Well Oiled Conversation
WELL OILED CONVERSATION
Copyright 2001 Sadeness

There was a crimson grin to his lips as he looked out, his powdered fingers brushing across the curtains to invite the sunlight in. A damemoiselle was hovering over his latest vignette, absorbing what he'd written - mere notes - and he was pleased as peach.

The Charenton asylum was not a morbid place to work, he decided. With Madelaine at his sides and feeding his hunger for the explicit, and couple this with the righteous visits of his dear young friend the Abbe, the Marquis de Sade was nonetheless at home wherever he lay the smooth, pointed tips of his quills to blood red inkwells. Such characters were merely honey to the inviting lips of a lady in waiting.

"Have you something for me this evening, Marquis? Something more substantial?" Madelaine's voice wafted to his ear and was tinged with sweet innocence, but the Marquis was not so easily charmed. He noted the inflection, the breathless intakes, the heaving chest ... the Marquis' eyes, such as his spirits, knew no walls. And Madelaine was a succulent prize.

"Many more treasures to unearth from the depths of my psyche, my coquette," he lilted. "I've with me my most recent novella - I do believe you'll be awfully *damp* by its horrid conclusion," he added with a cackle. He patted the curtain and retreated from the cloud of dust that it rained upon the air. With the aristocratic flair he'd never lost, the Marquis swiveled upon his heels and flashed the dainty laundry lass a lascivious grin. "But such treasures are earned, as you've so deliciously learnt last you were here," he purred.

Madelaine's lips tightened. "The Abbe wasn't pleased with you," she berated.

"Who cares about the Abbe!" he thundered with glee. "Is he here now? At this early morning? He's kneeling before his Christ and giving enthusiastic oral adulation," he purred. "I assure you, the door is quite locked to voyeuristic eyes," he said.

"More kisses, then?" she asked hesitantly.

"Kisses are so boring, no?" The Marquis strutted in front of her, pacing with the air of someone deep in thought. He waved in emphasis as he spoke, "We were making such progress, with you nestled so comfortably in my lap." He turned and struck out his face close to her. "And don't you dare deny your little pleasures, my dear - these surroundings are forever frigid, and you managed quite well to raise the temperature," he scolded. "Namely mine," he added in a low voice. "Touch my head, see how feverish my flesh is?"

She rose her hand to his forehead but the Marquis soundly snapped his teeth at it. "Not that head, my cherie," he chuckled.

She giggled in response and left the couch. "If not kisses then - to the cheeks, the lips or even your feverish head," she said coyly, "Then what?"

"A game," the Marquis said with a positively devilish grin. "A very simple game even you can grasp ..."

"Don't pretend to insult me," she hissed good-naturedly.

"I never pretend," he said in a very serious, very low tone. He paused behind her, enjoying the way she seemed to freeze anytime he drew near. His hands caressed her neck, pulling her curled hair away from the flesh. "You must do this one thing for me, this game, and I will thrust into you all the delights my ... literature has to offer." His hips knocked into her backside for measure and she started. "The Abbe is quite taken with you, you know," he said seductively. "And I've grown quite taken with him. But I'm afraid he's put some distance with me lately. He threatens my reason by vowing to take away my parchments and quills," he said, his hands stroking her throat. "That deserves a sound stick to his ass, wouldn't you agree?" Madelaine stifled a shamed giggle in her hand.

"Of the wooden kind, Marquis, or did you have something more intimate for the Abbe's virginal territory?" she said between chuckles.

"I doubt there is anything virginal about the Abbe. Perhaps his body, but that is mere mechanics. Such as yours, my dear coquette." His hand traveled down her skirts and pinched her derriere hard. "Virginal you are not, even if no man has had the chance to mouth at your succulent lips."

"Careful, Marquis, you thread dangerously."

"I should hope so, my cherie!" he exclaimed.

"What is this game you intend to have me play, Marquis?" she asked, turning to look at his elongated face with intent. His eyes were of a remarkable mercury, scintillating with stories yet untold.

"The most depraved of games, my coquette." He pranced around, his petticoat billowing with his movements. "I've been incarcerated here for so long, I've forgotten the hands-on art of seduction." He rubbed his hands with fingers parted, his teeth bare.

"I highly doubt it," Madelaine said with an upturned crook in her lips.

"Seduction of readers is one thing, the seduction of flesh is quite another. And I tire of these drab surroundings and the too easy conquests of my fellow cast. I hunger for larger game, my dear, and the Abbe seems ripe for ... well." He smiled widely. "Place an 'a' in lieu of an 'i' to your discretion."

"Marquis!"

"Oh don't flaunt your virtues around me, Madelaine. I see past those engorged lips parted in horror. A delicate 'O' ..." he mused, wiggling his finger toward her mouth. She quickly clamped her lips shut. "... so appropriate for other venues," he finished with a rumble.

"I won't be a part of this," she whispered. "Fiction is one thing ..."

"It is everything! And I need fodder for my next novella. Your tender body was well used in the first. I crave another for the sequel," he grinned.

She paused at this. "So ... you do not intend to harm the Abbe?"

"I speak in prose, my lovely! Fiction is everything to a madman such as I!" he exclaimed, directing his fevered words to the round porthole, arms stretched in rapture. "And the Abbe's voice gives me ill inspiration," he added mischievously.

"Conversation is all you crave, then."

"Nothing more, nothing less. Well oiled conversation stimulates my imagination," he smiled.

"You wish for me to convince the Abbe of your desire to converse with him?"

"How quickly we catch on," he praised.

Madelaine sighed and she slumped her shoulders in a relinquishing move. "I will speak to him."

"Good girl ..." he grinned. "And like a good girl," he added, patting her rear, "You will charm the Abbe into my quarters, preferably at night ..." Quickly he reassured her, "... night gives 'rise' to many muses. Tell him I desire to share wine with him. Tell him I am in most dire needs of confession." He cackled again, and when Madelaine left, he turned to his credenza and smiled sharply.

"A little brandywine will do just fine in loosening the Abbe's collar indeed."

LA FIN