Gallows Nymph (Un bref): Déchets- A Gratification

 

PARIS: August 26, 1701

As the final dregs of daylight painted the square in muted hues, the macabre vigil still continued around the decapitated adulteress's infamous head. After all, it's not every day one of the finest beauties of Paris was put to the sword. 

Her story was over~ for her of course, but not for them. If anything her story was truly getting birthed; among their mouths. And they were loath to relinquish it. 

The noblemen, their faces alight with a twisted sort of pride, had leaned from the windows of the Hotel de Ville, their labored breathes mingling with the raucous laughter of the common folk below– the laborers and the layabouts, the destitute and the debauched. Mothers had pointed, eagerly imparting a lesson in mortality to their wide-eyed children, while the old bourgeois pressed their weathered faces to the wet boards, desperate to catch the faintest whiff of her titillating gore in the air. 

For hours, their eyes had greedily devoured the sight of Madame's head perched upon the rusted nail that protruded from the scaffold's edge. Still new faces joined in from time to time, eager to catch one final glimpse of that mottled head, trained on the slow, agonizing unfastening of her luscious mouth, drinking in every detail of its dark disgorged blood with a fervor that bordered on the obscene.

At last some broke away, their spirits buoyed, their steps quickening as they stalked their way to the nearby cat houses, eager to pull open the long crusted breeches and indulge in the urgent bulge that had been whetted by the coquettish death. Others, often in packs simply drifted off.  They staggered and stumbled, their shameless voices trading the depraved nymph's death which had seared herself into the collective memory like an orgy. Parisians' will relive her with their genitals. Foreigners and even lowest dregs, still enough to elicit her again in their indecent solitude. 

He had come to Paris seeking justice, to claim what was rightfully his - her fortune, amassed through her scandalous exploits.

The Viscount Monsieur Du Crete sat hunched over in the dimly lit room, the flames of the ornate fireplace crackling merrily in the background. A decanter of wine sat at his elbow, the rich scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the air. He was nursing his wounds, both physical and emotional, from the ordeal of recent weeks. None would be disturbing him today of course. It's not every day a guest would have his own wife's head smote off and pierced upon a scaffold before all Paris.

His eyes scanned the pamphlet in his hand,The crude woodblock prints adorning its pages depicted his late and nude wife twisted in acts of depravity that caused his face to contort in disgust and something else far more unspeakable. This was his soiled wife - the woman who had left him, took their children, and made a name for herself in the most infamous way possible. A name that now sullied- no, sullies his own this very night across the capital.

The most common graffiti often attached to his plastered naked wife were usually, though not in the least limited to: "Elle a embrassé ses enfants avec ces lèvres !" , "Mon pissoir  préféré !" 

Now he was staying at the boarding house in the past few weeks to convalesce from the injuries he had sustained from the attempt on his life - a plot that his wife had masterminded. But he had other motives for staying there too. He knew that once his wife's head was cut off, he would be the full master of all her fortunes, due in a slip of her banknote remitting to him. he had won. But, clutching a rendition of her bestial fornication on the pamphlet that's plastered across the capital, the victory tasted bitter in his mouth. 

"Well if it ain't the Queen of Tarts herself!" a Bravo shrieked with hysterical delight a floor down, drawing a roomful of bawdy laughter. An image of the late headless Madame Du Crete in her nudity brandished on his cardstock. A Queen of Hearts. Or as that room would call her from now, a Queen of Tarts. Whoever reproduced her on that pamphlet had made her in all sizes and accessories.

Now Monsieur Du Crete paced the solitary confines, a recently arrived leather-bound ledger clutched tightly in his hands. The remitted wealth contained within its pages, all his wife's decade of hoardings from her fornications: meticulously tallied, now belonged solely to him. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he contemplated his late wife's dramatic demise.

He knew that by these late hours, his wife's execution would've been completed. He imagined her corpse, the beautiful features that once won his heart now cold and lifeless, her head separated from her body and placed on a pike for all to see. he couldn't help but feel a sense of disgust at the thought of her tawdry affairs and the public display of her head. 

Another scrawled comment which he saw upon another page read "Je veux toujours la  baiser avant qu'elle pourrisse." accompanied by a rather well drawn graffiti of a doting dog staring at her debasedness. He does not know if the 2 parts were done by the same miscreant, though having it spoken by a dog adds to another dimension he does not dare to imagine. Though Paris would have little to imagine, it had became difficult to dispel the notion of her dalliance beyond her own species.

He paused, running his fingers along the edge of the ledger. Helene Marie's vast fortune was his now, the fruit of his carefully constructed machinations. He... could claim her body and head, a part of him effervesced the silly premise to grant her the dignity of a Christian interment at least befitting her former station, at least to lay her to rest within some lichen dotted church yard. 

And the most often repeated scrawling of all, which was commented over a dozen pamphlets he saw, which Monsieur Du Crete had no idea how to disprove to all: "baisée par des nègres." Such was his wife, which all of Paris now met.

But he had no desire to do so. The thought of her rotting before the city was a fitting end for the woman who had caused him so much troubles and humiliation. After all, from the likes of it she's already claimed by everyone else as if she's their own.

He had loved her once, or thought he had, but that love had soured over the years. Her betrayal, her absconding of their 4 children. Then she debased herself her, but upwards, up a panoply of Lord's cocks until she was claimed only by the King's own- he still remembered when some one wrote to him of her newly state. It had twisted something dark in his heart. Seating himself at his ornate desk, Robert dipped his quill into the inkwell, carefully composing a letter to the authorities. In it, he stated unequivocally that he would not be claiming Helene Marie's remains, nor would he be responsible for their proper interment. He poured a glass of fine brandy, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

Now, with the weight of her fortune in his grasp, at least some of the debts from his past ploys would be evened. At least enough for him to keep the loan sharks for a few fortnights. Still, the scandal that had engulfed his household had reached every corner of Parisian society, its tendrils worming their way into the very fabric of the city. And now, it seemed, there was no escaping the consequences of his wife's sordid demise. 

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his brooding thoughts. Smoothing his features into an impassive mask, he called out, "Enter."

The door swung open, admitting a well-dressed man whose sharp eyes betrayed a calculating intelligence. Robert regarded him warily, his fingers twitched with the urge to send this unwelcome intruder away.

"Monsieur Du Crète," the man began, his voice oily and ingratiating, "I understand that you have yet to claim your wife's remains for a proper Christian burial." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.

"Such a tragic waste, for one so renowned for her exquisite beauty."

Robert's lip curled in a rattled sneer. "Don't bother with condolences," he snarled, "the wretched woman has caused me no end of trouble, even in her death. ”

The man nodded, but his gaze never wavered. "I understand your frustration. Ah, but therein lies the opportunity, Monsieur," the crisp-suited man purred, his eyes glinted with a gleam. Then his suggestion of a smile widened, his gaze never wavered. "Her infamy has only served to heighten the...fascination surrounding her. 

"and there are...certain individuals who had taken a keen interest in the tragic fate of Madame Du Crète, including her notoriety even in their most... compromised states. They would be most eager to acquire such a...prized a memento of her...fabled escapades which currently adorns the scaffold."

"You mean to sell her?"

"Yes! Why indeed my Lord. My master would be most interested."

Robert blustered. His forwardness surprised even himself but the crisp-suited valet's answer surprised him further.

"Who~ who is the fellow?"

"A most respected member of the Kingdom, and also most generous." The valet regaled, then he added, "...and someone who once had expressed his condolence for the violence perpetrated upon you personally to your face, and had a good hand in rendering restitution to your wife's assets back to you and your wounded limbs."

"That could be five or six you are talking about."

"Then he's indeed among those five or six."

"...No Robert, justice is my job but it's because I hate to see you like this. Rest assured her verdict...and her account will be yours. God knows, she can't take it when she go see the Devil. Oh good Heavens, speaking of which, will you provide her with a box? Oh? Not even for her pretty little head haha? What a Jehu you are."

“...And he has a most profound admiration for the beauty of your late wife."  He paused, letting the turgid air drag on.

“In what ways?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"I'm afraid the specifics are... rather personal in nature,” He paused, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "Suffice it to say, he will do his utmost to preserve and cherish her exquisite features." 

Robert's fingers drummed against the arm of his chair,  jaw tightened, his resolve wavering. The thought of his wife's head, once the envy of all Paris, being subjected to such depraved indulgences sent a shiver of revulsion through him. And yet, the allure of the promised wealth- any promised weath was a siren's call he found increasingly difficult to ignore. 

"And what, pray tell, would this...patron of yours offer in exchange for such a...prize?" 

The stranger's eyes widened, a gleam of triumph flashing across his features. "A most generous sum, Monsieur. More than enough to ensure your comfort for the rest of your days."

"And enough to ensure that your wife's untimely demise does not leave you destitute as well as securing your financial legacy anew."

Robert's eyes widened momentarily before a calculating expression settled over his features. 

Sensing his hesitation, the procurer pressed on. 

"Surely, Monsieur, you cannot derive any pleasure from seeing your wife's face left to rot on public display.

"The alternative is to allow the rabble to continue feasting their eyes upon your unburied wife. Surely you would prefer to see her legacy preserved in a more...exclusive setting. Think of the dignity you could afford her, the peace of mind you could find, by entrusting her to a more... discreet custodian."  

As if he wouldn't just pry her out when no one's around. Robert mused sardonically. But he did not mouth out his thoughts.

Then, studying Robert's face, the valet pronounced 

"25 thousand livres,”

Robert felt his breath catch in his throat. 25 thousand livres – a princely sum, and just matched the same extracted from his late wife's accounts.  Enough to restore his own tarnished life, and live another life.

"I..." he began, his voice trailing off. But it was a feint. An old ploy. He was already eager. 

"Very well," he said at last, his voice laden with a dark finality. "You may inform your patron that the head is his, for that price." 

The valet's eyes lit up, and he quickly produced a sack of coin, the weight of it heavy in Robert's palm. "My patron will be most pleased. He shall arrange for the, ah, discreet removal of Madame's head within the week."

The man bowed, and soon he was gone. The door did not even make a sound as he left. Robert remained, a large sack of gold coins and his wife's bank note both on his desk. Hélène Marie, it seemed, could still serve him one final purpose – further his purse. 

"My patron will be most pleased. He shall arrange for the, ah, discreet removal of Madame's head within the week."

As the morning's light crested over the distant horizons, Robert's eyes wandered back to the perverse pamphlet on his desk again. The one he had personally ripped out. 

He felt like a pimp. And instead of fury or disgust. This time, only a thrill came to him.

His thoughts drifting to the offending image of his wife, he thought about how hecould "honor" her memory with a sticky tribute of his own. She did ended up giving him a lot of money, even if she had to die for it.

The Viscount's eyes devoured the crude drawings on the pamphlet, feeling the familiar stirring in his loins as he imagined her in all her wanton debauchery. The smiling obscene face of his unfaithful wife gazed up at him from those pages, as if challenging him to partake in her sins. And partake he would. His breathing quickened, and his heart raced as the fantasy played out in his mind.

Her porcelain skin bared, those tall, shapely limbs- no matter how much he despised her- this once captured goddess-like creature. The memory of her in their first shameless couplings. 

With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his breeches, exposing his engorged member to the flickering shadows of the fireplace. He grabbed the roughly drawn image of his wife from the pamphlet, bringing it close to his face. He imagined her nude body squirming beneath him, her eyes rolled back in ecstasy as he thrust into her. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filled his nostrils as he stroked himself, his body shuddering with a long familiar itch.

His fingers tracing the contours that captured Madame Du Crète's exquisite limbs, now forever frozen in the throes of depraved passion. Her exquisite form writhing in the throes of unholy rapture, her lips parted in cries of wanton abandon. Every lush curve and delicate feature accentuated by the skilled engraver's hand. 

Biting his lips, his mind was filled with images of her in her supposedly most shameless moments, her body writhing in ecstasy as she was ravished by lords, and even dogs. He could almost hear her cries of pleasure, and the lewd things~ *scrawled filthy comments* they once said to her. Her full lips parted in ecstasy as she writhed and her sprawled limbs entwined with multiple lovers, the sultry tilt of her ruinous head already despoiled by the wretched spatters of the other men's filth.

He tormented himself tightly, his body shuddering with the galleries of sick ecstasies as he imagined being one of those men, claiming her for his own. In his mind, she begged for more, her eyes rolling back in her head as she squirted her unseemly liquid all over the checkered floor. 

With a grunt, the male finally reached the peak of his pleasure. A thick, yellowish tallow like stream of cum erupted from his throbbing shaft, splattering all over the pamphlet's depiction of his wife. The sticky liquid covered her face, distorting her features into an obscene mask of lust.

He looked down at his handiwork, a perverse smile playing on his lips. Perhaps other men were doing the very same thing in their privacy at that very moment. Once- the thought alone would have cut him. Now? With finally more gold than he'd imagine he would have defrauded with proper hard work?~

With a carefree toss, he crinkled up the page and threw it into the fireplace, watching as the flames consumed the cum distorted image of his wife's face. It was as if he was discarding her forever, leaving the weight of her memory behind. Same with her filthy head. 

...and other useless burdens they once shared.

And with that, he left the room, feeling lighter, freer, and contently post-ejaculate in rosy glow. He would start anew, in a city far away from the scandal and shame of his past. The Viscount stepped out into the cool fresh morning air, he breathed in deeply, feeling as if he had been reborn. The future was his to shape, he was already impetuous for a brand new family.