Cassandra

A/N

So my darlings, I've been a total nightmare and haven't updated since NOVEMBER Bad, bad, bad Evie. Slap on the wrists and all that. Anyway, Casandra is a bit of a bitch to write because it involves checking lots and lots of details and attempting to write Cass like she hasn't just wandered out of topshop wearing ugg boots and a 'Save The Rave' T-shirt (most of that won't make sense if your not from UK I'm guessing.) I really wasn't up for writing seven days of caning, so I hope no one minds, I've skipped ahead a bit- I might write a oneshot for the last caning later. Anyways, I'd better get on with the story. Ooh and my French is terrible I apologise.


Even after a month in Paris, I still feel a delicate shiver of excitement every time I see the Effiel tour (Or La Tour de Effiel, as I've learnt to call it.) Now, sitting outside under the light of the moon, stars and the Effiel, I feel as if I must be the luckiest girl in the whole world.

Light, slow jazz music (another thing that I've been learning about here) filters through the air and I sway in time, held tight in Peter's arms. The air is cool and fresh, a gentle breeze brushing my bare arms, I'd be cold if it wasn't for the warmth of Peter's torso against me. He gently brushes my hair behind my ear and lifts my chin, “You look so beautiful Cassandra,”
I blushed, something that I really wish I could learn not to do, “Your too kind, Peter.” He has asked me to drop the Sir bit soon after we arrived in Paris. “My hair's getting too long and if I'd realized we were coming here, I would have put some powder on.
He runs his fingertip along my cheek bone. “You look perfect.”
I rest my head against his chest. “This, is perfect.”
He smiles at me. “Not quite perfect, Darling.” Oddly, he starts to get to his knees. I'm confused, was this some other weird Parisen thing that I had failed to understand, like eating frog's legs or snails or something like that? But no, Peter takes out a square, velvet box, opens it and.. Oh God,

An engagement ring.
The most beautiful engagement ring that I'd ever seen in my life, and whilst I hadn't seen many, I knew that this was something very special. Shiny goldish white with a huge sparkely stone raised on the center- I didn't know the name of the stones or of the metals, not like Evett from Maudie's who could reel of the types of gems that she wanted.
“Cassandra, darling, will you be my wife?”
My breath has literally been taken from my body, I feel like a kite when the wind drops, fluttering helplessly, and yet I'm consumed with this warm feeling, spreading throughout my body. “Yes.” I say, surprising myself.
He stands up and slides the ring onto that finger, the left hand, ring finger. When I was a little girl, the big girls at Maudie's said that you must never put a ring on there yourself, or you'll be cursed and then you'll never be married. Peter cups the back of my head and gently brushes my lips with his, then steps back and takes my hand, Peter dislikes large shows of public affection. He orders a bottle of champagne and we go and sit down.

I'm engaged.
I'm going to be married,
I'm going to be his Wife.
Wife. Until death do us part.
I'm not quite sure what to think. I love him, I really do.
Well. I love part of him.

I love the part that laughs and teases me and takes me to rundown smoke filled jazz clubs, I love the part of him that tells me all about the great works of art when we go to museums, I love the part of him that hold my hand as we stroll through the lush Parisian gardens.

Only, there's a part of him that I don't love. The part that laughed at me at Dame's party. The part that struck me across the face because I disobeyed him, the part that called me Cecily.

But doubts are quite normal, I'm sure. Or maybe they are not. I wish I had someone to ask, a mother, a sister, even one of the girls at Maudie's. Anyone. I'm considering the idea of asking Peter if I may have Dame's address when behind me I hear an almighty bang. I whip around, quite used to the sound after the Blitz. I see huge pink, purple and green lights in the sky, sparkles exploding, magical against the deep velvety blackness. Fireworks! Oh I had heard of them, but never had I seen such beautiful things! I was almost lost in their beauty when behind me I hear a noise, a kind of dull thud.

Whipping around I saw Peter lying on the floor, sort of, convulsing. I panicked, screamed and ran towards him, putting my arms around him and stroking his forehead, trying to calm him down, he was moaning and twitching, covering his ears trying to block out the noise. The banging of the fireworks suddenly became unbearable. “Please, someone, help me” I cry out, looking around for the waiters, “Excusez-moi monsieur, S'il vous plait aidez-moi, je ne savent pas à ce qui font.”
A couple of waiters notice what is going on and run towards me, “Effort De Guerre ? Votre mari était-il à la guerre ?” Flustered I do not even register that the waiter has refured to Peter as my “mari,” my husband. Instead I simple stutter in my school-girl French. “Oui.” The fire works have stopped now, Peter's moans have subsided but he is still very pale and his skin is freezing cold. I want to explain to the waiter but suddenly all my French has gone, I can't work out how to tell him that Peter was at war so I simply repeat, “Oui.” The waiter calls for his friend and together they put Peter's arms around their necks and half lift him away from the cafe, towards the road where Peter's driver is waiting, they lift Peter into the car and then turn to me. “Merci beaucoup.” No words, particularly the few French ones that I know, will express my gratitude to them. I slip into the car next to Peter and take his hand. His head rests on the top of mine and he seems to be in some kind of deep slumber.

Getting him up to the room was tricky but the men at the hotel where very helpful, and unsurprised. It seems that the war has touched everyone from the Parisian waiting staff to the English aristocracy.

Peter lies on his bed, his head is in my lap and I stroke his hair gently and rhythmically. The gentle repeated movement seems to soothe him, he is like a young child, placid and sleepy. I could not say how long we sat like this but it may well have been hours before quite unexpectedly he got up, crossed the room and poured two glasses of whiskey. “I'm terribly sorry about that darling.”

He's sorry? Why on earth would me be sorry? “What for?”

“You must think me a terrible coward.” He hands me the glass of whiskey.

“Not at all. I've seen shell-shock a thousand times.” I run my finger around the rim of the whiskey glass, hoping desperately that he's not going to react badly to those words as so many men have before him. Instead he simply sits down next to me on the side of the bed and sweeps my hair off my neck, leans down and places a very light kiss on my neck, kissing up my neck to my lips, running his hands through my hair. “You look beautiful.” I smile slowly and then kiss him. He runs a hand over my knee, up my thigh, stroking the thin sheen of my stockings, “You know, Cassandra, Now that we are to be married, we could...” He leaves the unfinished sentence hanging in the air. I do not reply, not with words, I simply kiss him again. He rightly takes this as an invitation and starts to undo the complicated fastenings at the side of my dress, or at least he tries to but cannot negotiate the tiny covered buttons and hooks and eyes. I smile at him and try to help but find that actually it is rather difficult, my fingers stumble. I catch Peter's eye and we laugh, then he simple takes the slit at the side of the bottom of the dress, and tugs each side, ripping it cleanly up the side. I gasp, horrified, “Have you any idea how much that cost?!” I question him. He pulls the dress off me and stares at me. My sheer slip, my stockings, suspenders. “ Looking at you, I no longer have any care for the cost of anything,” He smiles, then lifts my slip over my head and throws it on the floor. Again he looks at me, drinking in my appearance, making me feel a little awkward. I go to kiss him which would some how be less intimate but he pushes me away, holding my shoulders, holding me at arms length. Then he takes off his shirt. Very neatly undoing each button and each cuff then throwing it on the floor. Once he is naked to the waist, he wraps his arms around me and starts to kiss me again. We lie back, limbs messily entangled. I was no untouched angel, I had kissed boys before, even a little more but lying nearly naked on a bed in a suite in Paris with a half naked man was defiantly a new experience. My lips were swollen and my cheeks flushed, my pulse racing and I could feel an ache, a longing in my stomach, I wanted more. “Cassandra, We don't have to do anything that you do not want to.”
“I want you” I breath by way of reply, “now”
His hand slipped further up my thigh, between my legs, touching me, stroking me, evoking new sensations, sensations that I was not at all adverse to. He kissed my chest, his stubble grazing my soft skin. He carelessly pulled off my brassier and began to kiss my breasts, my nipples hardening under his attention, I arched my back as his hand continued to touch the part of me that most cared to be touched, he started to build up a rhythm, teasing me,bringing me to the brink of a climax again and again, making me desperate, “Please,” I begged him, “Please.” I bucked myself against his hand trying to procure more pressure, more anything that would end this ecstatic agony. He kissed my neck, kissing downward, down my body, “Sweet Cassie, you do not even know what you are begging for.” He kissed my inner thigh, and then began to kiss between my legs, which startled me before, I had never head of such a practice before but soon my confusion gave way to a very different feeling, a deep warm delicious consuming lust filled feeling. My breathing deepened and again I arched my back, widening my legs, begging him with my body as this feeling left my speech temporarily incapacitated. Again he built up that feeling, that indescribably delicious feeling that made me want more and yet made me crave an ending to it. “Are you ready, Cass?” I heard a voice, detached from anything, I could feel his fingers again and I was still floating on some unidentifiable cloud of pleasure. “You know that it will hurt, Cass?” I made some murmur of reply in the affirmative, I had no interest in conversation. I felt him on top of me, his warmth against me. I liked having his heart so close to mine, I gently ran my hand over his muscular back, “I'm ready” I whispered in his ear. I felt him against me, hard, he very gently started to enter me a little at a time, then he made one fluid thrusting movement inside me. It took my breath away, a quick pain inside me which made tears prick behind my eyes, but the pain quickly subsided into another all together more pleasurable sensation. He began to repeat that first gesture creating a curiously wonderful sensation of being filled up, complete. As he began to thrust deeper inside me he touched some new place releasing a new energy, a new sensation. I wrapped my legs around him allowing him an even deeper reach inside me, as his speed and depth increased my breath grew shorter and shorter, I grabbed the iron bedstead behind me to steady myself. “Oh my.. Oh Peter..” Again and again he pushed himself inside me, the pleasure was becoming almost unbearable, building, then subsiding and building again only now it refused to subside, it just continued to build, unapologetically, until, something happened, something like an explosion, something indescribable. I didn't know what it was, only that it was so good that I never wanted it to end and yet too good for it to go on, I cried out, digging my nails into Peter's back, arching my back, throwing my head back, panting deeply, and finally, it ended. A moment later Peter rolled off me and lay very close. I rested my head on his chest and he stroked my hair. My whole body felt exausted, as if I had just run a million miles, but I also felt as if I was glowing, I sighed, feeling that I really ought to say something. “Peter...”
He put a finger to my lips. “I love you.”
I looked at my own hand, to the ring, dull and sparkle-less in the dark room. It weighed heavy on my hand. “I.. I love you too.” I said. I tried not to think about it. Of course I was I was in love with Sir Peter, he was kind and clever and he loved me. Of course I loved him.


Translations
Excusez-moi monsieur, S'il vous plait aidez-moi, je ne savent pas à ce qui font.” Please help me sir, I don't know what to do.

Effort De Guerre ? Votre mari était-il à la guerre ?” Shell shock? Was your husband at war?