
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2738090.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      The_Grand_Budapest_Hotel_(2014)
  Relationship:
      Dmitri/Random, J.G._Jopling/Random
  Character:
      Dmitri_Desgoffe_und_Taxis, J.G._Jopling, Stock_(Character), Sporadic
      mentions_of_others_at_times
  Additional Tags:
      Implied/Referenced_Underage_Sex, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Older
      Man/Younger_Woman, Kidnapping, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Rough_Sex, Loss
      of_Virginity, Virginity_Kink, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Seduction,
      Prostitution, Sadism, Sexual_Violence, Older_Woman/Younger_Man
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-08 Updated: 2014-12-23 Chapters: 7/? Words: 9356
****** Vulnerability ******
by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary
     A multi-chaptered (hopefully) prose written in the style of letter-
     exchange (a nod to Les Liasons Dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos,
     sorta) between Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis and his (probably only)
     confidante and private inquiry agent, J.G. Jopling, in which each
     describe the different courses of their individual (and sharply
     contrasting, for the most part) conquests.
***** 1: Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz, 8 Dec.
19--) *****
I received your humble present in the small hours of the morning, ushered by
none other than my own Clotilde, and am writing this letter (as of December 8,
19--, at half-past midnight) to thank you for your most excellent offering.
It comforts me to know I can rely on your prowess for inquiries of distinct
varieties, as I am always willing and eager to reward both loyalty and
efficiency regarding the execution of all my affairs.
But truly—where on Earth did you find her?
She was exquisite, and made for a comfortable convert. How old was she? My best
guess is she was about seventeen—you seem to know my preferences well, and I
must commend your good taste.
Breaking her wasn't easy, however.
She was a girl of spotless virtue, innocent in all regards despite her
loveliness (I commend you again—she truly was thought up by the angels, from
the wonderful visage of her barely present breasts to her eyes, azure as the
palest sky despite the fright with which they greeted me). Before my charitable
intervention, it seems, she was wholly uneducated in the ways of the world, as
sheltered as if she'd spent her entire short life within the cloistered walls
of a faraway convent (Did you spirit her away from one? If so, this just adds
to my already brimming pleasure).
Shortly after her arrival, I approached her with masterful precision. Despite
her initial apprehension, I managed to entice her natural curiosity with small
conversation (a stray comment regarding the violet fabric of her frock, leading
immediately to the inevitable “may I touch it?”, which then led us to further
conclusions).
Once I gained her temporary trust, I moved swiftly in pursuit of my goal—which
would occur regardless of the method, but you know I enjoy being persuasive
(but let us not ponder upon that).
What followed must have indeed been a dizzying experience for our young
protégé:
Her lily-white skin lined with small, slightly raised goosebumps as my spidery
hands traveled from the diversion brought forth by the neatly sewn texture of
her frock to the elongated landscape of her quivering thighs, her frozen doe
eyes hauntingly resting upon my very own as I managed to serve her with a
small, inviting grin.
She did not respond in the way I anticipated, averting her frightened gaze from
mine despite my attempts at establishing some imitation of friendliness.
Clearly, I was going about seducing her in an entirely erroneous way. I had to
switch strategies if I was to savour my success.
“I hope you're not frightened of me.” I said, retreating my hand from its
enjoyable progression.
I was still met with no response—I would be lying if I said I did not become
slightly frustrated by the brick wall of her resistance to my obvious advances.
“You don't have to be scared of me.” I immediately added, softening my voice to
a comfortable level. “I'm not here to hurt you. In fact, I want to help you...”
The girl didn't seem to know what I was getting at, so I elaborated.
“I understand your family has been going through some difficulties...” I took
her hand in mine, rubbing it softly. “I can't imagine how difficult that must
be for you. But I think I can help you...”
(This line, as you know quite well, is tried and true—I have you gather my
conquests from a certain portion of society for a reason).
Finally, a response (albeit not the expected one):
Our young heroine crumbled into a sobbing heap upon my bed, her noble tears
staining my velvet bedding with pristine wetness as I bore sole witness to her
sorrows.
“It's alright, my dear. You don't have to cry...” I cooed as soothingly as I
could, patting her rye-blonde hair with a firm hand as one would do to
condescendingly console a small child.
She raised her eyes to meet mine once more, only this time, they were no longer
filled only with fear.
“You're very lovely.” I remarked, removing my gaze from hers and fixing it upon
the floor as I felt her wide eyes follow mine.
It was clear from the incriminating rouge upon her cushioned cheeks that she
had never heard similar words uttered (neither from some young suitor or other
such admirer)—which made her melt like heated butter in the ready palm of my
grasping hand.
A trace of her original trepidation lingered upon the thickening air as I once
again made an effort to court her.
“I'd say, in fact, you're like a painting come alive,” I served up the
flattery, strategically smoothing my jet-black hair as I gazed upon her with
half-lidded eyes, appearing both mysterious and enticing. “Like a Greek statue
come to life, a work Aphrodite herself would have to bow before.”
(It is extremely easy to seduce provincial girls, I must remark).
She, in turn, blushed deeply scarlet, not quite knowing how to react to the
aggressive nature of my compliments (at least in the context of her pitiable
inexperience—a condition I strove to remedy, if nothing more, for charity's
sake).
“You have beautiful skin...” I placed my eager hand upon her thigh once more,
this time being met with a more receptive reaction. “White like a lily's, and
soft like a petal.”
At this point, it was clear I was winning the ensuing power play. Thus, I
became bolder, unhesitatingly moving my hand up the length of her lithe thighs,
stopping only when I reached the crucial point of division.
“Why don't you lay back and let me make you more comfortable?” I leaned in and
settled her face-up upon my bed, her golden hair sprawling in waves like a halo
around her winsome face as she slowly succumbed to my will.
I proceeded to unbutton her lavender frock, relishing in the unraveling of the
intrusive fabric and the revelation of a lovely pair of budding bosoms, which
peaked like small mountains against the otherwise flat panorama of her thin
torso.
“Beautiful...” I managed to breathe as I swooped down to greet these treasures,
my slivered silver tongue lightly licking her raised nipples as she squirmed
beneath me.
I could feel myself growing stiff from anticipation as I reached down to remove
her rather plain underwear (one could easily discern she hadn't any idea of
undergarments beyond their practical use), discarding the pair at the foot of
my bed before probing the moistened outline of her crevice with an icy finger.
She audibly gasped at the first contact of her warmth against my frigid finger,
quivering valiantly at my every touch with all the newness of a fledgling bloom
being strewn by a stray gust for the very first time.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked as I explored the tightness of her interior with
a single finger, lazily inserting and withdrawing it.
Her azure gaze met mine, followed by more watercolour flush as she looked away.
At this point, she was less seduced than confused, but I pressed on regardless,
being a man with his priorities in order.
“If you're not comfortable, we can stop...” I said, with absolutely no
intention of doing this, as I teasingly tapped upon her pulsating clitoris,
bending her to my sinister will using the novelty of her nubile body's
sensations as bait.
She extended no clear verbal response, still being confused above all else. Her
body, however, told a different story, as the stalks of her thighs slowly
parted before me.
“Very well.” I smirked, accepting the subtle invitation, wasting no time in
entering the uncharted territory of her untouched temple.
I offered myself at her altar, thrusting at first gently so as to deflower her
in the smoothest way possible, relishing in the incomparable feeling of my
throbbing engine gradually tearing the natural resistance of her papier-mâché
hymen, her crimson life-substance permeating our point of unison (and my
previously white bed sheets—a stain I shall never dare wash) as she broke into
pained whimpers in reprise to my every push.
She shook with a tangled mix of vexation, despair, and pained pleasure as I
held her in my arms. I, in turn, cemented myself deeper inside her as my
movements gained momentum, migrating from the gentle consideration extended
before a daisy-fresh girl on the cusp of being deflowered to the rougher
motions of a rogue maximising his own pleasure at the expense of the same.
My pleasure, you see, was inexplicably and irrevocably tied to the extent of
her agony, multiplying in volume as I strove to make shambles of her once-
spotless temple, flooding it with her own secretions as I forcefully pressed
myself against her, lingering upon every distressed howl she gave as she
succumbed to my invasion.
Finally, as I dutifully pumped within her strained portico, she buckled under
me, audibly sighing in ecstatic bliss as her entire body trembled in
astonishment.
I followed shortly thereafter, emitting my own heated juices into the innermost
regions of her previously intact interior.
It was only at this moment of insurmountable euphoria that I poignantly
realized I'd never once bothered to ask for her name.
***** 2. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis (Lutz, Dec. 11, 19--
) *****
Dear Boss: I received your letter in the early hours of the morning, reading
with much pleasure. I am still tied in the investigation of your other
business—the tangle concerning the concierge and friends.
I've also been following the lawyer. I think you ought to have a conversation
with him—something doesn't seem right.
Regarding our other business, I sequestered the girl from the plain street. I
don't know where she came from. I only recall she was riding a rusted bicycle
at the time we crossed paths.
I know your tastes well, having served Your Excellency for several months now.
I hope I've proven myself worthy of your trust, and that you will make good on
the offer we discussed over the phone previously. I am most eagerly
anticipating your answer regarding this matter.
My personal business is also peppered with spices—you are somewhat aware of the
kind of life I lead. Just yesterday, I visited a little brothel on the
outskirts of town, soliciting the services of one of its most renown members.
The woman in question was much older than what you would be interested in, but
I appreciate a gal with experience—and she had plenty to bring.
Her name, if memory serves, was Adolphine Desgranges. Me guess she would be in
her forties, or even early fifties. Really well-known among the bottom-
dwellers. Nothing Your Excellency would concern himself with, but she was a
pleasure.
I called upon her door yesterday afternoon, drenched from the downpour as I
conducted inquiries on Your Excellency's behalf. She was most gracious—planted
a soft, wet kiss on my hallowed cheek without hesitation: truly worth every
penny surrendered.
The first course was simple, sir. She got down on her knees, rouged lipstick
enveloping my form. She knows how to lubricate a pipe, I can attest to that.
That tongue was the stuff of legends, sir. I almost surrendered to her
dexterity, but was able to withhold my release despite her oral teasing—I am
also vastly experienced, especially in the ways of brothel girls.
After, we really got down to business. She could withstand rough handling—she
was an experienced gal, not like those virginal little wallflowers Your
Excellency prefers, who would break like glass under my foot.
I pinned her to the dirty mattress, taking off my leather trench as I undid the
intricate pattern of her corset (these brothel-dwellers always so eager to
peddle their assets), smearing her cheap lipstick with my own dried lips, sir.
She wore that trace upon her face for the rest of the night, along with the
bite marks my fangs instilled upon her wrinkled lips.
Brothel girls can handle coarse lovemaking. Especially older ones like this
dear Adolphine. Sweet little thing could gyrate like nothing else. I even let
her lead, she was so good.
She mounted me like that painting of yours (sorry for the comparison). Boy, she
could please a man, sir. There is nothing better than a girl who knows what she
is doing—I don't know why you like them innocents sir: a seasoned whore is the
only way to pleasure I know.
Anyway, she ground me hard. Me gasped and grunted and she clenched her cunt so
artfully, sir. Like I said, worth every penny, she was a delight.
She even let me bite her nipples—not every girl will do this, you see—and I
gave them a stretch, you should have seen how red they were after I was done
with 'em. She had scars from other encounters, so I know she was used to the
bites.
I paid 'er well. I will visit more, I think. She pleased me well—truly lives to
her reputation. You've no knowledge or interest in this, of course. I know you
like them slightly green, but your private inquiry agent prefers them scarlet,
sir.
Looking forward, as always, to your next letter, sir.
***** 3 Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz. Dec. 14,
19--) *****
There is no question things are changing in Zubrowka, now. The old monarchy has
essentially fallen apart, like the tattered edges of a forlorn tapestry—they've
become less than useless, and the people no longer hold any faith in them.
It is my understanding the prince abdicated the throne a few days ago. Made the
headlines here (naturally) and abroad. If that's not a sign we've gone straight
to the shitter, I don't know what is.
The blue-bloods of Zubrowka are trembling at the threat of Communism from the
East—and rightfully so: those nasty manifestos are making rounds at
universities everywhere, and today's misguided youth seems to see a glory in
Marx entirely lost to most everyone else.
The dangers, however, are not only political or ideological. The war has been
costly to us, I'm sure you're aware. Several years later, we're still
recovering from our fateful alliances—who would have guessed?
The Desgoffe-und-Taxis family, of course, remains unaffected by the twisting
turns of these events, but the same cannot be said of the people of Zubrowka as
a whole.
I heard it said (meaning, I read it in the paper) the prices of bread are
rising (how much does a loaf of bread even cost?) and that this has led to a
spike in petty crime among the lower classes.
The news report also said the poor are resorting to what they vaguely term as
'desperate measures' to survive in the face of this rapidly sinking economy.
It's clear we've hit an iceberg.
But with hard times come grand opportunities.
Grand opportunities, at least, for those smart enough to grasp them:
You see, yesterday, I was driving through the little streets of Lutz, on my way
home from an important ZZ meeting (more details on that some other time), when
our limousine was stopped by a peculiar-looking waif.
“What's the fucking matter?! Why did you stop?!” I asked the driver, slightly
irate (I was in a bit of a hurry to get home—you know how I dislike to linger
longer than I must).
The driver gave me a confounded look before explaining the reason for his
pause.
“Sir, it's some girl. Says she wants to speak to you.” He looked uncomfortable
as he told me this, looking at first to the raggedy girl shivering in the cold,
then at me.
“Very well. But tell her to make it snappy.” I replied, waving a hand. “I've
got shit to do.”
In retrospect, I'm not sure why I ever even agreed to hear her out. The best I
can say for myself is curiosity got the better of me.
I rolled down the frosted window and conferred with the petite stranger huddled
near my car.
The inquirer in question couldn't have been more than fifteen, rusty russet
ringlets flowing from her slightly tilted head (I'm not sure whom she actually
expected, if anyone), which, despite looking rather filthy, flatteringly framed
her pleasantly round, tan-freckled face.
“Yes?” I uttered coolly, raising a brow in mild confusion as she tentatively
approached.
“Um, mister.” She addressed me, her voice resembling the distinct sound of
metal tapping on glass. “I was wondering...”
Her words trailed off at this instant, as if she were unsure how to proceed.
“Wondering what?” I spat dryly—as I mentioned earlier, I was in rather a hurry
to leave.
“Wondering...” Her tiny, dirt-tinged hands fidgeted with the frayed hem of her
once-white dress (the cheap fabric obscured by a layer of soot). “If you
perhaps needed some company.”
She may as well have asked me to play a game of tennis.
“What kind of company?” I asked, simply to torment her—I would be lying if I
denied enjoying her struggle to eject the proposition.
“You know...” Her gooseberry eyes began to water, never quite reaching the
poignant point of tears, but bearing notable strain nonetheless. “Company.”
Her small, skinned knees buckled slightly after this release—half-dreading,
half-relieved.
I accepted her offer, initially solely to prolong her anguish, which I found
immensely amusing.
Half an hour later, I entered the premises of Schloß Lutz, my small pet
dutifully following my long, purposed strides with short little skips as I led
the way up the whirling stairs to the master bedroom.
“So tell me, what brings you to me tonight?” I asked, giving her a grin which
may as well have been a grimace.
“I-I needed work.” She shivered as I gestured her to sit.
“What's your line of work?” I adjusted my tie, feigning ignorance.
“M-my aunt. She said to go to the street and look for work.” Her opalescent
eyes pleadingly looked to mine. “Said I should talk to people with nice cars.
That they could help.”
“Oh?” My dry lips tugged into a small smile. “So you think I have a nice car?”
“I saw your car driving down the hill from a distance,” She continued dreamily,
pressing her legs together. “It looked like the white horses. The horses that
princes ride.”
“And well? Do I look like your prince?” I joked, taking note of her musings.
She gave me no answer, but blushed scarlet as the question tensely hung upon
the atmosphere.
“I do want to help you.” I softened my tone, kneeling to meet her velvety gaze
(much in the manner of a prince—you have to play on their desires) with the
hardened steel of my own.
“Y-you do?” The luckless waif seemed almost surprised at my shameless pretense,
which she mistook for genuine intent.
“Surely,” I reassured her, brandishing my black handkerchief and wiping some
stray soot from her cheek. “Why wouldn't I want to help a pretty girl like
you?”
I conjured Clotilde shortly thereafter, slipping her a note with some very
specific instructions (which will be revealed in due time).
“Perhaps you would like to take a warm bath?” I proposed, seeing she was
moderately coated with grime and would likely be receptive (if not downright
appreciative) to the offer.
She enthusiastically agreed, her youthful innocence clothing the connotations
veiled within the naked villainy of my suggestion.
I escorted her to the master bathroom and drew a steaming bath, which she
dipped into thereafter.
Her scrawny body at first recoiled from the warmth of the bath water, finding
it too scalding for her taste, but she soon became used to it and grew to enjoy
the heat as my spidery hand grabbed a fistful of water and trickled it over her
freckled form.
“You like the water?” I smiled as she giggled, closing her eyes as she braced
herself against the oncoming droplets.
I lathered the length of her auburn hair with my shampoo, rubbing thoroughly as
her formerly dirty hair took on an elegant, silken texture.
She, in turn, smiled broadly, playing with the accumulating bubbles as I ran my
hands through her soapy strands.
“I take it you enjoy the bubbles, too.” I felt almost domestic as I watched her
svelte fingers pop each transparently vivid bubble as it dreamily floated
towards her.
“I like popping them,” She gave another chiming giggle.
“Me too.” I reached for the soap and began to wash the skinny stalk of her
downy, sun-kissed leg as she extended it.
A diabolical idea entered the wicked threshold of my mind at this precise
moment. My pallid hand absconded itself behind the thick layer of bath foam,
relinquishing the bar of French lavender soap (the pretext for its progression)
as my long fingers lightly brushed against her labia.
She gave a coltish start in response—clearly, given her awe, she had never even
experienced the soft caresses of a lover.
“Sorry,” I apologized, trying my best to hide a budding smirk. “It's slippery.”
I resumed my duties without incident, and allowed her to dry herself with a
fresh towel, which she wrapped around her dripping body as I led her back to
the room.
Upon our re-entry, we were greeted by reliable Clotilde, who had done exactly
as I requested.
Exquisitely laid upon my bed were a sky-blue cashmere frock (ending slightly
above the knee) and matching Oxford shoes (accompanied by knee-high woolen
socks in eggshell white), followed by necessary undergarments.
Words could not have justly described the extent of her reaction to this humble
offering—never in her life had this unfortunate girl ever laid eyes upon such
finery, much less had opportunity to wear it.
“I thought you might need some fresh clothes.” I grinned, playing my part.
She did not explicitly thank me, but the look on her eyes conveyed all needed
gratitude as she slipped on the frock, carefully rolling up her new socks and
taming the thin laces of her cognac-brown Oxfords into neat little knots.
“I do think they suit you.” I couldn't help but to betray myself with a faint
blush as I summed her up with a sweeping glance, observing the way her small
but perky bosom pitched the cashmere of her frock ever so subtly.
“Y-you think so?” She looked down, burning scarlet, tucking an errant strand of
moistened hair behind her ear.
“Very much.” I nodded. “In fact, I think I'd like to take this vision of
loveliness out for a stroll this evening—and maybe some dinner. What say you?”
Predictably, she was more than happy to oblige. We proceeded to spend the next
few hours idling around the promenade (did I mention she paces in skips?), and
settled on some dreadful little restaurant serving some ill-conceived, reaching
imitation of German cuisine (her suggestion, not mine).
By evening's end, we found ourselves within the stifling confines of my bedroom
once more.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, noticing a freshly laid vase containing about two dozen
white roses. “I see they've brought the roses.”
“They're lovely...” The little doe wandered over to me, curious about the
flowers.
“Would you like me to pluck one for you?” I reached for a rose, removing it
from the rest and handing it to her.
She tangled her small hand around the long stem, wincing when she unwittingly
pricked herself with the sharp tip of a thorn.
“You're bleeding...” I remarked, watching a crimson bead of blood flowing down
her ivory hand.
I then took her hand in mine, pressing the finger in question to my lips and
sucking it dry.
“Better?” I released her hand.
Her luscious auburn ringlets bobbed like springs as she nodded in affirmation.
“You know, you look a bit tired.” I remarked. “Perhaps you should rest a
while...”
She shifted from sitting at the edge of my bed to comfortably sinking into the
cushioned cover: a cherub in careful repose astride a creamy cloud.
“Doesn't that feel nice?” I winked, bravely getting closer as she released the
rose from her hand.
My hand once again began its precarious journey into the untamed wilderness of
her mysterious interior, easing along the pathway her quaking thighs paved as I
approached.
“You have such sweet legs,” I caressed the healing scabs of her skinned knee as
she bent it, allowing my hand to tumble down her inner thigh as if propelled by
an avalanche.
She folded her arms, firstly looking at me but subsequently withdrawing her
gaze, focusing instead on the distant ceiling as I removed the wedged fabric of
her fresh undergarment.
I held the newly shed cloth in my hand, absentmindedly stretching the novel
elastic before losing interest and discarding it on the floor.
“You don't need to be afraid of me,” I cooed silkily, tucking my square hand
inside the warm cashmere of her dress and moistening the shuddering outline of
her lips with the artful stroke of a swift finger. “I'm not going to hurt
you...”
I unwrapped her present, loosening the small series of buttons cloistering her
bony ribs, unburdening her from the static confines of the hugging garment.
“Let's see what we have here...” I peeked at the twin peaks of her mosquito-
bite breasts, as raised as they were narrow, barely extending from the galaxy
of freckled constellations lining her birdcage chest.
The look upon her full-moon face conveyed some level of distress (it was
plaintively obvious she had never done the work of which she spoke upon our
meeting) when I cupped her small bust, giving her a light squeeze.
“I'm not going to hurt you...” I took her in my arms, patting the smooth rust
of her crown and gliding my svelte-fingered hands down the complex spirals of
her ringlets, pressing her close to my chest as I tentatively pricked her rose.
She let out a shrill cry as I plucked the petals I lusted after, holding her
hostage in the vice grip of my folding arms.
“Shhh...” I whispered, quickening my pace. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Her disheveled, once-pristine curls bounced with every thrust I gave, her limp
body resting like a rag doll in the stronghold of my limbs as her mewling moans
dimly faded in the air.
“I swear I won't hurt you...” I broke my promise as quickly as I uttered it,
tearing every treasured vestige of her purity for the sake of fleeting
pleasure.
My hips roughly pumped inside as I held on, firmly astride her until the sweet
moment of our joint culmination.
Her shrill shrieks permeated the air in a dolorous haze as I delivered the last
of my savage barrage against her previously impermeable interior, my coral lips
finding her parted cherry ones and enveloping her heaving sighs as I released
myself inside her.
Needless to say, I slept alone that cold December night.
***** 4. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis. (Lutz. Dec. 17,
19--) *****
Happy to hear your stroll into town turned out to be serendipitous, sir. One
can only imagine what the poor little dolly must have thought of you. All good
things, I hope.
Today's letter is strictly business. I've been following the lawyer, like you
instructed. His reputation precedes him—one of the most brilliant legal minds
in all Lutz, if the hearsay proves true. Seems to have a lot of work, aside
from being the executor of the Madame's estate (yours, of course). This may be
of some interest to you—he handles the legalities of your mother's old hotel,
the Grand Budapest. You may recognize the connection to the concierge (of
course, how could ya forget? That boy of his broke yer nose right proper,
didn't he? But I made him kiss the wall that night—would have smashed his
little brown skull in, too, if yer folks weren't watching).
Anyway, I thought this would be interesting to point, since it seems to be a
connection. If you need anything to be done—inquiring, perusing, persuading,
vanishing acts—just breathe the word and I'll be on the case (so long as you
provide my fee, of course).
That said, haven't had time to patronize the girlies as of late (they must miss
their inquisitions), or to look for any more presents on your behalf. You'll
probably be grateful for this when my job is done, sir—all good things require
sacrifices.
But I have rested from inquirin' a bit, don't think otherwise. I'm not a
machine, though my knuckles may be lined with brass brash enough to kick yer
ass.
I joke.
Mendl's is my main sustenance as of late, sir (fast and easy, the way I like).
Truly out of this world (I know your opinion, rightly disagree). A Courtesan au
Chocolat is enough to cheer me up after a soppy, rainy day of inquirin' in the
mud and grime. Of course, a bottle of whiskey wouldn't hurt, either (send some,
if you'd like, ya inquiry agent will always appreciate).
By the way, I sometimes see the boy who broke yer nose there. Talkin' to some
baker chick who makes 'em sweets. Blonde. Odd birthmark. Lovely little thing.
Ya might change yer mind on Mendl's if you laid eyes on 'er.
It was just a joke, sir. I'll keep ya posted on the Kovacs fella.
Do send the whiskey.
***** 5. Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz. Dec. 20,
19--) *****
I'm glad to hear you've been productive. That's what I pay you for.
Unlike you, however, I can lay claim to more exciting adventures, which I shall
document as follows:
A few days ago, I commissioned a painting from one of Zubrowka's rising
artists—some bohemian, Opium-smoking idiot, I don't recall his name, but word
around the watering hole is that he's quite the artist. Anyway, I sought him
out and commissioned a painting from him, as a joke of sorts. I told him to use
his imagination to discern what I could possibly like (I expected fruits,
flowers, all sorts of still life--even animals--or some sterile woman holding a
curious object).
Little did I know the bohemian would actually deliver.
I insisted on sitting at the painting (mainly just to aggravate him—when you
are bored and rich, you have to amuse yourself in any possible way). The artist
surprisingly agreed to these terms, supplying me with a date and time.
An hour before /the hour/ came (on the day he specified), I made my way to the
artist's studio, if nothing else simply to peruse the establishment.
However, upon my entry, I discovered the model who was to sit for the painting
I commissioned was already present (on a velvet couch, as is typical for these
bohemians to place their models).
She was absolutely beautiful. From what the artist later disclosed, she was
fifteen years old (a foundling from some small orphanage in the outskirts of
Lutz). Her light brown hair flowed in loose waves, reaching her lower back
before succumbing to the air. For the purposes of the commissioned painting,
she bore a crown of flowers (various types of diminutive flora) upon her head.
“Are you the girl who is sitting for the painting?” I asked, curious.
“I am,” she replied, unfazed by my presence. “I'm waiting for Herr Wolff.”
“I see.” I remarked, being at a loss for words—she was just so beautiful. “Mind
if I join you for a bit of light conversation?”
She agreed, and for the next half-hour, we discussed trivial subjects of her
choosing.
“Did you know I'm the person who commissioned this painting?” I finally asked,
peering at her lanky form.
She shook her head, smiling slyly.
“I am.” I confirmed, placing a hand on her bended leg. “I wanted something
unique, and word says the artist who is about to paint you fits the bill...”
“Oh really?” She approached me, placing a small hand on my chest. “What do you
consider unique?”
A tilt of her head and I was forever gone.
“Well....” I struggled to maintain my composure, digging for words as the
moments passed. “A girl who can make a man lose his train of thought without
even realizing it.” I joked, laughing sheepishly. “ Like you.”
“You really think I'm special?” Her blue eyes lit up, as if nobody in the world
had ever distinguished her from the ordinary.
“Yes, you're very beautiful.” I offered the usual lines. “If you weren't, I
don't think you'd be sitting for a portrait right now...”
The girl smiled in turn, her hands draped across her torso (as if to convey she
wasn't entirely comfortable posing in the nude).
“In fact, I think you're so beautiful I can't keep away from you...” I said,
leaning close to her and kissing her deeply, my hungry lips enveloping her
small pink ones.
“You really are just like a goddess...” My index finger trailed along the
girl's faintly visible chest, pausing upon the tiny peaks of her breasts and
clenching each in my wishing fists before migrating down her slender torso,
ultimately relinquishing control as I crossed the border of her Venus mound.
“How do you expect me to stand before you?” I asked, my eyes half-closed as I
dropped the line, casting her a sultry glance. “When you are this fucking
beautiful...”
The model's cheeks turned beet-red before she could have a chance to respond.
“Your legs....” I observed, traveling down her shapely stalks with my slim
hands, until I reached her delicate ankles. “Just divine.”
I parted her spindly legs, which she seemed to hold no protest to, inserting my
face directly against her member.
“You smell lovely...” I purred, pressing myself even closer as her small limbs
laid outstretched in an effort to accommodate me.
Seeing no protest on her precocious behalf, I proceeded to do what came
naturally, taking a clever lick of my tongue against her left wall, slowly
progressing to the right.
The young model squirmed amidst the newness of this carnal pleasure, barely
able to contain herself as she quivered before me.
I crept down to the lovely entrance to her temple, delicately inserting my
tongue therein, flexing it as I strove to reach uncharted depths inside her.
The young girl, in reprise, swung her legs wildly, glowing as she relished in
the wholly new sensation of my teasing tongue venturing the inner walls of her
sex organ.
Her small hands rustled my ebony hair as my tongue darted in and out of her
aching orifice, shifting from sampling the musky taste of her delicate interior
to her throbbing clitoris, which I enveloped with gusto in one swoop move,
gently sucking on the minute pearl before releasing it.
I repeated the motion, tapping the tip of my tongue on the innermost part of
its skin as her soft thighs gently caressed each of my cheeks, her insides
shivering with every calculated flick I gave.
I switched technique, inserting a long finger within her oscillating organ,
already sufficiently provoked by my previous machinations. I explored her
smooth walls, caressing them fondly as she sighed in bliss, her fluttering
obsidian lashes palpitating like the broad wings of a butterfly.
I withdrew my finger, subsequently inserting my tongue and masterfully
thrusting inside her until I felt her legs give a slight wobble, her warm
release drenching my dry coral lips as I pushed inside her one last time.
“You taste lovely, too...” I teased, licking the emission from my lips and
placing myself astride her, my throbbing member finding its way into her small
entrance as I held her in place.
She shuddered as I entered her, not saying a word, her liquid eyes looking to
me with a mix of curiosity and fear as she endured the first difficult moments
of her deflowering (despite her vixen talk, she was no more familiar with the
ways of men than any normal girl her age).
“You've never done this before, have you?” I held her, positioning her hips at
a more comfortable angle as I proceeded to tarnish her purity, tearing her
sacred garden asunder with a series of forceful thrusts.
She quivered and moaned in response, being in too much pain to say or do
anything else, her little hands trying to hold onto my broad shoulders.
I pressed on, despite her subtle whimpers and sobs, filling the void in her
crevice with the length of my yearning engine as I kissed her slow, the pale
blush of her watery cheeks contrasting with the brushing of my scarlet flush as
I pumped atop her, pressing my face close to hers amidst laboured exhalations.
The subtle perfume of shed violets filled the small studio as we peaked in
joint climax. I glided my spidery fingers down her silken locks, disheveling
the once-pristine flower crown previously adorning her head, letting loose the
tiny flowers from her hair as I discharged, shuddering and sweat-drenched, at
the core of her being.
***** 6. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis (Lutz. December
22, 19--) *****
I do hope your painting turns out to be what you hoped for, sir.
Incidentally—have you taken 'Boy With Apple' from the library yet? Better do
that sooner rather than later: they can't bestow what they can't find, can
they?
That said, it was good seeing you again, even if our visit to the lawyer was
brief. I have a feeling he will not be signing many documents from now on.
By the way, have you seen the mummy exhibit at the Lutz Kunstmuseum? I hear
they've got an excellent sarcophagus collection—something which may be of
interest to you, sir, if you happen to find yourself bored and in need of an
outing.
Speaking of which, I just happened to go on a rather decadent outing this past
week, sir. Or rather, an inning, since the events took place in this old
widow's home.
Ya see, this widow, a Countess (you may know her, in fact, but I am not one to
drop names) as it happens, invited me to her home. We met at an old, rickety
bar (what a surprise to see her there, but upon learning more of her, this
impression rapidly faded), a favourite of mine.
I ordered the whiskey, as usual. Was playing a game of poker with some old pals
when she asked to join in. We all did a double-take upon her entry—a Countess,
at a place like this? Unimaginable, surely. Why, it'd be like seeing you at one
of the brothels I visit, or like seeing a cat not landing on its feet when
thrown from a great height. Unexpected, in other words.
She comes to us dressed in finery, some shimmering silk gown and a string of
pearls hanging from her neck. Out of place with us old harrowed hit-men, but
she insists on playing a game.
We are amused—what could a Countess possibly know of drinking hard liquor and
playing card games in a bar as cloudy as a smokestack?
She sits, orders a vodka from a dirty glass, and picks up the cards.
“I take it you're surprised to see me at a place like this?” The purported lady
asks, peering at us with cunning emerald eyes as she scanned the room, the
ghost of a wrinkle tracing itself upon her curling lips.
We are taken aback—despite her age, she is a great beauty.
“So ya wanna play cards with us, m'am?” I break the ice, posing the question as
I take a swig from my drink.
“Only if you think you could beat me in a game of poker...” She purrs at me, a
knowing sparkle in her eye extending a secret challenge aimed squarely in my
direction.
We accept her offer, and play for quite a length of time. Well, whaddya know?
The old cat beat us senseless—she was skilled in the art of deception, that
wily woman!
A few rounds of drinks later and we are all pleasantly drunk, a mirthful buzz
overtaking the atmosphere even as the bar prepares to close for the night.
Laughter fills the air as we exchange dirty jokes (that woman could tell some
truly nasty ones, I tell ya!), and pass around a fine cigar. Eventually,
someone produces a bottle of some real petrol stuff—homemade—and we all polish
it clean. Even the lady had a few, the woman could hold more than her own not
just in regards to cards.
I bid farewell to the fellas for the night, as the lady leads me to her home.
It is a well-known manor, mind ya not as fancy as yer house, but it is fancier
than any other place I ever been. We enter and she takes me to her room. A nice
room, a bit decadent for my own tastes, and definitely a lady's room with all
the pink and perfume—cheap perfume, at that.
She slides off a strap of her gaudy, sparkling gown, looking intently in my
direction.
“You want to know why I was there tonight, don't you?” She smiles, again, that
little ghost appears upon her lips, driving me wild.
“Yah, why is a lady like you tramping at a bar with all the common broads?” I
ask, leering at the bare skin of her shoulder.
“Hm, common broads.” She repeats, placing a tacky varnished finger on her
hollowed cheek, amused. “What if I told you I am a common broad?”
“Yer joking!” I say, heaving a hearty laugh. The idea was preposterous.
“No, monseigneur. 'Tis no joke.” She answers immediately, if somewhat sadly. “I
was born as common as any of the gals in that bar tonight, is fact.”
She proceeded to tell me how it is she earned—and I mean earned—her title. Ya
see, she was once a prostitute at a bordello in the southern part of Italy. Did
lots to gain some infamy there. And there was this Sicilian, a Count, sir. He
was known among the region for his vices. Heavy drinker, even heavier smoker.
Loved the little tricks as much as I do, if not more.
Of course, this was all long ago. She was a youth back then, about sixteen. But
was in the business since the age of ten. Something about her mother being a
madam, forcing her in the trade. Anyway, she met this guy, he was really taken
with her. Was a daily visitor, sir, every day in and out like clockwork.
Two years later, he leaves his wife and children, marries the chick and comes
to Lutz. The scandal ruined his reputation back home (as if it hadn't been
grave enough already). So he comes here with the babe.
She, of course, has no intention of settling with some disgusting old Count (no
offense to your kin, sir). But he has money. She's been poor all her life. The
lady, sir, she tries to poison the Count. Laces his food with small amounts of
arsenic each day for months.
I tell 'er, should've used strychnine. Hell, cantarella. Slide that in his
cookies and see how quick he goes, I say. But she didn't know much of these
matters back then.
Anyway, it's not going fast enough. The Count is sick, but not dying.
Meanwhile, she ain't getting any younger, and he still expects her to deliver.
It was one thing when she was a whore, but now she was a lady—ya'd be surprised
how a woman's mindset changes with her status, sir.
One night, she has enough of his liquor-stench kisses, his hairy pawing at her
supple breasts, his forceful entries. She snaps. Grabs a large knife from her
bedside (it was habit for her to keep one close—being a whore is risky
business, sir), stabs him in the back like Brutus did Caesar. Rather grisly,
sir.
The Count doubles over in shock. Hurls curses at her, names of every sort. She
takes the knife from his back and does him in the stomach. Really slices him
open, sir. Twists the dagger in there, her hands smeared in his blood. He gasps
in horror at her, coughing heavily, his black eyes transfixed upon her.
She digs in the incision, takes out his entrails, gives 'em a hearty squeeze
and deposits them in his mouth. Really shoves them in there, like she's feeding
him sausage links or somethin', makes him choke on his own intestines.
By this point, he is dead. But she doesn't stop, sir. She takes out his heart
with the same dagger. Really cuts him deep. Next morning, she boils the thing
and eats it for breakfast with some artichokes and beets. Spins some story
about a mystery attacker doing him in, cries at the funeral and everything.
Even orders the coroner to set aside a small amount of his blood and place it
in a vial, so she can wear it 'round her pretty neck.
She shows me the vial. It dangles from her stately neck, in silver, her little
trophy.
I feed 'er a little story of my own, which you will know in due time, sir.
Patience is key.
The lady then undresses and does me the same. My leather trench coat joins her
garish gown in kissing the floor as she sits astride my lap.
Her lips taste like poorly aged wine (incidentally, what she had been downing
all evening, with the exception of the vodka and the homemade brew) when I kiss
her. She leaves a ghost of pink on my own thin, pruny lips as she devours me.
Sticks her tongue in my mouth and probes me, the smell of sour grapes reaching
my willing nose. She tosses me back upon the bed, runs one of them polished
fingers down the hairs on my chest as I become aroused.
Next thing I know she is working me like a horse. I sit back and watch her
bounce atop me, feeling her clench my throbbing engine in her. She had more
control than anyone I ever met, she did, and she bites into my neck, leaving a
pristine bruise in shades of yellowed puce in place (it still resides, in
fact).
It is all fun and games when she leads, her raven hair swaying wildly as her
elegant bob becomes disheveled, the white pearls around her neck whipping
against her chest as it bobs up and down.
Finally, I feel like I'm about to finish. She has me as sore as she was. I turn
the tables to her game, flip 'er over like a card. Pin her to the bed and
thrust into her before pulling my cloistered member from the depths of her
oyster.
I grasp her stringy necklace in my thick hands and rip it from her neck,
sending the little pearls flying across the room before they hit the floor like
heavy drops of rain.
I migrate to her torso and ejaculate just below her creased neck, my juices
dripping to her faded chest as she relishes in my spray.
“How is that for a string of pearls?” I ask as I flash her a fanged grin.
***** 7: Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis To J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz. December
25, 19--) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
As a point of fact, I have recently discovered 'Boy With Apple' has gone
missing. As usual, my useless sisters were of no aid, remarking on the
disappearance only after I had noted the fact.
I was beyond furious when I discovered its disappearance, much more when it was
made known to me that those three idiots had noted its vanishing before I ever
did.
In the midst of my ire, I may have brought an end to one of our own stock of
art, which was used by the thieves as a decoy for the missing 'Boy With Apple.'
Not to worry, however. It was a dreadful painting. I swiftly brought it to its
rightful end—I had to take my anger out on something, I suppose.
So, that is what I had as a surprise this Christmas season. As if it weren't
enough to find out the fucking faggot had inherited 'Boy With Apple,' and that
the idiot Serge X. has gone missing.
It has not all been doom and gloom, however. I did have a bit of a
reprieve—much-deserved—unexpected though it was.
You see, my mother had ordered a pair of shoes (unbeknownst to me) before her
death, which as always were hand-made by some cobbler, and hand-delivered, in
the old tradition. I suppose the girl doing the delivery of my mother's red
shoes did not hear of her death, because she showed up as if all were well
yesterday afternoon, led by none other than Clotilde (my guess is she did not
know what to make of the happening).
I was at the library when they arrived, having discovered 'Boy With Apple's
disappearance the evening prior. As usual, in the event of a major
disappointment, I was downing a glass of scotch, at my favourite red velvet
chair, my bottle resting next to me at a nearby table.
Clotilde appeared with this strange girl holding an elegantly adorned box in
tow, and informed me she had been searching for me. She mentioned going to my
room (it was a mess, admittedly) and, in the event of not finding me there, she
figured I would be at the library (old habits die hard is all I've to say for
myself).
Anyway, she brought this girl with her, and the latter stated her business.
“M-Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis...” The girl spoke, uncertain, her dirty-blonde hair
bound by a red velvet bow. “I have a pair of shoes to deliver...”
She unwrapped the little box with utmost care, revealing a pair of red shoes
resting atop some ornate gold paper.
“I see.” I took a sip from my scotch, unimpressed. (By this time, I was already
about halfway into my bottle, and somewhat drunk). “And what do you want me to
do about that?”
“Well...” The young girl looked to me with her starry blue eyes, as if to plead
for some sort of satisfactory answer. “I think they were your mother's order,
and since she is not here, I thought perhaps you could take the parcel in her
place...”
I held back the desire to expel a boisterous laugh, instead taking another
hearty sip from my glass.
“Dear child, my mother is dead.” I said, attempting to appear grim, holding
back a small smile. “She wouldn't have any use for those shoes, unless they
offer tap-dancing classes in Hell...”
The girl appeared to be taken aback by my remark, trembling slightly.
“It was just a joke.” I tried to repair the damage and win back her trust. “Let
me take a look at those shoes... I think my sister Carolina wears the same size
as my dear old mum. Perhaps I'll gift her the pair as a Christmas present...”
I dismissed Clotilde, leaving the young girl and I the sole two inside our
stately library.
The girl in question, I will not attempt deception, did irritate me a bit. She
had a somewhat familiar air to her, which I could not quite place, but
something about her dirty blonde hair, milk-white skin, and shining blue eyes
evoked the feeling I had seen those features somewhere before.
“Why don't you come over here, so I can take a closer look...” I said, a
somewhat haughty smirk lining my drunken face as I gestured for her to
approach.
She did precisely as she was told, holding the large box in her little hands as
she neared me, her red bow bobbing with every small step she took in my
direction, her mink fur collar glistening like silk as every stray ray of light
laid itself against it.
I sat her on my lap (surprisingly, she held no protest—I don't think she knew
the implications of this move at that moment), taking a whiff of her powdered
hair as I pretended to take a look at her stupid shoes.
“Oh, yes, I think she'll love them...” I played my part, taking a shoe in my
hand and examining it closely. It was the ugliest shoe I've ever seen.
My hand slid up the hem of her dress, pressing against the fabric of her
underwear as she looked back to me, horrified. I retreated, thinking it best to
progress slowly, and returned my attention to the product she'd come to sell.
“Yes, I think she will adore them....” I purred, letting my other hand land on
her lap, quickly raising it in such a manner that it swiftly brushed against
her small breast.
She looked to me, her bright blue eyes sheltering a speck of uncertainty as she
attempted to square me up, not quite knowing what she'd just gotten herself
into.
I wrapped my hands around her hips, pressing her close to my growing member, in
such a way it brushed against her bottom—and instantly, she knew what was about
to come.
The brave little starling tried to break free from my embrace, but it was to no
avail. By this time, I was more than halfway into the aforementioned bottle of
scotch, and lusting quite heavily after the helpless little girl caught in my
web.
My yearning hands slowly unbuttoned the smooth little caramel buttons of her
coat, shedding it from her slender form before doing the same to my own, my
seal fur robe unfurling as it revealed my bare chest, much to her terror (I
discerned she had never before seen a shirtless man, from the look on her
face).
I next pulled her frock from her, revealing a frilly pair of undergarments with
matching bows, which sent a rush of electricity down my spine as I turned her
over, setting her on the red velvet couch I had previously occupied, placing
myself atop her as I fully discarded my seal fur pajamas.
My long hand reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch as I raised it to my
lips, taking a generous swig before I showered her pink lips with its emission,
hungrily kissing the residue from her plump rose petals as the scotch rained
over the rest of her body.
I carefully licked the amber trail from her bare breasts, which slightly raised
as my tongue made warm contact with her shivering skin, tasting the bitter
fluid as it settled in her slender form, trailing all the way down to the
sacred mound from which she split in two.
I looked up at her as I licked down her torso. To my stupefaction, I was met
with nothing but terror, which sent a cold flick of ire inside me ablaze. I
became furious, grabbing a green apple (which I had intended to eat, but had
set aside in favour of the scotch I preferred) and shoving it between her rosy
lips, making her bite down upon it before yanking it from her lips and doing
the same myself, its sour juices trailing down my chin as I made my decisive
incision.
The bitten apple was promptly discarded, bluntly hitting the floor as I leaned
closer to the terrified girl, finding the split between her thighs and mounting
her. I fucked her quickly, relentlessly crashing upon her open thighs like a
wave coming to shore, feeling myself tear inside her as she whimpered in pain.
Yet her cries only served to excite me further, as my motions became swifter,
more forceful, my hands pinning her to the velvety couch as I inched further
inside her, showering her with scotch-scented kisses as I thrust my hips,
withdrawing little gasps and grunts from her own pallid lips as I melted my
body into hers.
As I felt myself on the cusp of finishing, I looked into her blue eyes, which
widened with fear as I pulled out from within her, brusquely flipping her over
and entering her anew.
This time, however, I buried my scepter within her tiny little rosebud,
pressing firmly as I conquered my way within, her pained screams filling the
air as I twisted her little nipples, pulling her body as close to mine as it
could muster before I relinquished my seed in her, shuddering with each slowed
motion of my final thrusts.
The little treasure was sent back home by Clotilde that night, still clutching
the small box which held the red shoes she had come to deliver.
Chapter End Notes
     The girl in question is Gustl H., niece of M. Gustave H, and
     granddaughter of his father (who was an impoverished cobbler, as per
     Fiennes' imaginings of M. Gustave's past).
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