Free Invitation to Ruin by Ann Vremont Page B

Little André. We must have
a mirror next time that you might see. It fascinated me so—the
slide of the thick metal balls into your ass. My pussy clenched
with envy as I saw your opening swallow each of the three bulbs. My
heart constricted more tightly still with your heated demands that
I pump the thick knobs in and out. How furiously fast we moved. I
rode your legs as I fucked your ass. Did you know that? I rubbed my
clit and wet pussy over your thick calf, soaking the hair, as I
leaned against you, thrusting the dildo with one hand while I
stroked your cock with the other.
    Your cream on the sheets! I could have lapped
it up like a cat in heat had you not thrown me on the mattress and
devoured my pussy. Ah, your tongue on my clit, the nip of your
teeth on that sensitive bud and my engorged labia. The thrust of
your fist—your whole fist—inside my cunt. I am coming now in memory
of it—my hands occupied only with paper and tit.
    Sweet André, my beloved, my lover. I await
our next meeting with near breathlessness—my hand and Little André
poor solace until then.
    -L-

    May 19, 1787
    That you must go away for two weeks saddens
me, but all is not lost. Say, dearest, that you will write me. If
you post in town, post in my brother’s name so that it will reach
me without the sisters’ scrutiny.
    -L-

    June 3, 1787
    Two weeks and I hear nothing from you, nor
have I had any way to send you something. Surely you could have
managed some note, however cryptically worded.
    -L-

    June 5, 1787
    You call me deluded? You would disavow our
knowledge of one another? How, when I could tell Sister Orinthia
every word of her conversation with you that day I hid beneath your
desk. Do not do this, I pray of you!
    -L-

    June 8, 1787
    If you will not hear my pleas as your lover,
will you not hear them from me as the mother of your child? Yes,
André, it is true. I have spent my mornings sick the last ten days,
and the stream of blood that should now flow between my legs is a
week late. I fear that I am with child and would have—no, I demand
your guidance and comfort! If you do not offer it immediately, I
shall expose you.
    -L-

    Author’s note (June 17, 1787): This is the
last letter I intercepted between Lucille and André. She and her
belongings were removed from the convent during the next day’s
services. Her fate, as of the date of this report, remains unknown.
But Fra. André delivered a fine, rousing service today.

    VERONIQUE

    Philipe,
    No doubt, dear cousin, you remember
Veronique? I am pleased she has provided me, however unwilling,
with more material for my readers. To think, had I not seized the
opportunity—in broad daylight, no less—to take her diary a mere
five minutes after watching her finish an entry, all would be lost!
Her family, I hear, claims to have smuggled her out of the country
to ensure her safety from the rising chaos that threatens to
envelope all of France. But you and I, and now our audience, know
better!
    As ever,
    Candacis

    June 6, 1787
    I commissioned a portrait this morning by
post, having met with the artist last week while visiting Mother
and Father.
    My feelings on the selection are quite mixed.
Christophe is not yet well-known, although his brush shows great
talent. I would have had someone more suited to my social standing,
but the funds are not there. Already, I have run through most of
the money Ambroise gave me for my part in his seduction of
Gabrielle. I would have thought, since her stomach already carries
their first child, that he would have offered me some bonus. But he
is so enthralled with that insipid girl and she has made sure that
he keeps his purse strings tightly drawn whenever I visit.
    So, instead of allowing Ambroise to throw me
a coin or two for a proper artist, Gabrielle gives me Christophe’s
name and studio address. I went to interview him, only to avoid
insulting Ambroise!
    Yet something about his work captured my
interest. And he was very attentive in seeing to my