Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Etchings of the Future |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Michelle Estelle |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Het |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Passepartout\OFC |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
Jules saunters down the Parisian Street feeling both warmth and remorse. The ghosts of memories haunt him. Something has drawn him back to this place. His heart aches with a need unfulfilled. The heels click down on the creaking stairs as, he ascends to the cold damp garret where the Foggs found him.
The door opens, everything has changed. Warm perfumed aromas rich with rosemary, jasmine, sandalwood and bergamot call out to him. There is a soft glow that permeates, filling everything with a wonderful vibrancy. And that vibrancy, is a woman.
"You have returned, Monsieur Verne." The mysterious woman smiles.
"What? How do you know...." Jules' head is reeling. He knows this is not a woman, one could forget. Her eyes soft and brown, the full lips and delicate cheekbones, his eyes wander down to the low-cut bodice of her dress.
"I am sorry. You left behind pieces of yourself." She motions to the wall, where a matted self-portrait signed J. Verne hangs. "My name is Yvette Boulay. Would you care to come in?"
"Umm, err " the young man fumbles for words, as he follows her inside. As, she turns he notices the long dark hair that flows past her slender waist, and frames her well-rounded hips.
"I know that look......" She grins and hands him a cup of spiced tea.
Jules blushes and bites his tongue, becoming increasingly more aware of the arousal he is feeling.
"You wish to sketch me, no?" Yvette asks. "It is quite alright. I only ask you pose for me in return."
"Yes, of course...." he sighs in relief. "I will only be in Paris for a month. When my friends return from Scotland, I must leave."
"You have not come to study?" she replies "Your work shows such promise."
"With all the beauty in Paris it is a mediocrity." He answers. "I am trying new directions."
"Yes, exploration of the soul. We must know our purpose in life or wander aimlessly." A slight smile crosses her lips. "Do we begin, now? I have paper."
She begins to slip the dress from her alabaster shoulder. "You wish to sketch the entire, or just the torso?"
Jules gulps as Yvette opens her bodice to reveal a delicate lace corset. She turns her back to him, expecting him to help her unlace. His hand quivers as he begins to unlace the corset. She can tell from the clumsy tugs and gentle pulling that she has encountered a novice. Their patience is rewarded as the garment falls to the floor. He glances down taking in every inch. Yes, he wanted to sketch her. The sweet nipples upturned, the gentle lines of her ribcage, his eyes were insatiable, devouring her. There is a knock at the door.
"Master Jules?" A familiar voice calls.
"I know who this is. We will continue later." He hands her clothing to her, sighs heavily and answers the door.
Yvette hears the two men talking at the door as she quickly puts on her corset and pulls the dress back up.
"Monsieur Verne, would your friend like to come in? We have plenty of tea." She calls.
"Yes, of course." Jules frustrates. As Passepartout enters the room, Jules notices Yvette carefully studying his form. She nods her head, and bites her lower lip then releases.
Jean notices the woman is struggling to button the back of her dress.
"Pardon, I am not meaning to intrude..." the valet surmises.
"Monsieur surely, you don't think that I would take advantage of this beautiful young one." Yvette grins, wags her finger and makes a tch tch sound.
Passepartout chuckles and poor Jules can only blush.
"What have you been doing with this place? These pipes....why are there pipes on the walls, peepings out of curtains." Jean inquires.
"Handsome and observant, you have noticed my water heating system." She replies. "Please, do not tell my landlady I will be evicted."
The dark-eyed man wanders over to examine the pipes. He pulls back the curtain to reveal an enameled horse trough, painted in a garden motif, with interlacing roses. A network of pipes runs up and down the wall emptying into the trough.
"Where do these pipes go?" He asks, as he places his hand on one, and jerks it back. "It is being hot!"
"I have a rain barrel on the roof." Yvette answers.
"But, how is it heated ??" Verne's curiosity has been piqued.
"There is a series of magnifying lenses above the barrel, making the sun's rays more intense. The top of the barrel is coated with tar, to absorb the heat....." She explains.
"The barrel she is metal, no? " Passepartout inquires.
"Oui, it is very simple when you think about it." The woman follows..."And, the garret is much warmer because of heat from the pipes."
"Not simple, is being brilliant." As Jean looks at her a fascination takes hold him. Who is this beautiful creature, who can create such things?
Her eyes catch his. They are locked in this moment, each pouring out a secret longing, a desire, an emptiness within themselves. The intensity frightens her; she blinks and looks away.
"I can not do this thing." She shakes her head. "A man paid me a large sum of money to keep M. Verne here this evening. He said, 'If the young man should leave here, his life would be in danger.' I can keep no secrets from you."
"This man, did he have a name?" Jules asks.
"Arago. His name was Monsieur Arago." Yvette answers.
Suddenly, Verne's head reels in recognition. This is why he was compelled to this place. Arago would have known he would come to his aide. And Yvette, she could make a man forget many things. A commanding look of resolution takes over the young man face.
"Then, the sketching, the tea was all a ruse?" Jules asks sternly.
"No, it is not as you think." Her eyes moisten, as she replies. "I was curious about the drawings you left behind. I genuinely wished to meet you Monsieur Verne. This Arago only gave me a reason to keep you here. I am not the kind of woman who toys with men's affections."
"I did not mean to imply...." Verne stumbles, as he knows his foot is in his mouth, up to the ankle.
"Mademoiselle, one has only to be looking at you to be seeing in you the refindmentals of a lady." The valet surmises. "I be suspecting a title."
"In name only Monsieur, my parents have died and the estate was ruined long since. I was shuttled from court to kitchen." Yvette confesses with a laugh, then adds; "You are full of surprises."
"Passepartout surprises us all at times." Jules replies.
"He seems like you, a man of many talents." She smiles
Embarrassed by the attention, Jean turns away and goes to the sill and examines the way the pipes are connected through the gutters. He listens carefully as the discussion continues and it becomes obvious that Yvette was only interested in Jules' artistic talent and the opportunity for stimulating conversation with a kindred spirit. He examines her gentle curves, and for a moment engages in a pleasant daydream about a Bohemian life of art and lovemaking.
"Passepartout, a man was to be in the mademoiselle's company this evening. You will take my place. I must see to Arago." Jules states firmly
"Master Jules, you can not be doing this dangerous thing, by yourself." The valet heeds
"Allow for me to be going with you."
"We do not the full scope of this matter. It is possible someone knows I am to be here, and Yvette would then be in danger." Verne replies.
"Go with your friend, I can take care of myself." Answers Yvette, she gives Jean a reassuring rub on his shoulder.
Passepartout looks at Yvette, then Jules and back again. He shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath.
"The decision is not his to make. Please, allow him to remain here." Jules insists. "I am worried for your safety, and it would give me peace of mind."
The woman nods her head, and Passepartout throws up his arms in frustration. Verne leaves on the quest for his mentor.
The concerned valet paces the floor anxiously.
"We must respect his wishes." She tells Jean. "Perhaps, we make a little something to eat? It might help to calm your nerves."
His stomach is knotted, and anxiety races through him, like so many grains of sand caught in a dust devil. He wants to shout his frustration, free himself from this exasperation. But there is a something soothing about her, the way her dark eyes call out to his. The gentle sway of her hips as she comes near.
She takes his hand and effortlessly guides him into the kitchen. Her fingers point to a chair; he shakes his head and opens a cabinet drawer.
The utensils he finds have all been augmented slightly, small improvements made to each one.
"You must excuse, my habits. I can never leave things be. We should always try to better things, no?" Yvette explains.
"I am understanding completely." Passepartout answers. She takes his hand and clasps it firmly between her own, and looks up at him. Desire comes from nowhere, and he kisses her deeply. She breaks free and turns away from him trembling.
"Monsieur Passepartout?" her voice quavers, "I must confess, I feel as though we have done this before. As though, you are some distant part of my soul returned. The feelings are so very strong, I am frightened."
He presses her tightly against him, running his fingers through her hair; he gently kisses the top of her head.
"Perhaps, we should be preparing the food......" he suggests.
Jules traces back the remembered steps of his past, trying to use his instinct to find where Arago might be. Every effort meets with failure, until at last something brings him to a small chapel. A small light beckons from within. He carefully pushes open the large heavy wooden doors revealing a tiny dark sanctuary, shadows play against the altar and small statuettes giving even this holy place an ominous feel. A hooded figure sits at the foremost pew clutching something tightly against his chest. Thinking it is a monk, Jules respectfully approaches and is surprised to find Arago under the hood.
"I could never repress your curiousity, Jules." Intones Arago. "It is your driving force."
"Now that I am here, can you tell me why?" Verne inquires.
"This little treasure...." the elder man pats his chest." The monks here have guarded it for centuries. The League must never know."
"KNOW WHAT?" Jules shakes his head. "You are speaking in puzzles....I don't understand."
"The key, my boy...." Arago answers, "It unlocks the secrets of Nostradamus. The Quatrains are encoded, with this everything is as clear as crystal."
Verne only gasps.
She walks as if in a trance, and places a wheel of cheese on the table. Quietly, she produces a pear and a few apples, then some soft, fresh, dark bread. The valet seems pleased with the simple fare, as he takes a garnishing tool from the drawer to work his magic. The clank of glass is the only sound he hears as she comes from behind with goblets and a bottle of sweet white wine. As she puts the bottle down in front of him, he gently squeezes her hand. She tenderly kisses his cheek, then turns to get the plates.
Even in silence, he can sense the fire, the vitality of this woman, so lovely yet so very empty. He holds a slice of pear to her lips; she takes a bite and gives him the remainder.
The sweet juice trickles from the corner of his mouth, she quickly licks it up. Their lips connect and he kisses her once more. This time she does not tremble but, responds with a quick fluttering of her tongue within his mouth. They embrace but again; he releases her unsure of himself and these feelings that seem to overtake him without warning. He pulls out the chair, and gestures for her to sit down.
"What I don't understand is if the monks have safely guarded it, why do you bring it out of hiding, now?" Verne asks.
"News has spread of its existence." Arago answers, "It is the monks that have requested my help."
"Perhaps, it is best we destroy it." Jules suggests "Is mankind ready for such knowledge?"
"Mankind is not. Nostradamus knew this. That is why he gave it to the church." Arago replies. "But think Jules, with this we could save lives, prevent war, pestilence... The future could be as bright as the morning sun ascending the horizon."
Verne looks into his mentor's pleading eyes. His mind races and his heart is filled with a great uplifting hope that somehow mankind could harvest this great bounty.
He pushes the chair in for her, and then takes a seat himself. The wine is poured; they eat in silence but share morsels with each other. Unspoken needs shared, the air is heavy with desire. Neither tells what is on their mind or in their hearts but their actions speak volumes. Hands held each feeding the other as if they had always been together, and were forever joined. Seeming more a ritual than a meal shared. Together they clear the dishes and tidy up. At last she breaks the silence.
"Jean?" she speaks, "It is Jean? Do you share these feelings, or am I going insane?"
He says nothing only holds her tightly, as a tear trickles down her cheek. His tender embrace calms her; she tilts her face to look into his eyes once more. He sees in her eyes his own reflection, more than that he sees deep within himself and finds her there. Her lips part, he fills them with his own, drinking fully with unquenchable desire. Rhyme and reason are no more; nothing exists only this instant. A madness overtakes them, as he begins to unfasten her dress, she knows nothing except the longing she feels for him. Her slender fingers work their way opening his shirt, as she caresses his broad shoulders, his chest and works her way down the waistband of his trousers. Her dress collapses in a heap on the floor, as he smothers her décolleté in a barrage of warm, wet kisses. She loosens his trousers, and slips her hand inside and begins to carefully run her fingers down the length of his shaft; tenderly cradling it's base and stroking it with a circular motion. He cups her breasts to his lips, and playfully bites at her nipples, licking between volleys, she coos urging him on. He unlaces the corset; it too falls upon the floor.
She urges him backwards; he falls into a small brass bed filled with feather pillows, and homespun quilts. His shirt lies open; she begins to run her tongue down the length of his chest, stopping to slowly kiss as she journeys downward. The taste of the oils on his skin excites her, her breasts swell and she nestles his hot, swollen member between them. She presses her breasts tightly together, and glides him back and forth between them, then releases, holding him within her grasp and rubbing the head his shaft against her erect nipples. Seeing the first droplets of glistening moisture, she first licks then suckles him as she massages tenderly underneath. She breathes in deeply allowing the aroma, and pheromones to invade and conquer. Her tongue flickers at the base of his shaft, then traces its length before taking him in her mouth and working slowly up and down. He lets out a low moan, as the pressures builds, then fills her with his sweet warmth.
The remainder of their clothes are lost in a sea of quilts, as he topples over on her and kisses her deeply, their tongues intertwine and unlace as his hands caress the cheeks of her bottom in a rhythmic circular motion. Her body begins to arch and gyrate to the pattern his fingers play upon her. She feels the warmth and pressure of him swelling tightly against her, moisture trickles out in anticipation. She opens and welcomes him fully and deeply. Her hands mimic his own, as breathing and movement sync and their bodies become one, in a constant tidal flow of motion. She wraps her legs around him tightly pressing harder, moving faster with his thrusts. Her fingers race desperately wishing to touch and feel everything they run quickly between his thighs and caress that small tender spot under his sac. He responds wildly, filling her completely then withdrawing almost wholly before plunging again within her depths. Her legs spread further desperately wanting more, she bends with his advances. She gives his shoulder a playful nudge, a signal of her desire.
He rolls over on his back, and she lies atop him. She cups a willing breast to his lips; he suckles passionately as she rubs back and forth coaxing him. She feels his hardness against her folds. Her fingers hold him as she draws him inside, sliding up and down slowly. He grabs her firm cheeks and works her hips in circular motion; she undulates with his touch. The warmth fills her entire being, as if a raging fire were burning within her centered at that one place where they were joined and spreading out encasing them both. They fall on their sides, her leg presses firmly across his chest as, she holds him guiding his every move within her. Her fingers play upon warm roundness under him, as the intensity of his strokes increase sending waves of pleasure through her body.
She rolls on her back; he hooks her legs in the bends of his elbows and works them in time with his maneuvering thrusts. Her body echoes his penetrations, pulling herself into a world created from this uncontrollable delight. Her hips gyrate caught in the frenetic flow of ecstasy's rise and ebb. She senses his urgency and pumps faster, feeling the rush of explosion and release that fills them both.
A dark figure enters the sanctuary takes a seat and bows his head. The hair on the back of Arago's neck rises and he turns to see. Jules shrugs, nothing is out of the ordinary. The doors creak open again, this time two more men come in. They make their way to the altar, cross themselves and kneel. Verne issues a deep sigh of concern, the elder man signals him to remain calm. A creak is heard once more, the men at the altar turn, each has a knife out ready to fight. A league contingent pours into the small chapel like rain from a spout. To Arago surprise, Jules grabs the book and springs over the pew with cat-like precision. The elder man's agility is astounding; he dives out of the way and manages to wrench a knife from one of the assailants. He slashes furiously to reach his friend. Verne stands solemnly at the altar, tears streaming down his face; he puts the book to the candle flame it ignites. Arago screams as though a fatal blow had been delivered to his very soul. Nothing to be gained the league scatters like field mice from a plough. The two men hold each other consoling the wound they share.
She smiles wickedly, and pulls him toward the trough. Warm water courses through the pipes and fills the tub. She motions him in first, and then climbs atop him kissing fervently. He takes a cloth and washes her breasts; she clutches his hands and urges his tender advances. Their lips meet, his tongue playfully darts and dances with hers. Her body glides against his in the warm water. She feels his arousal, and takes him within her splashing madly, faster and faster. His hands run up and down her back, holding, caressing every inch. She undulates pressing her hips tightly against him, locking in place for a long hesitant moment, then picking up the fury once more. The energy increases and builds as he succumbs to her passion and empties himself within her.
One towel between two, he tenderly wipes between her bottom, her legs and back. She tugs it away and dries him as well. They lock in embrace, each kiss deeper and more intense than the last. They separate; he collapses on the bed. She goes beside the stove and returns with an earthen jar in her hands.
"You are not going to be feeding me in bed ...." Jean chuckles
She throws her head back and laughs. "This is not food. Please Cher, trust me. Lie on your stomach. You will enjoy this."
He does as instructed she climbs atop his muscular bottom and dips her fingers in the jar. She rubs her palms together to warm the concoction she has prepared. Rich aromas permeate, sandalwood, rosemary, bergamot and jasmine, her hands begin to work it into his shoulders as she tenderly kisses his neck. The fingers work their way down the gentle slope in a soothing circular motion, stopping to kiss and press gingerly at his spine. She reaches the small of his back, and slides herself down atop his firm thighs. She finds herself nibbling and caressing his cheeks, as her palms circle them with salve. She feels him begin to turn over and raises slightly. She sees the massage has left him swollen with desire. He scoops her up and rolls over on top of her plunging deeply, she gasps with both surprise and delight. Her hips wriggle in anticipation of his thrusts, working in widening circles, bringing her legs up across his back and shoulders. His mouth joins hers and their tongues dip in out wrapping, tasting, exploring each other. Her tender folds open wanting him, every inch, very pore begging for his sweet penetrations. He licks her warm supple breasts, then suckles them scraping her erect nipples with his teeth. Her head swims as the rapture envelops them in a maelstrom of bliss. She tries to leave the bed and he kisses her deeply; she smiles and shakes her head. He realizes for the first time how much time has passed, and his mind begins to fill with thoughts Jules. He pulls on his clothes and notices Yvette has started to make tea. Curiosity causes him to glance through a sketchbook that lies next to the bed. The face he sees within mirrors his own. He brings it to Yvette.
"This is the face in my dreams. And to my dreams you will return." Her dark eyes explain, "Your friend and Monsieur Arago are outside....."
He tenderly strokes her cheek, then runs to greet Verne. She peers down at the dark Paris street, watching him as he half carries Jules to the safety of an awaiting bed.
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