Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been at least three years since my last confession. Since then I do not recall committing any mortal sins, but I have committed a multitude of venial sins, more than I can remember or recount. Among these venial sins I accuse myself of vanity and pride, sins of the flesh, and impurity of thought. Vain, because a young man has fallen in love with me who cannot win me, yet I enjoy his adoration even so. Proud, because my superior at work asked me to perform a task concerning this young man, and when I succeeded, I felt far more than humble satisfaction.
As for my impurities of thought, they are varied and they are many. Recently I have steeped myself in memories of long ago, sensual recollections from a time before any sensuality should be known. I have sinned in the flesh repeatedly with my boyfriend, for we have not been joined together by God. I have sinned in my mind not only about my forbidden experiences of the past, but about my boyfriend, about the corrective discipline my father granted me while I was in his charge, and about the young man who now worships me. For these and all the sins that I have committed during my life, I am deeply sorry.
Below are some short extracts from Velvet & Iron~ the houseboy & the Master of Miss Julia de Valdois - my work-in-progress. From the title you can safely infer that both femdom and male authority are prominent in the novel. The story starts in rural France in the late 'fifties, though most of it is set in 1960's Paris. I'll be adding more extracts as I go, and the plan is to use all the photos currently sitting at the bottom of the page as dividers. The extracts won't be in chronological order.
What's it all about?
On her first day at school, Julia de Valdois meets Lucien Arras. They will be friends for life. When she is thirteen, she experiences her first crush, a gypsy lad named Jean-Patrice.
At age twenty-two, Julia is a journalist on France's premier lifestyle and culture magazine, The Look of France. There she meets Philippe, the office teaboy and gofer of Madame Dubois, the editor-in-chief. Philippe worships the ground Julia walks on. He cannot win her, not least because she is Lucien's girlfriend still, but she grows very fond of him, as indeed does Lucien. The magazine is owned by Baron Xavier de la Fontaine, a formidable man indeed...
Stop Press: a dear American friend of mine has just confirmed the hideous truth of my deepest darkest nightmare: Julia de Valdois is not pronounced Julia D. Valdoyze, but Julia der Val-Dwah.
“So! Philippe! As you know, this is Julia de Valdois. She's five years older than you, and is exceptionally beautiful. As for what you don't know, she has a first-class honours degree in French from the Sorbonne, she is the daughter of a Viscount, and she has a boyfriend who will one day be one of the leading academics in the country. Julia is the most gifted new recruit this magazine has had in all the years I've been here, and if she chooses to stay on her present path, I have little doubt she could have my job when I retire. Am I right in thinking you knew none of that?”
Philippe juddered a brief nod.
“Now Philippe, as far as manners are concerned, you have done nothing wrong at all. In fact you have natural good manners, and that's a quality I admire and respect. So no, you haven't insulted Julia, or bothered her, and I'm sure you don't harbour any hopes that you might win her one day, but I've mentioned these few things about her just in case. Are you quite clear you have no chance at all, and never ever will?
“Yes Madame, quite clear,” stuttered the unfortunate boy.
As Lucien walked to school two days later, Jean-Patrice and Julia cycled past him. She rang her bell and waved hello, and Jean-Patrice also smiled and wished him a good morning. He'd been undisputed classroom king since his arrival in their midst, and as Julia was the prettiest girl in school and had the highest popularity and standing, it was only natural and right that she was by his side his as well.
“He says he's going to meet me every morning from now on,” she'd confessed to Lucien yesterday. Promise me you won't be cross?”
Lucien had been as brave as he could be. He'd thanked her for every minute they had spent together. Told her Jean-Patrice was exceptional and deserved her ten times more than he did. Julia had looked at him wide-eyed with gratitude and love. Ever since that moment, he'd often run his finger round his eye sockets, or his knees, or squeezed his fingers hard – wherever flesh does little more than hide our bones. They'd been studying the Great Pestilence in class, and its images were haunting him. He felt he too was just a dancing skeleton, and the skin and gristle covering it were only a pretence. Like those poor medieval souls, he had discovered life is merely death warmed up and wearing fancy dress. Each sight of Jean-Patrice and Julia together broke another bone in him which could not be renewed.
The afterglow of Friday night with Lucien was more than strong enough to make it through to Monday morning. A radiant and bright-eyed Julia even prompted Alicia to ask cheekily if she had gone and found herself a secret weekend lover.
“Haha! Good guess! Yes, actually I have - except he's also the same one, too! He's magic, you see.”
But this enigmatic answer was Julia's executive summary in full, so all the ears that perked up at this, and there were several, had to flop down disappointed.
As for Philippe, his transformation was an even greater marvel. He wasn't just back to his old self, he'd gone far beyond his former best, and Madame Dubois knew as much the instant they exchanged good-mornings. All day long he did his simple duties and did them well, without distracting her and without fuss, but in the little social interludes which made that office-world revolve, he brought warm sunshine where before he'd dragged a cloud.
Serving Julia her first ever coffee as her friend – that was special. She made sure her finger made light contact with his hand as he set down the cup, and always, always, always, did the same thereafter. But this First Ever Touch of the Beloved didn't blow his fusebox; it brought him joy, and made him stronger.
Every day that week, Julia styled her hair a different way, though it was Thursday before Philippe twigged this was for him alone, a living gift of rich mahoganies and auburns. He wished he could slay dragons for her in return, but making coffee had to do.
“She sleeps on the side nearest the window, by the way. Sometimes I've drawn back the curtains in the morning and the sun streams in and catches her hair while she's still sleeping. I'm not sure I've ever seen anything more beautiful.”
Philippe nodded slowly, imagining the glory of it in his inner vision.
“Would you like to sit down on her bed a moment? Be close to wear such beauty happens?”
“Yes, Monsieur Lucien, I'd like that very much.”
Lucien watched Philippe approach the bed, and fall into a private reverie he had no wish to disturb. He let him get his breath back after such a day as this, and from the very centre of her shrine, Julia de Valdois' bed itself, allowed him many minutes in which to think, to gaze, to dream, to marvel. Meanwhile Lucien hunted down a pair of shorts and t-shirt for him to ballboy in while he and Julia played tennis.
“I will add this to my store of miracles today,” said Philippe at long last, “and I thank you from my heart for giving me permission.”
Meanwhile in the living room, Julia's heart was thumping even harder than was Philippe's in her bedroom. Neither Jean-Patrice nor papa had ever made her stand like this before, or kept her waiting half so long. It was all so new and scary and deliciously exciting – five whole years she'd gone without a loving hand to guide her! Five years of having no one but herself to praise or reprimand her for her actions was much too long, but now the wait was over. Things would be their ideal selves again, the way they had been long ago: when she had behaved she would be kissed and hugged and cuddled, and taught a lesson on her derrière whenever she was naughty.
From age five and up through adolescence and her teens, all her inner flights of love and romance, from captive princess in the dungeon to tripping down the aisle in white, were predicated either on a Lancelot who would melt her with his kisses and rule her firmly with his hand, or on a Blackbeard who would keep her as his private pet, entirely subjugated to his will and slavishly adoring. It was lovely to be all grown up, sophisticated, intellectual, cultured, but by itself, still not enough. But now, as she waited for her boyfriend with her nose tucked in the corner, the adult and the child in her embraced and reunited. Her arms began to ache from holding up her cotton Chanel to the waist, but there was no question of furtively releasing it a moment, on the grounds that he would never know; that was not her way at all.
