by Christine Morgan

Author's Note: these characters are the property of Disney and used
without their creators' knowledge or consent. Mature readers only!

        Why did he see her dancing there?         Why did her smoldering eyes still scorch his soul?         His mind insisted that she was no different from any other brazen Gypsy witch. Over the years he'd ordered the deaths of hundreds of them.         Always before, their dusky skin had branded them as inferior. Always before, their raven hair bespoke the mark of the Devil.         Never had the memory of one lingered in his thoughts. Never had his heart been so enflamed. Never had his loins ached to possess one of their heathen breed.         Never, until now.         The cathedral bells had given no solace. Prayer had been no comfort. Even wine brought no blessed numbness, no forgetfulness.         Judge Claude Frollo stood before the fire, feeling it bake through his black velvet robes. And yet, even that inferno was a chill wind compared to the heat within him.         He tugged at his collar, daubed the sweat from his brow. The air seemed to burn as it coursed into his lungs. His blood felt as if it might boil within his very veins.         His gaze found the fire, and the leaping flames birthed a figure. Lush and voluptuous, a woman-shape, who beckoned to him and brought her fingers to her lips in a coy and sensual gesture.         She moved for him, danced for him. Her fire-gown slipped from her shoulders. Offering, tempting.         He reached helplessly forward, then snatched back his hand as the tongues of fire licked hungrily at his fingers.         Now the fire-woman presented herself mockingly, taunting him for being not man enough to take what he so desperately wanted. He could hear her laughter in the crackle of the flames.         Frollo whirled from the hearth and stumbled to the wall, removing the flagellum from its iron bracket. He fell to his knees, seeing his shadow leap like a tormenting imp on the cold stones. In a fevered burst of strength, he rent his robes and bared his narrow torso to the waist.         Praying to all the saints for strength and guidance, he lashed the flagellum over his shoulders, relishing the bite of the knotted cords.         He would drive the evil from his flesh, for it was the flesh that was weak. And once the treacherous body was tamed, his mind and soul could find their way back from the darkness of his desire.         Thin streams of blood trickled down his back, and yet his crazed longing raged on, unabated. A strange shift of perception made it seem another form than his own that he was striking. A female form, nude and writhing.         He shrieked and flung the flagellum away. He threw himself at the wall, clawing at the stones until his fingertips were raw.         A backward glance, and once again he saw the fire-woman, arms open in the promise of a lascivious embrace. Without conscious intent he found himself moving toward her, reaching out.         She stepped from the hearth, red-gold and blazing. Yet solid, every detail and every curve clear to the eye. There was no longer even the pretense of a garment concealing her nakedness.         Oh, lewd and wicked nakedness!         Where now was the righteous and virtuous man? Where now was his pride in his lifelong chastity? Would he throw away all he had gained for the sinful touch of a seductress?         Her fire-hand caressed his face, and though it was hot as a coal, it did not burn him.         Closer, she came, and brushed the fullness of her fire-lips against his. He jerked his head away, moaning in despair. He could feel the heat from her body, an oven that did not harm his flesh. She slid her palms over his chest in circles that trailed tiny flickering flames.         Frollo threw back his head, eyes shut against the hellish vision, all his other senses ablaze. He trembled at the touch of her lips against his throat. He breathed deep of her smoky woman-scent, heard no longer crackles and laughter but a low murmuring roar that seemed to speak of promises and endearments.         The fire-woman went to her knees before him, her kisses searing his chest, his belly. He wore only his shoes and black hose, his robe in tatters where he had left it.         Now she was at his waist, her breasts brushing his thighs, her hands at the laces of his hose. As her fingers touched the laces, they flared brightly and fell away in ashes, and she peeled the cloth away.         He could not believe the sensations that coursed through him as he felt her firey breath upon his most forbidden regions. He yearned for more, yet knew that if the fire-woman did what she was about to do, he would surely lose his last grasp on sanity.         He opened his eyes and looked down just as she closed her lips around the erect, engorged length of him, and drew him deeply into the volcanic depths of her mouth.         Frollo cried out in mingled ecstacy and damnation. Never had he imagined that there could be such pleasure in all the world. His hands sought her shoulders; whether he meant to pull her closer or push her away was beyond his knowledge.         As his hands touched her fire-flesh, blisters burst upon his skin. Frollo screamed and raised his smoking hands to his face, the pain blotting out all the sinful deeds and sensations of the forge of her mouth tempering the steel of his need.         He stared at the raw, blackened meat of his palms and fingers, then clapped them over his eyes as if to boil them from their sockets. The heat was as a brand pressed to him, singeing his brows. He screamed again, now finding the strength to strike out at the fire-woman and stumble blindly from the hearth.         He heard her wordless derisive cry but dared not look back, pausing only to seize up his rent robes and fling them around himself.         It was not his fault! He was not to blame!         How could he resist her devil's wiles?         He fled from the fire, fled down the dark coolness of the hall. At last, he seemed to be rid of his terrible torment. A dream, a vision, a madness that would pass!         Around him, blood flowed thickly across the stones. The blood of the Gypsies, hundreds of them, thousands of them, slain by his hand or on his orders.         The blood pooled, then rose up into scarlet-cowled judges, the black circles of their facelessness turned accusingly toward him. He cowered, then flung himself to his knees and raised his burnt hands in supplication.         He pleaded with them, his voice small and lost in the thunder of their relentless judgement. How could they condemn him? It was God's plan; was he to blame for bowing to the mysterious works of the Lord?         And even through their condemnations, he seemed to hear music. The faint strain grew into a sudden clash of bells and cymbals, a wild and pagan melody.         The judges flowed as seamless candle-wax, and each faceless black circle became a crown of glorious raven hair, rising from the red cowls that became silken gowns.         Before he could draw a breath, Frollo was surrounded with dozens of Gypsy girls. All of them Esmeralda, all of them beginning to dance as the music shook the walls.         "No!" he cried, but he may as well have been mute, for the denial reached not even his own ears.         Danced, danced, with bare feet striking the stones and skirts flaring to reveal lithe legs. Hips that rolled like the ocean before a storm. And her face ... lush lips parted in welcome, eyes a shade neither of emeralds nor sapphires. Gold jewelry jangled at ears, wrists, ankles.         They danced around him, the many who were yet the same, a swirling circle of women around him, trailing their fingers teasingly over him, turning him this way and that.         One leaped forward and flung a scarf over his head, drawing his face close to hers. This time, rather than spurn him and spring away with a cruel laugh, she gave him a kiss that tasted of wine and spices.         Frollo groaned helplessly. He embraced her, feeling her body press against his, all supple curves and warmth.         The rest had vanished, but he barely paid it any mind. All that mattered was the one in his arms, the one he meant to have. Now! Tonight! Before another moment had passed! He would bury himself within her, ravish her in every way he could think of, and do penance on the morrow. Any penance would be worth sating the consuming passion that raged in his blood!         "I am yours," she breathed, bringing his hands to her breasts. "Yours to touch, to taste, to do what you will!" She drew her skirt higher, exposing her legs to his hungry gaze. Legs, knees, thighs --         A fist hammered on the outer door.         Frollo gasped and whirled, the girl in his arms no longer there.         "Minister Frollo!" The voice, muffled by the heavy wood, was that of one of his guards. "We've captured the Gypsy girl!"         He yanked open the door, caring nothing for his haggard and disheveled appearance. The guard took an apprehensive step back.         "We've brought her, sir, in case you wished to question her."         Frollo looked beyond the guard, and saw three others holding between them the slumped form of Esmeralda. Her white blouse had been torn nearly to the waist, her breasts only barely concealed. Her hair was a stormcloud obscuring her face.         "Bring her in," Frollo commanded.         "She's unconscious," the guard apologized. "Fought us like a lioness, she did."         "Yes, she would, wouldn't she?" Frollo mused, wiping his brow and finding it slick with sweat.         "Minister ... are you all right?"         Frollo ignored him, watching as the others carried Esmeralda into his chamber. "There. Leave her. Leave us."         "That may not be wise --" one began, but was struck silent by Frollo's glare.         When the guards had departed, Frollo closed the door and turned to his captive.         She moaned and stirred, then found that her wrists were bound behind her back. That realization brought her to full alertness. Her eyes widened in horror as they fell upon Frollo, then narrowed in fury.         "You!" She jerked at her bonds, doing nothing to loosen them but causing her blouse to gape wider, and now Frollo looked upon what he had heretofore only imagined.         She saw where he was looking, and her cheeks went copper in anger and shame.         "Ah, my witch, my hellcat," he said, almost tenderly. "You said you would be mine, and here you are!"         "You're mad!" She tried to stand, but Frollo kicked her feet from under her and she sprawled on her back. Her purple skirt flipped up, giving him the briefest of glimpses at the dark mystery between her thighs, before settling into place.         "Mine, and mine alone."         "Go to Hell!"         He laughed. "I have been there! You have shown me the way! And now I will have the forbidden fruit with which you so torment me!"         "Never!" She struggled to her knees, and this time he allowed her to, for as she did so, he fetched his flagellum.         "Never?" he asked, drawing the knotted leather straps through his closed fist.         She quailed fearfully, but her jaw remained defiantly firm.         "We shall see." With that, he lashed her across the back, shredding the thin cloth of her blouse and striping the flesh beneath.         She shrieked, driven forward by the blow, and lay on her side. Frollo brought the flagellum down again, across her legs. The sound of the leather striking cloth was unsatisfying, so he bent and tore away her sash, tossing the gold-fringed purple over his shoulder. He reached then for her skirt, but she moved with the speed of a viper and sank her teeth into his wrist.         He cuffed her to the floor. Her head struck the stones, and as she fought for consciousness, he stripped off her skirt. Now her long legs were revealed, and her glorious buttocks.         Down came the lash, this time unhindered by cloth. Esmeralda's cry of pain was sweeter than the voice of an angel.         Again, he struck, and again, until his arm and shoulder ached so that he could barely lift the flagellum. She writhed at his feet, her blouse mere tatters, her face tear-streaked. From shoulders to knees she was branded by the leather, made so red that for a frightening moment Frollo was reminded of the fire-woman.         But this was no fire, this was flesh. Whipping her had only increased his lust, so he now shed the ruins of his robes and hose.         She knew his intent, and even in her suffering, she yet tried to escape him.         "Willful witch," he snarled through gritted teeth, hurling her to her back and dropping atop her. His knee parted her legs.         She bit at him again, this time catching his ear. He jerked back, seeing his blood on her lips, feeling a trickle down his neck. She struck out with her feet, narrowly missing emasculating him. He twisted at the last moment, so that her heel collided with his hipbone. It knocked him down, but before she could more than begin to rise, he was upon her again.         "I will not be denied!" He felt the strength of ten men fill him, the strength of his purpose and his passion. He flung Esmeralda onto her belly, then lifted her hips so that she was upon her knees with her face pressed to the stones and her hindquarters raised.         He knelt behind her, one arm encircling her waist while the other reached beneath her to caress the velvety hair that covered her mound.         Her body shook with the effort of trying to pull away, but he held her easily, effortlessly. The urgency of his need no longer ruled him. He slid one long finger between her nether lips, exploring that foreign women's land that men always sought to invade and conquer.         Esmeralda was weeping now. He could feel how her muscles trembled as she tried to withdraw, cringing in on herself.         "Here is your witch's cauldron," Frollo murmured.         He removed his hand and saw her shudder with relief, a relief that was short-lived as he took his place between her legs.         "No, please," she sobbed.         Her begging did not fall on deaf ears. Rather, it pleased Frollo mightily to hear the proud Gypsy so humbled. Call him a fool, would she? Mock him in front of all of Paris? Disobey and defy him?         He took his erect manhood in hand and brought the tip of it to her soft opening, pausing in hopes that she might beg yet again.         "Please, don't!" Her voice broke with the sound of a shattered spirit.         Frollo cried out in triumph and thrust into her. His cry became one of shocked ecstacy at the pleasure that engulfed him. His fevered visions had been nothing compared to this. His fingers dug into Esmeralda's hips as he went at her wildly, his belly slapping against her buttocks.         Harder and faster, and surely now it seemed she was responding to him, arching her back, rocking to meet his thrusts. He'd known that once he overcame her stubborn Gypsy pride that she would give in to the desire she'd tried to conceal.         He felt a tightening in his groin and tried to resist it, not wanting it to be over yet, not so soon.         But then he realized that she was his now, his and his alone. He could have her like this every night, like this or in countless other ways. She would show him, for her jade eyes hinted at a wealth of lascivious knowledge.         The thought of all he would do to her and make her do to him brought him to the very brink. He slowed his pace, knew it was too late, and drove deep as he released a flood of his seed into her.         Now the fire seemed to be whirling around him again, blazing behind his eyes and all through his body like a thousand suns.         Esmeralda rose before him, not the naked and battered woman who lay pinned facedown beneath him, but a misty wraith who reached toward him lovingly.         Frollo got unsteadily to his feet, stepping over the body without so much as a glance. He approached the pale siren, opening his arms to her embrace. She smiled in welcome and adoration.         Just as his arms closed around her, a fist hammered on the door.         Frollo's hands passed through her and she dispersed in a misty puff. He whirled, clutching at the garments he was surprised to find he now wore.         "Minister Frollo?" A shaft of light pierced the room like the lantern of God, but it was only the opening of the door which he'd foolishly left unlocked. Silhouetted in the light was a guard. "The Gypsy girl has escaped."         "What?" Frollo looked, horrified, to the floor where she should still lay bound and helpless, but she was not there.         She had never been there.         "We've searched the cathedral," the guard was saying, but Frollo didn't hear.         Never been there.         Only his imaginings, his dreams. Only visions sent to torment him.         "Get out!" he barked at the guard.         As the door closed, taking the shaft of light with it, Frollo turned back to the now-quiescent fireplace. He rubbed at his brow, wondering if he was truly going mad. But he didn't entertain that thought for long. It was what she wanted him to think. She was the one who should taste the fires of Hell, not him. And so she would!         "I'll find her," he muttered. "I'll find her if I have to burn down all of Paris!" The End