the lightest of kisses was enough to make him hard, and he remained still, not daring to breathe. He dared to imagine what it would feel like, even as Sade moved back up, dragging the back of one hand over his erection so that it jerked and then lay useless against his belly.
He moaned, and Sade pinched one of his nipples. “Remember this?” he asked pleasantly, and Coulmier did remember. He lowered his own hand to pleasure himself, but Sade grabbed it and tutted. “No. This is what you may have, and this only,” he said, and twisted the nipple painfully, making Coulmier arch up and into the touch, everything forgotten but that pain.
He found himself staring into Sade’s eyes as it continued, the agony very blunt and very cold. The sound of his own breathing filled the silence between them, and it sounded so much like pleasure that he couldn’t tell the difference. The Marquis rolled that one nipple in his fingers, and Coulmier was sure he must scream, but instead he moaned quietly, the eloquent echo of it tapering out, his eyes rolling back so he lost the eye contact at the exact point of surrender to it.
Then, Sade simply stopped, and the pain changed to a fiery sharpness. He writhed as Sade held him down and still, blowing on that nipple lightly as if to fan the flame of it. Again he surrendered to the pain, and must have lost consciousness for a brief moment, because when he came to it was much less sharp. Then Sade kissed him there on that one nipple and he whimpered. Just a hint of a flickering tongue and he was gone again, only this time when he came to, Sade was nowhere to be seen.
This time when he awoke he shivered for a different reason. It was cold, and dark. He was dripping with sweat and had been for some time, since his pillow was saturated and so was the part of the bed he rested on.
His nightshirt was twisted around him in such a way that it was tight as a band around his chest, one of the buttons resting painfully against his nipple, and his blankets were in complete disarray. Coulmier drew in a deep breath as he relaxed. And then another. When his eye began to make out shapes in the gloom, he saw the items on his table were undisturbed. Everything was as it should be, as it was when he had lain down to rest.
Everything was as he expected it to be, except one. As he rolled over to ease the pressure of the nightshirt, his erection rested heavily against his inner thigh, demanding his attention. Coulmier groaned, but he lowered his hand to take care of it regardless, feeling abused all the same. He was so sure it had been a nightmare, not one of those dreams.
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The Ruined Abbe