Twisted Oak: A Sexual Odyssey (5 page)

BOOK: Twisted Oak: A Sexual Odyssey
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Ty gave the impression that he was trying to think of more descriptive words, but he gave up. “We all get lucky sometimes and you, my cheri, are a lucky lady. It’s late and Sunny needs me at the bar. Miss Susan, I like you and I pray you sign on.”

I stood to hug him, but he stepped back and put his arm out. “Sorry, cher. Our huggin’ days are changin’, but I can fetch Mr. Delacroix so he can help you back to bed.” He left without turning back.

I could not imagine what all the fuss was about, and my thoughts about being a “special friend” went immediately to the dark side. I assumed Mr. Delacroix told Ty he could not hug me and I resented it a little. My mind worked to make sense of it all. I was not to be sold or ransomed, but rather kept like the stray I was. The idea of being a kept woman unsettled me. How many women did Delacroix keep? Ty was a prostitute. Was this a prostitution ring? Ty said Delacroix was legit, though. I had a million questions, but for the moment, was also grateful for the help and kindness I received. I told myself that when I got better, I would assess the situation with a clearer mind. I was tired and still feeling a little sick, and the bed was warm, clean, and soft. I could get used to this.

Mr. Delacroix entered almost immediately with a stack of small books in his hand. He placed the books on the nightstand and turned on the lamp. He offered his hand and I held it as I stood.

“You’re doing so much better,” he said.

“It was so wonderful to see Ty.” I steadied myself with the table as he drew my blankets back.

He laid me down softly. “Neige, tomorrow we’ll explore the possibility of you helping me write my new family history. Get some rest, but take a minute to read some of my family writings.”

“Mr. Delacroix, what do you mean by
Nez
?” I asked.

“Aww, cher, you pronounce it the Creole way.” He paused. “I like it that way.”

“What is it?”

“It’s your new name.”

6.

I lay back and thought about the last week. I suddenly panicked, as I had not seen my backpack anywhere. I wondered if anyone had found the $5,000 I had hid in the lining. I kept hearing Sunny’s voice telling me how I have to trust him, trust them. I saw his angelic smile asking me if he had proven himself. Lord knows, he had. No one had ever been as kind to me as Sunny. From my perspective, even Ty would not have been able to help me through those first few hours.

I remembered the money that Ty gave to Sunny on the day I arrived and decided I would tell Sunny about the money I had in the morning. I closed my eyes, but I could not sleep.

I looked over at the books Mr. Delacroix had given me to read. The ornate leather bindings were faded, cracked, and peeling away at the corners, but I could see that at some point in the distant past, they had been precious items. I took the top one off the stack and carefully opened the yellowed pages to find handwritten journal entries. I was stunned to find these books were Monique Delacroix’s journals from when she left Houma, Louisiana, to become the wife of a French merchant named Jean-Pierre Delacroix. These two French immigrants began the long Delacroix legacy in America.

Her entry on July 12, 1765 reflected on her voyage from L’Acadie in 1755:

Ten years to the day passes and not a word from Mama and Papa.

She feared her family was dead and she pined for her little sister and older brother:

I hope my prayers travel through the grace of Christ and into their hearts that I am alive. After all this time, I am resolved I will not know the fate of my Acadian family, God rest their souls, and may they know the kingdom of heaven.

The next entry was from September 24, 1765:

I am now twenty-two and lonely for a family, and Mr. Delacroix has offered me an opportunity.

My heart skipped a beat. I could be the one writing these lines. I continued reading.

He is strange, but then again, he is French, and Frenchmen have their peculiarities. I will do as he wishes, for it is my personal commandment to have many strong children from whence my family will prosper. In this, Mr. Delacroix and I agree. He commands and so his will shall be done, my monsieur. I trust him and will marry him as I have signed his contract. He has offered me his kingdom.

Did this mean Mr. Delacroix was offering me his kingdom? The idea of wealth and power was intriguing to me. I wondered what it would be like to be rich, but how rich was he?

I read the next entry, from October 20, 1768:

I cannot live without my monsieur. He is my every dream and my every nightmare. I hurt. Oh, the pain, but I live! Please bring him back to me. I carry our first child and his name shall be Philippe.

I hurt . . . the pain . . . I am alive.

I wanted to read more, but I was tired. I hurt, but I was alive and clean. I was warm and safe. My eyelids grew heavy with thoughts of Monique, kingdoms, castles, and Twisted Oak. I dreamed heavenly dreams of warm, clean covers, good food, trusting friends and loving family, real home, the finest life.

“Nez,” he said, his voice a gentle whisper.

“Mr. Delacroix? Monsieur, are you there?” I opened my eyes to see Mr. Delacroix smiling.

“You read them, my love?”

Being called “my love” conjured notions of being kept. I was curious, but cautious about this idea. Ty and Sunny seemed to have found comfort here and lord knows I was more comfortable than I ever remember being. I would take Ty’s advice and listen to what Mr. Delacroix had to offer.

“Not all, but enough to understand the basics.”

“The basics?”

“Yeah,” I said as I struggled to sit. As expected, Mr. Delacroix rushed to my aid. “The basics, like your family has this tradition of picking up lost puppies and helping them out.”

“Monique Delacroix was no lost puppy. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

I was tired, my body hurt, and I wanted to know what he wanted from me. “Yeah? And exactly what was that?”

“Ah, cher, you haven’t read it all.” He fluffed my pillows. “Keep studying and soon you’ll understand the complete nature of the contract.”

“She said something about that, but then when I skimmed through, a later entry said she couldn’t live without Monsieur Delacroix, so she must have loved him very much.”

He regarded me with intense emotion. Was it anger or frustration? His blue eyes glistened in the morning light. He closed them for a moment or two and when he opened them, the fire was gone. “Let me help you to the toilet.”

“I don’t have to go.”

“Yes, you do.” He took my arm in a brusque fashion, nothing like his gentle manner moments earlier.

“Okay, okay.”

I was annoyed and allowed him to guide me to the toilet. He stood there as I sat.

“Are you going to stand there and watch me?”

“Yes.” He steadied his gaze. His electric eyes seemed to penetrate my brain. Against every ounce of my will, I instinctively peed. Surprised and ashamed, I looked away.

“That’s it,” he said.

My insides lit up as if a bolt of electricity ran deep inside my groins, and my stomach knotted. When I wiped, I found the toilet tissue was slippery. I was aroused, angry, and incredulous. This made the waves of electricity even more intense. My body still hurt from the withdrawal and I began chanting to myself, “I hurt . . . the pain . . . I am alive.”

“Finished?” His voice was sharp.

“Yes,” I said as I was getting up. “You treat me as if I were a china doll, Mr. Delacroix. You know, I won’t break.”

He stepped in front of me, both hands gripping my shoulders, his face inches from mine.

“You, my love, couldn’t be more wrong.”

“You’re confusing,” I said and looked away. I had seen men like Mr. Delacroix before, with their empty threats and vain attempts at appearing macho, always having to be in control. My mother fell for this all the time, but unfortunately, for her, not all threats were empty. Steve beat my mother on a regular basis, but Mr. Delacroix confused me; unlike Steve, he was helping me get healthy. What did he want?

“Nez,” he began.

“Stop calling me that!” I yelled. “It isn’t my goddamned name!” I blurted it out without thinking and immediately regretted it, unsure of his reaction. My inner world flashed with vignettes of my mother making contact with the wall, her head hitting the coffee table. Sunny hitting Ty. Did they defer to Mr. Delacroix because they were grateful, or fearful, or both?

His breath stopped and the pain in his eyes pierced my heart. A single tear fell from his eye, but he never dropped his gaze. I was even more confused now because I expected anger, not pain. I had never seen a man cry. He spun away from me and put his fisted hands to his eyes to hold back more tears.

“Mr. Delacroix,” I attempted to apologize. I touched his shoulder, but he recoiled.

“No! Don’t touch me.” Stepping away from me, he hit my hand with surprising force.

“I am sorry. I don’t understand,” I said, rubbing my hand.

“No, you don’t understand any of it.” His voice softened and his posture went limp. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry. Sometimes I get carried away with my own . . .” He was at a loss for words.

“I don’t understand because you haven’t told me. Just tell me straight up what this is all about. I’m here, and as far as I can tell, I don’t want to leave. But I gotta know what the hell is going on.”

“I want you,” he said with anxious eyes. “I see so much potential in you. You’re so beautiful. Don’t you want me?”

With a moment of unexpected clarity, I blurted out, “Yes, I want you.” I was not sure what came over me. I never knew I could make a man cry.

With that, he lifted me, carried me to the bedroom, and threw me to the bed in one fell swoop. My midsection was on fire. I was bursting with some inner light.

This is why people make love.

I must have spoken my thought aloud because Mr. Delacroix replied with a heavy growl, “Na-na, cher, I fuck.”

With that, the beautiful robe was open and the nightie was in tatters. Before I knew it, he had pinned me down. I tried to fight him off, but I was still weak. His right hand caressed my breasts and my body responded without warning. I was warm, cold, tingling, and curling up inside. He pinched my nipple so hard it hurt. The pain radiated to my groin, electric and sharp. I wanted him to do it again. He bit my nipple and the sensation traveled to the tips of my toes. My hips began gyrating beyond my control. I was lost in ecstatic madness.

“Please take me,” I whimpered.

“Why should I, when you think Monique Delacroix was a whore?”

“No, I don’t think that. Please.”

“Please what?” He laughed at me.

“Make love to me.”

“No, Nez.” His hand traveled down my tummy and began to tickle and pull my pubic hair; the juices flowed even harder.

“What is your name?” he said.

“Susan!” I cried. He pulled harder and the wetness flowed more. I could feel it trickle toward the bed and settle in my anus.

“What is your name, whore?” he asked as he yanked.

“Susan,” I cried.

He bit my left nipple just hard enough to zap another shockwave to the end of my being.

“Do you want it?”

“Please. Yes.”

“I like it when you beg. What is your name, you little begging whore?” He plunged his fingers into me. My hips went wild.

“Tell . . . me . . . your . . . name . . . now,” he said, each word emphasized with a twist of his hand. His wide, deft fingers spread out and stretched me as if I were made of Silly Putty. I felt as if my insides were on the outside.

“Nez, I am Nez.” The tears flowed from my eyes as fast as the love juices from my vagina. God, I wanted him to fuck me. Sobs jerked my body.

“Stay, don’t move. Leave your hands where they are or I swear I will leave this room.”

Through the sobs, I saw him drop his silk pajama pants. I did not dare move my arms. He quickly put on a condom and, standing above me, said, “Nez, I’m going to fuck you now. Is that okay?”

I was panting like a dog. “Please, yes. Please.”

“Good girl. Keep begging. It’ll make it better,” he said as he pushed my legs apart with his hands and dove into me. The pain was brilliant, exquisite, spreading me and making me scream. He stopped. I begged him to continue and so he did. In and out and around, slow, fast—then he stopped. I was empty but for him. I moaned and he plunged back into me so hard that I lost my breath.

“Baby girl, you’re so wet for me. That pleases me.”

I lay helpless, open, free, except for his left hand pinning my wrists above my head. He made his command and I obeyed. I was his vessel to do with as he wished.

His rhythm became steady, his dark curls wet with sweat that dripped onto my face and into my eyes. His breath caught with every thrust. He was squeezing my hands hard, but even that pain was glorious. He gasped and his eyes misted over as if he had entered another realm. He shoved himself painfully deep and then collapsed on top of me. He was heavy, relaxed, and smelled of sweat and musk.

I opened my eyes, and knew Sunny was right when he said I’d wake up in heaven.

“Now do you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do, Mr. Delacroix.”

He pulled out of me and rolled over onto his back to catch his breath. We lay in silence for a few moments.

“You okay?” he asked.

“A little shaky, but yeah, I’m fine.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like it a lot?”

I thought about it for a few moments. “Yes.”

“Good.” He rolled over on his side to face me and suddenly jumped to his knees. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

I looked over my shoulder to find him examining my bloody robe soiled with sweat, come, and the blood that used to be my virginity. I began to cry.

“Nez, Nezzie, I thought you said you were okay! You said you wanted me. You begged me!” He threw the robe aside and rolled me over.

“I feel like an idiot,” I said.

“Why? This is beautiful. You were a virgin and I was too, in a way.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, my love, I’ve never had regular sex before.” His smile was so wide and excited, he resembled a little boy.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that you weren’t all tied up in knots for me.”

“Oh, yeah, I was!”

“Not literally.” He gave me a sideways glance.

“You mean like bondage and that kind of shit? Is that what this is all about?”

“That’s only a small part of it, Nez. No pressure. If you want out, you can get out. No one will force you into anything. That isn’t how this works at all. But you’re meant to be here, I know that now. Please consider my proposal. Please.” He sat on his haunches with his hands together like a kid at a candy store.

“I like it when you beg,” I said, and his grin went from ear to ear.

“So you will consider it?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, Mr. Delacroix, but I have one question.” I looked him in the eye.

“Yes, my love. Anything.”

“Is the story of Monique Delacroix true? Was she really a refugee?”

“From her journal to your eyes, every word is true as the sun rising in the east. I swear it on her grave.”

He glanced away. “Another first. See what you do to me?” His expression was one of puzzlement. “If it helps, I can call you Susan until you sign on. From that point on you will be Neige.”

“What does it mean, Mr. Delacroix? What did you say to me yesterday, that French phrase, and when will I be able to call you by your first name?”


Par sa peau blanche comme la neige
means you are as pure and white as snow. I named you this after the doctor told me you were a virgin.
Neige
means snow. It is even more fitting considering you’re a cocaine addict.”

His last words stung, but he was speaking the truth, so I could not argue it. “You can call me Nez, if I can call you by your first name.”

“You can use my first name after I collar you and not a moment earlier,” he said in a stern, hard voice. “I’ll stick with Susan for now, if it helps.” His eyes filled with that painful melancholy that tore my heart to shreds.

BOOK: Twisted Oak: A Sexual Odyssey
7.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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