Nightmare of Delight

In the somber year of 1781, amidst the shadowed hills and whispering forests of the French countryside, stood my ancient manor, a gothic edifice of crumbling spires and stern facades, its grandeur a relic of my lineage long decayed. Within these oppressive walls, I, Antoinette du Vaux, the last scion of my noble house, dwelled.

I was only twenty-three years old, and my beauty was whispered throughout society as a marvel to behold. My raven locks tumbled like a cascade of midnight over my shoulders. My eyes, a stormy blue-grey and tempestuous as the sea, were filled with an intensity that could both captivate and repel. My skin, pale as moonlight, contrasted starkly with the darkness of my hair, giving me the appearance of a delicate porcelain doll. Yet beneath this porcelain veneer, a maelstrom of discontent stirred within me. My soul, a tempest in a teacup, raged against the suffocating confines of my gilded existence. The world saw a composed and elegant woman, but beneath the surface, a restless spirit yearned for liberation. The expectations and restrictions of my social standing felt like shackles. 

That eve, as the sun bled its last crimson rays into the horizon, I paced the library study, my silk gown gliding across the hardwood floor. The flickering candles cast phantasmal shadows, and the air bore the weight of silence, broken only by the distant howling of a lone wolf outside in the cold nighttime air. I halted afore the painting I had just acquired. The flicker of candlelight danced across the canvas, casting shadows that made the figures in the painting seem to writhe and contort in a macabre ballet as if they were desperate to break free.

I stood alone in the library study of my sprawling manor, the silence of the night wrapping around me like a velvet cloak. The library was my sanctum, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound volumes—treatises on philosophy, forbidden poetry, and tales of excess—interspersed with artworks and drawings that reflected my peculiar tastes. But tonight, my gaze was fixed solely on the newest jewel in my collection: "The Nightmare" by Henri Fuseli, the painting I had just wrested from the grasp of lesser bidders at an auction whose price had spiraled into the realm of the obscene.

The painting hung prominently on the East wall of the library study, its dark, brooding presence dominating the space. Freshly mounted, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own under the dim glow of the candles. I took a slow sip of Bordeaux, the wine’s rich warmth spreading through me as I studied the scene in the painting before me. The painting was of a maiden, draped in a virginal sheath of silken white, lying prostrate across her bed—a fragile alabaster doll cast adrift in the abyss of her unconscious. Her body was arched in a pose that dangled between terror and rapture, defying the restraint of decorum—her head tipped back in an abandon that looked like she was poised on the edge of ecstasy and anguish. Atop her chest perched the incubus, a grotesque yet strangely captivating creature—its eyes gleaming with malevolent delight. Behind this spectral ménage loomed the phantom steed, its ghastly visage emerging from the shadows like a nightmare sprung to life. The creature’s eyes burned with an infernal brilliance as if heralding the arrival of chaos itself. Its gaping mouth hinting at an insatiable appetite, yet it seemed to remain tethered to the periphery, a voyeur to the tableau of violation before it.

What compelled me to acquire this piece of art? Was it the thrill of possession, the satisfaction of knowing that such a provocative piece now belonged to me alone? Or was it something more insidious—a recognition of myself in the chaos depicted in the painting? I, Antoinette du Vaux, heiress to a fortune built on the wealth of the perfume industry, had long cultivated a veneer of refinement. Yet beneath it simmered a restlessness, a hunger for experiences that polite society deemed unfit for a woman of my station.

This painting by Henry Fuseli has stirred within me not merely a dream but an intrusion into my psyche’s most perverse recesses. This helpless maiden in Fuseli’s painting and her demonic tormentor are but reflections of the primal struggle between domination and submission, between the appetites of the flesh and the sanctity of the soul. It is a painting that seemed to be inviting me not merely to observe but to revel in my darkest imaginings, to taste the exquisite agony of surrender to forces beyond comprehension. What a marvelous work of art!

I paced around the room a few times and came back upon the painting, approaching it from a different angle this time. The woman in the painting fascinated me. Her expression held me captive. Was it fear that twisted her features, or was it pleasure masked as torment? The ambiguity gnawed at me, stirring a movement within me that the wine I was drinking could not account for. 

In my world, I reigned supreme—men bent to my will, their flattery as hollow as their promises; women vied for my favor, their envy a currency. I spent freely. Power was my birthright, wielded with a steady hand and a cool smile. Yet here, in the solitude of my library study, I could confess a secret: there lingered within me a yearning to cast off that control, to taste the exquisite vulnerability of surrender.

I stepped closer to the canvas, my eyes tracing the contours of the woman’s form—the way her nightgown clung to her, accentuating her posture in this helpless position. The incubus, with its gnarled hands and leering grin, seemed to mock her plight, yet there was a perverse beauty in its dominance. I imagined myself in her place, the creature’s weight pinning me down, its breath a hot whisper against my skin. A shiver coursed through me, delicious and unsettling, and I felt the stirrings of a desire I had long suppressed.

A sudden noise—a faint creak from the shadowed corners of the room—jerked me from my reverie. I turned, my heart quickening, but saw nothing save the towering bookshelves and the closed door. A soft laugh escaped my lips, mocking my own unease. The painting, it seemed, had begun to weave its spell, teasing my senses with phantoms born of the night’s stillness. Yet when I faced it again, I could have sworn the incubus’s smile had widened, its eyes gleaming with a knowing intensity that pierced through me.

My fingers brushed the ornate frame as if I might bridge the divide between my world and the characters in the painting. Then, without warning, a wave of dizziness seized me. The room tilted, the candlelight blurring into streaks of gold, and though I stood upright, I felt myself falling inward. My limbs grew leaden, bound by an unseen force, and a cold panic clawed at my throat as I realized I could not move. I was paralyzed, a prisoner within my own flesh.

My gaze darted to the painting, and to my horror, the figures in the painting stirred. The woman’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, her silent scream echoing in my mind. The incubus shifted, its head turning slowly until its eyes locked with mine. With a fluid, deliberate motion, it slid from her body and stepped forth from the canvas, its clawed feet striking the floor with a muted thud. It approached, its form both repellent and magnetic, a nightmare given flesh.

I tried to cry out, to command it back to its prison of paint, but my voice was stolen. The creature loomed closer, its hand rising to caress my cheek. “You summoned me,” it rasped, its voice a gravelly hiss that burrowed into my skull. "I was summoned by the hunger within yourself, by the restless fire you cloak in silk and scorn. You crave what I bring. Look upon her—it gestures to the woman frozen in paint—and tell me you do not see yourself. Her fear is yours, her rapture, too. You crave what I offer, don't you?"

“What do you offer, creature?” I whisper.

“Ecstasy,” it breathes, its lips near my ear. “The shattering of your chains—those brittle virtues you wear like a shroud. Yield to me and taste what lies beyond the prison of your station. Do not resist, my dear. Embrace the darkness you harbor. Yield, and know the ecstasy of ruin.”

Its clawed fingers, sharp enough to draw blood, traced a path down my neck, lingering at the pulse that raced beneath my skin, I could feel my pulse hammering under its unholy grip, each throb an invitation for it to take more. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—revulsion warring with a shameful thrill of surrendering myself to the beast’s malevolent intent and to dark forces beyond my comprehension. The air thickened, the room fading until there was only the creature and me, bound in a dance of dread and desire.

I gasped as its claws traced my collarbone, a thrill that set my skin ablaze. “And if I yield, what then? Am I to be your slave?”

“Slave?” it laughs, its hand dipping lower, brushing the swell of my breasts. “No, sweet one. You rule through surrender—through the courage to embrace what others flee. Tell me, does this not please you?” Its fingers linger, and I arch into the sensation, a moan slipping free.

“It does,” I confess. “But I fear it too—the abyss you open beneath my feet.”

“Let go of the fear, and the pleasure is greater,” its eyes locking with mine, “Deny it, and you lie to us both. Speak true—what do you desire?”

I pause, “To be unmade,” I say at last. “To shed this mask of decorum and burn in the truth of my own fire.”

“Then sink with me into this abyss,” it says, pressing closer, its touch a storm of delight that floods my senses. "There is no return, Antoinette—only the forging of a new self. Will you resist, or will you claim it?”

I met its gaze, my resolve hardening amidst the chaos of desire. “I claim it,” I declared, seizing its wrist and guiding its hand lower still. “Show me this truth—consume me, if you must, but let me rise from the ashes.”

It grins, a predator’s delight, and the room tilts as we tumble into shadow. “As you wish,” it whispers, its voice a lash of silk. “Feel me, mistress—feel the rapture of ruin.”

Its touch was a sensual thrill, sending waves of delight coursing through me. The incubus, that shadowed specter of forbidden desire, laid its clawed fingers upon the tender flesh of my neck with a delicacy that mocked the menace of its form. Each graze of its unearthly talons ignited a blaze beneath my skin, a molten rapture that surged through my veins like a river of fire, spilling into the secret hollows of my being. My body trembled—not from the cold grip of fear but from the exquisite thrill of standing on the precipice of surrender.

“More,” I demand, my hands clawing at its form, seeking the pulse of its otherworldly flesh. “Give me all of it—the pleasure, the agony, the ecstasy, the pain, the horror, the surrender—leave nothing hidden!”

My nipples were so hard they hurt, pressing against the fabric of my corset like they were trying to burst free. The incubus’s fingers dipped lower, dragging across my collarbone before brushing over the swell of my breasts, its claws catching on the lace of my bodice. With a single flick, it tore the fabric apart, leaving my breasts bare and exposed to its hungry gaze. I gasped, my body arching into its touch like a desperate whore. Its claws scraped against my breasts, not hard enough to break my skin but just enough to make me ache for more. My nipples were dark and stiff, begging for its touch, and the incubus didn’t disappoint. Its tongue—long, hot, and wicked—lashed against my skin, wrapping around my nipple like a snake before sucking it deep into its mouth. I moaned, my fingers clawing at the air as it worked me over, its teeth grazing my sensitive flesh just enough to make me shiver. I cried out, the sound, a hymn to my unraveling, as pleasure and peril entwined.

Its hand slid down my breasts, over my trembling stomach, until it reached the soaked fabric between my thighs. My intimate area was dripping wet, the evidence of my need staining the delicate lace of my panties. The incubus let out a growl, effortlessly tearing away my panties with a single swipe of its claws. My fluids scattered, and the scent of my arousal permeated the air. Its fingers—long, slender, and coated in some unearthly oil—discovered my tender, moist folds, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Each motion of its fingers made me quiver with delight, making my hips rise and fall in a primal response to its touch. 

Yet, even as I surrendered to this tide of delight, a shadow lingered within me. This was no mortal lover whose hands caressed me but a fiend wrought from the abyss, a tempter whose very existence mocked the sanctity I had once held dear. I, Antoinette du Vaux, heiress to a legacy of unblemished honor, stood ensnared by a creature that feasted upon the ruin of innocence. But was it ruin—or revelation? In yielding to its touch, did I not seize dominion of my own? Did I not regain sovereignty over the desires I had cloaked in shame? I was born for this. A creature of flame trapped in a cage of ice. 

The air grew thick with the heat of the creature's breath, a sultry whisper against my ear that carried the scent of sin. "Do you not taste it, sweet one?" it purred, its voice a silken lash that stroked my senses. "The nectar of ecstasy that flows beyond the prison of virtue?" And taste it I did—oh, how I drank deeply of that intoxicating draught! The sensations unfurled within me like a symphony of decadence, each touch a note plucked upon the taut strings of my body, resonating with a pleasure so profound it bordered on the divine.

Then, as swiftly as it had come, the vision shattered. I stumbled back, gasping—my chest heaving as if I had surfaced from drowning. The painting stared back, unchanged, its figures frozen in their eternal tableau. I pressed a trembling hand to my cheek, expecting to find some mark of the Incubus’ touch, but there was nothing save the warmth of my own flesh.

Had it been a hallucination, a delirium conjured by exhaustion and the painting’s suggestive power? Or had I brushed against something real, a manifestation of the shadows I carried within? I searched the woman’s face in the painting for answers, and for an instant, her eyes seemed to glow with a silent plea or warning. Then she was still again, a mere image trapped in paint. Yet I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my soul, that this was no mere piece of art. It was a mirror, reflecting the desires I had buried beneath layers of decorum and duty. That encounter—hallucination or not—had ignited a spark, a hunger that would not be sated by the tame pleasures of my gilded life.

“You’ve awakened me, fiend,” I whisper to the creature on the canvas. I extinguished the candles, plunging the study into darkness. As I left the study and ascended to my bedroom chambers, I vowed to the shadows that I would seek those who dance in this fire—partners, teachers, sinners all.  I was no longer content to be a passive observer of life’s canvas. I would wield the brush myself, painting my existence with bold strokes of passion and power until I had plumbed the depths of my own abyss. I will no longer play the role of the untouchable heiress cloaked in propriety. I will embrace the nightmare, claim it as my own, and paint my life in strokes of sin and splendor, and none shall tame me.

And so, with the dawn still a distant rumor, I stepped into the unknown, eager to become the architect of my own exquisite torment.