The Passion of Mademoiselle S. (19 page)

THURSDAY, 5:30 P.M.

My darling love,

You will read this letter in my arms. I shall not send it this evening, for I want to test the power I have over your senses, and witness your body's arousal when you decipher these passionate words tomorrow.

Tomorrow is nearly upon us, with all its usual attendant voluptuous delights, joys, and sadistic couplings, and I shall prove filthier than ever, as dirty a bitch as you could wish for, to make your prick good and hard, and fill your balls with generous come for you to offload…where? In my mouth, in my cunt, over my face? Who knows? Who can second-guess the final moment that will crown this festival of our senses?

Whatever happens, you can rest assured I shall put to good use everything at my disposal to make you come passionately.

We shall be alone again tomorrow. No “accomplice” will be there to participate, be it a vigorous male or the delicate mistress of our dreams. We shall be alone and yet not, not entirely, for they will in fact be there, these accomplices of ours. Do we not both have a very clear picture in our minds of the scenes we could act out together? And I can tell that tomorrow they will be there to titillate our senses and make us behave all the more sadistically. He with his impressive cock straining with insatiable desire, and she circling my quivering button with her pink tongue.

Yes, the lover I have found for you is beautiful. His supple muscular body will very ably wrap its long firm thighs around you. His cock is beautiful too, with an imposing girth, and your pearly-white skin will stand out beautifully against his darker skin. I can picture the lewd tableau the two of you will make. His blond hair next to your brown hair, his smooth stomach against your arched ass, and your cock rearing between his vigorous hands. Yes, I would find it extraordinarily exciting to watch him pleasuring you, and even if you felt like buggering him in front of me, well, oh God, I would say very little for I should be pleasuring myself in front of you. But I admit I would rather feel your cock up my ass.

What about you, can you picture the scene? My mistress is on the bed, her little breasts pointing their pink nipples toward my mouth; I take them firmly. I lick them with quick little flicks of the tongue while sliding a hand between her thighs and frigging her. Meanwhile you are licking my ass. Then all at once my mouth travels down and presses itself to her quivering button. Watch me eating her ass, the little pig. Give her your cock, she can tug you while I watch. Now it is my turn to savor her lascivious attentions. She's sucking me, watch. Oh, she's so good at it, darling! Look how her tongue works lovingly at my flesh. Suck her too, go on, you have my permission. Make her come before my eyes. Slide your tongue into her cunt. It will make her attentions to me all the more frenzied. But go no further than that. Your cock is for me, for me alone. Come and fuck me now, come quickly. I shall release my sap all over your stiff ramrod. Take me in a never-ending coupling to make me surrender all of me.

I am not afraid, I am no longer afraid of passing time, for I now know what your passions are, and how to keep you by my side. And this summer I have every intention of letting you beat me, for I know that is your wildest dream, to whip my insolent rump till it bleeds and then to take me when I am still panting and broken.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, my dear love. I shall have your magnificent body, and I shall feel your adorable lips caressing my burning flesh. In the meantime, I can but spend the whole night with a heart brimful of ardent longing for every ounce of your body, my dear lover whom I adore.

I hope you will be truly filthy to rival your darling dirty bitch. Tell me things to excite my audacious imagination. Make my button swell with your filthiness, and you just watch how ardently I shall love you.

Goodbye, my darling little love, till tomorrow. While you read this letter, I shall suck your cock or your little pink breasts, and I shall watch the feral glint of desire develop in your eyes, making you throw yourself onto the bed with your legs apart and your prick standing to attention. Then I shall straddle you and it will drive into my cunt right up to your balls.

I adore you, my dirty little darling.

Simone

THURSDAY, MIDNIGHT

I cannot sleep, my Charles, I am appallingly unhappy and my heart feels heavy. I find myself wondering what has happened to you; all of a sudden you have grown so indifferent, so detached from our love that you have managed to go three long weeks, nearly a month, without seeing me alone.

I promise you I cannot believe you have had enough of me, for I know you well and I know that, before, you would not have been able to resist the need to savor all our embraces, to be given proof of my love, to surrender at last to one of the wild climaxes that formed the basis of our complicity. It now feels as if none of this tempts you anymore. If I ask when I can see you, you tell me you are the only person manning the office or you cannot make up your mind, or lord knows what else.

I beg you, Charles, stop inflicting this suffering on me. Dispel the misunderstanding between us with a word. Tell me your answer and tell me soon, whatever it may be. This evening we parted almost angrily. You gave me no answer. You left me in such a hurry and now here I am wondering what is wrong.

I do not resent you for this, my treasure, you know that, but try to understand me. Remember our past together. Remember when we both burned with the same feverish longing to see each other. We threw ourselves on each other in an ever increasing frenzy, and our two bodies would soon be convulsing to the same spasms. Can it be that none of this has any appeal for you now, and am I no longer your filthy darling who could make you come so wonderfully with my daring attentions?

Charles, my darling, if your desire for me has died, be loyal and do not drag my pain out any longer. Tell me it is all over and I shall know there is nothing more I can try to win you back. But for pity's sake, my love, spare me this protracted agony.

Charles, my little Lottie, I am very sad because I really think I am alone in cherishing our wonderful past. So, tell me, do you no longer want me, does my ass no longer tempt you with the silky skin of my buttocks, and has my mouth lost its incredible powers that once made your cock stiffen between its lips? But why did my tongue feel him so gorgeous and big yesterday evening if you are never to drive him into me again? Oh, my treasure, my treasure, can you really have grown so indifferent? And I still want you so desperately. I am in pain, my darling, and you do not want to understand. Why did you not answer my questions yesterday evening? Why did you leave so quickly? But I implore you, my adored one, take pity on my suffering. Tell me what is wrong. Why are you spurning me? It cannot possibly be that you have not found just one hour in the last three weeks to spend in my arms.

I am not angry, my love. If you could see me now, you would pity me. I am lying quite naked in my rumpled bed and I am weeping, my Charles, I am weeping, for I have such a strong feeling that you are breaking away from me.

Oh, darling, this is not the letter I was dreaming of sending you from this bed, but will it have any sort of allure for you now?

My darling love, must I give up all our pleasures? Must I drive all memories of your magnificent body from my mind, and will my own body never feel your arms around it again? Oh, my adored Charles, I must be wrong, I am wrong, surely? You still love me, you have not wearied of my big ass or my breasts, or my entire body, which bent to your whims. Picture my buttocks reaching brazenly toward your cock. Think back to that little brown hole you once loved so much. And think of my tongue caressing your buttocks and your balls, and sliding the full length of your prick from head to root. Close your eyes and think of him here in my mouth, and your life flowing drop by drop into my throat. Then you will have a clearer idea of whether it is over between us, because if none of these memories make you tighten your fingers around your ramrod, then I have lost my power and, sadly, I was right.

My Charles, are you still my little Lottie, my delicious little mistress, the woman for whom I wanted to find a vigorous male, or do you now want to discover such pleasures alone?

I do not believe you have any doubts about my faithfulness, or that you feel this watch I now wear is a sign that I have lapsed. No, my love. He is like all the others, he has only ever had vague hopes about me, and he left without knowing my mouth's sweet caress, which he so longed to savor you know where. Had I been able to do it in front of you, perhaps I would have made him very happy but, alas, my adored Charles, you know I do not even have the strength or the will to betray you. You have imprisoned my heart and my senses far too securely. I am yours, only yours, for all time.
^*

Goodbye, treasure, I shall try to sleep. I beg you one last time, answer me, even if your reply causes me the greatest heartache of my life. I would prefer anything to your silence and this torture.

Come, my darling, let me kiss the wonderful body you are denying me.

Your filthy little darling is suffering so much without you, my loved one. Answer me, I beg of you. Till Monday???

Simone

*
Now that Simone has accepted and integrated the idea of another male partner into their relationship, she becomes obsessed with it and by doing so further demonstrates her hysteria, although this does not make her a nymphomaniac. No part of this story suggests that she had any affairs with another man over the course of her romance with Charles, and, in spite of her excesses, I believe she was sincere and loyal.

The absence of Charles's letters does nothing to hinder our reading or our understanding of the relationship, because Simone's neurotic verbal outpourings, which seem to lead the way in this game of pleasures and desires, keep us abreast of developments. There are times, however, when a letter from Charles would help us to see him as a three-dimensional person. Through the prism of Simone's missives, it becomes clear that her lover has a sense of weariness (or panic?) after each new pleasure, and we start to suspect that as he follows the trajectory of his “depravity,” his progress feels like that of a pilgrim on the way to Santiago de Compostela: He takes two steps back for every three steps forward. Charles's letters might have given us useful insights into how he was feeling at this point, but we can infer that the urge to explore his illicit desires further was tempered with a haunting sense that to fulfill them would mean doing something irreparable. Which is why the specter of separation is ever present. It is easier for Charles to resent Simone rather than himself for this journey along the forbidden pathways of his temptations. At what point, then, would his desires lose the upper hand over his fear of moral bankruptcy?

It is highly likely that these letters to Charles could only have been found in what had once been Simone's own cellar, and not her lover's. As well as this correspondence, the leather satchel also contained letters from a previous relationship, and many more relating to other minor affairs of Simone's, right back to her adolescence. But if they were sent to other people, how, you might ask, would they have been found in her possession and not in that of each relevant man? There is a simple explanation, one that relates to a widely observed code of honor in love affairs in France (and well cataloged in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century French literature): In polite society, custom dictated that when lovers broke up, the man should return all the letters that had been sent to him, so there could be no risk of compromising the lady's reputation later. This is a far cry from today's morality when so many aggrieved lovers post intimate “revenge porn” images on Facebook, and the shameless partners of public figures show no restraint in their media-circus confessions.

We are very lucky that Simone didn't destroy the letters Charles returned to her (and, incidentally, she would probably also have returned his letters to him). There seems little doubt that Simone continued to view this relationship as extraordinary for the rest of her life, and therefore couldn't bring herself to dispose of them. For Charles, as a married man, the page had to be turned and the pages of this affair destroyed.