Prompt Post 4!
The first, second, and third posts are now shut down for prompting. All new prompts must be posted here. Any new prompts posted to Prompt Post 1, 2, and 3 will be deleted without warning.
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'There is always one addiction
That just can not be controlled...'
Agnès seems to grow more beautiful with each passing year and, as she ripens into the full bloom of womanhood, the Minister begins to feel uneasy in her presence. He tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at the sight of her lovely face, the way his loins begin to stir when she smiles, like a ravenous beast roused from a deep slumber, but it is an impossible situation. She is inescapable, unavoidable, temptation made flesh...and she loves him.
As a father, Claude tells himself, She loves me as a father and that is all.
Still, the uninvited feelings and inappropriate thoughts do not abate, nor does his longing for her, his desire to take her for his own. After all, it is not uncommon for a man to raise a young woman to be his bride. Wife husbandry, they call it. No one would bat an eyelid if he were to marry his ward, some might even have anticipated such an announcement...but he knows that Agnès would not expect it, nor would she accept his proposal.
There will be other proposals soon enough, from the eligible young men already vying for her affection and attention. Young bucks, handsome and bold, there will be one amongst them to turn her head eventually, to take her from him. Claude grinds his teeth at the thought, watching as Agnès leafs idly through the Bible, reading aloud in her husky voice whilst he pretends to listen. It is early January, unseasonably warm, and the hollow of her throat glistens with sweat, hitching and pulsing. He yearns to kiss her there, to taste her sweat, to trace the fine lines of her clavicle with his tongue.
"Papa, are you well?"
Claude starts, feeling those luminous eyes upon him. She is gazing at him, concern etched upon her dusky face.
"I am fine. Go on."
She frowns, unconvinced, but obeys, turning the page and beginning to recite. The words seem to taunt him. She is reading from the Song of Solomon, that ancient refrain of love and lust.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine...my beloved is mine, and I am his...turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me...the joints of thy thighs are like jewels...thy two breasts are like..."
"Stop." Claude is racked with desire and despair, his fingers curled into tight fists. He can stand it no longer. Agnès speaking those words, saying them to him, as though he is her lover...oh, it is agony, it is ecstasy. He composes himself, clearing his throat, "That is enough for today. The new captain is due to arrive at any moment and I must attend to him."
Agnès closes the book, her lips parted, poised to ask a question. Not just any question, he knew, but the same question she had been asking for fifteen years now, since she was a child of five. His answer would be the same as always; Agnès must already know this, but still she asks the question, ever hopeful that he will relent.
"Papa, I was wondering if I could come with you this year." She pauses, turning her green eyes upon him, knowing their effect, "To the Festival of Fools, I mean."
"Certainly not." Claude does not spare her feelings but, seeing her disappointment, he feigns remorse and places his hand upon her shoulder, "I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot allow you to be exposed to such depravity and filth. The Festival of Fools is a shameful spectacle and I would rather you had nothing to do with any of it."
Agnès cuts in, well-versed in the Minister's lore after twenty years under his wing, "Thieves and cut-purses, the dregs of humankind, all mixed together in a shallow, drunken stupor."
Claude smirks, "Precisely."
He leaves, his mind mercifully devoid of anything but his duties for the moment. Phoebus de Châteaupers, the new captain of the guard, is waiting for him, as is the ghastly festival, and such things require his full attention.
Later, as he takes his seat overlooking the festivities, the Minister does not realise that his ward has taken matters into her own hands, that she has disobeyed him and that, in doing so, she has inadvertently sealed her fate.
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'You are mine, you are mine
You are mine, all mine
You are mine...'
Claude Frollo surveys the scene of debauchery before him with unconcealed disdain. The crowd undulates in a mass of frivolous colour, the people gorging themselves on pleasure. They are provoked into such excess by Clopin, urging them on from the stage, laughing and performing his traditional ditties. He draws them in, promising a fresh delight for the senses. Captain Phoebus, a seemingly level-headed man, is also visibly captivated by the gypsy's antics, standing in the stirrups for a better view as Clopin begins to sing.
"Come one, come all! See the finest girl in France, make an entrance to entrance!"
The masked harlequin catches the Minister's eye, winking. The gypsy is laughing at him. Claude stirs uneasily, feeling exposed and vulnerable, like the punchline of a dark joke that everyone else knows, everyone but him.
"Dance la Esmeralda, dance!"
Clopin vanishes into a puff of pink smoke.
In his place stands a goddess, the most beautiful creature in the world.
Agnès...
She is dressed in red and orange, like a phoenix rising from an inferno, wearing an indecent wisp of silk which clings to the contours of her body, leaving her shoulders bare. Her ebony curls are festooned with gems, sparkling as she pirouettes on bare feet to the cheers of the crowd, her breasts heaving with exertion. She is dancing, twirling and strutting...and then she is prancing across the stage towards the Minister, kicking one leg so high that he can see beneath her skirts, can see that she is naked beneath her gown...
She climbs onto his lap, twining a scarf around his neck.
Claude can only stare at her, praying that she does not feel his manhood rising, pressing insistently against the curve of her backside, praying that she does feel it. He wants her to feel him there, wants her to gasp and blush, wants her to smile and sink down upon him...
Agnès pushes his chaperon down over his eyes and springs away, back onto the stage.
The last few seconds of her performance are torture. Furious and inflamed, Claude growls as she snatches a pike from one of his soldiers and curls around it like a snake. Like the first snake, in the garden of Eden, tempting him to take a bite, just one sweet bite...
She is gone, slipping from the stage, and he is on his feet and after her, ignoring Phoebus and the bemused onlookers. He follows her into a small tent, tearing aside the velvet drapes as she stands there, watching, smiling at him...
"What are you doing?" Claude bellows, taking hold of her shoulders, shaking her roughly, "Making a fool of yourself out there, making a fool of me before the entire city!"
Agnès pulls away, eyes flashing, but she is still smiling, seemingly unperturbed by his outrage. She tosses her curls, her voice light with amusement, "Clopin invited me to perform. I couldn't very well refuse an offer from the King of the Truands now, could I?" Claude is speechless, his face and knuckles white with rage. She turns away, gently tugging the tiara free of her curls, "Was that the new captain, the one with the gilded armour? He's very handsome, isn't he? A fine man."
Claude snarls, twists his fingers into her hair, yanking her back into his arms, pulling her to the floor. He rips her bodice open, pinning her down when she tries to fight him. Her breasts spill out into his hands, heavy and pliant. Agnès is cursing, pleading, struggling beneath him as he reaches down to push her skirts aside, driving a sharp knee between her thighs to part them.
"Papa, no! Please don't, please stop! Papa, I'm sorry!"
The Minister fumbles with his robes, palming his cock, pressing it against her core.
"I am not your father, Agnès."
He forces himself into her, deflowering her, opening her up, roaring in triumph as her cunt flutters around his shaft.
"I am your husband."
She clings to him, as she always has, sobbing quietly against his shoulder. He is thrusting hard, making sure that she feels every inch of him inside of her, making sure that there will bruises upon her hips and at her wrists. He wants her to remember this, to remember who she belongs to, now and forever.
"You are mine."
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