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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
- 20
- 21
Author’s Note: Well! At last the end. I have to say, this story turned out to be a lot longer than I thought, and every time I felt the end was in sight, it seemed to flutter away out of my reach. Truth be told, I could have played with Coulmier’s ‘lessons’ for longer, but it wouldn’t have advanced the plot, so those scenes end up on the cutting room floor.
If you read, I hope you enjoy it. And if you enjoy it (or even if you don’t), I hope you leave a word or two to say you were here.
To BronxWench: I’m afraid that I didn’t manage to emulate Sade’s elegant sarcasm with regard to Celie’s story, but then it always was a long shot. He was far better at it than I will ever be. You could say she found salvation, but you could also say she surrendered, that she retreated from the world too hastily, in weakness, and there really was no excuse for sending young novices to that place except that she got some kind of secret vicarious thrill out of it. *g*
Some things are beyond the reach of Coulmier, and salvation is one. In the film, Coulmier goes from Sade’s death scene, straight to being an inmate at Charenton, begging for something to write with. Ultimately, I wanted to write something that leads the character between those two scenes. So I leave him where the film did. It’s a cruel fate, really.
So with that in mind…
Warnings for this chapter: Hand job, mentions of torture, but mostly (if I’ve done my job right) horror.

Chapter Twenty-One
His heart beating faster, Coulmier complied with Sade’s instruction, looking away from the Marquis to watch his own hand instead. Consciously, he trailed the tips of his fingers down over the length of Sade’s prick, hard and hot, the heated satin skin moving under the slight pressure.
Though touching Sade this way wasn’t new to him, watching himself do it was, and he curled his fingers around the base of it firmly, deliberately, and as if in collusion with him, it almost seemed to leap into his grip. Remembering how he touched himself on occasion, he pulled his hand up, looking away at last back at Sade. Was he doing it right?
“Use the oil,” the Marquis suggested, and Coulmier looked around for it at once, glad not to be ridiculed, but still disappointed because Sade was not affected by his touch in the slightest. By necessity, he had to let go of Sade to move across the room for the olive oil, and when he turned he saw the Marquis lounging back on the bed, hands behind his head, completely at ease, eyeing him up and down. It made him feel out of his depth, still overly conscious of his own nakedness even after everything they had done.
“Well?” queried Sade, amused. “Fetch,” he ordered, and Coulmier felt himself blush, yet he hurried back to the bed, sitting down beside Sade’s lower body, his own arousal of a few minutes ago dampened by the way the Marquis treated him.
“I am not a dog,” he said resentfully, removing the cork to pour some of the oil onto his right hand. He’d been ignoring the Marquis in favour of watching what he was doing, so he gasped when Sade’s hands took hold of his, righting the bottle.
“Not too much,” Sade said patiently, his voice lower, “just a little. Just enough.” Coulmier’s resentment melted away, and it occurred to him on a deeper level that he allowed Sade to manipulate him far too easily, but he was willing to put up with it if he would truly teach. Coulmier had a vision of Sade moaning, perhaps begging, his eyes closed and his breath ragged. It was such a strong and evocative image that his own desire was awoken by it all over again.
As if it was out of his control, he leaned forward and kissed Sade on the lips briefly, with a view to thanking him, and if the resultant laughter was any indication, Sade found that very amusing. Coulmier frowned and looked down, wondering where to put the bottle of oil, hurt by the laughter until he felt the Marquis’ hands gliding up the sides of his face, angling his head up again for a real kiss. This time it was deep and dominant, as he remembered from before, and with his hands full all he could do was lean into it, opening his mouth willingly.
Breathing rapidly when it was over, trying to remember what he was doing with his hands, when all he wanted was for Sade to touch him, Coulmier watched as Sade reclined back down gracefully. It was impossible to resist watching his muscles work, drinking in the sight of him, and quite suddenly he realised that was how Sade had looked at him before, and his own nakedness concerned him rather less. Breaking the train of thought, he hurriedly put the bottle down on the floor by the side of the bed and prepared himself to repeat that earlier initial caress, trying to ignore his own arousal. He reached out, but before he could touch, Sade spoke again.
“Warm up the oil,” he said, again patiently, and Coulmier nodded, pulling his hand back. “Rub your hands together a little. You’re going to be using them both.”
As instructed, utterly trusting, Coulmier slid his palms together slowly, warming and spreading the oil over all of his fingers. It made a wet, slick sound as he did so, and he couldn’t help catching Sade’s eye, sharing some kind of silent communication. It made him feel like they were conspirators, and he smiled shyly, finally reaching out again, and this time the Marquis didn’t stop him.
Despite having done this to Sade before, it still felt so new to touch someone else this way. Compared to himself, Sade’s prick felt slightly different in his hand. There was a kind of curve to him that was new, and as he repeated his earlier hand movement, the expanse of his palm and the curl of his fingers eased by the oil so that it dragged over that velvet skin, he felt it all the more.
“Now,” said Sade, authoritative in this as in everything. “You know how to touch yourself, so this shouldn’t be too difficult.” Coulmier nodded quickly, feeling a flush of hot blood in his cheeks again at the mechanics of being instructed in this way, even though he wanted it, wanted to learn. He let himself touch, let his hand produce the same movements that encouraged orgasm in him, all the time noting Sade’s length and girth, the solidity of him under the disguise of that soft skin, and that elusive difference, because if truth were told they weren’t so different in size.
“Slower,” Sade said, and Coulmier obliged, still watching his hand and Sade’s prick as if entranced by it.
“You led the choir here, such as it was,” he said suddenly, and Coulmier looked up at him then, startled at the reference. “So, you understand a crescendo,” Sade noted carefully, and Coulmier smiled earnestly then, comprehending, looking down to pay attention again, the image of it clear in his mind as his hand moved, as if they were one and the same. Yes. A crescendo was a relentless build-up, an inevitable, undeniable…
Sade’s breath stuttered.
“Use your other hand,” he said, as Coulmier almost faltered at the evidence of his success. “Caress my balls.” Was it just imagination or did he sound somewhat throatier? Coulmier complied with the instruction and cupped Sade’s balls in his other hand, feeling gently at the shape of them inside the sac of skin, nudging them together. He chanced to look up for a second, and Sade’s eyes were dark and hungry. It was almost what he had imagined.
The Marquis groaned before he could speak again. “Yes, faster now,” he gasped. “And twist the movement of your hand as you pull up.” Coulmier did so, and Sade’s body moved and twitched beneath the ministrations of his hands as if he were its master. It was such a powerful feeling that he only wanted more of it.
The Marquis was breathing in time with his movements, moaning slightly on each exhale, and Coulmier dared to look up at him again. Now it was the vision from earlier, and Coulmier wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. “Fuck!” Sade cursed, twisting his head to the side. “Like that. Yes!”
Coulmier increased the tempo a little more, his hand moving fast now, and he rolled Sade’s balls gently in his palm, watching him all the time. “Don’t stop,” he gasped, pleading, and the vision was complete. Sade was his in this moment, and if he wanted to, he could stop and deny him the pleasure. He wanted to know he had that little bit of power, but had no intention of using it. Instead he continued to manipulate Sade until he felt everything in his hand tighten and then begin to give way, hot semen splashing up onto Sade’s stomach and over his hand, and Coulmier couldn’t help observing that Sade was beautiful like this. Finally defenceless.
“Enough,” Sade said shakily when all of his issue had been drawn from him, and Coulmier obeyed that too, still enamoured by what Sade had taught him, knowing that he could improve on it with practice, and make Sade his a little more each time. Also, if he knew Sade at all, and by this time he fancied that he did, then the Marquis would insist on practice.
Coulmier looked down at his hand, covered in sticky white fluid and wondered where to wipe it. His discarded nightshirt from earlier. He leaned over Sade to get to it, and when he pulled back, Sade was recovered, enough to follow and press him down into the bed.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said, “and I expect you to pay close attention to everything I do with my hands.”
Coulmier only nodded again, eager, though he had more than a little reservation about the paying attention. In fact, there was a good chance Sade would have to repeat this lesson a good few times before it sank in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days passed in a golden haze to Coulmier. Candlelit nights spent writing furiously, as if possessed, of dreadful perversities he never wanted to dream about, not even with Sade. His utter disgust and shame was always eased by longer days that did indeed contain lots and lots of practice. Besides, he reasoned too eagerly, they were only characters. Only stories. Like Sade had said once: It’s only a play. The logic was as absolute as the release it brought. He slept through the mornings and afternoons, but he didn’t rest. Instead those sunlit hours were spent with his nemesis, who, true to his nature, led Coulmier further and further down the path of self-destruction.
On some level he recognised that, even though those hours encompassed more pleasure than he could contain, so that it spilled out of him again and again. Once, the Marquis had made a vow, to teach him many things, and he fulfilled that promise now in Coulmier’s dreams, tutoring him so that he could bestow varying degrees of pain or pleasure with every touch as proficiently as Sade himself did, and he enjoyed every moment of it. The road to ruin was strewn with lessons in licentiousness, and if somewhere inside him there was a warning voice, Coulmier ignored it far too freely.
They tantalised and caressed, tormented and stroked each other to such incredible heights, all the while surrounded by words. Papers were strewn everywhere: on the desk, and spilled over from there to litter the floor, on the bed where they lay together, covering the cotton sheets, so that each movement of their bodies and each fucking was accompanied by the evocative crinkling of parchment. When the dreams began, Coulmier’s cell had belonged to him, had been filled with his things, his instruments of faith and his reflections. Now, it was Sade’s world entirely, and for as long as the nightmares stayed on the page, Coulmier couldn’t help praising it every morning. It was so much more satisfying than mere love, which could be broken. It was freedom eternal, and it was completely irresistible.
Then, one nameless afternoon, when the sun had travelled over their sweat soaked skin far enough to have witnessed such a litany of transgressions that it had clouded over as if in shame, the door was suddenly unlocked and opened.
Coulmier barely noticed from his place on the bed, drowsy with sated lust, limbs entwined with Sade’s, full of the taste of each other so they were drunk on it. Footsteps marched smartly to the bed, coming up behind him, and that he noticed. He jerked in alarm and twisted in that tangled embrace to look behind him as Sade stirred with a quiet groan.
It was Royer-Collard, come to seek him out at last, with a couple of the attendants lingering near the door. Once, long ago, before the theatre at Charenton had been closed on Royer-Collard’s say so, a play had been held that Sade wrote; a farce to commemorate the doctor’s marriage to a fifteen year old convent girl. That night, he had worn much the same look as he did now, disgust mixed with contemptuous satisfaction.
That same expression was there while Coulmier tried in vain to cover his nakedness, searching for an item of clothing when all around him and all that his hands encountered were endless sheets of writing parchment covered in hurried, feverish descriptions of perversions, cruelty and sexual violence. Perhaps because of that, he didn’t immediately recognise what else was wrong as Sade’s weight moved away from the bed behind him. Royer-Collard picked a piece of paper up in one thumb and forefinger, as if it might be infectious, and sneered after peering at it for a second.
“Filth,” he observed drily, then looked around at the rest of it as if it were beneath him. “All of it, degenerate lunacy. Burn it all.” Coulmier followed that disapproving gaze, seeing it now as the intruders into his privacy must see it, and he shook his head slightly as Sade walked around the bed, looking to him… looking…. And at last he remembered, much too late, that there was no Marquis. Sade was dead.
Coulmier’s heart thumped painfully in a mixture of grief and recognition. Some of his terror as he stared at the vision of Sade must have shown in his face, because Royer-Collard actually looked behind him, right at the hallucination, and then turned back to Coulmier, curious. “What are you looking at, Abbé?”
There had been so many words. So many, capable of endless intricacies of expression, and yet now there were none. The vision of Sade raised an eyebrow at him and leered horribly. No longer was he a teacher, or a torturer, or even a ghost. Most distressing of all he was no longer a dream: he was a symptom, and Coulmier understood it at last. He thought, giddy with fear, that if there were any mercy left above, he might faint or become insensible – but he didn’t. Coulmier tore his eyes away from Sade, and looked helplessly at Royer-Collard. The doctor was wearing almost the same gratified smirk as the Marquis.
“For pity’s sake,” Royer-Collard said in a show of exasperation for the two attendants. “Take him somewhere.” He paused, as if to consider, a cold and cruel twinkle in his eye, and then gave Coulmier a ghastly smile out of the line of sight of the two men he brought to aid him. “There’s a cell free in the lower levels, recently vacated by our old friend, the Marquis. That should suit.”
Royer-Collard stepped back, and as they came to take his hold of his arms, Coulmier fought instinctively, wrenching his eyes away from the doctor to look at Sade, feeling betrayed, but the truth of it was Sade had never betrayed him, even when he’d left Sade no choice but to threaten him with it. He, Coulmier, had done that, and in such a way that he may as well have signed the Marquis’ death warrant.
“No,” he said as they dragged him out, Royer-Collard following, his feet trailing on the floor, his nakedness forgotten as Sade simply watched, lounging against the side of the desk. A sheet of paper fluttered down to the floor, and the Marquis watched it fall with an apathetic sigh, then he simply shrugged. “No!” Coulmier shouted, and his cries echoed loudly off the walls and ceiling of the passage as the tableau inside his old cell shrank smaller and smaller, Sade along with it.
When they turned the first corner, Coulmier became a little more resigned, until he caught Sade staring at him from one of the cell doors that was open to his left. He lurched violently away from the vision with a frightened cry, face to face with his own insanity, necessitating the attendants to grasp his arms so tightly they would leave bruises. As they marched him to his final home, he saw the Marquis again and again, staring out at him from each cell, watching his progress down the long passageways.
At last, they reached their destination, a cell that Coulmier knew all too intimately, and he begged then – pleaded – having had some kind of terrible premonition at last, when it was too late. But he was bodily thrown inside before the cell door was slammed shut and locked quickly behind him. The little square of iron was opened, and one of the orderlies peered in to check upon him.
Coulmier looked around, and he was alone. He might have been relieved but for the memories. Those manacles still dangled from the wall – empty – but for how long? He swallowed as he scrambled to his feet and pressed his back against the door as if he might pass through it, seeing a bowl of water and jug, and a bed with a simple straw mattress. Otherwise, the cell was empty. He turned quickly to look out before they could walk away, and there were quiet footsteps behind him then. A moment ago, the cell had been vacant, now familiar hands rested on his hips and he jumped but didn’t look around. He was petrified.
“Dear Abbé,” the Marquis said in dark amusement, his voice a deep vibration against Coulmier’s right ear. “All your work… gone. Destroyed.” Coulmier’s blood slowed, and the temperature in the cell felt like it had fallen suddenly. This wasn’t the same Marquis anymore. Now he was cold and demanding again. Ruthless, vengeful, capable of all the things Coulmier had written over the past few days, and he knew sexual torture was the least of them. Mutilation had been amid the throng of things he wrote at Sade’s instruction. “If you wish to be saved the experience, you must write them all over again.”
Understanding made him gasp. The nightmares were to begin anew, and whatever he endured at the Marquis’ hands would not last, but would be repeated over and over again without hope of escape or sanctuary. And there was nothing in the cell at all. Nothing to help him in his task. The three men were ready to leave, had turned away from the door, and Coulmier suddenly pressed himself against it, fitting his face against that little square of freedom, his eyes wild and staring.
“Please!” he cried out urgently in true panic. “A quill! Leave me something to write with, I beg of you!”
The three of them halted, and Royer-Collard turned around, appearing to consider the request for a moment. “To what end?” he asked, derisory. “So that you can continue to document your own damnation?” Coulmier shook his head slightly, remembering the ostensible reason Royer-Collard was sent here: to put a stop to the Marquis’ writing. Royer-Collard smiled. “Oh, I think not, Abbé,” he said, and then turned on his heel to walk away, leaving Coulmier alone in the cell with his madness, but his madness had a purpose and a motive. Much more than that, it had a name.
The Marquis de Sade.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading, and for staying to the end. I hope you were suitably horrified. Comments and constructive criticism welcome and encouraged.
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The Ruined Abbe