Zingara

Claude Gaius Frollo de Tirechappe is many things. He is a nobleman. The special seat in the Notre-Dame tells him so, when he kneels there twice every Sunday, the coat of Arms of the Frollo's carved high above his pious steel-coloured hair.

He is a Minister of Justice. He knows this because every where he goes, people avert their eyes, in guilt or in shame. He knows how much the people of Paris try to hide from his all-seeing eyes. He sees it as his holy task to unearth as many secrets and unravel as many lies as he can. If he makes a few enemies along the way, so be it. The reach of the arm of the law is long and powerful and Claude Frollo is not a fearful man. He doesn't hide behind the Judicial coat of arms, like many other ministers do. In a way, his thin serious face serves more as a waving banner for Lady Justitia than the inverted red Fleur-de Lys in a field of black designed for that cause.

He is a husband. This still surprises him as much as the gossipmongers. His young filly of a wife is as much a contrast as a compliment to him. Oh, he sees the appreciating glint in many a man's eye as they take in her energetic appearance, and he sees the teasing glint in their eyes as they meet his eyes. Well done, old chap.

He sees the confusion in people's eyes when he walks his wife down the street, as if their feeble minds can't comprehend the intricate way in which his wife and he fit together. They can't see past the age difference, or the different walks of life they stem from, or even the racial difference. They stop and stare and look at a man, tall, unbending and thin, and a girl, supple, pliant and smooth. All they can see is differences.

All Claude Frollo can see is how well they fit together. In all God-given possible ways.

And so Claude Frollo is a methodical monster to most, a reluctant friend to some and a lover and life mate to one. It is only her opinion that matters to him.

But above all, Claude Frollo knows what he isn't.

He is not a fool.

People flock to his warm wife as naturally as bees buzz around a pretty flower. She can't help it, it's something that stems from the very centre of her being and to admonish her gentle, sharing nature, would be like trying to get the stars to come out at daytime. It's just the way things are, and Claude accepts this. It doesn't mean he likes having to share her attention, but if this is what makes her happy, so be it.

He gets to observe her though, as she laughs and interacts with the commoners. They approach her easily, and he watches her smile as a dirty child gives her an apple which she gracefully accepts, as if it's a large shiny ruby instead. Esmeralda drops into a small curtsey in thanks and the crowd titters and laughs. The child puffs out his chest and instantly declares himself her Knight and valiant protector. His wife throws her head back and laughs, a rich throaty sound. It travels down Frollo's spine like a sudden caress and settles in his lower stomach, a low blooming heat. For the briefest instant he envies the ragged child.

His wife's attention has shifted as she leans into a young woman presenting her new born child. The infant is swaddled tightly, so that only a tiny pink bald head remains, so Frollo can only guess the gender, but Esmeralda coos and beams at the child. The baby is lifted into her outstretched arms and she looks at the baby with such love, such reverence, that suddenly Frollo has to struggle for air, his mouth opening and closing most unbecomingly. It is one of the most powerful images Frollo has ever laid eyes on. Esmeralda looks so perfect, a small, dark sensuous Virgin Mary clinging tightly to baby Jesus, smiling down on him, her eyes lidded in loving adoration. A dark Madonna, shaming the world with the purity of her smile.

Esmeralda has a multitude of different smiles. A gentle condescending one, when she hears something she isn't happy with. An enigmatic one, when she's hell-bent on teasing him( this one is a personal favourite, as it often leads to spectacular sex, the minx).A full-blown one when her husband, despite his surly nature, surprises her with an act of love, or an act of kindness to her, or the ones she loves. A special smile for the cook, and another one for his personal scribe, who has sat and toiled with her, teaching her how to read and write.

But this smile?

It's perfect.

Angels would weep at the serene beauty of her curved mouth. Her green eyes are riveted on the baby's features, and the child looks back up at her, clearly mesmerized by the wonderful visage above him/her. Frollo would nearly shout out for his personal painters, or the cathedral's sculptors. There, in the middle of the market place, is Perfection.

Just then, his wife looks up at him with her soul shining in her eyes and a look of such wistful longing comes over her features, that it sets his head spinning with the implications. Belly in knots, he watches as Esmeralda hands the babe back gently to its mother. She rejoins him and he falls into step with her, his eyes resolutely on the ground, his mind ill at ease. He finds he cannot look his wife in the eyes at that moment.

Here's another thing Frollo knows he'll never want to be.

A father. He knows he is not a kind man. He knows he is not a gentle man. He only has to look into a mirror to see the spectre of his father staring back at him. The thoughts of his own childhood haunt him to this day. Even though the scars on his body have healed, the scabs on his soul are as raw as ever. He has every intention of not repeating his father's mistakes. He has every intention of letting the name and the house of Frollo die with him. For he will be doomed before he allows himself to turn into his father.

For the longest time this way of life has suited him. Somewhere, he had grown accustomed to the idea of dying alone and unloved. So be it, he thought.

But then Fate stepped in and handed him the most beautiful, gentle, warm, nurturing ( here Frollo runs momentarily out of words to describe her) soul God has ever created. As ill-suited as he is to the role of parent, she is created especially for it. Children are naturally drawn to her, and she comes to life when she sees a small child.

Claude Frollo sees it all and the effect it has on her and he hates himself with a fierce passion.

Any other person would call it sulking, what he's doing now, submerged to the nose in hot water in his bathtub. He prefers to call it brooding. Or mulling over maudlin thoughts. Whatever you would choose to call it, the result is the same. Knees resting on the rim of the tub, leaving him in a rather undignified sprawl in his large tub. Even the tub is made for two and he slips a little, sputtering as water fills his large nostrils.

He pushes himself back up by placing his feet on the opposite end of the large tub. Rocking back and forth gently in the lapping water, Claude Frollo contemplates his wife.

He reads her like a book. They've been married for over a year now, and he sees the soft inquisitive look in her eyes as he lays beside her at night. Oh, he is always so careful with her, employing different methods of contraceptives known to him. Lemon juice. Linen wrappings. What he usually does is pull out prematurely, or as it is better known, leave Mass before the chanting starts. He starts doing that more and more, sometimes contemplating her dusky skin as a painter would a blank canvas, deciding on where to land the first touch of his brush. He enjoys the contrast of his milky white semen slowly dripping down her caramel coloured belly. What he doesn't enjoy is the fleeting look of disappointment that flits over her features when he does that. It leaves him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth and a sense of shame. Even though he is a generous lover and she mewls and undulates around his wiry frame, he denies her his own finale. He tells himself it's for her own good. But as the weeks pass, and the bitter taste of self-doubt in his mouth intensifies, he has to look back on his own actions and label them for what they are.

Acts of fear.

So here he is, like a newborn baby, drifting in warm water. Safe from harm. But not alone. His treacherous thoughts accompany him even here. And under the scrutiny of his own formidable mind, Claude Gaius Frollo reaches a very important mental crossroad. He can go two ways from here. Left is going the way they are. It means denying his wife her destiny. Which doesn't sit well with him at all.

The other way then. The right way. Well, he did set himself up nicely for that one, he thinks, as he snickers at his own mental trap. It means stepping over his own…insecurities. It means, that at nearly fifty years of age, he has to go through nappies, and restless nights ( that's what nurses and nannies are for, an inner voice eagerly supplies) and the looks that everyone will shoot him ( the randy old goat, how dare he), because he fathered a coloured child. Because yes, he is at heart still a bigot. Even though he doesn't believe it anymore, he knows that any child he will sire with her will be as dark as she is, and therefore subject to the same prejudice and hatred that she herself was. Is.

The crux of that matter is: The child will be a gypsy, by blood. A zingara. For he knows upfront that Esmeralda will want to impart her child with her beliefs, her traditions. Any child of his will, at one point in his or her life, wind up dancing in front of the bonfire, celebrating some pagan festival. Because it is written in their bones. And Frollo knows he can and will do nothing to stop that. He will never deny his wife anything, simply because she hasn't denied him in return. Because he is done denying people.

But it still scares him, he finally admits it to himself. The thought of being a father terrifies him. The thought of being his father terrifies him even more.

But strangely enough…just as soon as he admits to being afraid…

He stops fearing.

It is as if he has named his fear, as if he has placed it. Suddenly it doesn't seem as big, as important as he has made it out to be anymore.

Frollo realises he has been going around this the wrong way. It's not about what he will lose. It's about what he will gain.

What he will gain will be an heir. Because he knows that when he caves, he, no they, will not stop at one child. He will gain a way to improve the Frollo name and standing. There may be a Frollo wearing the cloth, as he was denied that chance himself. There may be another Frollo as minister, or as a university teacher, or as a knight of war. His estates will no longer be left to crumble, the masonry slowly rotting under their feet, the beams hollowed out by woodworm.

Suddenly he can only see what he will gain. His sour mood lifts and he smiles to himself, alone in his tub. Claude Frollo does not know this, but like his wife he employs an arsenal of different smiles. He gloats, he snickers and he grins, but this smile is gentle and pure, like the first ray of sunshine after a thunderstorm. But the thing with miracles is this: The bigger the miracle, the smaller the audience. So in this case, Frollo is left with the enormity of his epiphany and a sudden sense of needing to do something. Be somewhere.

He sits up straighter and looks down between his legs, where his penis bobs at half- mast. Clearly it agrees with his Master's mental reasoning, because said cock stiffens more enthusiastically.

Which leads him back to thinking about his lovely young wife. His nubile, supple witch of a spouse; with her breasts heavy with milk, her curves rounded by his child. A sultry smile on her lips as she caresses her rounded belly. Oh, Esmeralda would look fantastic with child. A pagan fertility Goddess, giddy because she gets to carry his child.

The mental image of his very pregnant wife crashes into him like a deranged horse and he groans loudly, groping for his weeping cock, arousal spiking hotly through him. For once, cock and man are both in complete agreement. What a stupid fool he has been, to deny her the most basic fundamental right of womanhood. She is a flower and he would deny her the right to bloom?

He pulls on his erection, his body heating up, despite the rapidly cooling water. But as Frollo feels his balls tightening up, he stops and yanks his hand away from his erection.

Panting harshly, and still unconsciously flexing his hips in and out of the water he tries to control himself.

Because spilling over his hand like a schoolboy would kind of defeat the purpose of his epiphany, now wouldn't it? His penis bobs eagerly, still not completely convinced.

So Frollo stands and gets out of the bath tub. His cock casts him a last baleful look and then, finally understanding the point, acquiesces and slowly bows his head to its masters plan.

Frollo smiles and on a whim, sticks his tongue out at the rosy man reflected in the mirror. A man that suddenly looks nothing like his father. He towels himself of enthusiastically. He is, after all, a man on a mission.

He has some researching to do.

Researching is what he does best. In the weeks that follow, Frollo devours every book and scroll he can find his hands on that deal with procreation. He learns about the female cycle, and how the female body works. He knows most of this already, but there is a difference in knowing and knowing and applying said knowledge. So he observes, and goes as far as to make actual notes about his lovely wife, mapping her menstrual cycle. The way she smells, he learns, is different from week to week, ending in a coppery tang as she reaches the end of her menstrual cycle. This, he has learned already, leaves her grumpy and tired. Those days are filled with hot baths, sweet, starchy foods and a hot water bottle pressed against her aching belly. Frollo doesn't complain, just slides into their bed those nights, molding his body to hers, content to lie and inhale the fragrances in her bushy hair. Sometimes she allows him to rub gentle circles on her aching empty belly. He feels a little guilty at those times. Soon, he thinks.

You'll get your way, my Zingara.

After that it is simply a matter of applying math. He counts the days from her last period. In the meantime he takes care of himself, eating good rich foods that are known to enhance the quality and quantity of his seed. It feels good, in a sneaky sort of way, almost as if he is planning a surprise for her. And if she arches an eyebrow at him when he reaches for another egg at breakfast, he pretends to let it slide. It's all for a good cause, even though he fiercely hates eggs. But she doesn't know that, he thinks.

He also takes care not to touch himself, and only stimulates Esmeralda by hand, lips and tongue. When she reaches for his cock, he gently bats her hands away, distracting her with other delights. Esmeralda doesn't complain, but gives him knowing looks when he busies himself between her legs, licking her until she screams and tugs painfully at his hair.

He is really saving himself for her, he figures.

After three weeks of this harsh self-imposed treatment, his cock rebels and he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting and spurting copious amounts of hot seed into his linen underpants. He hasn't had these sort of nocturnal emissions since he was a teen, he realizes, as he wobbles on unsteady feet to the bathroom to clean himself. Esmeralda just smiles into her pillow as she hears him muttering darkly. He has no idea his low voice carries the way it does, and she has no intention of enlightening him. So she pretends to be deep asleep as he slides back into bed. Let him have his secrets.

Flowery. He recognizes the unique scent as soon as he steps into their chambers, attuned as he is to her unique subtle scent. Lilacs, with a healthy undertone of freshly baked bread. It tells him one very important thing. His lovely wife is ovulating. Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he makes his way into the bedchamber. The scent is stronger here and he breathes deeply, almost tasting her in the air. He is hard and hot in his breeches. Gently adjusting himself, he makes his way to the bathroom, heart hammering in his throat.

She is naked. And looking at herself in the mirror. Meeting his hot gaze in the mirror, she turns slowly, giving him a good view of all her assets. He hardens even more.

"Wife." He greets her simply, appalled at the way his voice catches.

"Husband." Her throaty reply ( oh but their children will have beautiful voices, he just knows it).

She makes her way to where he is standing. For a moment, they just stare at one another, she as naked as the day she was born, he dressed in his Judicial Cassock. Even his chaperon rests on his head, underlining the contrast between them even more. Eve, the apple and the serpent. He rejoices in the fact that he has gotten Adam out of the picture.

"There is something I've been wanting to say to you for a while and I need you to hear me say it," she whispers to him.

Then, leaning into him, tickling his sensitive nose with her hair and sending another wave of that scenthis way:

"You are not your father."

Her fingers stroke his back, touching the places where she knows the scars lie.

Oh. His child-wife. Wiser than he. Smarter than he. Silently taking him in, silently taking stock of him, his scars and the untold painful stories behind them, just as he has been observing her. Oh, this wise woman. Frollo bows his head, overwhelmed by the sheer force of the emotions stuck in his dry and painfully constricted throat.

"I know."

He lifts her up and into his arms. She reaches for his hat and yanks it off, sending the chaperon flying into a corner, where it lands in a rather undignified heap.

Just before his old knees buckle they reach the edge of the bed, where they land on top of each other, mouths already fused together. He stops to rip at his clothes, muttering dark curses under his breath. Finally, he equals her nudity, his cock straining out at her. Gently he moves over her. He kisses her jaw. Her right nipple. His hair tickles her navel as he moves a pillow beneath her hips, angling them up. Then he spreads her legs and the full force of her fantastic natural perfume assaults his senses. Unable to stop himself, he delves in, licking her soaking pussy lips and sodden opening in broad, greedy strokes. He wants to taste that smell, have it burned permanently into the memory of his taste buds. She makes the most delightful sounds as she keens, tenses and comes apart around his tongue and thin lips, coating them liberally in her wet juices.

Frollo groans and licks harder, drunk on the taste of her. Then he arches away and up, hovering his pale body over her sweaty one. He parts her legs further, placing himself between her open legs, the purple weeping head of his erection nudging her wet opening.

"Take me in, my lovely witch," he moans in her ear, and he angles himself, sliding into her. They both groan at the intensity of the feeling. Slowly he impales her until he can go no further. If it were humanly possible he would slide his whole being into her. He would be at peace, at home completely. But his penis will have to do and even though he is bad at telling her how he feels about her, his movements and the way he pulses in her, tell her more than words ever could. She clutches at bony shoulders, drawing him closer. Brown hands slide over old scars. Wounds that are gone but not forgotten. Hands caress him were other hands once sought to destroy him. She takes him in, all the way, in more than one meaning.

He pulls out nearly completely, and seeking her eyes, pushes back in again. He marvels once more at the contrast between his creamy pale skin sliding into her welcoming dusky skin. White meets brown as silver meets sparkling green. He pushes harder into her, even though he knows it will never be enough. Grabbing her hips, he pulls her forward and into his lap, so that his thrusts land even deeper. Faster and faster he goes, feasting on the myriad expressions that flit across her pretty face as she realises what he is hurtling them both towards.

She tightens around him as the enormity of what he is about to do finally sinks home fully. Her eyes widen and he can only grin at her in return, like a boy caught red-handed. But her gasp is one of pure delight.

He grows even harder in her, harder than ever before. He leans forward a little, eager to deliver the words he has been rehearsing in his dreams for the past weeks.

"Wife…," a guttural sound comes from, almost animalistic in its intensity." I am going to deny you nothing." Another hard thrust and he feels the familiar tingle start in his lower regions. He flexes his arse-cheeks, staving off the imminent for just a little while longer. He wants to revel in the primal feeling for a while longer. He is a caveman at heart and he will claim her in the oldest of ways.

Esmeralda flutters around him, lost in the moment as well, fully aware of the colossal knee fall her husband is performing for her. She welcomes him, as he rams forward again, striking her cervix.

"Esmeralda…" here he moans, loudly, "I am going to make you…"thrust "so hot and heavy" thrust "and I am going to fill you up so hard with my seed….thrust "I'll do it all for you…!"

His balls tighten hard and he flings himself forward to whisper one final thing in her ear: "I am going to make you pregnant…", he swells and surges into her, "Now!"

Claude Frollo is coming, coming like he has never before. Flexing his toes, he lifts her bodily off the bed, shooting his release into her tight passage. He screws his eyes shut as the intensity of his orgasm tears through him. Still his balls pulse and his cock throbs. He can't stop, won't stop, has to fill her upuntillnothingisleft…

Two sweaty, naked people cling to each other in the darkness of the room. As their heartbeats slow they both catch their breaths. Frollo is careful not to smother his wife as he stretches out on top of her. He is still nestled inside, half hard. Esmeralda flexes her inner muscles, giving him a squeeze. Frollo's spent cock twitches in reply. He'll be damned before he slips out of her now, at least for a while. Not before his seed catches on. And if doesn't, they'll do it all over again. And again. And again.

Because he has Esmeralda. And he is determined to show her he'll be a fantastic father.

The End