Gallows Nymph (STORY) Part 2. Nymph Heart

HEART

Ward of the gloomy Concierge

-She was ridden as if she was his horse, and she thought it was because he already knew he was riding her last iorta of life.

He laid his maddened heart upon the stone walls as if it were a grenade, wishing it would die or burst, yet it leapt in his cavity, screaming at the death he carried.

Before he told her of the court's decision, she had hushed his lips with one long finger and instead invited him into her body. They had been old lovers after all, she and the Warden, before he was even a warden and she some one else's wife...His strength had always been several times that of her Lord Husband's- even before she nearly took said husband's life.

“So I am to die.”

And although she spied the suggestions of her own painful fate from his tortured expression, she wanted him like this. His fierce- loving grief was the best fuel she could have hoped for inside her burning wet hips.

She undressed, her unbound snowy breasts came loose from her silks. All fine in the security of her cell room. The tiles were still cool under her naked feet. Madame Du Crete let her last garment drop, then smiled at the Warden as she stood naked before him, her full, critic- applauded hips and Venus figure a vision of pink in the Warden's room.

“Then you can comfort a poor woman who will perish.”

It was her final, selfish request, with a wad of fiery spit into her mature hand, she dove to find his manhood in his trousers. They were like a wet, slopping fish, coated in slime, but with her well- practiced burning touch he came alive into a flag of diamond.

They kissed for a moment, their tongues flirting with each other like horny teenagers, then he bore her to the bed and entered her. She cried out in pleasure as she felt his manhood in her body. His possessive hand flew and gathered the tuft of her chestnut hair into a mop rein, his lancing length was as hard as his grieving love. 

She was ridden as if she was his horse, and she thought it was because he already knew he was riding her last iorta of life. She climaxed twice or thrice upon the sheets, dripping over his burning length in a scandalous puddle before she felt him finally reaching the crest to his own pleasure. But indulgently- she came again before his own. Her luscious and amble frame jerked violently- and a thin jet from her hips shot across the room as her girlish voice came out in a wet husky moan.

He held himself implanted there while the woman's body writhed, her wet tunnels flooding lava over his length. Time stopped for the Madame as she felt her final orgasm immerse her, setting her brains alight then left her frozen in a trance-like state of sexual exhilaration. The most powerful orgasm she could ever remember burned away her consciousness like charred scroll paper and gathered within her hips like a crackling monsoon. While she was still on all fours- steepled with her manicured fingers and toes, he danced back, letting her fire and water erupt out like a water pistol, spattering the tiles of their room, and illiciting several appreciative yelps from the watching guards behind her naked hips.

But she ignored them, they were but boys, she was still with the stars born from this orgasm.

Her long legs retracted back like a dying spider as she toppled back on the already soiled bed-sheets, her running hips inundating the room until it smell like strong Brie rinds. Now it was the orgasm which rode her and possessed her to another, then another tinkle that fired and fired again from between her wobbling extended legs.

Mindlessly she moaned, begging, needing madly to taste her lover's familiar seeds, but his strong hands had already snaked out, gripped her to the root of her scalp and dragged her dazed, drooling face across his unwashed length before a hot blast plastered her features in a hot, stinging roar.

He exploded over her face and stuck to her cheeks, but in his tortuous release her lover didn't see it, instead, instinctively, he jammed his length behind her 2 sheath of porcelain teeth and into her yawning throat. He spent in her mouth, spools of his oily ejaculation glazed over her vocal cords and trembling voice, then held her there as his excited length twitched out. Before his manhood sputtered into uncontrolled sneezes insider her throat. Afraid he would loose control, he convulsed onto himself and muttered something in frantic apology, but this too, she drank piously. His seeds was the taste of pure love to her and she was no where near quenched.

At last he slipped out of her mouth, letting the last of his unwashed ichors relieve over her extended tongue. For the first time he assessed the extent of his pleasure, and saw his appalling patchwork greedily stuck upon the tips of her noble nose, her high cheeks, and the cupid's bow of her painted lip, forming the snow white suggestion of a mustache upon the prized features of the Countess.

In his grief, he was like several of her best lovers all at once

She looked up, and saw him looking down at her, with all of the love and passion that she first saw a year ago when they were but horny teenagers without a place in the way of things. She was still a woman, she was still waiting. Her waiting, wide, sultry eyes. Her wet swollen flower was still so alive, it still tingled and she could feel every tiny drop of her unrepressed, itching ejaculation leaving her body. and heard it splat, splat, splat on the floor. 

As if weeping. In that moment, he did not know whether they were man, and wife of another, a father and mother of 2 families and 2 stations, or if they were but summer- lit teenagers again, laughing at each other after just swam back from the river and barely covered by wet translucent bed-sheets.

As she watched him, he swooped down and fiercely kissed that face which was still encased in his brutal web of love. And then in the middle of it all, he began to cry, all of him crumbled as they held each other. A face...that he had knew for hours- would not live beyond the day.

“I'm sorry.” He choked.

“-I'm sorry that I can not do more”

“I'm sorry for...”

“For- ”

This too he let loose but the rest never came out, and the steely warden became but a stammering ruin of tears and half finished sentences.

Though the burning afterglow Madame knew well of what the rest of each sentence might be in each measure: I'm sorry for not spotting your doomed crime first- and stop you, I'm sorry for not doing the crime myself- for you, I'm sorry for not ferrying you away – after the act was done, with you.

...All heartbreakingly sweet sentiments- especially what would be always be implied in the latter part of each statement, but most of all, she thought to herself, for probably not being her main lover- and let her loose her ways to pimps, cheats, and killers.

But there was precisely nothing you can do, my sweet fool. She thought pridefully to herself, you are too good to think that while I was bad, I would ever let you change anything of me. ...Or that I would ever dare to let you dirty your hands.

...that's why I didn't bother to escape, my fool. Plus you were too boring to assume-

“...I wouldn't have let you changed anything, my friend.” She breathed softly to his feverish weeping head. Instead, a tender voice came out, the voice of a mother she often used with her many children.

“I would have slaughtered the world and let it slaughter me before I let you be dirtied by my mistakes.”

“But alas,” she chuckled. “all my roads led me back to you, and all of me is here with you again.”

She rested her head on his arm, enjoying the feel of his warm fuzz from his muscles against her face and the soft panting from his chest. Madame always had a thing for men who cared, to her, it was one of the world's better aspects.

“The Lord is most kind in his Providence”

Thus painted, more Pagan than if she were Babylon

It was only her leaking which broke her mind from their tender embrace, and then she heard what she had failed to hear in all their earlier tender minutes.

The sound of splat, splat, splat on the floor returned, that of her own. Then she turned, apologetically switched her attention to the 2 young guards watching her. They were studying her cunt. Like scientific surveyors, the boys eyes were angling for the briefest flashes of her soaked sex, and new rounds of unrestrained silk that trickled out of her matted hole. She didn't blame them, she didn't bother too. After all, their grim instruction by the Paris High Court's decree WAS to watch her all the times- even in times like this, never mind the times when they espied her making waste, or when she was making water and blood. So long as they were her lover's men, they were his eyes and no one else from court. After all, who in her tall- glass circles would listen to the tall tales of garçons provençaux? Certainly nothing compared to what was already printed about “her” in the city's gutter press to all.

Madame- in her fox like cunning had long accepted that people would take turns to watch her probably until they'd find themselves next to the scaffolds beside the gibbet spike, then still taking turns to oogle her beautiful severed head. Instead, her thoughts drifted to one of a more scientific nature: of her own almost certainly assured public demise- judging by her lover's reaction.

“Will it be the rope? I dread the rope.” She said curiously, though she didn't fully entertain dying by hanging.

In her secret perversions she had long learned that women who were hanged often dies awkwardly, sometimes choking for minutes, even hours while their bloodied face turned purple and black and they relieved their bowels into the lewd crowd below their skirts.

“No.” The warden responded, recovering himself, and wiping away his hot tears. “...I have been told —“

He stammered, “albeit the teller was only recently sure himself — that it will be the sword.”

Then finally, he related the whole of the court's decision which he recited by rote: “Helene- Marie Du Crete, you have been found guilty of attempted murder against the life of your lord husband. After the King's gracious attention, your appeal has been denied. His Majesty had granted the remainder of your wealth to your husband and your children will be granted to him. You shall suffer death by the separation of your head from your body. A scaffold specially built for this purpose will be erected in the Hotel de Greve, after death you will have your head made available to the public upon the scaffold for upwards of 72 hours until the law permit for its removal. Thus decrees the Court of High Appeals on this day of June 17^th.”

She exhaled a sigh of relief. A gracious beheading! Some how, the simplest privilege that was awarded to her station brought her comfort- almost as great as her recent love making.

Du Crete's eyes sparkled, and her manicured and painted fingers flew to her slender neck and traced its soft length like a lover. In this second, she sampled its full silken length as if she were a greedy prophet who was privy to the neck's fate before it did in premonition. A good neck, she felt the thrills which quickened her nerves. Despite all and all of her worries, she would be permitted to die like a respected lady.

Though she was not necessarily pleased to have her fair head impaled before the rest of Paris and have it rot for some time before friends and strangers, it was the custom for other high born nobles such as herself- from mothballed country squires to Dukes of the Royal blood- which she brokered little argument. And despite the unhappy requirements of her poor pretty head in such- justice dispensing rituals, the generous distinction being permitted to die in having her head struck off rather than the infamie being strangled like a common criminal already would save her poor family much trouble in the eyes of all. 

In terms of reputation: her death would have seemed par for the course for a woman such as herself, taken away in the end by a coffin festooned with bows and ribbons- rather than a free fall into the evil maelstrom of being a Common Criminal- whose unclaimed naked bodies would be made for dissection by a school of leering anatomists and thrown to rot in unmarked pits. For those fallen women, absolutely nothing would be spared of their naked bodies, nor their imaginary bodies in the presses.

She rose and devoutly kissed her lover and embraced his knees. But this had not made him grieving over the violent death of his lover any easier to bear. Her cheeks were warmed by his warm fuzzy scruff, the smiling curve of her lips suggested a world of promises, though which- they both knew at this hour, this last meeting, was only reserve for another life.

“When I was young, I beheld the execution of Mme. de Brinvilliers. She perished under the sword, but her body was burned. Will my body be burned?”

“I am told it will be . . . claimed . . . for a decent burial.” Though he knew well that her Lord Husband had already eloped the town with her wealth. And had only contracted a pack of mangy beasts to ferry her away for a hasty and- above all, discreet burial. Whatever more money he might have thrown he'd doubtless already reserved for his new marriage...to his old mistress. Perhaps he might even break his half orphaned kids to call that woman mother.

Her lover gave her as comforting smile as possible then cupped her high cheeks. “I- I’m sure someone will take care of them.” Them, he pondered on the words, it sounded strange but it was accurate- considering of the circumstances. Above all, he secretly, murderously wished that somehow, in some of God's laws and some customs, even foreign customs, and foreign laws, and through some untapped excuses ordained by God, even ordained by the blasted Devil, that he could somehow be permitted to claim her body. With all the years she had suffered under her house, under that name, he knew he would have given her abandoned body an infinitely better treatment.

He would kill to claim her and howl with pride. Instead of only comforting a doomed ship to break in two ahead in the horizon. But those were the unspoken dreams of young love sick fools, and he was neither as young nor foolish as before.

In the end, he simply exhaled and said: “I'm certain your family would love to have you.”

Perhaps sensing his thoughts, the naked woman demurred, “Then sir, I will submit myself to the law. Since I have had a last passage of love, I am eased in my going to death.” Naked still, she went to the door.

“I shall show you out, sir,” she corrected, turning to the 2 young guards “to you all too, my Happy Doves, and then prepare myself before I die on the scaffold.”

Then she added to the warden, “I pray a good Catholic as your are you will mourn properly the harsh death of an old lover.”

“Madame is not old,” beamed the warden, his appraising eyes roamed over her body longingly along with the parting 2 lads, whom, she was sure was each saving this final image of her in thought for future use.

She watched the Warden, her old friend, old in terms of the true years of their age she knew in her head. There was something akin to longing as he watched her last. The kind that misses someone he always wanted but will never have. The same repressed defeat in his throat that kept him in line across the distance of station, homes, feelings, and never expressed more despite.

“Here”

One of Madame Helene- Marie's hands flew to her long manicured fingers and unscrewed the bright ring from her knuckle which bore a prominent amber stone the size of a marble. Within the stones flew a dance of golden flakes, flash- froze in their magnificence under the cell's lone beam of piercing sunlight. It was one of the many unimaginably expensive bauble her Lord Husband had presented to her when she half an impressionable life away, yet had always been one of her never- parting keepsakes, one which she had kept despite her ruinous marriage and its ordeals for some never clarified reason only known to her secret heart. She had originally kept it inside the prison in hope it would be a bribe for a new year of good rations- or at worst, a bribe to the headsman and his assistants so they'd leave her garters, stockings, and favorite slippers with her in tact after-

“A badge of my sweet esteem to you sir.” she delighted.

She padded their distance between them on her soft feet, as he extended his hand in disbelief, the woman kissed it with her well- oiled lips and dropped it gingerly in his rough hand. Then, as a demonstration, one of her long red nails flicked a gilded stud which in fact was a latch and the amber-ed dome opened. The Warden gasped, from underneath the tiny, gilded bottom of the marble sized dome opened a tempera portrait of her face, as she was when...when she had wider eyes and when she rejected him and when she took her...Lord Husband's hand and when those wide eyes looked as if they were ready to start on the life she chose then. The lone fragment of herself that she saved from that almost forgotten half impressionable life away, her final line of retreat and refuge of humanity, nay sanity between those years that lay unbroken upon her fingertips.

“I am sure you will think of me much when I'm gone” then she took that instant and studied his face, his exasperated expression upon that ring in his palm which contained the face he lost.

And she was certain, “...I'm sure you would” she assessed to herself, pleased with what the ring had played upon his features. The crinkled line of tears under his wetting, shivering eyes, and even the shocked eyes of the 2 guard boys with them both.

“For all our times”

She declared, “We found each other, âme amicale, so the times have been good.” Looking at the locked up portrait of her fresh youth, “Hélas, now I have no more need for such things.”

“Now sir, I give you a token of those dead time.” She looked up and their eyes met, “So they may come alive.” In moving the ring, the frozen golden flakes danced in the sun beam.

“Let your dreams be our time, and let me find you.”

~

There was much convulsions but in time the Warden recovered himself, and the 2 lovers reconciled and bid each other eternally farewell with rituals of finality between friends and lovers. When the man left, he carried the shrine to their times and dreams- and the secret instrument of their conspiring souls on one of his fingers.

When they left and closed the ironed gates, the naked Madame Du Crete beamed back with her serene lovely face. As their footsteps stalked down the hallway she took a finger and scooped one pious white strand from her cheek and licked it clean.