Soiled 1: Privilege

It...would be my right.

My father's words. “If you are not sure about it at all. We could depart at once. You don't have to be here.”

I didn't respond at once, but I guessed I just shook my head.

“She can't hurt you now.”

His voice was still heavy and much laced with sorrow. He knows, and he blames himself for having let it happened to me. Some where down the gathering I could vaguely made out “-till the other boys confessed.” I could never blame him, he was and has always been my better teacher. And must confess that not a single fiber of my being holds any ire against a man such as him. The badge of our house shone bright on his chest today.

The first time she laid her eyes on me was only minutes before she laid her hands on me. Our house was not named with a worthy name then, and I suppose as such she thought of us like all others that deserved her scorn. Ever since her lord husband passed, she rented that manor, that inn, that place of pilgrimage to folks like us...a species with all coins and no name, and in need of the King's ears, paying for the privilege of using our money. I remember father thanking her with his utmost cutesy, and then told me to behave while he knelt for His Majesty.

I was mostly playing with boys then, ever since we discovered we can't play with girls anymore, wood swords and fencing lessons. So when she called to me for a piano lesson, I thought they were just piano lessons.

When my head crashed against the wall, I wailed and begging. When I met her eyes, they were not truly those I see now. Stark eyes, fierce liquid that bore down my soul, more sublime than the mother of wolves, her lips was twisted with strenous effort, then came alive with a most wicked smile as she found it, slippery and rattling and wet.

To my fear then, it came alive in her hands, like it had a little heart of its own, an animal animated by her spell, long and straight, red and blushing, responding to her rough hands with my running fear. It dripped everywhere, the sound of water on waxed floorboards, and then I felt her long curved tongue's hungry caress. She laughed a watery laugh, drinking with indifferent satisfaction as white rivulets of milk came rushing out, oily and agitated.

I...I thought it died, she was a witch, and had made it live, and then killed it forever. Some how I thought then I had became a woman, maybe that's how girls are made. I though that candle wax was a part of my soul.

“They are your children.” She mused as she ran that dark wedged tongue, which had then become the color of lilac white over each lingering bead of sweetness. The thing I remembered more than others was her perfume, which spelled of spice and dampness, and even now nothing plays havoc in me that that...force of spell.

They were my children, I had killed them, I had sinned. With sins fathers have always preached against. Where she touched and scratched were red burns, where she suckled had became very cold. She let me cry for three hours beside the wall, and sat there appraising my emptiness, before instructing me the unique power of secrets. When she fed me some bread, she convinced me to button back my wet exposed trousers.

When father returned he was much pleased with the talk with the Lord Mayor, and offered to take me out to any restaurants in the capital, his treat. I hugged him, by then I've remade my face then and went out with agreeable tenderness. He bowed with his utmost curtsey as he bid her farewell, and then he told me to bit her farewell. She too was civil in her farewell, and received father's good news with agreeable nods and jokes, as our wagons pulled up. When we rode off I knew she she was watching, even with only the back of my skull, I knew she was still looking at me with those cold magnetic eyes.

Father asked how was the lesson and I replied it was well, he smiled and sank to his good mood and I found reason to resume mine. The King was pleased and we would finally had the right to leave to our hamlet. Father told me mother would be so glad of the news and wait for me with hot soup and kisses. Then he told me the kind lady was so generous that she arranged the whole next year for my piano lessons.

Despite my fears I agreed and obeyed my father when we returned for the luncheons and new piano lessons. My shame equal to the many babes I have sinfully lost. It would be days before I was relieved that it was still alive. I was...I had done something...else, something away from everything that was man, that was natural, something evil and unspeakable. Despite everything, I let. Father was so happy, and I would never want to shame him with my wickedness.

She didn't wait as long as the first time before she brought be in. I must have changed much as I could scarcely remember, looking back her usual I suppose. Must have just tormented it with her tongue out while took the cumshot, ensuring she catches all she can. Drank them whole, with the sultry art of mockery. That time, we slept on the same bed, she must have been very tired, and it wasn't till hours later I woke and dressed myself, then met father again with a refreshed smile.

I have no recollection of the third, or the ensuing lessons. I did remember she expected more of me as I returned. Usually, at a capricious appointed hour, she would arose me from my guest bed, she would goosed me with a hard twist of her fingers and then with meaningful eyes full of need. I remembered the first time she goaded me with fishing out her cold feet, and asked me to smote them with kisses. Sweat and...something uniquely her, sour and perfumed. The oiled taught sole unraveling under my tongue, the taste of women perhaps, or I had thought. I know to resist means she would tell everyone what ungodly things I have let happened to my virgin body, that I was shamed before, a hell, but much worse for father, so close to the King, it would destroy our house.

In time, I worshipped her, I don't know when we had talked for the first time, but then we talked, started as little things, she scolding me for mistakes, then...random things, like if she was well fitted in a corsage, or how the things I do demeans womenkind. At first it was strange talking with her, then I knew that too was something we do. One time I caught her singing, and in those moods she called me not with violent hands but played me with her long splayed fingers. I found myself hang upon her every approval, wanting to make her smile, wanting to entertain her, to make her...I knew she was cannibal, vampire, infanticides, every religion had their own version of her, but I can also tell you what she felt like when I entered her, or that she was both savage and...inventive.

Stranger still, in time, there were actual whole days of piano. But by then I had dreaded those passionless days.

Boys...there were other boys, peasant boys gathered between nimble fingers, from similar families that had higher aspirations than they were born in. Some times I caught their faces, the older ones were fourteen and twelve, with bodies of lifelong carpenters, smiths, and shipwrights. They too had survive the dark blessing of the queen's chamber, I remembered the favorite one, full of muscles and demands, I loathed him, we all did, but it was our duty to serve. Despite all, they were better as pretending different than the younger ones, who walked with the cloud of defeated air. I probably looked like that on my first time. I knew some later became monks, we generally avoided each other.

They come all the time, and go from time to time, often you don't know one wouldn't come again till months later. In time, her favorite lover was gone as well, forever to be some boatsman, his father was crying that night with him outside the courtyard, he was the most muscular man I had ever seen.

Sometimes, after I have spent my strength in her, I toyed with the notion that she was by all means my wife, and perhaps this is how wives and husbands are made, girls have complained about how there was violent changes in their bodies I would never understand, perhaps behind close doors, behind every family, perhaps even mother was like this, perhaps it just is. Sometimes I saw her waving to the passing carriage I espied her friends in the royal court and their children, she never seemed to have visited such wickedness upon them, perhaps only boys like me.

One time I asked her why are the other boys keep getting banished.

Without turning she simply said “Because you are different” and kept her gaze on the falling snow outside her window. I knew it to be a lie, as there were three or five boys then, and secretly wanted to kill her for these disposable assurances, but eventually that rage died too like so many else.

Somehow I never noticed the gilded carriage of her husband's brother, or how often it stops by her gate. I suppose now it all made more sense. Well...made more sense considering now that I dared to imagine what an Abbot could be when properly defrocked, possessed by half of the deadly vices. Suppose that night made more sense now.