The Sexual Magician
KhakiAchilles
Prologue
Jean-Pierre Rodan was sitting in his favorite coffeehouse, sipping his coffee and reading the latest overseas newspapers when the two plain-clothes policemen finally caught up with him. The two men did not take the trouble of doffing their caps and cloaks, nor did they take the trouble of stepping out of the doorway to keep the heat of the room from escaping.
“You would do well to come with us, Monsieur Rodan,” spoke the taller man.
“I am no informer, Messieurs. Save your francs for the pimps.”
“We are well aware of your nocturnal habits, Monsieur. Perhaps you would care for an enumeration?”
Rodan stiffened and then rose from his chair. He was middle-aged, graying and bald-pated, and a bit paunchy, but still quite muscular. He walked over to the two policemen and exited, making no effort to reach past the second man to retrieve his hat and coat. The midday air was frigid and crisp. The bustling pedestrian and carriage traffic of the nearby Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine seemed unabated by the falling snow.
Parked at the side of the curb was a police carriage just large enough to seat two men facing each other. One of the policemen opened the door for him while the other looped around to stand next to the far door. Seated inside was a familiar figure on the streets of this arrondisement: Capitaine Emile Chevreuil. He was slimy and greasy looking and the kind of police boss who made a lot of sport out of paying abortionists to rat out their clients.
Rodan made a pose of mock disgust before climbing up into the carriage. The policeman closed the door behind him.
“Good to see you, Rodan. You look well fed.”
“As do you, Chevreuil. Bringing in a steady diet of prostitutes lately?”
“I’d have thought that that would be your line of work, but are you still able to practice your old profession?”
“I am not so old as you may have been led to believe.”
“I have need of your, let us call them ‘epistemologically complex’ talents. We have detected a plot against the life of the First Consul. You may be able to discover a lead for us.”
Rodan feigned boredom. “Is that all? When is there not a plot against Bonaparte?”
“This time we think there is more to it. There are complications.”
“There are always complications, are there not?”
Chevreuil leaned forward to almost whisper into his ear. “Word from the top is that nobody gets off the hook with this one. If we have to put a body in the Seine, we will.”
Rodan stared at the man as he reclined into his seat. The door opened and Rodan stepped down to the ground.
“You’ll let us know if you discover anything useful.” Chevreuil flipped a gold franc at him but he let it hit his chest and fall into the snow.
Part 1: The Mistress of Assassins
Down within the brick-walled basement, six cloaked figures kneeled within the edges of a single island of smooth, slate rock inset within the tamped earth. Each of them was chalking mystical symbols within the arcs of a circle large enough to contain a man reclining. Positioned at asymmetric points of the circle were eleven glowing candles that threw strange shadows against the rotting walls and ceiling. In the darkness beyond the figures, there was just enough room for a mattress on one side and a narrow path around the circle to the wooden stairs on the other.
The place was well-insulated for heat and sound and light. The woman prostrated upon the mattress still had her quilted blankets wrapped tightly around her legs and torso.
Rodan looked up from his chalking. “Let me remind you that this is a spiritual seeking. We are a collegio. Let the English speak of covens and witches. Are we agreed?”
The others, even the naked woman, all indicated their consent.
“Very well.” Rodan raised his voice to the nearby stairs. “Guillaume, you may come down.”
Rodan watched warily as a naked young man hurriedly tiptoed down the stairs and over to the warmth of the blankets. He was tall and thin and muscular. The woman didn’t look too pleased to be wrapped up with him, but she was her village’s slut so she was certain to warm to him in time.
“Guillaume, you may begin to fondle the girl, but please, no penetration.”
“You got it, boss,” replied the youth. The woman let loose a series of annoying giggles.
“And now,” Rodan announced, “we sing the Si puer cum puellula to alert the spirit world to our seeking.”
Together the four figures swayed left and right, singing the Latin lines that exalted man and woman transcending all boundaries through lovemaking. Guillaume stopped fondling the woman’s breasts from behind and started to straddle her so he could kiss her breasts more easily. Her giggles turned into girlish coos and moans.
After the second singing of the Si puer cum puellula, Rodan once again took the lead.
“I call upon the spirit of the feminine Brutus, the Mistress of Assassins, the Slayer of Tyrants. I call upon that spirit who has the blood of Marat upon her hands. I call upon the spirit of Charlotte Corday. Arise!”
The others chanted, “Arise! Arise! Arise!”
A shimmering indistinctness appeared within the center of the circle and seemed to make the shadows ripple. Guillaume and the woman stopped to look at the apparition.
“Don’t look!” Rodan whispered. The couple returned to their sexual play. The shimmering became slightly more recognizably feminine with time.
“Who calls upon me?” the apparition moaned.
“It is we, the spiritual seekers of the terrestrial realm. We seek knowledge of the dark doings. We seek knowledge of the daggers in darkness. Speak! Who is it that seeks the life of Bonaparte?”
“Many are those who seek the life of Bonaparte.”
“There is a plot under way at this very moment. Speak! Name the traitors.”
“I cannot speak.”
“You must. You, above all, must know of this. Speak! I command it.”
“I cannot. I am bound by the Dark Mistress.”
“Guillaume,” Rodan whispered. “The labia, Guillaume. Lick them.”
Guillaume dove under the covers with gusto and began touching his tongue to the woman’s genitalia. She squealed with glee from the pleasure between her legs and clutched the covers to her breasts. The spirit seemed to savor some unknown aroma within the air.
“Ah, an orgasm between two lovers,” Rodan continued. “Would that not be a priceless treasure in your realm?”
“You tempt me, monsieur. You tempt me to the heart.”
“We could give you the girl. Just think of it. The fucker could go all night.”
The spirit reached its hand down between its mostly non-existent legs.
“I can tell you only this, monsieur. There is a plot against the life of the Consul Bonaparte. But you must beware both the attack and the attack sinistre.”
“Guillaume, vaginal penetration. One orgasm only. You may have the girl for a short while and thank you.”
One of the cloaked figures erased a symbol from the circle and the apparition disappeared. The woman’s eyes glazed over, and then she seemed to see her lover anew. She grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up next to her. Then she turned him over and straddled him. She began to lift herself up and down on his stiff cock, her breasts swaying up and down through the air. Her arms held him down against the mattress. Her eyes flared when her nails scratched his chest.
The others watched as Guillaume guided her hips up and down, slowing her, taming her movements so that she could savor her reward. She lifted her hands up to her head to savor the sensual feel of her long hair against her skin. She touched her lips and sucked on her fingers.
“I… I… thank you… monsieur,” she moaned.
The woman began to moan and thrash. Guillaume stepped up his pace and began to grimace a smile. She thrashed and played with her nipples, turning her body left and right, like a puppet being pulled along by strings attached to the breasts.
She winced and arched her back and moaned “Yes… Yes… YES” as Guillaume began to spurt sticky cum deep into her recesses. She trembled violently and clawed at the air with her fingers. Then she moaned a great, deep, soulful moan that seemed to last forever.
The cloaked figure restored the symbol with chalk and the woman collapsed into Guillaume’s waiting arms so he could wrap her with a blanket.
Rodan removed his cloak’s hood and stood to address the assembly.
“We must adjourn for now to ponder the meaning of this revelation. Marienne, you will come with me?”
A cloaked figure removed her hood to reveal a petite woman’s face. She was middle-aged but her face was unlined and still youthful. Her long hair was black sprinkled with gray and tied with a loop at the base of her neck. She nodded her assent and stood.
“Surely you’re not resigning already. We have work to do!”
The man who spoke had removed his hood to reveal the sharp, resolute features of an ambitious young man. He had short-cropped black hair and a small, round face that bore a certain resemblance to the Consul himself. The cloaked figure sitting next to him removed her hood to reveal the long, sensuous blonde hair of a youthful courtesan. She had classical beauty with the knowing smile of the temptress.
“Jacques, Lucille, you may take over here as you wish, but keep it discreet. Thank you again everyone for your service on such short notice.”
The four people around the circle remained silent.
“Guillaume and, er, Mademoiselle, you are free for tonight. Guillaume, you are under strict orders to spill no more seed. Other than that, the choice is yours.”
The couple smiled and snuggled, content. Rodan took Marienne’s hand and escorted her up the stairs. As they ascended, Rodan thought that he could hear the whispered accusation “doddering old fool” coming from below.
Above was the kitchen, still somewhat warm from the day’s cooking fire. Through the doorway was a hall and through a second doorway was a parlor room. Towards the fireplace was a plush, upholstered divan large enough for several people to recline in comfort. The room was sparsely decorated otherwise, although there were many rugs placed on all the sections of floor and a stack of blankets and quilts next to the divan. Like the other rooms of this house, the parlor was chill but well insulated.
Rodan and Marienne removed their cloaks and stripped away their simple, modest clothing. She had a dancer’s body, short and still thin and nimble. Her breasts were small and pert. The lines of her body were unwrinkled. Naked together, they settled down to recline on their stomachs in the Roman style and facing the dark fireplace. He pulled a quilt over them for more warmth.
“It’s been too long since we’ve done this, Jean-Pierre. Why did we ever stop?”
He smiled. “I remember back when it was you and I making love upon the mattress.”
“mmmmm… yes.”
“We didn’t need intermediaries then as we do now. Even the spirit world was happy, then. No need to fear some headless spirit trying to take your head off.”
“Is that why we stopped lovemaking? So we can keep our wits?”
“We have the Consul to worry about, remember? Chevreuil will take everything but our wits if we don’t solve that problem.”
Marienne seemed annoyed. “Perhaps Bonaparte is not the target. Perhaps that attack sinistre is aimed at someone else.”
“Or the spirit was attempting to seduce us into a false sense of security.”
“mmmmmm…. Seduce me into a false sense of security, please?”
“Remember that time when we were in Sweden and it was so cold that you said ‘It is colder than North America today.’ and I waved my hand like this…”
Rodan waved his hand and the cold logs in the fireplace burst into a crackling fire. Marienne smiled and give him a kiss on the cheek and settled in, mesmerized by the flames.
Part 2: Breakfast
Rodan was the first to awake in the early morning. Surrounding him were naked men and women scattered around the floor with various makeshift covers draped haphazardly over them. Evidently, couples must have drifted up here from exhaustion last night and collapsed as close to the warmth as they could manage. Rodan smiled brightly. Communal activities had been one of his favorite pastimes back in the old days.
He was resolved that they should have breakfast together, and for that he needed bread. He tiptoed his way upstairs (this was his house, after all) and dressed in his simple, almost workmanlike style. No silver buckles and no feather plume in his hat. He still looked haggard and unshaven, but at this time of morning, who didn’t?
Rodan stepped out into the rapidly brightening morning scene and walked down the block with a spring in his step. The traffic was the normal traffic of the early morning: little old ladies with baskets, teamsters making their morning deliveries, and even a horse-drawn cart bearing an enormous barrel of wine. And there at the corner bakery, waiting for him, was Capitaine Chevreuil with a big, gooey, sugary cinnamon bun in his fingers.
“Good morning, Rodan. Sleep well?”
Rodan placed his order with the baker and waited for the ovens to finish their work.
“What do you want from me, Chrevreuil.”
“Information. You must have come up with something. The fireplace turned on quite late last night.”
“I am an honest citizen. I know nothing about conspiracies.”
Chevreuil almost chuckled. “You know me better than that, Rodan.”
“Well, then… perhaps I could tell you about a play that I am writing for the theater. It involves a Corsican gentleman of no great fame.”
“I see. Go on.”
“And so, I had thought yesterday that it would be a play of one act, but, perhaps, there will be two acts or more when it is finished.”
“And when is the play likely to be staged?”
“God only knows.”
“Find out. I’m sure your financial backer is keenly interested.”
Chevreuil finished his bun, wiped his hands on his trousers, and then did Rodan the favor of handing him a basket of freshly baked loaves. Rodan tipped his hat and returned home. He was barely inside of his front door when he caught the smell of ground coffee coming from his kitchen. It was Jacques, naked except for a short blanket tied around his waist.
“Good morning, glorious leader. Sleep well last night?”
Rodan set his basket down and began slicing a loaf. “Did you discover anything?”
“We discovered that this problem of yours…”
“Our problem!”
“… is intractable given the means that we currently employ. The spirits say nothing useful. The divination merely muddies the water further. Either this is the greatest conspiracy of all time or we have a real mud puddle on our hands.”
“And what do you suggest that we do?”
“We have to use every tactic that we command. We must use sex. Lots of sex. And we must use the new tactics. The English have this flogger that they call ‘the cat’...”
“No. No sadism. I forbid it.”
“Jean-Pierre, we must! We are wasting time with the childish stuff of yours. The plot could be unfolding as we speak. We. Must. Use. Everything.”
“I forbid it! Sex is supposed to be a natural part of life. I will not let you profane that.”
“Even if it means that people will die?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“I think it is time that we hold a Bacchanal.”
Jacques smiled brightly. “It could be done, even on short notice. I know just the place.”
Part 3: The Attack Sinistre
That afternoon, Rodan and Marienne drove their little carriage far into the woods east of Paris. Rodan was dressed as he had been that morning, although better groomed. Marienne was wearing a modest black dress with highlights of white lace and a heavy, fur-lined, hooded coat. Her hair was tied with a simple loop at her nape. Rodan liked it when she dressed this way just to please him.
At sunset, they arrived at the arranged meeting place: a sleepy château positioned at the center of a clearing of the trees. The fireplaces were running full of smoke, so obviously the festivity had begun. Rodan parked his carriage within the stable and escorted Marienne down from her seat. After attending to his horse, they walked hand-in-hand into the building.
The place was quite old and almost medieval in style. Rodan almost felt a need to stoop when he passed through the narrow doorways. The interiors were luxuriantly polished wood, mostly bare now, but with some admirably carved balustrades here and there. Rodan and Marienne could feel a little of the heat from the fireplaces even from the entrance vestibule, and so they were able to doff their winter clothes there.
When they reached the great hall, they stumbled across a scene of maddening proportions.
There was a naked woman, locked within a cage with a thick leather collar around her neck, who was lapping water out of a bowl like a canine. Another woman had been bound, naked, to a ladder set up vertically with its feet anchored into the floor. This woman was blindfolded and was being beaten on her arms and thighs by a man with a leather crop. A third woman was bound to a wooden sawhorse and actively fucked in her mouth and anus by two men wearing leather masks. A fourth woman, wearing a leather mask and corset, was leading a trio of men along on all fours with collars and chains around their necks. When they stumbled across one of the canine women roaming free, they barked like crazy and smelled her anus. And everywhere, on the floors and tables and propped against the walls, were men and women shackled in cuffs and chains and iron masks, forced to give pleasure of all forms to their masters or mistresses.
Jacques and Lucille presided over the scene from a set of thrones mounted upon a dais. They were dressed like monarchs. He was wearing black velvet from head to toe and a jeweled crown upon his brow. She was dressed in a white, satin, strapless dress and wearing diamonds from tiara to wrists.
Rodan led Marianne to the center of the room and Jacques smiled and rose from his chair.
“Hold! Everyone! Hold!” he intoned. The throng grew still.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Frau und Herr Burgermeister, freshly arrived from their yeoman farm in the hinterlands of the Netherlands.”
The crowd applauded.
“Do you have anything to say, dear Father, before my royal court pronounces sentence upon you?”
Rodan spoke up to the crowd. “I say go home, while you still are able. This is not spiritual. This is not right. You should all be ashamed.”
The crowd exploded into peals of laughter.
“These are my thralls, Jean-Pierre. They are under my control. They do my bidding. They serve my power. Perhaps you should admit defeat and join them.”
Jacques clapped his hands and a naked male servant, his cock and balls bound with elaborate metal hoops and plates and locks, emerged from the side room. In his hand he held a silver tray bearing two gold chalices full of wine.
“My own special recipe. One for both of you. I’d prefer if Marienne drank first. It would please me greatly to see our dear loved one, grandmother Marienne, submit to me before you do.”
“And if this I contend?”
“Then this I will compel.”
Marienne tugged upon Rodan’s sleeve. “You should let me handle this.”
“That will not be necessary, dear one.”
Jacques raised his hands wide to encompass the great hall. “Behold my power. I have turned these simple peasant fold into the wickedest of the wicked. Pure sexual beings who now laugh at good and evil. My might cannot be challenged.”
“And yet you are seconds from your downfall.”
Jacques laughed an enormous peal of laughter. Then he stopped, suddenly. He developed a quizzical expression upon his face. Then he took a step forward, hesitantly.
“Bastard,” he spoke before collapsing on the floor. There was a dagger lodged within his back. Standing behind the throne was Charlotte Corday, in the flesh, triumphant.
Lucille screamed in terror and fled from her throne, falling upon the floor where Marienne moved to block her. The thronging mass of leather-clad beings moved forward as a wave, let out a great moan, and the retreated to press against the walls in fear.
Corday yelled to all present, “To the tyrant Napoleon, we say ‘Bon Chance’. To magicians who would be kings, we bring the knife.”
Rodan spoke up again. “Charlotte, what can I do to repay you?”
“Not me, monsieur. It is the Dark Mistress whom you will repay.” Charlotte disappeared from the stage. Rodan surveyed the scene and noticed Lucille sobbing at Marienne’s feet.
“Ah, but what should we do with you, Lucille.”
Marienne hefted her up into a standing position.
“Please, monsieur, it was all his doing. He forced me to go along. I am loyal to you, I swear.”
“Perhaps I should be merciful, then.”
Rodan waved his hand in front of the woman’s face.
“You are now the girl Adrienne, just setting out on your Catholic education. You are pious and shy and good-natured, nevertheless, be warned that Monseigneur Rodan is very stern with girls who misbehave. Do you understand, girl?”
Lucille blushed and turned red and nodded. “Yes, Monseigneur.”
“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Adrienne. Very naughty indeed, and you must be punished.”
Lucille trembled and her dress wetted a bit in the front.
“You must learn humility. So, your punishment is to change into your humble girl’s dress and clean this whole messy hall yourself. Now what do you say to that?”
Lucille picked up the sides of her dress and curtsied. “Thank you, Monseigneur.”
Rodan waved his hand in front of the woman’s face again. “Now go get changed. Mother Superior Marienne will supervise your work when you return. You are dismissed.”
Lucille curtsied again and scampered away. Rodan turned to face those members of the crowd still remaining.
“As for the rest of you, let me show you something.”
Where once Marienne was standing, there was now a 15-feet tall demonic goddess in red leather. Her legs were impossibly long relative to her height and bound in wicked red leather boots with foot-long spiked heels. A tiny triangle of red leather was bound between her legs to cover her genitals and two tiny leather squares were strapped over the nipples of her disproportionately sized and miraculously levitating breasts. Her eyes glowed with fire and her jet black hair writhed with electricity around her blood-red horns.
Marienne stretched her great, leathery, bat-like wings nearly across the entire hall and cracked her red leather whip into the air. Then she screamed a bestial scream that seemed to lift the roof of the hall into the air with its power.
The throng of naked people fled into the night screaming. When the last of them had departed, the modest Marienne reappeared.
Rodan smiled. “And now, to learn the truth.” Then he vanished.
Part 4: The Other World
In the realm of spirit, the simple medieval château was actually a spacious cathedral. The white, marble walls were bathed in glorious sunlight from great bay windows far above. In the center of this vast space, Jacques sat on his little golden throne, head in hand, brooding.
Rodan appeared before him.
“You!” Jacques called as he bolted upright. “You bastard! The attack sinister was from you all along. You Judas!”
“You were told to beware, Jacques. Pride goeth before a fall.”
“I will destroy you. I will obliterate you.”
Rodan laughed. “In the other world, I am your equal in cunning if not in power. But in this world, I try men’s souls.”
Jacques snarled and said nothing.
“I know you, Jacques. I know that you learned the truth last night. Tell me, who is plotting to kill the First Consul and when.”
“Never.”
“Very well.” Rodan waved his hand. “I now have control of your mind. Did you know that I can make you suck cock?”
In the blink of an eye, they were both naked. Jacques was on his knees with his hands wrapped around Rodan’s stiff member and his lips tightly sucking up and down on it.
Rodan smiled broadly. “You’ll never hear the end of it if the Dark Mistress finds out about this. I now make you like it as well. She might be pleased by that.”
Jacques redoubled his efforts to pleasure the cock that he was now drooling over. After a few minutes of this, Jacques found himself bent forwards over a wooden table, his legs spread wide and Rodan slamming his cook deep inside from the rear. Jacques gasped and winced but found himself helpless to resist.
“It’s really an acquired taste, you know. But I think a sexual magician such as yourself should be able to handle it. Of course, I could make every slight touch of flesh upon flesh feel like a century of delight.”
Jacques expression changed from consternation to ecstasy and exhaled a breath of pure bliss.
An instant later, Jacques was standing next to his throne again, fully clothed, and Rodan was standing there before him.
“Tell me what you know about the plot now, Jacques.”
Jacques stepped forward and reached his hand out to touch Rodan’s face.
“It… seems so long ago, dear dear one. It is a bomb, hidden within a giant wine cask bolted to the back of a cart. On the night of Thermidor the third, it will be primed to explode from within an abandoned building on the Rue Saint-Nicaise in order to destroy the Consul from afar.
“Ah, thank you Jacques. And now, I must go.”
“But, please, Jean-Pierre, do you have to leave?”
“Perhaps I will teach you the pleasures of being tied and bound with silk when I return.”
Jacques bowed.
Rodan reappeared within the medieval hall. Marienne had done the good service of moving Jacques’ body out of sight and now smiled broadly.
“The assassination attempt is tonight. I need you to fly to the Rue Saint-Nicaise in Paris and alert the police to a bomb hidden within a giant cask of wine within an abandoned building there. Then keep watch over the Consul Bonaparte. In the meantime, I will alert the police and arrive at the Rue Saint-Nicaise as fast as I can.”
Marienne’s eyes flashed red with fire and she skipped away out of the room.
Epilogue
The next morning, it was Rodan waiting at the bakery and Chevreuil who came stumbling in looking haggard and worn.
“Good to see you, Chevreuil. You’re looking well.”
Chreveuil sat down on a little stool and leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
“We got a tip-off last night from that woman you associate with. We did a sweep of the Rue Saint-Nicaise on horseback and put the assassins to flight. We got the bomb, the trigger, witnesses, and nobody got hurt. Every man within 100 miles is tracking down the traitors as we speak.”
“Excellent work, Capitaine. Long live the Revolution and the First Consul. Care for a cinnamon bun?”