Sips of Blood (5 page)

"Really." Liliana noted how her grandmother's
voice had brightened up.

"But don't mention the earring. He's also got
rings stuck in his nipples. God, I don't want to know where else he
may have them."

"I would."

"Uh?"

"Grandmother said that she would never bring
it up in conversation." Liliana noticed that her grandmother had
kicked off her shoes and was rubbing the sole of her right foot
against the base of the table separating them from Bridgewater.

"So when can he come over?" Marie eagerly
asked.

Chapter 8

Matilda had a daughter. A very pretty--no,
beautiful-- daughter, with blonde ringlets floating down upon her
shoulders and blue almond-shaped eyes. Long lashes naturally darker
than her hair. A nose slender and pert. Full lips tinged a tomato
red and teeth even, straight, and bright. Skin fair, clear, and
he'd be willing to bet her flesh was soft and smooth. A body curved
with luscious baby fat invited his touch. A student of dancing, she
stood tall, although she was only five-six.

"Has Mom invited you to the recital?"

"Not yet. When will it be?"

"In two weeks. I'll be sure to get an
invitation out to you."

"And I'll be sure I'm there,
ma
petite."

De Sade's housekeeper, Matilda, did not live
on the premises, and she was limited to the public areas of the
house. She kept the ground floor clean and ran errands during the
day. The sun did not prevent Louis from leaving the house, but
sometimes the languor that set in during the daylight hours slowed
him down. Certainly he didn't want to waste energy on the mundane
when the lower classes were eager for work.

Infrequently the housekeeper would bring her
daughter.

"Cecelia, we'd better go now. Your father
will be home soon."

Matilda never allowed her daughter more than
a few words with Louis, explaining that she didn't want Cecelia to
be an annoyance. But Louis knew better than that. She simply didn't
trust Sade. On the other hand, Sade did everything in his power to
spend time with the seventeen-year-old.

"Perhaps you could have a role in one of my
plays," Sade offered the wide-eyed girl.

"You write plays?"

"Oui,
and quite a few have been
produced."

"Where? In New York City?"

"In France."

"Paris?" she breathlessly asked.

He neglected to tell the girl that the plays
had been produced at the Charenton insane asylum.

"At the
Comédie-Française."
He had
submitted there twice, and only their lack of perspicaciousness had
prevented them from producing the plays.

"I'm sorry, sir. Cecelia, didn't I ask you to
come along five minutes ago?"

"Obey your mother and run along." He almost
reached out a hand to touch the girl's cheek, except that he was
aware of the mother's intent observation.

He watched the girl leave. Her high, tight,
round bottom quickly slipped away from his view. He was tempted to
see her to the car, except the mother might become too suspicious.
He meant to have the girl and wanted to be sure to keep his channel
of communication open to her.

* * *

His full head of hair was almost white. At
least he had hair, unlike her father, who had but a fringe. Louis
Sade was sophisticated. He could talk about anything, and she'd
even bet he'd been everywhere. He used his slender body to
magnetize a room. His speech had only a slight accent. Oh! But she
loved the occasional French word he would drop into a sentence. His
features were noble and warm. The few lines his face possessed
instilled confidence in her that he had and could still wield
terrific powers. His eyes seemed to contain a chuckle, especially
when he looked at her.

Cecelia turned her head to look at her
mother, who was driving the old Ford home. He had a Jaguar and even
a Rolls Royce and a Harley motorcycle. Once she had seen him riding
the Harley. He was returning from a vacation in the city. If only
her mother hadn't rushed her off before she could ask him where he
had stayed, what he had seen, to whom he had spoken, what and where
he had eaten.
Shit!

"What's the scowl for?"

The sound of her mother's voice made
Cecelia's body jolt.

"You lost in your own world again?"

Cecelia shrugged.

"I wish you wouldn't talk to Mr. Sade."

"He likes me."

"He's much too old to like you."

"What does that mean? I can only talk to
nerds like seventeen-year-old Joey?"

"You used to like Joey before you met Mr.
Sade."

"Joey's okay for a movie and a pizza."

"Mr. Sade is old enough to be your father.
You and he could have nothing in common."

"He writes plays and has had them produced in
Paris at the..."
The French what?
"At a big playhouse. And
he said..." Cecelia decided not to share his offer of putting her
into one of his plays. "That they were very well accepted. Matter
of fact, he was a sensation in all of France."

"He said that?"

"Yup." Cecelia rested her back against the
seat and smiled.

They'd walk arm and arm down the
Champs
Élysées,
the paparazzi sneaking shots for the world newspapers
and magazines, the star-struck begging for autographs. She
sighed.

Joey and she had had sex a handful of times,
and they were getting good at it. When one would learn of a new
position they would try it together. She was supple. Maybe she
could surprise Louis Sade with the knowledge and ability she
had.

"Uncertain of the torture, he pictures it in a
thousand forms, one more frightful than the other; the least noise
he hears may be that of his approaching assassins..."

Justine

by the

Marquis de Sade

Chapter 9

La Maîtresse
had torn a piece of cloth
from his white oxford shirt to use as a blindfold. He remembered
the viciousness in her eyes and the strength in her hands. She had
already chained his nude body to the grey cement wall, preventing
him from stopping her.

Now he felt the coldness of the wall, the
bite of the manacles, the heaviness of the chains, and the smell of
freshly oiled leather. Blindfolded, he could not see but heard and
experienced the breeze caused by the whip's sharp crack as it
passed near him. Which whip had she chosen?

There were the bullwhips and blacksnake
whips, but he had never seen her use one of those. Her favorite had
always been the signal whip, used in the vanilla world to command
dog sled teams. She had frequently whipped him into following her
commands.

He felt the splash of the whip across the
tops of his feet.

Silence. Stillness. Was he alone? Had she
only meant to tease him? The passage of time continued. No breath
except his own, which seemed more ragged. No gusts hinting at
movement. Silence. Stillness.

Would she leave him in the dungeon alone, and
if so, for how long? Would he be able to count the time in minutes,
hours, days?

"Maîtresse,"
he called.

Silence. No answering lash for crying out.
Silence.

The minutes passed. Did he smell something in
the air? His own sweat heavy with fear. The drops of salty sweat
languidly moved down his features, occasionally settling into a
furrow where it would build until the sweat overflowed and
continued its progress down to his chin.

Sweat gliding down his chest, matting his
hair, tickling the flesh covering his ribs.

"Maîtresse."
This time he
screamed.

Silence.

"Give me a taste of the whip, but don't leave
me alone," he shouted.

Silence.

He pulled on the chains. He attempted to slip
his hands and feet out of the manacles. Useless effort.

What was the time? He had to get home to his
family by nine. He was expected to have dinner with his wife and
teenage children.

"Maîtresse."

He was disoriented. Did he face the door? Was
he even in the dungeon or in the midst of a nightmare?

Silence. Stillness.

His skin tingled. Prickly nerves searching,
desiring the touch of leather, the kiss of pain.

Silence.

His arms and legs spasmed, jerked in the
enforced tension of the confinement.

"Maîtresse!"

Quiet. His fingers touched the palms of his
hands, grabbing for something solid. He threw his back against the
wall. He was sobbing. His right foot slipped in the sweat of his
sole, but he couldn't fall, he couldn't move; fixed to the darkness
of his world.

He breathed furiously fast. Too shallow. Not
enough time to take in air. Not enough oxygen to feed his
lungs.

A smell. A sound. The crackling of burning
paper; the ash of paper. Something more. Cloth. His clothes! No,
no, she wouldn't do that. The ripping of cloth to fuel the
flames.

"Maîtresse!"

A rod fell to the floor. Metal, heavy.

Oh my God! Don't brand me, please.

They had discussed branding. Ornate letters
marking him as hers. She had shown him the branding iron. It had
looked used.

Heat singed the hair on his chest but never
touched the flesh. The odor of burnt hair, his hair. Then the heat
was gone.

Where would she chose to brand him? He heard
the rattle of metal against metal. The iron being reheated.

A hiss and a spit.

A gloved hand touched his cock. The sting of
alcohol from damp cotton.

"No!" he screamed.

The release of the whip bit his flesh.

"More!"

Chapter 10

Marie looked forward to meeting Keith's son,
Wilbur. Not a very promising name, but that decision had been in
the hands of his father.

Another fifteen minutes and they would
arrive. She had made her love cocktail, complete with rose leaves,
white sugar, Grand Marnier, white wine, and rosé champagne. And for
Dad there was the Schlitz.

Her dress was cut low, her heels high, and
her jewelry came from the safe. Designed by the jewelers Böhmer and
Bassenge, the necklace contained five hundred and forty diamonds.
So expensive that Marie Antoinette had refused it when her husband
offered to purchase the necklace for her. But Marie-Madeleine
Masson de Plissay hadn't had to pay for it. Instead she offered
Bassenge his life in return for the gift of the necklace. Later she
would suck his life to seek revenge for a copy that he was
making.

She heard Keith's dusty car pull up in front
of the house. Early, but she was ready. The car doors slammed. She
counted the seconds. The doorbell rang.

Slowly she walked to the hall, sucked in her
belly, and threw the door open.

Stunned either by her necklace or the amount
of cleavage, Keith said nothing. Behind him stood a tall young man,
six-two, six-three, she judged. His black hair brushed the
shoulders of his meticulously made charcoal suit. Stylish, natural
fiber. A good sign. His features were strong: well-defined
cheekbones, eyes the color of coal, nose pronounced, and lips
filled out with a smile.
Charming.

"Wil Bridgewater." The young man nodded and
switched a decorative cane to his left hand so that he could extend
his right hand. She felt the heat of his hand in hers. The flesh
was softer than she had expected, unused to manual labor.

"My father likes to call me Willful." His
teeth brightened his knavish face.

"I love willful men," she replied, waving the
two men into her house.

"I never had that impression," Keith grunted
and moved to the salon, where he seated himself in his favorite
Charles VI chair.

The son allowed her to lead the way. The heat
of his body made her dead flesh sizzle.

"Sit down on the sofa, Wil. I'll go get some
refreshments."

"We can't stay long," Dad interrupted.

"You've just arrived." She heard the edge in
her own voice.

"And we have nowhere else to be," Wil said,
crossing the room to the velvet sofa. He twirled his cane once
before setting it down against the sofa's bulky rounded arm. His
lissome body filled the room with the scent of salty-sweet
blood.

Could he be pliant enough to earn a trip to
the dungeon?

"Damn, can't you ever keep your mouth shut,
boy?"

Marie had almost forgotten Keith.

"I have lots of Schlitz..." She glanced at
the son. Certainly the father had done nothing to deserve
endearments. "Keith."

"At least that's better than that deary
stuff."

"Oh, is there something you forgot to tell
me, Dad?" He winked at his father and turned a crooked smile on
Marie.

"God forbid. I'll be back in a minute."

Marie's mouth salivated while she poured the
love cocktail into two champagne glasses. Her fangs ached and her
hand shook while lifting the Schiltz. Keith would not prevent her
from having his son.

Wil had already seated himself on the sofa
when she returned. First she brought the Schlitz to Keith. The
stench of the old man's blood turned her stomach. But a fresh kill
might ease Liliana back into the fold, if Liliana believed the
death were accidental. She placed the tray on a side table and
approached Wil with the glasses. The old man was brittle, an easy
kill, a twist to the neck and... But with the father gone, would
the son stay?

"Did you grow up in this town, Wil?" she
asked as she passed one of the glasses to him.

"Yes. Hated it. Couldn't wait to leave. Even
ran away a few times before I turned eighteen. On my eighteenth
birthday I was out the door."

"Pimping. I found him in Greenwich Village
pimping other young boys. At eighteen he moved in with a queen, and
I'm not talking royalty. Disgusted, I let him be." Keith swallowed
a gulp of the beer.