Come let me tell you a Story A Day, all May long…
In June and July, I’m drafting two new Kifo Island novels. I know something about 5 of the 6 point of view characters, and I’ve got a sketchy idea of the plots – but I need to learn more about these people and their stories.
I’ll follow A Month of Writing Prompts 2016, playing through my planning efforts. Some of these stories may become part of the eventual novels, but my goal is to invite the characters to show me how their lives fit together.
It’s now the final day of the challenge, and I’m getting my final two back posts up by midnight – so off we go to May 29. The prompt? “Torture Your Protagonist.” Yvette’s caught between lover and husband.
Week Five‘s theme is The Last Hurrah!
Warning: For Mature Audiences only!
Adult content, violence, language.
The paint was sensual and slipped onto the canvas almost without effort on her part. Yvette loved the feel of it. Zeke posed for her, right there on the couch where they’d just made love, and she closed her eyes, remembering his face in the moment when la petite mort had claimed him.
He was so tender and tremblingly beautiful then that a remembering shudder of answer passed through her now, as she sat wearing nothing but her skin and the marks he’d made on her. She opened her eyes to take him in en flagrante. He was so young, and aroused again already, even though he was still wet with their mingled secretions.
Her lover smiled as he watcher her with half-lidded eyes somnolent but aglow with all that he felt for her, and Yvette wanted him as though they hadn’t finished only fifteen minutes since.
“You’re a natural model, mon chere,” she told him, as the paint made love with the canvas. Zeke chuckled, and then it was only his breathing, the way he caressed himself now and then, as though not aware of it, and the way his breath sharpened as he rose into his hand.
Mon dieu, il est beau!
Yvette wanted him again with sudden painful intensity. She’d never loved so wholly, or wanted anyone else this way –
She went to her love, her lover, her amour, and, right there on the couch, she claimed him, impaled herself, and his guttural moan was a thing of beauty and joy –
Pain exploded against her head.
“ You filthy petite chienne!”
She was ripped away from Zeke, cartwheeling through air.
Zeke cried out wordlessly as she crashed into her easel, toppling it, spilling the paint over her.
Xavier spat and, kicked her in the jaw. The shock sent her teeth through her lip. But he wouldn’t get another cry out of her. Jamais!
She made that a promise to herself.
“Leave her alone!” Zeke roared, and Yvette twisted to see him standing wide-legged, daring Xavier with his fists up. He was always so placid, so sweet. She hadn’t known he could be angry. He was a revelation.
“Filthy petite piqure, fucking my wife! You’re telling me to leave her alone? Elle est a moi!”
“Je fais partie de moi-meme!” Her words were mangled by her swelling lip, but they were true.
“Ecoute-toi! You can’t even speak, now.” His laugh was coarse and cruel. How had she ever thought that he was as highborn as she, a gentleman? Oh, he was a deceiver!
Yvette got up on her hands and knees, and spat blood at him. She forced the words out through her battered lips again, en anglais, so that Zeke could understand.
“I belong to myself!”
He spat at her and kicked again, into the soft flesh of her breast. Yvette swallowed back the yelp that tried to break loose. Non. That’s what he wanted.
“You. Are. A. Monster.” Zeke’s voice was cold, hard, like a sharp rapier, each word a thrust.
“You are a pathetic cheat and a loser, taking someone else’s leavings. She’s une pute ivre -” Xavier kicked her again, in the ribs. He was circling her, and Zeke was circling him.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re too ignorant to comprender le francais! En anglais, puis. She’s a drunken whore, and nothing more!”
“I’ve never charged for my love -”
Yvette’s breath stabbed through bloody lips. “You know nothing of love. You’ve given me none – only taken, and taken, and taken again!”
She dragged herself to her feet, ready to launch herself at him.
Zeke caught her, holding her gently. “Don’t, love. This beast wants to hurt you. But he won’t dare go through me to get to you. He’s the Cowardly Lion. Let me keep you safe.”
“You think she loves you? You, a skinny little nothing? Non, mon ami, she’s only using you to scratch an itch – the same way she used to use me -”
“Who used whom, Xavier?” She laughed at her husband. It hurt her ribs, her jaw, her lips, but Yvette didn’t care. She sheltered in the arms of a man who loved her, and laughed. “I loved you. All that you stole from me, I would have gladly given you. It meant nothing to me. Do you not know that I loved you once, and would still, except that you stole from me, paraded other women in front of me, gave me only hatred and violence, when all I wanted was to love you?”
“Est-ce votre amour, alors, Yvette? This usurper of a boy who doesn’t know real from his madness? Non, Yvette, he’s only une piqure you ride, to scratch the itch.” His eyes focused on the toppled easel, the smeared canvas and the paints –
Yvette knew what he was going to do before he moved. She lurched out of Zeke’s grasp, trying to protect the art, the beauty of the moment before Xavier took it away, as he took everything.