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The Ruined Abbe	By : pip Category: M through R > Quills Views: 2536 -:- 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
- 14
- 15
- 16
Author’s Note: I had to split this next scene into two chapters because it’s turning out so long. Probably not my finest hour, but I hope you enjoy it. If you read, please consider leaving a comment to feed my muses. Thank you.
Warning for this chapter: Toys.

Chapter Fifteen
Maybe he only blinked, but he was back in the dream again. Still sprawled in his seat, it might have tricked him, except that the candlelight was back. He heard Sade breathing quietly, coming up close behind his chair. Strong hands curled into fists in the back of the nightshirt he had slipped on, and then pulled apart, tearing the fabric.
Coulmier tensed but didn’t dare to move, not sure what to expect, and was surprised when the Marquis began massaging his shoulders. It occurred to him that the pain of the previous whipping had disappeared entirely. If the Marquis wished, he could do all of that again. Some dreams were repetitive, why not these? But for now, instead of pain, it was all pleasure: warm fingers, hot palms, kneading, pressing. After a long minute, perhaps two, he felt his muscles move beneath the Marquis’ touch, becoming supple, and while his body felt more relaxed his mind was on edge. Surely the Marquis had seen what he’d done, the things he’d removed from the cell? What would he do?
“I have a headache,” he warned, his voice muffled against his arm, unsure why he said it aloud, wondering why he thought Sade would care. As if the Marquis would bother with such trifling pains. Alert in case the hands should harm him, he breathed again in sheer delight when they moved to the back of his neck, knuckles easing the knots of tension there.
“Yes, well,” Sade said, his voice low and somewhat pleasant. “You are much too thirsty.” Coulmier made a noise of relaxed agreement in his throat. “A drink?”
After his waking experiences, Coulmier felt a wave of nausea at the suggestion, and it woke him up a bit. “I’ll take no more wine.”
“Not wine?” Sade queried, a trace of dark amusement in his voice that Coulmier didn’t understand. “Really? Well, I’ll… see what I can do.”
There was nothing in his cell apart from the wine. He knew that. “You can’t do anything,” Coulmier said, resigned to it. Sade’s hands slipped down to his biceps and pulled him into a proper sitting position, the muscles bulging slightly as the Marquis squeezed his upper arms, bending in close to murmur in his ear.
“Oh, we both know that’s not true.” It was threat, and suggestion, and temptation all at once, and while his stomach flipped lazily, Coulmier stared straight ahead at the door on the opposite wall, drawing in a deep breath. As with the wine, he was resigned to these encounters, but that didn’t mean he had to welcome them.
When he made no reply, Sade stood up straight and backed away. Coulmier didn’t look around. “You know what I expect,” Sade said. Did he? With a frown, Coulmier looked down at his ruined nightshirt. Torn, it sagged beneath his shoulders and barely managed to keep from falling to his waist. He stood up slowly, still keeping his gaze on the door, the chair scraping on the stone flags.
If he didn’t welcome these intimacies, then what was he inviting with this? The contradiction was not lost on Coulmier, but he removed the ripped nightshirt anyway, closing his eyes to ignore it when he heard the Marquis mutter something to himself. Better this than more violence between them. Sade moved the chair as he pulled the remnants of the garment from his arms, and he put it carefully aside. It lay on the discarded chair, lounging there, and something about that disturbed him, though he couldn’t say what.
Before he could examine the feeling, Sade pressed against his back, and Coulmier jumped at the sensation of hot skin against his, because he’d assumed the Marquis was dressed in all of the pomp again, but he wasn’t, he was naked. Now he wanted to turn around and look, now when it was too late. On the heels of that thought, he recognised his sin, his lips moving as he silently apologised for it.
“And?” Sade said, expectant. Coulmier glanced down at the table in confusion. It pushed against his upper thighs, while Sade pressed him from behind. It was all so similar, the sense of dread and excitement somehow completely irresistible. He leaned over the table, bending at the hips. It was a small table, and the other side of it only came to his shoulders. He gripped the far edge with his hands, his elbows jutting out away from his body, and held his head up as far as he could.
“Well, I must say you’re becoming quite the obedient little plaything, Abbé.”
“Don’t,” he said, swallowing and closing his eyes in shame and regret even as his body responded to the Marquis’ proximity. Nervous because he didn’t know what Sade would do. “Don’t make it worse than it is.”
“Which part bothers you most?” Sade questioned thoughtfully. “Being obedient, or being my plaything?” He laughed, while Coulmier shook his head, his body trembling against his will. His hands gripped tighter to the edge of the table, until he felt splinters pressing into his palms.
“I’d almost believe it, but I advised you to write, and instead you’ve been busy hiding things from me.” It wasn’t a question but an accusation, and it demanded an answer while the teasing hadn’t.
“Yes,” he admitted simply. If the Marquis expected some kind of apology, he would be waiting a long time, no matter what tortures he had devised.
While the Marquis withdrew, he waited, this throat dry as if the thirst had followed him just like the headache. Would it be the whip again? What else could it be? When Sade returned, he put a few things on the table that rang with an odd hollow sound. Coulmier twisted his neck to look, and at first he didn’t understand. Candles?
“But you didn’t hide this,” Sade remarked, and put down the bottle of olive oil. “I wonder why.” The taunting made him cringe in humiliation, but then he did a bit of simple arithmetic with the objects Sade had brought back, and he made a strangled sound of protest, automatically pushing up and away from the table. The Marquis forced him back down hard, one hand on the small of his back.
“Stay put,” he said amiably, “unless you want the whip again.” Coulmier thought that was preferable to what the Marquis had planned. “And again, and again.” Or, he swallowed, perhaps not. Maybe it didn’t matter to Sade that he’d taken those things away. After all, there was still something of religious significance in the cell to despoil and ruin: he, Coulmier, was still here.
He settled deliberately, his body twitching with the instinct to move or fight at the reminder of pain, as if it didn’t understand that there was no escape. The next time he closed his eyes to dream, he would simply be restrained already, and so he stayed still despite all his inclinations to the contrary.
At first it was the Marquis’ finger, pressing oil into him there, and he’d known that before, so it wasn’t a new experience. Except that then, when he had submitted to it in the real world, it had been meant as a seduction. All the things the living Marquis had done to his body were subtly different. Then, the Marquis had been a teacher, corrupting him with pain and pleasure. This version was not. This version defiled rather than corrupted. His motives were colder, more selfish, less human than the man had been. No, then it had been different. Now when he felt that finger inside him, it was a prologue to something so much worse it made Coulmier breathless to think of it, though he supposed the real Marquis would have got around to it soon too.
The fingers only stayed as long as it took for his body to adjust to them, and when he could bear the slow pushing in and out without tensing, Sade placed something else at that orifice, something tapered and hard, and laved with the oil.
“Don’t,” he begged, closing his eyes, even though he saw nothing but the door anyway. The slender tip of the candle penetrated him, slipping in an inch, then another. He made a curious high pitched sound of denial, though it didn’t hurt precisely. It was the significance behind it; it was so deliberately impersonal. Inside him it was cool instead of warm, and much harder, so much so that it almost felt sharp.
“Would you prefer my fingers deep in you again,” Sade demanded, his words warm with intimacy, “or something else of mine, perhaps?” The truth was he did prefer that, but he didn’t respond. “Even if I hurt you more than this?” He was wicked! Coulmier sniffed and shook his head. “Say it out loud, I dare you, and you’ll have it.” He paused, then strangely, urged Coulmier: “Make the choice.”
Oh, he wavered! There was no doubt about that, and he knew that he did. How he longed to ask for those fingers to torment and tease him again, even for the Marquis to take direct pleasure from his body, because that too would feel good by the end, and he struggled on the edge of asking for it. He’d practiced. Sade had made him practice, when he’d said all of those sinful and demeaning things in the dark. All he had to do was ask for it again now, without the threat of danger, with only the promise of what he desired, the fulfilment of his wishes, and yet – he couldn’t do it. He tried.
“I…” he began, and then failed to say the rest. His mind let it go, and then he said: “There isn’t any choice here.”
The Marquis huffed in a derogatory way. “So you say.” He pushed against the resistance of Coulmier’s body again, and the candle slipped in another couple of inches. Coulmier gasped. The solid cylinder of wax was warming up now inside him, becoming a little pliable, moulding to the contours of his internal muscles. And then, just when he became used to the feel of it, it was gone.
For the first time, Coulmier let his head drop over the side of the table as if defeated, tired of keeping it raised up. Beneath the table he could see their bare feet on the floor: his own planted widely apart, and Sade, stood sideways on to him. It was an evocative image, and he closed his eyes against it as he felt the next candle, slightly thicker, pressing against that ring of muscle.
There were three candles in all, each bigger than the last, until Coulmier felt the last one slide past the defence of his outer muscle, and he drew in a deep involuntary breath. It was barely in him, but already he felt full and tired of it. Sade stroked his lower back as if to encourage him to take more of it.
“Relax,” Sade said, as if his word were God – a dangerous thought! – so quiet but filled with lust. The candle pushed in another half inch or so. Then another. “That’s it,” Sade exclaimed in a throaty whisper, and Coulmier tried to obey his instruction to relax, because it eased the pain. “Just a little more.” And then there was more, enough to make him moan, and it sounded so helpless he shivered. “Just breathe. Good.” He did breathe, slowly, carefully, feeling that penetration with each quiver of every muscle. He could barely see: the sensation took up so much of his attention. “You’re so beautiful to me now,” Sade breathed at last, and Coulmier doubted it but he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, Sade pulled the thick candle out of him. It made a horrible sound, as if his body were trying to hold onto it, and he winced, feeling sore and awfully abused.
Without speaking, Sade helped him up from the table and then turned him around. Now at last they faced each other. The Marquis looked the same as before, his dark hair loose and no wig to cover it. He seemed more dangerous like this, but he was also someone Coulmier missed.
“Up on the table,” Sade said with a flick of his head that had Coulmier moving to obey before he could think. Despite that, he winced as he perched gingerly on the edge of it, He leaned back on his hands gratefully as the Marquis guided him to do, and he didn’t have to observe Sade using the oil on his erection to guess his intentions, but he watched anyway.
It was done before he could berate himself for being fascinated by it, and though he knew what was to come he was nervous as Sade pressed his legs up and back, so that his knees were nearly against his shoulders. The new position was more comfortable, even so, and he felt those long fingers slide down his shins, over his feet, until the Marquis stood before him, hot palms pressed to the soles of his feet.
All the while, Sade stared at him, that same hunger as Coulmier had seen many times before, and yet he broke the eye contact briefly to look down. Coulmier knew what for a second later as he felt a powerful push against his lower body, but it wasn’t right, and it hurt – too much – making him cry out and involuntary tears sprang to his eyes.
The next one, however, was precise, and the Marquis slid so deep that Coulmier forgot to breathe. Now he understood what playing with the candles had done. His body was adjusted already, and the new angle was such that after only a couple of long and penetrating movements he felt that same pleasure as before, but now it was sharper, somehow poignant, as if every second of it was over too soon.
He moaned, and he knew he muttered senseless words and promises, and he begged for more – that too, completely without any sense of shame. There was no room for it. He gripped the lower edge of the table with his hands so he could meet Sade with a little of his own strength, staring into his eyes, breathing heavily and beginning to sweat.
The sensations of his body turned into jolts of pleasure that made him lose the centre of it, spreading through every vein, nerve and muscle as if his blood was really honey wine, warm and sweet. It felt so good that he chanced to look down at himself, astonished to find he wasn’t completely hard, because it felt almost the same. Coulmier looked at Sade again, his eyes wide and a question in his mind that he couldn’t form. Here, now, once more, he had the sense of being taught some kind of truth he’d ignored all of his life. It was here, between them, purely physical, but as profound as any spiritual lesson.
“Not a beautiful young prospect,” Sade teased with a deliberate curve to his lips, quoting back to him his own words of so long ago. He rubbed his thumbs over the soles of Coulmier’s feet, that simple caress as intimate as the joining of their bodies. “Don’t be so modest.”
What little blood he had that wasn’t rushing madly around his body went quickly to his face, and he felt the warmth of the blush as he felt Sade’s movements still in orgasm. A few spasms that were nearly jerks and then it was done. The inside of his body was all hot and wet with it as Sade pulled away from him, but Coulmier remained breathless and confused.
The pleasures of the body… it hardly seemed an adequate description for the things the Marquis showed him time and again. Each time, he was sure there wasn’t a higher, further plateau of pleasure, but there was. These things, these sins of the body were not disquieting to his soul and never had been. They were only troubling to his mind, which was vulnerable to other influences, and his mind was losing the battle slowly but surely. What better place for that to happen than an asylum?
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The Ruined Abbe