There are little pleasure in life that one must take where one finds them: the firmness of a fine arse, the smoothness of a young girl's back breaking open beneath the lick of the whip, even the colour rising in the face of the chaste.
That, you see, is a pleasure that is a rare trinket.
Few are truly chaste.
Oh, they say they are. They mewl and protest and fuss and whine, but the ones who truly are chaste are the ones who suffer for it in silence. The mere thought of such... naughty things makes them giggle and their cheeks bloom like cherries in summer.
They are not always young, these ripe peaches. Some are older and should be wiser. One of them sits at my feet as the disciples did at the feet of their beloved Lord. He chastises, oh how often he does that, yet he returns again and again. What, I wonder, could I provide a man who claims that his beloved God is all that he needs?
He talks of salvation, of souls, of redeeming my most wicked, foul and unholy mind.
Get behind me Satan, indeed.
Oh, I would consider that invitation most welcome, should it be offered. Behind, in front, on his knees, any which way in naught but his virginal skin.
I suppose that a teacher sometimes needs to be taught.
After all, he hardly knows what to make of his precious Book when I observe the delightful perversions contained therein. After all, if my words are wicked, it is only because his charming God has made them. Chapter upon chapter of sins you should not commit. Surely a curious man would have to try them all to see what all the fuss is about.
It's amusing to see the redness begin around his collar and rise upwards, inexorably, like Babel's tower.
"Deny all you like, my dear boy." I swirl my wine, thick and red and deliciously rich. "There is no man who can not have been curious when it came to their father's wife. Or, in my most particular case, my wife's sister." The wine sits heavy on my tongue for a moment, sweet and sour at once. "You know farmers say that no furrow is ever the same."
"I don't see what that has to do with anything!"
Dear, naive child. "My wife and her sister," I explain lazily. "Were it not for Anne's perfume, I might have believed myself to be fucking my wife, which is a terrible crime for any husband to commit."
The colour rises like a tide. "I hardly think I should hear such things, Marquis."
“Nonsense! You hear such things in confession every day, I do not doubt!”
The Abbé blushes like a schoolboy. “I will not discuss the confessions of others with you, Marquis. You know I cannot and will not.”
"Let us discuss morality, then, Abbé. Let us discuss Lot."
"Lot?" He seems flustered. It is quite charming, and when he drinks, his throat works frantically. He licks his lip, a little wine captured by that lovely tongue. "Lot was a virtuous man. You know that. He left Sodom and Gomorrah because he knew of their ills."
"Ah yes, but you forget that he went there in the first place, didn't he?"
"I... well, he went to be an example!"
I laugh. "And a very noble example too. After all, he was decent enough to protect his guests from sodomy."
"Yes," the Abbé smiles that bright, innocent smile. "You see, he was a good man."
"And," I continue, watching his eager face, "offered to give his virginal daughters to a howling mob who wanted to fuck his guests, whoring out his own flesh and blood in the name of good manners. Now, that's a good host, wouldn't you say, my darling."
He flushes more, charmingly, and drains the rest of his wine. "It was a test," he mumbles. “A test ordained by God.”
"Such is all of life, my dear." I refill his glass. “Though it does little to excuse the fact he gets fucked by his own innocent daughters. Or maybe they had been thrown out to the raving mob before, hmm? Otherwise, how would those little harlots know to ply their dear father with wine and bed him when he was incapable of protesting? Is this a good man with a good, God-fearing family? Tell me, Abbé, what do you think?”
His collar is looser now, and he has not stormed out in anger. It is often so: a small idea is planted, along with a dozen others. Conversation can do that, raising a forest of possibilities in a fertile mind, which does not yet realise what it is capable of.
“I think,” he says, careful and precise, “you are my test.”
I laugh. The boy has no idea how hard he is begging to be fucked in every possible way, with those wide eyes, those wanton lips and that ripe, hungry mind. “Then I had best make it a good and hard one, so you remember it.”
He laughs again, lowering his head, embarrassed but amused. “You have no qualms, have you?”
“A waste of time and energy,” I assure him. “Certainly nothing I would spend my time on when there is pleasure and satisfaction to be had.” I neaten my cuff, as much as I can. One can only keep up appearances to an extent in a madhouse. “You should consider it, you know.”
I smile. My wife used to tell me I looked feline, when I smiled. Teeth and eyes, she would say, like a cat who has captured a small mouse and hasn’t yet decided what to do with it. “I mean,” I murmur, leaning forward and drawing a dark curl back from his flushed cheek, “that good, hard test I promised.”
For a moment, the wine glitters in his eyes and he stares back, unmoving. I move my thumb, so slowly, and brush his lips. They part, as I knew they would, his breath delightfully warm on my flesh which has been denied such contact for so many months.
Some fool slams a door in the hallway and at once, he is lost to me.
He rises, still warm about the face, and sets down his glass. “You should read another part of the Bible,” he suggests, though he does not look me in the eye as he says it. “Perhaps about our Lord.”
“And his whores and the men who kiss him?” I suggest. His eyes flash and I spread my hands. “Your test, my darling.”
The anger vanishes like mist at dawn, and he smiles. “You can test all you wish, Marquis,” he says, gentle and earnest and utterly deluding himself. “My soul is safe.”
I look him slowly up and down. “It’s not your soul I’m interested in, Abbé.”
He laughs again, watching me, then withdraws.
A little idea.
One by one, they will take root.
After all, it only took a single bite of knowledge to make men fall.