The Belvedere.

A Temporary Reprieve.

She looked down into his face, realizing that a strange excitement had come over them both. Her face must be flushed. It felt like it. His was, and he was breathing in a labored way. He would kiss her lips next in the same passionate way. She wanted him to. She wanted him to go back to what he had been doing between her legs.

He moved up to her then and looked deep into her eyes as he hesitated above her, but he did not kiss her upon the lips, as she expected and wanted. He was doing something else. She could feel him pushing at her in a different way now. There was something hard in his clothing, touching at her down there, wanting to be freed and to go into her where his tongue had tried to go.

But for that clothing between them, he would have soon been into her. She was prepared for it, and even wanted it to happen no matter the pain to her. He delayed, to savor the moment.

He did not need to hesitate now. He already had her permission. She had already given it by saying nothing.

Perhaps she should be the one to free him and get it over with, quicker. No, she would never dare do that. That was when the pain really would begin and would go on and on. A woman knew about that, even before she experienced it. She had heard of the difficulties that stiff part represented for a woman. She should not have been listening to the scullery conversation when they had not known she was there, but she had, not understanding it until now.

This would be a right-of-passage into womanhood.

After that, the devil would then show his true form to her as he took her with him, impaled forever upon the end of his iron tipped, ice-cold p***s, (or was it red hot?) never to let her go, and to continue the torment in Hades. She had heard it all spoken of before.

As he changed, his visage would become black, his eyes; live coals to burn her, his kiss; acid, and he would sprout horns, show his cloven hooves and his pointed tail as he drove ever deeper into her with increasing pain, searing her insides, tearing them apart with his monstrous appendage. And it would continue like that for her for the rest of time. She knew all of this but did not care. If this was what she deserved, she would accept it.

This man had not gone so far with her yet. He had not turned into the devil. He was looking into her eyes as she looked into his. He was making up his mind what he would do next to her.

There had been a fire in his eyes, but it seemed to fade as she looked into them. He did not free himself from his clothing and push into her as she had expected. She was almost disappointed after such an intriguing beginning that had given her so much pleasure. Why did he not continue? He must know that she wanted him to.

Her concern turned to confusion at what she could see in his flushed face. Was he feeling shame over what he had done? She didn’t. He could not be the devil. The devil would feel no shame.

He paused and seemed to consider what he was doing; what had driven him to do this to her. He seemed to wake up from his own dream. She could read the confusion, even guilt, in his expression. He knew he should not be doing this to her. She was innocent and did not deserve this.

He took in her position beneath him and her total nakedness. She was lying back, uncomplaining, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide, breathing heavily, letting him do all of this to her, almost as though she wanted him to do it, and holding him close to her. She should not have been cooperating, but she was. She could see the questions in his eyes.

Why was she allowing him to do this to her? Why was she not fighting him off as she should be? Why was she being so cooperative with everything he wanted to do to her when she should not have been?

Could they both have been overcome by the same intoxicating madness? She could see him change before her eyes, but did not know the meaning, or the reasons for the change.

He recovered. He sat up from her, seeing that she had closed her eyes. She was still breathing in a labored way; still sobbing. Was she crying over his brutality with her, or was that rain, still running from her hair?

There was that memory again. There was something about her that stirred a memory, but he could not pinpoint it.

Other disturbing thoughts managed to penetrate his fevered brain. This was not how his mother or sister would have wanted him to behave with any young woman. He must not leave this kind of legacy behind when he was gone.

But what was he thinking of? He was not going anywhere. Not now. Not after meeting this young woman who had saved his life just as surely as he had saved hers and then had destroyed it too. He may also have destroyed his own life, by what he had done to her.

His life had changed in the blink of an eye. He now had a reason to live.

He should be protecting her, not harming her. But it was too late. His passion for her had overcome him and the damage had been done.

He was touching her at her hip. She opened her eyes to find him looking into them. He opened his mouth to say something. Was he about to apologize for what he had done and still might do?

It would be too late.

She began to recover her thoughts and to reflect upon what had happened, and how she had been complicit in it. Everything that had happened to her had been wrong. She could see that now. What would he think of her, accepting his attention without any resistance or complaint as she had? Even participating in it?

The impropriety of it hit her like a hammer. This was not how her mother had taught her to behave. It was so confusing in so many ways.

What seemed certain, was that when he recovered his breath, and his thoughts, he would expect to continue what he had begun with her. Once, or a hundred times, it would make no difference to her now. For the moment, however, he seemed to have lost whatever strange mood had driven him along.

He sat back from her with an ashamed look on his face and returned to what he had been doing before he had lost his senses. He removed her hose from her feet before he sat back on his heels. He watched her, wondering how she would respond to what he had done.

Any proud young woman so ill treated by a man, would strike out at him as he deserved. She would kick at him, swear at him. Even take out his eyes for daring to look at her in her unclothed state after undressing her as he had. He deserved it. He would accept whatever she chose to do to punish him.

Silence, and that pained look of betrayal was the worst thing she could punish him with after what he had almost done to her. Had done to her.

She wanted to cry but was made of sterner stuff than that. Why had she not fought him off, and stopped him doing that to her, or at least have objected as she should have done? Why had she cooperated? Her co-operating with him had been the worst part.

She was still sitting as he had left her, with her legs raised and apart, until he brought them to rest on the floor again by gentle pressure on her knees and helped bring them together to close off that more intoxicating view of her that had so inflamed him to do what he had done. She brought her legs together then, and lowered them to the floor, though it took her some seconds to realize that she had that freedom now, to do so.

He was not the devil, and this was not hell. But it might as well have been. Nor was this, death, though how could it not be? It was not a dream. It was much worse than she thought. Death was not about to rescue her from this shame, and she would have to live with what had happened, and what could still happen. She had behaved no better than some w***e, and had welcomed the attention of a man, when she should have been fighting him away, instead of helping him, or welcoming him.

She remembered the blanket behind her and drew it up to hide her body from him. She had not noticed it drop behind her, exposing her entire upper body and breasts to him, as he had done those things to her. Had sight of her naked body caused him to behave that way? If only she could hide herself away. Disappear.

She felt his hands touch her lower legs. His head had fallen forward to rest upon the top of her knees. What was he doing now, or going to do? Was he pleading for forgiveness? It was too late for that.

He was shivering, and must be as cold as she had been, yet he had taken time to see to her comfort at first, before… before he lost himself. And here she was thinking only of her own difficulties, despite the shocking liberties that he had taken with her. Maybe her father’s criticisms of her were not so far off. She was selfish, thinking only of herself.

It was not a cheering thought. Living with this, was to be her real punishment on earth, yet it did not feel like punishment, unless they were both being punished in some way. It was all so confusing to try and understand.

As she became aware of her own personal character deficiencies in that way, and the anguish she could see in his expression, she reached out to him; her hand touched upon the side of his face, as though forgiving him for what he had done to her, and thanking him for not completing what he had started.

He recovered and sat up. Her hand fell away from his head. There was a strange look on his face that she did not understand. There were also tears. There had been more to that, other than the discomfort of the cold. He wanted to say something to her again, she could see it in his eyes and the way he looked at her, pleading, and with a question. Again, he said nothing.

He picked her hose off the floor, squeezed the water out of them, and put them and her shoes where they would dry by the fire, turning his back to her. She closed her legs together now that he had stood up from her, but it was too late for that. He had seen all of her. Touched all of her, caressed her, and more. She had still not protested over what he had done, nor had she pleaded with him not to do it. She had said nothing. That time had gone. Whatever he chose to do with her now after that shocking beginning, he would do, and there would be nothing she could do about it. She had been ruined.