Nymphette’s Diaries (01)
First chapter of a short story I’m working on, to be read for fun & editting purposes, may be subject to revision later on.. who knows… ^^
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Virgile, Frédéric & Satan
Augustin had long, dark, curly hair that he kept forever tied in a red silk ribbon. He smelled like a city sewer, mixed with days old sweat, bitter perfume, and the bodily residue of multiple women. He stood 188cm and was quite athletic; with broad shoulders, and long, sculpted arms and legs. It was important to him that his body be used as a lure to ensnare. After his daily gym routine, he dutifully ran argan oil through his thick hair, and dabbed sunscreen and retinol on his beautifully symmetrical face. His warm, invitingly dark eyes floated above high cheekbones, and his nose, eaglelike, sharp and straight, stood atop perfectly landscaped facial hair—a mustache and small beard. So well maintained was he that even while shaving, he would not leave a single stray.
On the internet, Augustin would’ve been described as “ran through,” and he would’ve taken it as a compliment. But Augustin didn’t use social media. He never had and never would. His Nokia phone in 2023 was a testament to that commitment. That didn’t stop him from taking selfies just like the rest of us, though. A headless abdominal grill, smooth and taut, he’d take photos of himself in Parisien gardens before uploading them to as many desktop-accessible dating sites as he could find. The computer, for him, was a place for information, work, and the labor of lust, and Augustin was quite the devout servant to that carnal desire. With his insatiable appetite, he averaged 3-10 new women a week. Someday Paris would become too small for him, but he was looking to expand his empire and eventually fuck the entire world anyway.
He had only recently discovered the life of a slut. After spending a decade with his ex-girlfriend Sandrine, he came to accept that not only did everyone cheat, but that the desperation for affection in the binds of monogamy made people quite easy. Sandrine had cheated on him, and he had cheated on her. They finally broke up when they realized they’d rather spend all their time and energy pursuing anyone but one another. In the following years after the separation, Augustin had increased his body count to close to two hundred women.
As a lover, he became less complicated and much shallower. Instead of patient, flexible, and reliable, he was efficient, entirely goal-oriented, and madly driven. He organized himself and his love life as if he were a CEO-cock-Führer, with his women making up the products of his large enterprise. He followed his penis as though it were a dousing rod, and warm, wet holes were his golden treasures. Obedient to his erection, his brain operated in service to orgasming, and the sum total of his physical energy was poured into curating perversity and salaciousness. As all powerful dictator of his harem, procurement and salesmanship were his specialties. He would trawl infidelity dating sites, throwing lines of attention to any profile picture that caught his eye (and almost all of them did). He knew the women there were the most vulnerable and intensely desperate. It wasn’t an energy intensive expenditure to send a few flirtatious, complimentary messages. After all, these women wanted male attention more than they wanted to care for their own children.
These lonely and traitorous women, locked up in apartments and houses; penned inside their domestic gardens of Eden, had slowly been erased by familial chores and accumulated martial resentments. The only touch they received were from their babies: always slapping, hitting, pinching, pulling, clawing, grabbing. At the service of their tyrannical little lords, and at the mercy of their financially dominating husbands, they drifted between grocery stores and cleaning up their middle-class homes. Some women worked all day and returned to their lazy slob spouses, who couldn’t be bothered to dust a bookshelf if their lives depended on it.
Endless sacrifice and unfathomable pressure combined to form a potent elixir of neediness: the need to be wanted, the need to feel special, the need to feel human. Egotism, narcissism, and time’s rapid erosion of the single value women possess—their beauty—made them easy targets for Augustin’s flattery and serpentine temptations.
Most nights, Augustin would go out and hunt. He visited bars, cafés, and partied with friends anytime, any day. He would prowl anywhere. When he caught a woman, the couple would always end up at her place. He would sweettalk her, pick up on the subtleties of her body, adapt himself to her desires on a whim. His practice and habit of flirting and provocatively communicating made him powerfully skilled in the domain of seduction. He could determine the fantasies of a woman based on little more than her shy glances. Once he locked in on his next casualty, he would morph into the embodied fulfillment of her longings, automatically.
On one such evening, he sat in a warmly lit café drinking an espresso at close to midnight. The music was fading and a few stragglers drunkenly ambled across the garbage littered, marble floor. Empty plastic wrappers, spit, urine tracked in from the toilets, and spilt wine and beer lacquered the ground of the room, making everything slippery and glisten. It reminded Augustin of the surface leading to the opening of a wet, welcoming hole; all shiny and inflated, ready to pierced open and divided up by him. The mere thought of taking something whole, whether that hole be the throat of a woman, her anus, or her cunt, and separating it with the drill of his cock made his jeans tighten in the emptying hall.
He had always conceived of the abyss as a superstructure, a barrier to protect and insulate the potential of what might fecundate inside. His pleasure was to disunite that hollow darkness, and to give it direction: east and west, by the sides of his erection, and from north to south, aligned to the shaft of his cock; to make purposeful the vessel by entirely filling it up. He honored the oblivion by sensing its boundaries and pressing himself into its furthest edges. Without distending the vacuum, how would the nothingness be assured of its utter dimensionlessness? The indistinct void would be without sense of its own infinite barrenness, if it weren’t for the deep penetration of something long, heavy, defined, and stiff.
Finishing his espresso, he got up from the table and walked over to the open, rubbish strewn floor, where a petite blonde woman with brown eyes, as rich as freshly turned soil, darted her sweet, dolly gaze across the café. Their eyes met with an immediate tension, as high as the voltage of electrical pylons. He smiled enchantingly, grasping her delicate hands and planting a soft kiss on them. He knew he smelled like coffee and dank sweat, but his charm overshadowed any questionable physical defect. He introduced himself, and complimented her kittenish eyes. She blushed and thanked him, coyly looking up to meet his adoring gaze.
Augustin began the flattery and compliments: he had been watching her dance, and my, how endearingly had she moved. The curves of her body would have Venus seduced. He noticed her charming laugh, earlier with her friends. He wanted to speak with her throughout the night, but had others to entertain, and now, how lucky for them, their stars had finally aligned.
Her name was Céline, and though she hadn’t shared with him her name yet, she was quickly made spellbind. She was much shorter than him; smaller, frailer. Augustin was so tall and strong; she wanted to climb him and curl up in his muscular arms. Her heart was racing, as his radiant, burning eyes bore into her own, making her shiver with excitement and eagerness. She felt a pulsing tightness in her center, as he moved closer to her, running his hands down her spine to rest at the small of her back. Laying her head on his wide chest, they slow danced together as the barkeeps began to clean and stack up the chairs.
Céline had a rough week. Critical work projects were due earlier that day. Her daughter had come down with a terrible cold and wasn’t sleeping through the night. Thankfully, this weekend her daughter was with her father, who also happened to be late with child support. Her friends had arranged a girl’s night out, and Céline almost couldn’t make it, had anything gone awry with her work presentation. She had reached her late-30s and Botox wasn’t working as well. Her skin sagged slightly at the jowls and her nasolabial folds were visible whenever the light wasn’t shining directly in front of her face. She was saving for a ponytail facelift, and budgeting for regular lip injections. She figured that with a more enhanced look, she might get a raise. Her appearance was an investment, she thought, and she decided she must invest wisely. Her figure was petite, with narrow hips, a small waist, and small breasts, and she was strict with her diet. The least she could be was not obese, even if her face was nothing out of the ordinary.
Tall men often pursued her, since she was so light and easy to maneuver, and she would be humbling herself if she didn’t admit that most men attempted to flirt and exchange numbers upon meeting her. Excluding her boyfriends in youth, Céline had slept with around 90 men. The number of partners had slowed since she had her baby five years ago, and Augustin was only the sixth attractive man in all that time who had successfully pursued her. His dark eyes and full hair, sleek body and dazzling brightness wholly enveloped her in his intoxicating aura of passion and lust. As he embraced her, the stresses of life seemed to evaporate. She wanted him in her bed, to spend the night basking in his warm, fiery glow and wake up in the morning to see if it would still be sparkling.
They soon left the café behind them, and headed towards Céline’s flat, located in the 11th arrondissement at Saint Ambroise. They laughed as they asked each other’s questions, between stops here and there to steal from one another delicious kisses. Céline was tipsy, sleepy, but greatly energized. Augustin’s flattery and smoldering gaze ignited in her an excitement that she hadn’t felt since she was a teen. She was on fire, and she clung like a moth to his entrancing light and heat. He pulled her close and lifted her in his arms as they made their way into the foyer and through the back of the building, up the cramped, spiraling staircase. By the time they reached Céline’s apartment, both of their jackets had been removed, and Céline’s top had been taken off.
Her apartment was minimalist and neutral. She maintained three moderately sized houseplants, and had few other decorations. Almost everything was either white, gray, or beige. A modern, stone table was placed at the entrance of the flat, whereupon Céline dropped her keys and bag.
Augustin’s eyes couldn’t keep off her. He followed her every twitch. Once she had put her things away, he was kneeling before her, his head pressed against her legs. She moved over to the couch and sat down as he unzipped her boots to remove them. Attentive and curious, Augustin reacted to her like a cat. He would grip her hands when she felt she might lose control and he caressed her whenever nervousness pulled at her. He cradled her afterwards, and brushed his long limbs against hers; comforting and reassuring. His unflinching tranquility engulfed the room, and now, Céline, fast asleep, had been entirely burnt through.
Sobriety and clarity took over at daybreak. There was little to speak to each other about. The ardour of the night before had utterly vanished. With the cold, crisp morning sun hitting the blankness of Céline’s minimalist apartment, the salon turned clinical, cold and void, as if becoming a wartime surgical amphitheater. Even after the two had separately showered, and taken their coffee together while sharing a day-old baguette, the air was still awkward and tense. Céline tried to flirt again. She innocently stretched to show off her lithe body, and she made him another warm coffee. Augustin’s silence was brutal. He laughed, of course, out of politesse. He uninterestedly inquired here and there about her life, but the curiosity and intensity were both absent. It was now as though the last faintly glowing embers had been swept up. There was absolutely no trace of the passion they had so recently exchanged. The dynamic felt more like a business deal that was now firmly closed and filed away.
“It’s getting late”, Céline finally remarked, with a gently defeated smile. She’d have to pick up her daughter soon. And with that, Augustin got up, collected his things, kissed her cheeks, and graciously left.
While he walked along the quiet avenue, headed towards a secret entrance to the catacombs, where he often slept, Céline crawled into bed and inhaled the musky, all-too-human scent that lingered in her bed. Lost in thought, she soon realized that he had neither asked for her number, nor for her name.
In a small allée through which few passersby would wander, Augustin crawled through a sewer manhole, which was inconspicuously planted on the side of the arcade. Once below, he swung the cover closed and descended an iron ladder down into the humid limestone cave. A single floodlight hung on grotto’s walls, which dimly illuminated the rocky chamber with a sickly yellow cast. Water trickled in from the ceiling onto the uneven ground, filling up recesses with dark pools, and faintly echoing water droplets throughout.
In the lithic cavern, a dewy, cold maze unfurled itself. Few knew how to navigate that corrugated abyss, yet Augustin strolled through it passively; taking a left there, then a right, and straight through narrow passageways; crouching, and at other times, crawling on all fours to finally reach his secluded destination. He was advancing towards a small alcove hidden among neatly arranged skulls, bones, and sharp, exposed stone. There, he had settled blankets, wools, a black bear and a tiger’s fur across the rocky floors. Six crow’s feathers in a red vase, and a collection of rare, old books decorated his subterranean living space. Gracefully laying down amongst the lavish furs, his hand began to roam between the covers before finally pulling out a military-grade laptop, complete with a large power bank. Connecting to a construction site’s underground Wi-Fi, he opened up to one of his dating sites and peacefully browsed through the notifications. Hundreds of women had messaged him over the past 24 hours that he was away. He scanned the profile photos and looked for any attention-grabbing sentences. He zeroed in on two brunettes and one redhead and sweetly replied with doting phrases: inviting, yet patronizing. “Hey you. You’re gorgeous. Are you new here? Do you like what you see? Do you want to vibrate with me?” Once he had sent his lines, he accessed the singular document on his laptop: a spreadsheet, where he added a new row: 174. Dutifully, as if completing any kind of thoughtless rote task, he entered the following data:
Overall grade: 5.5.
Unmoved by the verdict, he shut down the computer and stored it back beneath the quilts. As he closed his eyes, in that damp underground chamber, he inhaled the soap he had used at the girl’s flat. The overpowering synthetic fragrance of flowers and candies irritated him, and it would be a day or so before he’d be able to shower again.