Chapter 2

As soon as he arrived at Calais, Mr Wolverine set for Paris at a murderous pace, barely stopping to change horses. He was in the most fashionable city in Europe after a bare two days, and took residence at an elegant, but not overly modish, hôtel, dispatching Kurt to seek more private and suitable lodgings.

He was impatient to start his research, but found himself at an impasse. He'd left England so hurriedly that he'd not thought to provide himself with Miss Mist's Paris address. He needed her to introduce him into the Aristocracy's elegant salons, if he wanted to find the Marquis: he knew no-one in France and could expect no patronage.

His thoughtlessness irritated him to the point that he started pacing back and forth in his room, yearning for the woods and meadows of his country house. He found himself imagining the Marquis there with him, his lips curving in a ghost of a smile at the fancy. He would show LeBeau his "Wildnerness", a copse cunningly fashioned to give the illusion of an untamed forest; he would sit down beside him in a leafy bower and kiss his darling boy's alluring lips.

He would caress the Marquis' exquisite body and pasture on his neck until they would both be breathless and smiling. A quiver of his manhood made him stop, amused. He was acting as a callow youth in the throes of his first love! With a rueful shake of his head at his idyllic vision, he decided to sample the hotel cellars and descended to the Salle à manger.

The next morning, while his valet was engaged in what had started to seem a singularly fruitless search, Mr Wolverine ventured forth in the streets of that most elegant, intellectual and depraved of cities. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed it hugely, he would have partaken of all the city had to offer; but now his thoughts revolved solely on the Marquis of LeBeau.

Mr Wolverine refused to contemplate the idea that that elusive young man had not gone to France, after all. He was surely here, maybe incognito, as no rumour about him had reached his ears. He must be in Paris: where else would a scion of the Blood go during the Season? He hoped and feared to meet him by chance in the streets. What would he say? What would the Marquis say or do? Was it really too late for him to atone his wrongs and be forgiven?

Lost in his thoughts, he walked aimlessly for hours, equally insensible to the splendour of art and the allure of vice. He waited, walked and hoped for a stroke of luck.

*

Madame Frost sneered openly at the tall figure standing mutely before her. The burgeois had enveloped his person in a manteau à capuche much too big for him. He wore a black mask which covered half his face with a black lace finish which descended beyond his chin. The voluminous hood of the manteau drooped down over his forehead, completely hiding his eyes. 'He's terrified his papa will discover what he's been up to,' she thought contemptuously. 'The pious bourgeois père is probably one of my clients.' She didn't even bother to read the imbécile's mind.

Had she elected to do so, Madame Frost would have been surprised by the strength and impenetrability of the Marquis' mental shields, and would have maybe observed him better to try and discover which scion of the Blood it was, who was indulging such dangerous practices; but she did not. She only said, not bothering to mask her contempt: 'Mon p'tit Chambre, show this "gentleman" his room.' The proceeded to forget the man entirely.

The Marquis of LeBeau followed in silence an equally silent slender boy and only nodded his thanks, when he was ushered into a room. The boy closed the door behind him, and the Marquis took finally stock of his surroundings.

The room was opulent and well appointed: an enormous bed with dark blue silk sheets and a light blue counterpane dominated a wall; a cluster of gold and blue chairs and stools stood around what looked like a dressing table covered with a dark blue damask; on the wall facing the bed were an elegant armoire and a door, half hidden by a blue curtain.

Knowing he didn't have much time, the Marquis opened the armoire, not quite knowing what to expect. To his relief it was a simple wardrobe and he quickly divested himself of his clothes and hung them in place. Naked, he opened the curtain and then the door, and found himself in a little toilette with a chamber-pot, a towel stand and a basin-and-jug under a large mirror.

The Marquis splashed some water on his face and dried it with one of the towels provided. He looked at his visage in the mirror and it seemed to him he was looking at a ghost. His eyes were so wide they seemed to eat away his pale face. He tried a sneer at his evident fear, but could not manage it; defeated, he went back to the room and took from his manteau's capacious pockets a leather sack and a leather ball.

He sat on the bed and, taking a deep breath to steady his hands, he put the ball in his mouth and tied the sack securely over his head. He wouldn't risk his involuntary moans or screams to betray him. What if the client was a person he knew? He knew very well how many of the French aristocracy frequented Madame Frost's Maison, and he was well known to all of them; some were even related to him. Mustering all the courage he had, the Marquis of LeBeau awaited his fate.

*

Thus was Mr Wolverine's life in the days that followed his arrival, until that capricious Goddess, Luck, decided to bestow her gifts on him. That evening, in the hôtel's Salle à manger, while he was enjoying a magnificent repast and an excellent wine, Mr Wolverine overheard two macaroonis at a table nearby discuss the Comtesse de Nerval's forthcoming ball: apparently "the" event of the season.

He heard that the Untouchable, Miss Mist, would surely grace that event with her splendid, if minxish, presence and that she would be escorted there by Sir Henry McCoy, whom the two frippery fellows held in awe, and by her cousin: that noted sensualist, the Chevalier de Baubier.

Mr Wolverine was much heartened by this piece of information, he had no doubts that Sir Henry, with whom he had a passing acquaintance, would procure him an invitation. Playing dice with him, Mr Wolverine had soon understood that that old reprobate delighted in discomfiting Lady Mist; he didn't know why and didn't care, but he could use that to his own ends.

Well satisfied with his late supper and the much desired solution to his problem, Mr Wolverine went back to his room for a night of much needed repose. Ascending the stairs he smiled for the first time in more than a week. He could make enquiries after a gentleman, a fellow Englishman in foreign soil, a thing he couldn't well do regarding a young lady of impeccable reputation without setting tongues wagging. If luck stayed on his side, he would soon gain access to the circle in which the Marquis surely moved. He would maybe even see him at the Comtesse de Nerval's ball.

Kurt heard the news with as much satisfaction as his master. He hadn't dared enquire after the Marquis; he knew full well how the servants were always gossiping about their masters, and how venomous the gossip could be. Things were different now, though: it seemed at last possible to plan for the future.

Master and servant slept well that night, and slumbered late into the morning. When they awoke, Kurt was dispatched to inquire as to Sir Henry address, and Mr Wolverine partook of a hearty petit déjeuner in his room.

*

Sir Henry McCoy's heart accelerated as he ascended the stairs of the Maison Grive to his favourite Blue Room. Hearing Madame Frost's slightly supercilious voice say that the young man she had procured for him would have his head encased in a sack, a delicious flutter of anticipation had tickled his stomach. Some fils de bourgeois in search of adventure and illicit pleasure, she had said not bothering to mask her contempt. That meant he could go his length, a thing he rarely allowed himself out of the safe confines of his lands. There would be no outcry, no matter what he did: the young man was clearly intent on preserving his identity and would never confess his escapade in order to seek redress.

He would go with it, at least until he had persuaded the boy to reveal his face to him, one way or another. It would be another victory, another redress exacted from life for the hideousness of his body, for the incredulous laughter with which Lady Mist, then still the Honourable Miss Xavier, had replied to his offer of his hand and his heart.

He had loved her passionately, but love had shrivelled and died in him that day. Yes, he had taken her by force, revelling in her cries and her tears, but that had offered no pleasure. He had been left with a bitter taste in his mouth and a loathing of his misshapen body.

From that day he had watched with increasing bitterness how often the beautiful ones favoured beauty above worth, aspect above intellect; until he had come to detest the very idea of Beauty and had only been able to find pleasure in humiliating it. He gloried in teaching beautiful girls and boys shame, in punishing them for the gifts an unthinking Nature had so wantonly bestowed on them. He only knew surcease from the turmoil in his mind in the rapture that their suffering brought him.

Sir Henry stopped on the landing and slowly controlled his breathing. He wanted to surprise the room's occupant. His thread was of the lightest and he knew by experience the door would open smoothly and silently. Besides, it would do good to the boy to be left in darkness to meditate on his folly and maybe seek to escape. A feral grin split his bestial mouth showing long yellow teeth. Yes, his breathing was under control now: he could go in.

Sir Henry slowly opened the door and silently stepped in. He drew a long breath, savouring the body of the young man sitting on the bed. His eyes lingered on every limb, following the smooth lines of the muscles hidden by a flawless skin. It was not a boy's body, but it had the bloom of youth perfectly developed, it was elegant and strong, uncompromisingly male. Sir Henry's mouth watered at the thought of the changes he would made on that lovely example of Nature's bounty.

Slowly he closed the door, taking pains to avoid any sound, but when he turned once more to his prey, he realised he had been heard. The young man had not moved, but his muscles had tensed and there was an indefinable air of alertness about him. No matter, he would ravish that body and that alert mind as well.

Sir Henry went to the bed and pushed the young man down. He explored that long, lovely body sliding his hands down the chest, over the belly, sliding them around the flanks to cup the well muscled buttocks only to slide back and move along the inner thighs to the flesh flower of the groin. The blue Beast watched enthralled the blush which started at the nipples and rose like a rosy tide to the neck and surely beyond. This was a body made for sensual pleasure: restrained, yet responsive, soft, yet hard and strong, its very skin talked in the language of the senses, it said: 'I am a virgin, inexperienced in the art of pleasure. Teach me to please.'

Grinning at his conceit, sir Henry grabbed the young putain by an arm and effortlessly lifted him up and off the bed. Yanking unkindly, he dragged his victim to the dressing table; he sat on the gilded chair and hoisted the young man belly down on his knees. His right hand caressed the buttocks thus exposed, sliding the middle finger between them to brush the secret bud, sliding again upward to scrape it with a nail, revelling in the little jumps and shakes he elicited.

Sir Henry soon tired of this game and, maintaining his hold on the young man, he turned to the dressing table and opened a drawer. There, nestled in shallow gold cups on dark blue velvet, was a garden of pommes à délice.

The 'apple of delight' had been invented by a zealous courtier at the time of Louis XIII. It consisted of a wooden irregular sphere, roughly reminiscent of a gibbous apple, with a long stem. It was enclosed in a leather sacklet riddled with pinholes and filled with pomade. It could be used in several ways to enhance pleasure and lubricate, but it could give pain just as easily, if the user was skilled enough.

Licking his lips, sir Henry selected one of the smallest, but left the drawer open. He pressed open his putain's buttocks with the fingers of his left hand and positioned the pomme over the puckering bud with his right. He took a deep breath and, with the release of air, he pushed the toy inside like a blow. The young man thrashed in shock, but the Beast expected it and kept his hold, shifting the young body into a more convenient position over his crossed legs. The buttocks peaked and from between them several inches of oakwood stem protruded enticingly.

Again and again sir Henry's hand caressed the shivering flesh and with each pass on the stem, the pomme à délice danced inside the young man's body dribbling lilac perfumed oil. The horny palm increased its tempo of movements until it was suddenly raised high and brought down in a slap. Again the body heaved against the restraining arm, but the Beast was strong enough to hold it in position.

Sir Henry bided his time, waiting for the body to stop moving. He would savour every hit, every reaction, he would hear the gasps, the moans and finally the screams that filled his heart with joy, and this time... this time he would not restrain his lust, this time he would squeeze every drop of pleasure from the captive body under his arm, this time he would not stop until his hatred was appeased and he had his full revenge on Beauty.

He slapped again, again not very hard: that would come later. Every time his hand hit, the pomme was pushed in deeper and jerked in a dance of liquid pain inside the putain's body. Every time the pomme dug in and jerked, the putain danced a broken marionette's dance to the music of muffled moaning and panting.

After a few minutes of this, sir Henry ripped the pomme off. 'You move too much,' he said, the first words to escape his mouth. He got up letting his victim fall to the floor and opened the dresser's drawer that had been behind him. From that he took two leather thongs and bent to his task. He tied the young man's wrist together in front of him, then he pulled him in a kneeling position and went behind him. The blue mutant jerked his victim's elbows back and tied them cruelly with the other thong. Now the putain could not move his arms an inch, he wouldn't be able to hinder his pleasure any more.

Once more sir Henry sat down in the chair and once more he hoisted his human toy on his crossed legs. Turning slightly, he selected a bigger pomme à délice and inserted it as brutally as the he had done the first. What he heard made him almost swoon with joy. The fils de bourgeois, in his fear of revealing his identity had gagged himself. In that moment every thought of ripping off the sack and unmasking the young man fled from sir Henry's mind. He would wait until the imbecile was suffocating and offer assistance. To force his victim to be grateful to him for unmasking him would be infinitely more pleasurable and crown this perfect congress of the senses.

The Beast resumed spanking the reddened and bruised buttocks, increasing gradually the speed and the force of the slaps until he was caught in the liberating ferocity of the act and forgot everything in it. His loins started stirring and it was necessary to cause more violent thrashing in his victim to appease the need for contact. His inhumanly strong arm rose and fell with the implacability of a machine; his inhuman nose filled with an intoxicating mixture of perfume, sweat and blood. The pomme's stem had disappeared., but sir Henry was past caring for refinement, he was near his ecstasy of revenge and he could not stop.

A particularly violent movement of his putain woke sir Henry from his trance of hatred and he recollected himself. He was too near completion and he didn't want to reach his bliss in his breeches. With a convulsive movement he threw the young man's body on the bed, and he speedily freed his member. The shock of air was enough to slow the surge of desire and to allow the blue mutant to regain possession of his senses.

He stood unmoving, deliberately not looking at the young man untidily sprawled on the bed, counting the time in his head to calm himself further down. But even thus, he could not wait long. He bounded on the bed and tried to get hold of the pomme's stem. He had to insert two fingers in the bruised and bloodied arse to take hold of it, and the body under him squirmed desperately in hellish pain.

Sir Henry listened to the chocking sounds emanating from the sack covering the head of his victim and could contain himself no longer. With an animal guttural sound of rage and sensual release he brutally penetrated the young man's arse and rode the helpless body in a paroxysm of pleasure and fury. He scratched, he bit, he pressed the red and bruised flesh, he squeezed a sex that had never stirred to pleasure to elicit more and more choking sobs, more heaving, more shaking tremors until he fountained in a bliss that ravished his senses utterly and brought him near to swooning.

He fell on his gasping victim, dizzy with a fulfilment that had made him pour the whole of his body and soul into the young man's body, and waited to regain his strength and sanity. After a while he could rise and wipe his member on the counterpane. After tucking it back into his breeches, he went into the little cabinet and adjusted his cravat, smiling in the afterglow of one the strongest sensual pleasures he had felt in his life. So taken had he been with his bourgeois-putain that he had forgotten to take off his coat. Madame Frost had not fobbed him off with a jaded creature of the bed this time. He must have a word with her.

Having done his toilette, sir Henry left the room without glancing at the body sprawling slackly on the soiled bed. He was done with it, and had lost interest in unmasking it. Whoever it was, that boy had learned a lesson he would not soon, if ever, forget. Beauty is paid for, and the price is high. Sir Henry didn't stop to see if the young man was still breathing, he didn't care, all he cared was that, live or die, he had branded that youth forever.

*

The Marquis tried desperately not to swoon, he could not die there, he could not. His corpse would be unmasked and his family name besmirched. He fought against the pain burning his whole body, he tried to control his breathing, but to no avail. In his throes of torment he had half swallowed his gag and now couldn't breathe through it. He had been bound too tightly to free himself, but he had to try. He could not make the thongs that bound him explode without damaging his arms and hands so much he would not be able to untie the sack and free his mouth.

That was his last conscious thought, his tormentor's huge body fell on him, squeezing the last wisp of air from his lungs. A wave of dizziness overcome the Marquis, his senses were wholly overpowered by an invincible languor and he fell in the cold sleep the precedes death.

TBC