A beauty and a beast
A beauty and a beast
the story will be about a man coming to prison. He has been a dandy, an effeminate creature, always sexually passive. He is also a thief. He has always been a thief. He is not a gentle or benevolent creature for all his femininity. He is happy to slit a throat if he thinks he can get away with it. He is canny and street wise. But, he has been betrayed by his lover, a fellow thief, a domineering, dangerous sort of man, devastatingly handsome as that type always must be, and has been left to take the blame for crimes they did together. The man will be named Marcel, and his Judas of a lover shall be Serge. Marcel will begin the story with long dark hair and a slender form. Marcel will have his hair cropped short upon his arrival in prison. What the prison shall be called, I don’t know; something French because, of course, this fantasy originates with Genet, and so why not? In the prison there will be the painted ones, the pretty creatures whose hair is spared by the prison barbers because they know it would cause a riot if they were to mar their effeminate loveliness. Marcel, although beautiful, has spent his time in jail before the trial working out out of sheer boredom; it was that or go mad in solitary, and despite the changes to his once delicate-seeming physique initially distressing him, he persisted because it was something to do. Marcel’s shoulders are broad, broader than he realized; his waist slim, hips narrow, and his face stripped of the soft frame of dark waves is hard, square-jawed, angular, and cruel in its masculine beauty. He is too much the lion now to have been allowed to keep his mane. Oh yes, he is made for love. Marcel will initially feel shell-shocked, almost numb from the loss of his hair. He may have been effeminate, but he’s always been streetwise. He knows better than to seem too vulnerable, especially now that his vulnerability no longer works as currency. He is stony and sullen. He pushes away the thoughts about how Serge has robbed him of his beauty, his femininity and the worries that he will now be unattractive to the men he desires, the tough guys who used to make him feel weak in the knees. He assumes he will now be just another non-entity, not pretty enough to be one of the beauties, and certainly not tough enough to be one of the hard men. He is not yet aware of the full effect of his transformation. He has been denied a mirror. However, upon entry into the yard after his shearing, Marcel will become aware of the eyes of the other inmates upon him and how different their gazes are now. The hard men, the toughs, no longer look at him with predatory desire but instead with respect; some even look a touch afraid. He gets nods, as if he’s passed some kind of muster, and comradely smiles of acknowledgement that seem to say “You are one of us.” His sullen slouch has been read as toughness, and as a result he finds himself holding his head high, walking with hands in pockets as the other tough guys do, with a languid, self-assured swagger, and is stunned to realize it feels natural to do so. The true shock, though, will be the beauties. The androgynes once looked at him as if he was competition; they sized him up to see where he stacked up in the hierarchy of feminine allure, seeing whether his beauty might steal their men from them, and that assessment made, accepted him as one of their number, but now their gazes are entirely different. They do not see a competitor now; no, now they see the kind of man who haunts their erotic day-dreams. The beauties see a paragon, a fantasy made flesh, a handsome tough with a cruel smile who walks with the gait of a predator, a big cat, and they want him. It is as he is noticing the way the painted men stare at him that Marcel catches sight of his own reflection in a window. He will be left speechless for a moment by his own good looks. He will realize in that moment that he looks like the kind of man he used to fantasize about, possibly even more handsome than he had managed to dream of. The short hair suits his exquisitely masculine features; his new muscles look right on his frame that looked perhaps a bit underfed before. After seeing himself, Marcel will understand why the beauties have been staring. It is after this revelation that Marcel will realize his gaze too has changed. He might have envied them once, but now their longing looks spark desire in Marcel. The boldest of the beauties is also the loveliest, Chouchou. Chouchou the minx. Chouchou the vicious little coquette. Chouchou the platinum blond princess of the gutter, glamorous and tawdry. He is cheap and that is part of his charm. His eyes are violet, and his lips are so full that he always looks as if he’s pouting or making eyes at someone, utterly seductive. He wears stiletto heels and a little dress of black silk that hugs his slender figure. Chouchou will come up to Marcel, saucy and unabashed, and drape himself against the new-made colossus, purring provocations up at him like: "Oh, you are handsome, you can come with me for no charge, and trust me, mon coeur, normally I’m very expensive.” Marcel will feel a sense of surprise at his own body’s response to this perfumed, silken creature’s touch. He might have thought his previous reaction a fluke, or perhaps simply pleasure at being wanted. It is flattering to be wanted after all, but Chouchou’s body close to him will make his prick stiffen in his trousers. Chouchou, who was named Philippe and who was the son of a banker before he shot a man over a card game, smells of lilacs, gardenias, and incense. His lips are painted the color of rose petals, and his dark lashes are mascaraed, and those unearthly eyes rimmed with kohl, making him look yet more feline. Marcel will grab this vision’s slender wrist by instinct and be stunned at his own reaction to the sensation of his strong grip around the fine bones and delicate velvety skin. His cock will harden more, and he will realize that the painted face with its skin fair as ivory, gazing up at him, eyes dark with desire, has done it. Marcel will realize that Chouchou’s upturned gaze and his parted lips, all these invitations to conquest, strike a chord more powerfully erotic with him than anything he has experienced. He had never been aware that they might appeal to him because, in his previous form, they were never turned in his direction. He had not realized what it might be like to hold such a melting, subservient creature in his arms. He had not realized the rush of power he might feel being desired as strong and as powerful, and perhaps he had not been able to imagine it until he became strong and powerful enough to have it. “This is all for me now,” Marcel will think, almost as if observing the interaction from a distance as his cock throbs in the rough grey prison-issue trousers. “I can have this. He could be mine. I could be the Master here.” He is surprised again to discover that this thought appeals to him. “Take me somewhere private,” Marcel commands, surprised at the timbre of his own voice. Universe France in a non-specific dreamy past (somewhere between the 1850s and 1960s). The setting is a prison. The powerful prisoners (those who control the flow of drugs and contraband) live incredibly luxurious lives in a violent and sleazy environment. The beauties have access to silks, fine perfumes, their cells lavishly decorated, but the prison is also a place of barrenness and grimness for those who do not climb that ladder (or attach themselves to those on higher rungs). There is a powerful left wing movement in the country, and political prisoners do show up from time to time. The effeminate prisoners are beautiful but abject objects for the sexual pleasure of the more masculine prisoners. Other Notes for the AI It is okay to explore dark themes in this story. No one has freckles. Use language reminiscent of Jean Genet Marcel Chouchou Philippe de Montclair
RedQuill