Obscurity: A Gothic Novel by Elle Griffin

Obscurity: A Gothic Novel by Elle Griffin

Author:Elle Griffin [Griffin, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Novelleist
Published: 2022-08-01T04:00:00+00:00


In a rage, the philanthropist pulled the couturière by her hair onto the bedroom floor. She screamed, her fingers clawing at the plush red carpets beneath her as he pulled her body toward him. Her eyes, rimmed with kohl, blackened like the eyes of a serpent, were now widened with fear. Her breath, once heaving with passion, fell unevenly, forcing the jewels at her breast to pitch light wildly across the room.

Tearing the negligee from her skin, the philanthropist turned her body to the floor, pressing her face into the carpets as he took possession of her body from behind, just as someone once took possession of his. A hot tear streaked his cheek as the memory dislodged itself from the darkest recesses of his mind. It assaulted his senses, taking hold of his lungs without his consent and causing bile to rise in his throat.

He shut his eyes tightly against it, but the memory entered his consciousness unbidden. Flashes of the small room permeated his being. Glimpses of the twin bed. The memory of a child’s young cheek pressed roughly into threadbare sheets. Tears falling from shut eyes as the priest forced his weeping, withered body upon him, his night shirt draping the child’s head like a curtain as though concealing the old man’s sins.

The philanthropist wiped the tar from his face, shoving the memory from his mind as he attempted to erase the scorn that still dwelt inside him. He was not that child anymore, he reminded himself. He was the keeper of his own destiny. He had conquered this woman’s body and now he would possess her soul.

Overcome with rage, he desecrated the woman, penetrating her so deeply he thought he might slice her open from within. But he would not stop. He wanted her to remember this moment for the rest of her life, to replay the shame every time she shut her eyes just as he was forced to replay his.

Scorned by his memories, he grew vengeful, his movements wrathful. He tried to put it out of his mind. To forget the way the priest had pushed him onto the bed, had touched his underside tenderly, longingly, had thrust his own flaccid body upon him, moaning into the child’s neck as he thrust his body inside him, so overcome by decades of dormant pleasure, the remnants of which poured down the child’s thighs in salty streams of semen long ago spoiled by age.

Trying to forget only made him remember, and the philanthropist’s body grew more aroused, more ecstatic, more consumed by a naivete once ruined, a hate left unpaid for. Betrayed by his own body, he forced himself more violently on the woman beneath him, trying to take from her what had once been taken from him. His eyes welled with tears as he thought about the rector and allowed the memory to rudely arouse him.

Impassioned by his own decrepit sins, his body at last reached the very pinnacle of pleasure, spilling the remains of his tormented soul upon her, just as the priest had once done to him.



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