FicWad

In the Rue d’Anges, there was a certain cathedral that we have spoke of called Notre Dame du Anges for which the street was named for. This church was moderate sized, with a loyal congregation, a few devoted nuns, and a solid clergy. It wasn't one of the main churches, more of a lesser one. It was so small, it didn't even have a convent, just a few rooms upstairs where the sisters lived. In fact the church was so unknown, nobody outside the few neighboring streets knew about the church.
Why are we bringing up this church for? Well, it just so happened that this church was home to a very particular painting that hung behind the altar. It was one of the last paintings done by Jean Michel Fabonteau; the inspiration was rumored to come from the very street of Rue d’Anges. The painting was of a nude angel draped across a cloud, a blonde, beautiful angel with tears in its eyes as it wept for who knows what, but it was still tragically beautiful all the same. The reason it was beautiful was not for its religious subject matter, nor for the style it was painted in, what made it beautiful was the angel. It was agreed by all who saw the painting that the angel was gorgeous with its feathering blonde hair, tear-filled cerulean eyes, pinked cheeks and rose petal-like lips. This feminine face was paired well with a lithe, androgynous body that looked to be no older than sixteen, with a strong chest, lean stomach, long legs, and womanly hips. The only part of this angel which was covered, appropriately was its nethers, draped in a pure white cloth. This painting was donated by Jean-Michel Fabonteau two years ago before his untimely death.
When it was claimed that the inspiration for the angel from the very street of Rue d’Anges and immediately the inhabitants had known exactly what he meant though most did not like the speak it aloud. It was one of those facts that the congregation hid in the dark corners of their minds. Whenever a visitor would happen to attend mass at Notre Dame du Anges, which was very rare, they would often exclaim “Such a beautiful painting! Who was the inspiration?!” and the congregation would silently hide their faces in shame. The shame was not in the painting itself, but who was the human embodiment of the angel. The unspoken truth was that someone from the Chambre de Papillion forever hung in the church.
The Chambre de Papillion was alright as most brothels go; two women, Colette and Fatima, had ran it since their mistress had passed away six years ago. Five other people lived there as well, they were the actual whores: Madeleine, the eldest as well as the most experienced, Satine, who was noted for her face as well as her bosom, Genevieve, a great talker as well as moaner, Alyce, the classic beauty and very cocky about her looks as well as her skills, and finally, the only male, René, who had to be the shyest and yet the prettiest one out the five.
From the exterior of the Chambre it appeared to look like any of the other homes on Rue d’Anges, the only difference being where most of the homes were two stories with one front balcony, the Chambre was a magnificent three story building with not one front balcony, but two. The female whores felt that because of this, coupled with the fact that they made between two hundred and eight hundred francs an hour, they were living as good as the old bourgeois class of the monarchy. They would often parade up and down the street in fine dressings made of silk, decorated in pearls and jewels, with their hair done up in chignons bedecked with jeweled pins. Madeleine would often wear dresses of fine purple silk, claiming since she was a descendant of royalty, she was entitled to this right. Satine did not make such outlandish claims, but she preferred to spend her money on necklaces, rings, and bracelets of pure gold; she wore so much gold that her clients would often refer to her as the Sun Queen of the Rue. Genevieve and Alyce were at least semi-modest in their purchases, one preferring dresses of silver, the other preferring to spend money at the salon. Colette and Fatima, preferred to dress a little more modestly, seeing as how they weren't out there earning the money, they just took thirty percent of all the earnings each one made, to keep the brothel running, provide food, call for the doctor and to pay the necessary fees the Chambre was subject to.
Now René was different from the girls he worked with, he preferred to stay in his room or in the small garden, and he did not like associating with a lot of people unless he had to. He was on the shy side of things and rarely talked to anyone but Fatima or perhaps Colette. He may have been reserved and timid, but the fact remained that he was beautiful, having the understated brilliance of a pearl. Those who saw him and asked for him often stated that he was too pretty to be a man, too gorgeous to be a woman, too beautiful to be human. Fatima and Colette knew this as they would use this to their advantage, where Madeleine was the most expensive of the girls (eight hundred francs an hour, about seven thousand francs a night), René was about one thousand francs an hour. Since it was because of his price, and only this, he was very rarely asked for by clients, but when he was, they claimed it was worth the francs spent. Because of his beauty, it was he who was the inspiration of Fabonteau, the angel he had seen on the Rue d’Anges. For this angel had also been Fabonteau's lover.
Fabonteau, during his successful years, had been the primary patron of Le Chambre du Papillion and because of this, he was entitled to certain “perks”. He had been one of Satine's friends and through her pleas he had accepted the title of patron, and helped finance the brothel as well as pay a portion of the fees the brothel owed to the Paris Commissary of Health. Due to his generosity and benevolence, Fatima allowed him to choose any of the whores and they would be his. Since Fabonteau claimed not to hold any romantic or erotically charged feelings towards women, he chose René. In the beginning, they had a standing arrangement: Fabonteau would paint during the days and then spend three nights a week with René, either holding him and kissing him, or if he was in the mood, he would have the boy suck him off. This satisfied them both for awhile until Fabonteau found himself wanting something more than just the fleeting pleasure of having the blond's mouth around his member, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive flesh; he wanted to be inside René, feeling the blond beneath him writhing with pleasure, completely giving himself to Fabonteau.
Fabonteau was so sure, so positive that he was not alone in these feelings; in his mind's eye he imagined that René wanted this as much as he did. Each whispered breath from the blond was merely a silent plea for Fabonteau to take him, dominate him, complete him, to hide him away from the world where he would be his and only his. Fabonteau was so consumed with these desires, these thoughts that he could not eat, he would not sleep, all he would do would paint and drink himself into a stupor.
It happened on a Sunday night, of all nights, for this to happen. Fabonteau had been drinking a great deal of liquor at a local tavern when he decided he was going to take René away from Le Chambre. He stumbled to the brothel, signed himself in and clumsily made his way up to René's room on the third floor. Since it was not Fabonteau’s night to be with René, the young blond was not expecting him.
Fabonteau was not gentle like he normally was with the boy. Before René could catch his breath, the older man had him pinned below him on the white velvet chaise lounge, trying to rip the thin linen shirt from his lithe frame. René tried to protest, but before he could force the sound to come out, Fabonteau had silenced it with a hungry kiss full of want, need, and desire. René tried in vain to get from under Fabonteau, but every movement was like an invitation for the older man to continue with his forced stripping.
Finally, after much difficulty, Fabonteau had René beneath him just as he was in all his dreams: naked, trembling, and blushing. The man felt as if the gods were smiling down on him with this impressive feast of divine beauty. A graceful swanlike neck, a strong, hairless chest which was beginning to heave with the start of silent sobs, a taut, lean stomach that had the slightest dip in it, with a trail of blonde curls so light, they were almost invisible that led to, in Fabonteau’s eyes, the crown jewel of his precious René.
René was paralyzed to the very core with realization at what Fabonteau was doing. He had often heard the girls discussing these intense, erotic moments in the hallway: the hungry, passionate looks, the hurried, stripping of the clothes, and the intense staring that would often make even Madeleine blush and cover her face with embarrassment. It was then he realized that Fabonteau had the intention of leaving with Le Chambre de Papillion’s most prized article: René’s precious virginity. He then screamed.
“Hush, my beloved,” Fabonteau whispered in René’s ear as he clamped his hand over his lips, “all I want to do is show my love for you, mon ange.” He then began to run his hands over the boy’s exposed body; he would start from the neck and slowly trail his fingers down the pinked chest, lingering for the slightest moment to rest his forefingers on the sensitive nipples that were slowly beginning to harden. The artist would then continue on until he got to the slight dip that was René’s stomach and suffering from a burst of boldness, he lowered his liquor stained tongue into the boy’s navel, forcefully thrusting the wet organ in and out of the cavern as a sign of things to come.
“Please, Monsieur Fabonteau, please…stop…” The words were dying on his lips as Fabonteau continued his assault on the blond.
“Stop what, mon cher?” Fabonteau asked after removing his tongue from René’s navel.
“Just…please…no…” René knew he was fighting a losing battle, for just as soon as the artist stopped, he continued making the trail down his body; instead of his fingers now, he used his tongue, swirling it over the fine hairs that trailed down to junction between his legs where his slowly hardening member was, the rosy pink contrasting with the pale blonde curls that surrounded the base.
“Look, mon ange, you are almost fully swollen. It would be a sin to leave something as perfect as this alone. Besides, I’ve always wanted to show my gratitude for those moments we have had.” Fabonteau breathed, mouth watering at René’s perfect form.
“Monsieur…no…” Tears came to the blond’s eyes as Fabonteau slowly began to lower his mouth to his still hardening member, “please no…Monsieur Fabonteau please st-OP!” That last plea was illuminated by a shrill note, compliments of Fabonteau engulfing René’s entire length in his mouth.
René felt the bile rise up from the pit of his stomach as soon as Fabonteau began sucking his partially erect member. The few tears he had squeezed out earlier had become full rivers, gushing down his delicate face as Fabonteau continued with his oral ministrations. It was frightening and paralyzing and the blond attempted to renew his futile struggling in hopes that Fabonteau would leave him be. He was sorely mistaken.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Fabonteau pulled away from René’s swollen member, shining with saliva and precum that was slowly weeping from its rosy head.
“So beautiful…” Fabonteau breathed as he ran a finger against the underside of the weeping organ. René involuntarily shuddered at the sensation, the feel of calloused, dry fingers caressing his moist member; try as he might to resist this it seemed impossible for him to get away.
“Stop…I don’t…want…” René choked out between sobs. It was as though the gods had forsaken him, turning on him in his time of need and leaving him with this…this creature. No longer did he see Fabonteau as the protector or the confidant, he saw him as a beast intent on causing him pain, the defiler of his body; any kind emotion René held for this man, this beast, had been replaced with pure, unadulterated fear.
Fabonteau finally felt he had pleased the poor boy enough, it was time for him to be pleasured. Trembling with anticipation, he hurriedly removed his clothes, tossing them into some unknown corner so that he was above René, naked and fully hard, and ready.
“Now mon ange, I am going to show you just how much I love you...” Fabonteau whispered into the hot shell of René's ear, causing the blond to shudder. Fabonteau took this as an invitation to start grinding his fully erect member into René's equally swollen one.
“I do not hear you protesting, mon ange,” Fabonteau breathed as René gasped, “perhaps you are ready for me to show how much I love you.”
“Noooo...Monsieur...please don't...” René sobbed as tried to push Fabonteau off of him, though as soon his delicate hands connected with the older man's skin, Fabonteau let out a long, low moan; disgusted, René recoiled away from the artist.
“René...touch me again...I must feel you...” Fabonteau moaned as he grabbed René's shaking hand and placed it on his throbbing organ. The blond's mouth fell open in horror at the way Fabonteau threw his head back in ecstasy, forcing René's limp hand to continue to stroke his aching shaft.
“Mon cher, I am going to make you feel so good...” Fabonteau whispered, finally removing his sweaty palm from the younger man's limp one.
René's liquid filled blue eyes widened in horror as Fabonteau slowly began spreading his legs apart, pushing his knees up to his thin chest. René tried in vain to get the older man off of him, but it was as though his thoughts could be read, for Fabonteau had his hands pinned behind his head. Using his free hand, Fabonteau slowly traced a line down from René's sac to his puckered orifice.
“Monsieur...wha-what are you doing...” René gasped.
“I am about to prepare you...I do not wish to cause you any pain.” Fabonteau said, voice thick with desire. Placing his index finger in his mouth, Fabonteau ran his tongue over the digit before pulling it out with a slight “pop.”
“Please...stop...do not do this...” René protested as Fabonteau slowly traced the outline of his entrance.
“Monsieur...I am begging you...please do not do this...pleASE!” Fabonteau had slipped his moist finger into the hot cavern of René's ass. Fabonteau, deaf to René's pleas, continued his ministrations; with each thrust of his finger, he went deeper and deeper until he felt the digit brush against something.
“OH MONSIEUR!” René screamed as he saw a flash of white pass before his eyes. Fabonteau smirked and took this cry as a sign to continue on and slipped another finger in to René's hole.
René was a sobbing wreck and the two foreign digits inside of him were making it worse; however, he felt something extremely pleasurable when Fabonteau's finger brushed up against something deep inside of him.
“What was that, mon ange? Was that a cry of pleasure I heard come from your sweet mouth? If so, then did I not say you would enjoy this?” Fabonteau grunted as he scissored René's entrance to accommodate his aching member.
“No...Monsieur stop...oh, please will someone help me?” René cried, trying to remove his hands from Fabonteau's tight grip. Finally Fabonteau finished preparing René's entrance; he loosened his grip on René's delicate wrists and he spat in his hand to use it as an impromptu lubricant which he rubbed on his swollen, aching member.
“Oh mon ange, I know you will enjoy this. It will hurt at first but I know after you get used to it...” Fabonteau trailed off before aligning his member with René's abused hole.
“Monsieur, I am begging you, please do not do this…I don’t…” René’s voiced cracked with fear. He was trapped, as though he were the prey and Fabonteau was the predator intent on devouring him.
“You don’t what, René? It will be okay, the pain will only stay for an instant.” Fabonteau said, trembling with anticipation.
“I don’t want—” Before René could finish his last plea, the door to his room was thrown open from the force of a medium-sized woman, no older than twenty-five, with a look of pure fury. She had smooth skin, compliments of her mixed Algerian heritage and long ebony hair; a pretty face that was so used to smiles and kindness that a scowl seemed out of place on her smooth, round features.
“Monsieur Fabonteau!” It was Fatima, one of the proprietresses of Le Chambre, and the woman had basically raised René. René attempted to swathe his exposed body but it was to no avail, Fabonteau would not move.
“Mademoiselle Fatima, I believe you have interrupted me and mon ange.” Fabonteau said quietly, still positioned at René’s entrance. Fatima narrowed her mahogany eyes and glared at the artist.
“Interrupted?” She hissed, “Just what have I interrupted, Monsieur Fabonteau? I come home from the market and I hear all this screaming and whatnot. Please tell me what I am interrupting.” René gave a sob of relief; the gods had heard his strangled pleas and sent his savior to rescue him from the monster.
“I had the good intention of showing René how much I love him. I do believe as patron to this establishment, it is one of my entitlements.” Fabonteau explained.
“Interesting how you bring up your patronage, Monsieur Fabonteau, for Mademoiselle Colette was kind enough to inform me that you have been slacking in you duties to this house. A letter arrived today from the Paris Commissary of Health; we are behind in our fees and they are threatening to close us if we do not pay.” Fatima said, taking a step towards the artist and his weeping prisoner. René yet again tried to push Fabonteau off of him, for once during the night he was successful. The older man tumbled to the floor as the blond covered his exposed region with his now ripped shirt.
“Monsieur Fabonteau, you had better hope I do not send for an Inspector, for not only have you been cheating this bordeaux, but you are attempting to take advantage of René. I am going to ask you only once: please take your leave.” Fatima commanded icily. Fabonteau looked at her with narrowed eyes full of defiance, angry that this woman was forcing him to leave his angel inconvenienced.
“Mademoiselle, I will make you a deal: I will only leave if René wants me too. If he should want me to take leave, then I shall, but I will not return to this house. If he should not want me to leave, then I will stay here. Agreed?” Fatima looked from this imbecile of an artist who had finally pulled himself off the ground to her René, sobbing quietly on the velvet chaise; did he not see the distress the boy was in? Was he blind to the blond’s needs in attempt to satisfy his own?
“Agreed, Monsieur Fabonteau. Though be it known that if René asks you to leave, you will be dismissed from your duties as patron and you will never be allowed to see René again.” Fatima said as Fabonteau nodded.
“René, tell me honestly mon ange, do you wish for me to leave you?” René looked from the artist, the monster and the defiler, to Fatima, his savior; not trusting his voice, he nodded.
“Well, Monsieur, I see René has made his intentions known. I will ask you to put on your clothes and take your leave.” As Fatima said these words, something inside of Fabonteau snapped. It was as though his love for him had gone unrequited and he was left looking like some foolish schoolgirl, caught up in her own childish fantasies. He then pounced on René.
“You whore! You hateful, lascivious Jezebel! How dare you toy with my emotions! I will kill you, you whoring witch!” Fabonteau screamed as he tried to strangle the poor blond, banging his head on the arm of the chaise. If it were not for Fatima and her cat-like reflexes, he might have succeeded; using all of her strength, she grabbed Fabonteau by the scruff of his neck and wrenched him off of the weeping boy, paralyzed with fear. Dragging the nude and struggling Fabonteau, Fatima dragged him down the stairs and to the street entrance of the house, where she shoved him headfirst onto the street. She only returned a moment later, bundle of clothes in her hands which she then proceeded to throw onto the road behind him before slamming the door.
A few weeks after these events came to pass, behind the pulpit of Notre Dame du Anges, there appeared a painting of an angel, rumored to be the last painting by the artist Jean Michel Fabonteau. Though there was truth in the statement, two days after the painting appeared, Fabonteau had drowned himself in the Seine.
The Chambre was not left without a patron; however, a few days after Fabonteau died, a man much more wealthy than the artist appeared at the doorstep, claiming to be a professor at the Universite de Paris. His name was Thierry Barbant.