Baron Antoine the fourth of Cluny paid for the pleasures which his advanced years and physical decay would otherwise preclude. He took serving maids and farm girls bought two at a time for silver coins spent like the moon shining in ditchwater. They had to strip naked and march before him. He set them through their paces like hunting dogs or racehorses, so he could see the edges of their pride and disgrace, moving forces like the weight of their breasts and the strength of their thighs with the triangle sex wedged in place to be the keystone of their arch. He prised each of their mouths open to see the length of the snail tongue and the tunnel of the throat, royal road of speech and hunger. The girls shrank back from his leer with the black teeth and the bleeding gums which stank of open sores, closing their faces like flowers at night. He loved to frighten them this way, enjoyed the power of inspiring disgust which was in some way the reverse side of lust. At least so he told himself. He would stretch out a shaking hand like a white glove on a stick to press their ribs and feel the beating heart stir and kick beneath, a bird in its cage which, he reminded them, disease, old age, wanton cruelty and even love could so easily break open. But he would not do so. He was their kind master. They could dress now. They were free to go.Birth sign: Libra
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Paul.