1. Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)


    Date: 5/15/2016, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 1, Source: LushStories

    nodded, "His poor widow. She carried out the project just as he'd intended. She had the fountain added in memoriam,” he picked up the fire poker, still smiling sadly, and stoked the logs. “To this day, Madame, I think there are no finer jardins d'hiver in Montreal.” I believed him. But the garden wasn’t nearly the most pressing matter on my mind at that moment. I sipped my tea, and swallowed. “You know so much about this house, Monsieur.” He nodded proudly, “All there is, Madame.” “Then maybe you could tell me,” I leaned forward, lacing my fingers, “what in world happened to all the locks around here?” He didn't respond right away. I watched his face darken slightly. "Une autre triste histoire,” he lifted the kettle, and poured another cup. “Monsieur Caine removed them some years ago.” “Mais pourquoi?” He pursed his lips, and touched the arm of a leather wingback, "If I may, Madame..." I shook my head, shocked to realize he was asking me for permission to sit, " Bien sûr . Please." "Merci," he settled into the chair. "I imagine Monsieur Caine has told you something of his ex-femme?" "...Emily," my jaw tensed, "What about her?" "I imagine he has told you," he sipped, "that she was prone to fits?" “You mean,” I leaned closer, "You mean she had seizures?" "If only, Madame," he wrinkled his nose. "Manias. Jealousies. Paranoia. Depressions. I did not know her well,” he shook his head, “but I knew her well enough to know how unwell she was. L' âme torturée .” I watched him take ...
    off his tinted glasses, and wipe the lenses with a white handkerchief. His eyes gazed blindly into the firelight, and with a shiver it occurred to me that the gesture was entirely rhetorical. Much like Madame, Monsieur Partout was a well-practiced raconteur. "There was one night. She'd been quarreling with Monsieur," again he sipped his tea, " La maison a été un désastre . Furniture upset. Porcelain smashed on the floor. A rare Renoir, slashed clear through with a dinner fork. Monsieur said to me he was going out. He wanted to clear his head. And Madame," he set aside the saucer, "she locked herself inside the bedroom…" The skeletal chill crept down my spine. I had a dreadful sense that I knew where this story was headed. "Had I known, I surely would have sent for him sooner," his voice faltered. "When Monsieur returned, he broke down the door. He barely discovered her in time." His words hollowed out; as if all at once my insides had decided to wilt, and wither away. Just a husk of Penny Foster stayed behind, drinking her tea, and nibbling her goûter. "She...tried to kill herself?" “Qui sait?” he sighed. “She told the doctors it was only an accident. Perhaps it was. But they kept her at the hospital for observation. And by the time she returned,” he shrugged, “Monsieur had stricken off every lock in the house.” No. Not all of them, Monsieur. A long, somber silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire, and our taking turns to quietly slurp the tea. Then he stood, ...
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