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Dame Cecelia De Joffe. French, aristocratic, proud and aloof. Her breeding set her apart from the common herd. Her parents afer all, had been very important people in France, wealthy owners of much property, had consorted with Royalty and important Government figures. Her husband also had been of aristocratic breeding,and a very important person here in North Africa. Since he died life had become more difficult. It had been a shock to discover that he had left huge debts when he died. She had always acted as the perfect wife while he was alive, it was expected of a woman of her position and breeding. But in reality they never had much in common. Not only had he squandered his own money, but he had squandered her inheritance as well. She had come to North Africa with him in 1898 after they had married. She had never really loved him, had married him for social advancement. There had been many rumours of his sexual activities over the years, but she had ignored them, prefering to maintain the illusion of a perfect marriage. But after he died, reality began to assert itself. She was left alone now, in much reduced circumstances. She had paid a heavy price for the image she had strove to maintain for so long. She could not return to France in such circumstances, no, her pride would not let her do that. In the months after his death she had done much soul searching. And the angrier she had become. She had paid a huge price for her loyalty to him. But although she found it hard to admit it, even to herself, her pride, her obsession with status and breeding ,had played a large part in her downfall. Many long days and restless nights were spent considering her situation . On the material front she had a small income, and of course she still had the Villa. But her income now was not enough to maintain the image and lifestyle she had strove to maintain so hard in the past. But as time went on, she reluctantly began to consider other matters. She tried at first to push such things from her mind, they were not the type of things that a forty four year old lady of her breeding, should be thinking of. But somehow these thoughts would not go away. And she knew , deep down , that she would eventually have to confront them. She had never really loved her husband, and the truth was , he never really loved her. They rarely shared a bed, he was away most of the time. She did not even want to contemplate what he was doing when he was away, but in her heart she knew. All of those stories were probably true. The more she contemplated this, the angrier she became. And her anger began to overcome lifelong inhibitions. Despite her aristocratic breeding she was still a woman, a human being with needs. She had only being sexually intimate with her husband on a number of occasions. He never seemed that interested in that. But she had never complained, had strove to maintain the facade of a happy marriage. But she had not been happy, she had been miserable , often depressed and frustrated. The bastard had never even considered her for a moment. She had supressed her longings and desires in order to maintain the charade. And she had desires and longings that had often almost driven her crazy. How she would like now to see the bastards face if she could tell him that she lusted after young boys. Not grown men , but young boys, boys of twelve or thirteen. How she would like to tell him how her groin went on fire watching the bulges between the legs of their young servant boys, how she wanted to strip the loin cloths from them and take their boyish flesh in her mouth. How she wanted to taste their fresh young semen. He had treated her as if she were some kind of object without desires or needs. How would he feel if she could tell him that she had overheard him and his cronies laughing one night about what the slave traders did to some of their boys before they sold them. If she could tell him the effect it had on her as she listened. How would he feel if she could tell him that his dutiful and well bred wife had spent that night in her bed, aching and soaking between her legs, as she tried to imagin boys being castrated. Of how her fingers had worked frantically in the wetness between her thighs, as thoughts of cut scrotums, severed testicles, and screaming naked boys, cascaded through her mind. To be continued.
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