Sauvages
by
Mason Jarre
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Mason Jarre
Published by Strict Publishing
International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness…
France, April, 1789
The carriage held but just themselves, the Marquis Laurent de Poix and his young bride, the Marquise Solange. Laurent was forty years older than his blushing bride, rather tall, muscular and with a seething reputation among the aristocracy for his sordid past, renowned for his cruelty, and for the three wives he had already laid to rest - something Solange was unaware of. With his jowls jiggling Laurent spoke excitedly, but his words fell on deaf ears, the tender ears of young Solange.
Solange had been ‘promised’ to Laurent upon her birth as part of a bargain her father had struck, a gambling debt to be repaid upon her eighteenth birthday. The past few days replayed in her mind. She had been plucked from the convent as easily as a flower picked in a garden, still vibrant with life. Thoughts of being whisked through the abbey of Sainte Marie, stripped of her clothes, and the immediacy of the wedding in the chapel, raced through her mind. She remembered how she thought she had heard the beating hearts of alabaster angels and the horrific vision of the bleeding Christ as she kissed the man presented before her. Confusion rained through her soul much like the storm that had swelled through the little village of St. Christian de la Croix the night before.
She turned her gaze from her reflection in the glass of the carriage to fall upon the powdered wig of her husband, the cosmetic heart drawn on the upper right check of Laurent’s face, and to the strange black mass attached to his lower lip. Who was this man beside her?
Laurent’s speech seemed emphatic as he explained himself, who he was and what he expected. But Solange understood little, if any, of what he said. The carriage jostled them, bouncing them closer together. She noticed the effect of the spring heat upon Laurent. His perfume had been worn thin and the stench invaded both her nose and eyes. He was repulsive to her, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness gained more ground as it invaded her being. The sun was setting and Solange could feel its despair as it disappeared behind the horizon.
Laurent smiled as he gazed into Solange’s eyes. He had already thought of taking her, claiming his bride the minute upon which he had heard the closing of the carriage door. Patience struggled within him as he felt himself grow rigid with anticipation of deflowering this angelic orchid. Besides, the ride to Château de Poix would end soon, and he knew that within his private chambers he would revel as he exploded inside her.
Fear began to creep inside Solange as the carriage passed the gates to the château, whose acreage lay between the edges of Billancourt and the countryside. She perceived evil in both the eyes and the smile of her hideous groom. How could this be happening?
As quickly as the carriage door was opened by the footman, she was rushed inside the ivy covered arch to the marbled and gilded interior. She was practically carried by his firm hands to his bedchamber, an ornate room of golden artifacts. It was a room warmed by the smallest of fires in what could be described as the largest of fireplaces she had ever laid eyes upon, a room glowing in candlelight with hints of lavender and sandalwood filling the air. Her gaze quickly fell upon the chambermaid smoothing out the sheets on the bed.
“Sabine!” yelled Laurent, forcing the chambermaid’s attention as he quickly approached her.
“Yes, Marquis, please excuse me, sir.”
Although Sabine moved quickly, the backside of Laurent’s hand found its way to her shoulder, nearly knocking her to the floor. Sabine rushed from the room in fear and nearly in tears. Laurent’s attention quickly turned to Solange, his sweet, innocent, nubile bride.
“My dear, come to me,” Laurent spoke in dulcet tones, “lie with me.”
Solange remained frozen in place. Her feet begged to follow Sabine from the room and pleaded with her to flee to the security of the convent. As Laurent slowly approached her, she instinctively attempted to back away.
“Dearest, do not be afraid, this is only natural; a wife’s duty to her husband.” He was cautious as he neared her, like snake slithering through the grass lusting after its prey. Her heart raced, her corset tightening as her head grew lighter.
His hand was cold, sweaty as he touched her, gripping her palm. He gently guided her to the chaise longue near the fireplace, resting her upon it. He moved softly, delicately from her. The vision held in his eyes was that of purity. Her innocence and chastity almost overwhelmed him. He felt the tightness of his waist pants and the restrictions of his stockings. He fought himself as he turned to pour brandy for her.
Terrified, Solange dared not speak. She had never been alone with a man that was neither her father nor a priest. She longed for the security found within the walls of the abbey; she longed to be hidden away from this moment. She prayed to be removed, to be blotted out of existence. She had never imagined a moment such as this.
“Here, my love, drink this,” said Laurent, sweetly, tenderly. Solange’s shaking hand attempted to take the glass from him. Seeing her tremble excited Laurent all the more. He held the glass up to her lips and let her sip as if she were a lamb lapping at a pool. Lust nearly consumed him as he watched her tender lips caressed the rim of the glass, lips he anticipated being filled by him.
Solange coughed and sputtered at the taste of the liqueur. The brandy’s burning sweetness coated her throat. The intensity of the moment came rushing to her as Laurent once more held the glass to her lips. Obediently, she tasted it again, letting the liquor numb her. She could feel her racing heart slow, her body warming, and Laurent’s smooth touch upon her. Sensations tingled inside her as the room itself seemed to fall away and the crackling of the fire faded into silence. Little by little, Laurent coaxed the liquid into Solange, watching with meted excitement as she succumbed to it, relaxing, drifting into a blissful state.
Laurent only removed himself to fill her glass again and again. He himself felt the nuances of the brandy settling upon him as well. Deftly and quietly, he had begun unbuttoning her gown, sensing her inhibitions grow more lax like her clothes that began to litter the floor.
Solange failed to notice Laurent’s stealthy actions and barely thought it to be odd when he slid to the floor between her legs. The ripping of cloth did not catch her attention, but the warmth of his tongue on her thigh did. She shifted; recoiling from the sensation of his lips, his tongue, yet her body, her flesh reacted slowly. She gazed down her naked body to find Laurent looking back up at her.
Laurent himself had removed his waist pants and stockings. As he began to taste her, her sweetness, he let his shirt fall from his back. Solange felt the fur of his chest touch her legs and the stubble on his check scrape at her thighs.
“What? My god. What is this?”
Laurent jumped back, enraged, as an incredulous expression wrinkled his old face. He ripped the powdered wig from his head to reveal sparse patches of hair. Solange was barely able to lift her head as she stared curiously upon him.
“…Such sorcery, the witch. So, this is her promised revenge!”
Terror began to consume Solange, fearful of Laurent’s rage. She desperately tried to right herself upon the chaise longue, but to no avail.
“I’ll show that evil cunt. I’ll show her what I think of her treachery!” Laurent shouted vehemently.
Solange’s curiosity forced her to speak. “What is it? Is it…” Solange slurred, “Is it my birthmark?”
“…Birthmark? Ha. That is no birthmark; it is the tattoo of a crimson orchid. How shall I say, a calling card of your mother, the witch.”
Once more confusion engulfed Solange just as the warmth of the last little bit of brandy began to overwhelm her. Solange closed her eyes trying desperately to remember. Thoughts of her mother dying, a death that had always remained a riddle to her, now filled her head.
Laurent’s eyes glowed evil as machinations began to form in his head. He raced around the room, grabbing a candle, cloths, and such. Again he knelt between Solange’s legs. A wicked grin curled his lips as he gazed at the lit candle. Solange again tried to raise herself, to peer to down at him to discover what he was doing. But, she fell back unable to right herself.
“Just as you have pierced my heart; so shall I pierce your heart!” he decreed. Solange could feel warm liquid being poured across her thighs. She nearly screamed as his thick fingers entered her. The sensation of flesh being torn besieged the other sensations of pleasure arousing her. She struggled to scream from the pain, but could not. She could only lie there, shuddering, gasping at what her virgin body was feeling.
He worked quickly to avenge his betrayal, this squalid reminder of his past. He forced the liquor into Solange with his fingers, rubbing her pussy with his thumbs, arousing her. He warmed a needle over the flame of a candle, heating it so that he himself could barely touch it. Finally, Solange managed to rise up. Peering down she saw the glint of the needle in the candlelight. Fear widened her eyes, not able to discern what Laurent was doing to her body.
A scream broke forth from Solange’s mouth, a scream filled with both agony and ecstasy as she felt the prick of the needle, the sensation of the metal slicing through that most fragile, sensitive part of her body. What she could not will herself to do, her body did. A wave began to form from between her thighs, rushing upwards, filling her body, her senses. Her own body, unaccustomed to such sensations, reacted. Hands moved to protect her. Legs kicked. The trickling of blood gushing from her was felt. Jabs of pain augmented by ecstasy. Tears flowed down her face, dripping onto her warm breast, cooling them, titillating her aroused bosom, nipples straining as they pointed upwards.
Laurent, in a stroke of pure evil, poured more liquor on her wounded flesh, cleansing it, burning it. The sounds of Solange gasping set him on edge. His own erect cock began begging for release. He pressed on, removing the needle and his own fingers fumbled as he replaced it with a thin gold ring. Laurent looked up at Solange and the tears trickling down her cheeks, her heaving bosom. He would save ravishing her lush breasts for another time. He watched in wonder as her body began to spasm, jerking as if some ghost had taken possession of her, a mortal puppet being worked by an ethereal puppeteer.
Solange soon felt the joy within her subsiding, the burning between her legs, the warmth of both brandy and blood upon her. She twitched vigorously as Laurent wiggled the gold piercing. She moved her legs out of pure reflex.
The brush of a foot upon his balls, sliding up his shaft, broke through the last wall of resistance. His cock spasmed, streams of cum broke forth, spilling onto the floor beneath him. The gushing of spunk from his cock made him groan with pleasure. He grabbed his cock, and jerked on it, milking the last drops of cum from his swollen dick while watching Solange gasping for air. He gave the ring a slight twist just to see the pain in her face, to watch the result of his torment upon her, thus abusing Solange for his own amusement.
Solange lay exhausted, silent, and unable to speak. The shock of the experience engulfed her. Never had she known such pleasure, such pain - pain that was now creeping through her body. She felt disgust for herself, for taking pleasure in what Laurent had done to her. She found Laurent even more repugnant as he rested his head on her thigh. She could feel the sensation of something warm, something different than blood, different than the brandy, oozing down from the front of her leg and trickling from her calf.
Laurent found the strength to remove himself from her and to place himself on the unused bed. Solange remained silent, warmed by the fire, aching. She gazed at Laurent lying in bed with the sense of being unbearably alone as the fear of the unknown consumed her. Her breathing became ragged again. Solange managed to right herself, to look down between her legs and see the puddles of blood and cum on the floor.
…Blood? Then, the sight of her piercing caught her eye, the glint of metal in the firelight as she succumbed to a darkness engulfing.
Chapter Two
Thou foster-child of Silence and Slow Time
Solange awoke to despair and to a body weakened with pain. She wept softly to the sounds of Laurent’s snoring. The fire had died down and a slight chill filled the room and was beginning to lay claim to her naked flesh. An impotent rage began to swell inside her, tempered by fear. Her mind worked hard trying to focus on how the events had unfolded. Thoughts of the night before slowly came back to her.
…Orchid. My birthmark is a crimson orchid. This new revelation had caught her off guard. How could she have not known? The death of her mother had been shrouded in the darkest of veils, a mystery most unfathomable. Solange searched her mind for any hint of why she had been tattooed, marked upon in this most discrete location. A loud knock upon the chamber door drew her attention away. A rush of panic filled her as she tried to sit up, but the soreness was too great and she collapsed back onto the chaise longue. Her arms flailed low in the air; desperate for any cloth she could find to cover her nakedness. Quickly, she found a pillow beside the chaise longue and covered her crotch with it before draping an arm across her breasts.
As she struggled, a long faced, crook-nosed valet entered. A slight sneer crossed his face as he glanced ever so briefly at Solange. He walked softly through the room. She quickly noticed that he did not wear heeled shoes but rather what appeared to be velvet slippers with large shiny buckles. Upon seeing and hearing his master snoring and prostate upon the bed, he turned his attention to this new mistress of the house.
Looking down upon her, the valet could see the puddles of blood and semen upon the floor. Disgust riddled his already twisted face. Abruptly, the valet turned to leave. Solange finally found her voice…
“Please… Help me…” she whispered.
The valet stopped. Rather than approach Solange, he moved to his master’s bed and pulled the linens over Laurent’s nakedness. Horror gripped Solange’s heart as the valet quietly left.
“Please… Help me…” Solange whispered a little louder, trying not to disturb Laurent. Yet the valet silently walked out of the room, closing the doors quietly behind him.
“Oh, God. Oh Mary…”
An eternity seemed to pass as Solange lay praying, hoping for mercy, for a compassionate angel to be sent to her. Doubt began to creep in her mind, much like the pain that continued creeping through her flesh. She lay with her eyes closed, whispering her prayers. Daylight had found its way into the room. If daylight could enter, why could not an angel?
“…Madame.”
The voice was soft and bright, and when Solange’s eyes fluttered open she saw the vision that was Sabine, the chambermaid she had seen earlier. Sabine’s emerald eyes sparkled. She watched Sabine’s mouth as her words pushed past lush lips.
“Madame, Francois the valet has sent me to collect you and to take you to your chambers.”
A spark of hope was lit in what had become the darkness in Solange’s mind. She found a measure of comfort in her kind words from this generous person, someone who could take pity on Solange and help her. Sabine had brought with her a sheet to wrap her in.
“Yes, please, help me.”
“My name is Sabine, Madame. I’ll do my best.”
She attempted to nod her head as Sabine did her best to sit Solange upright, and nearly gasped as she saw the swollen and bloody mess between her mistress’s legs. Solange could see anger swelling up in Sabine’s eyes and could hear a subtle fury in her breathing. Though she was somewhat accustomed to minor debaucheries of her master, Sabine could not believe the butchery before her. The sound of the chamber door opening and closing caught both their attention.
Francois had returned with what appeared to be breakfast for Laurent. He remained as calm and as quiet as before, even when placing the tray on the table in the center of the room. He left as quietly as he came.
Solange huddled next to Sabine, draping their arms around each other. Sabine brushed a curl of her red hair back, accidentally caressing the fibers against Solange’s face. Solange felt the cold marble on her feet, but she was in too much agony to complain.
As quickly as she could, Sabine escorted Solange from the room, half carrying her as she went. Fortunately for Sabine, they were of equal size – small, petite women. But, for all of the worldliness that Sabine had been exposed too, she had never seen such savagery. Thoughts of Laurent’s actions infused her with a rage that she had to fight to control.
Doors were quickly opened and closed. Solange nearly fainted twice and thought she might lose consciousness when Sabine finally placed her on the large bed. The room spun slightly as she looked up at the heavy drapery that tented above her. Time dissipated around her with each sharp pang she felt. She thought of cursing her parents for hiding her away in a convent and not telling her of what they had done. Sounds were muffled around her. She could hear cabinets being opened and closed, the rush of water being poured.
“Come, Madame, your bath is drawn.”
Solange felt Sabine’s gentle touch, the lifting of an arm. She wrapped one arm around Sabine while her other hand found its way to her swollen crotch as she attempted to walk across the room to the large porcelain tub. Sabine set her on the edge of the bath, helping Solange to lift her delicate legs into the tub.
The water was both warm and inviting as Solange slid into it. The scent of lavender and pomegranate found its way to her nose and filled her with a wave of comfort. Warmth enveloped her as Solange began to relax, and she gave a very long sigh of relief. Her once tense body was soothed and she could again hear herself breathe.
Sabine lightly touched Solange’s hair, pulling it back out of the water. She added oils to the water, stirring it gently in with her hand. Cautiously, she added more water from a large porcelain pitcher, creating light bubbles, foam upon the waters.
Solange gasped as the swirling water teased the thin gold ring with which Laurent had pierced her. She thought of removing it, to rid herself of the pain. But, if Laurent was capable of such a thing, he surely would put another one in if she removed it.
Sabine grabbed a cloth, dipped in the water, and then wrung it. Gently, she began to rub it across Solange. She started with Solange’s shoulders, massaging her as she scrubbed. She moved to her arms, she rubbed more, kneaded, rather than actual cleansing. Sabine marveled at the creature she was caring for, the fragility that lay sprawled in the bath before her. She was somewhat jealous of Solange - the long legs, the supple breasts, which seemed slightly larger than her own, the softness of her features, and the violet tint of Solange’s eyes. Sabine found herself mildly aroused by the whispered moans emanating from Solange.
Solange reveled in Sabine’s gentle contact, the light touch of her fingers, the warm liquid she dripped upon her, the scent that was consuming her senses. She felt Sabine soothing her as she lifted an arm, massaging it down to the wrist. She was amazed at how tenderly Sabine treated her flesh, the kindness she was showing her, and the firmness in her fingers.
Sabine moved to Solange’s legs, continuing the washing and massaging as she went. She thought little of the tattoo on Solange’s thigh and was cautious as she stroked the slender calves of her legs. She often switched sides, first the right leg, than the left. When Sabine finally reached Solange’s feet, she took her time. Her hands deftly rubbed the flesh, stroking Solange’s toes, and she paid close attention to her ankles.
Solange’s aches and pain had begun to fade, drifting away as Sabine relaxed her, and she found consolation in Sabine’s humming. The tension in her feet melted. She closed her eyes as Sabine’s began to move back up her body, repeating in reverse the path she had taken, stopping on Solange’s right. Solange could feel the arousal bubbling to the surface with in her soul. She could feel a sense of wetness within her.
Dare she?
Sabine massaged Solange’s upper thigh, rubbing it, and ever so subtly, gently, moved her hand to between Solange’s legs. She began to stroke, to rub Solange, watching Solange’s closed eyes for a hint of resistance, anything to make her stop. But, there was none - no sign of conflict, of oppositions, no utterance to make her stop. Sabine wondered how the woman she was touching felt. She could see Solange’s breathing increase; her breast began heaving, and she noticed how the coin-sized nipples began to become pointier, titillated. And, she was curious as to how her breasts were tensing, becoming firmer.
For all of the torment of the night before, Solange now basked in a glow that had begun to form inside her. As Sabine’s fingers massaged her, she sensed her own awakening. Sabine’s touching of the tiny gold ring sent shivers of ecstasy through her body. Solange noticed how quiet the room had become; only the sound was that of her breathing, which was becoming more ragged. Time was forced to slow down as Sabine toyed with her, fingers stroking her, entering her.
Dare she?
Solange opened her violet eyes with a flutter and stared up at Sabine whose green eyes shimmered. She found her breathing growing harder, excited, and she shifted, sitting herself up a little higher in the tub. Their faces were inches apart, separated only by the gasping of Solange. Without thought, without any incentive other than wanting to show appreciation, Solange edged closer. They kissed.
It was a kiss that sent sparks between them and other machinations into motion. As if a raging fire had been lit, Sabine’s tongue slide into Solange’s waiting mouth, smoothly, cleanly. Emotions burned through Solange’s body and soul. The tapping of Sabine upon the golden ring pushed her closer to an edge, a precipice that she had never encountered before. Instinctively, Solange’s arms embraced Sabine, and she felt as if some small ember, some deep burning inside her, was being set ablaze. Solange gasped, surround by the warmth of Sabine and her lush kiss.
Sabine lost herself in the moment. Never before had she been so intimate with another woman. The risk engulfed her and made her feel intoxicated. She had never realized a sense of power, the power to control another person, to edge someone into bliss. She played more with Solange, even daring to tug on the ring, hoping to cement her newfound power by bringing Solange to completion. Sabine felt a sense of begging from Solange’s lips, an intimate, innocent longing that her whole body and soul was striving for a small measure of ecstasy. If only for a moment, she would give her a benign satisfaction. Sabine sensed Solange’s breath upon her and her own arousal began to express itself by grabbing Solange’s hair and pulling her head back. She watched with pleasure as Solange waited for another kiss. She began to tremble in her hand.
Electricity raged within Solange as her lips left Sabine’s. She panted as the sensations overwhelmed her in one great rush of blood coursing through her veins. She felt as if she were life itself, and that life was quickening through her entire being. Solange tightened her grasp of Sabine. Her body spasmed as Sabine’s hand began to ravage her, quickly darting in and out of her, tickling her through the ring.
Solange would have screamed had she been able to find her voice, instead she moaned softly, sweetly. It was a sound that was melodious, a sound that made Sabine more intent upon pleasuring Solange, and she could feel her own self become more graceful. Her own body began to feel a flowing sensation, reacting to Solange’s responsiveness.
Solange was on the verge of blacking out, the intensity consuming her as her body succumbed repeatedly. Again and again and again Solange’s body spasmed, twitched, until she forced Sabine’s hand away. They stared at each other as they parted, each filled with new emotions, sensations never before experienced.
Chapter Three
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
Laurent’s swollen head ached as if a thousand pins were prickling inside his skull. He arose to find his valet standing next to the bed. His eyes would barely open as he gazed around the room, as he tried to get his bearings. Francois gave a single snort quietly. Laurent righted himself and stood up, letting the sheet that had been his covering fall to the bed, and then immediately he sat down again. He rested briefly, his breathing labored, and the room spun momentarily.
Francois stood motionless, un-fazed, waiting for his master’s instructions. As Laurent looked down at his muscular legs, he noticed his nudity. The coolness of the room refreshed him. And slowly, he became lucid, cogent of his actions the night before.
“The crimson orchid…” he whispered to himself, over and over, as if a man possessed. His smoldering rage began to consume him, swelling inside him like a fountain coming to life. The ever stone-faced valet remained still, calm, gazing with a look of contempt and disgust at the pathetic creature before him.
“Where is she?” Laurent growled lowly, angrily, with great ire directed at Solange’s mother.
“Your bride, the Marquise Solange, sir, is with the chambermaid Sabine. She is in her chambers.” Francois’ voice was soft and relatively high in pitch as he spoke.
“You may clean me now,” instructed Laurent as he once more attempted to stand. Francois began to engage in what had become their routine a once week ritual ever since the last mistress of the Château de Poix had met her untimely death. Francois removed himself to a bureau, took a pitcher and poured water into the bowl. He grabbed a small towel, placed it in the bowl and returned to Laurent. He rested the bowl on a console, pushed the towel beneath the water, and with several quick jerks, wrung the liquid from it.
Laurent stood motionless. The cold water from the towel caused him to give a little flinch as Francois began to rub it across his furry chest, shoulders, and hairy back. Slowly, Francois began to rinse his master’s flesh. The valet occasionally would dip the towel into the water and continue. Next, the valet kneeled behind his master.
A smile creased Laurent’s face as the valet pushed the towel between Laurent’s buttocks. He enjoyed the sensation of the soft cloth on his hole almost as much as the valet’s breathe upon his bare cheeks. Laurent’s cock began to stir to life. Francois again wrung the cloth out; his face squinting at the stench of Laurent’s body. Again he applied the towel to his master’s buttocks, cleaning his crevice, stroking between the two bulbous, sagging half moons. Occasionally, his hand would tap against Laurent’s ball sac. Laurent enjoyed the sensation of his hole being toyed, played with, and the coolness of the cloth and the bouncing of his testes. His body relaxed as the valet’s clothed fingers stroked his hole. Laurent’s cock became fully erect.
A little puff escaped Laurent hole audibly and the foul stench made Francois cringe. Quickly, he rinsed the cloth and proceeded to wash Laurent’s hairy legs. The valet felt a wet sensation upon his knee and looked down to see one of the puddles from the night before wetting his pantaloons. A sense of regurgitation nearly overwhelmed him, bubbling in the very back of his throat, creeping into his throat. Laurent turned to face Francois, his meager cock eyelevel with the valet. Francois blankly stared at the hardened flesh inches away from his face.
Though a sense of repugnancy swelled inside him, he applied the cloth to Laurent’s balls, his furry sack, massaging them as he cleaned. He concentrated on cleaning, trying to be clinical as if a doctor with a patient. Strands of Laurent’s moist pubic hair became matted against his flesh. Laurent’s face held an evil grin as he felt the warm breath of Francois upon his cock. Quickly, he placed the towel over his master’s penis, and began stroking it with one eye closed and the other half open.
Laurent moaned, enjoying the feeling of Francois’ firm grip on his cock. The tension from both his dehydration and anger began to gently fade away as the valet quickened his pace, fondling his turgid cock’s shaft and balls. Laurent began rocking back and forth, thrusting his dick into Francois’ hands in a rhythmic motion countering the caressing. He gave little gasps of pleasure as Francois’ accelerated and tightened his hold on the dick. Laurent’s balls bounced vigorously against the backside of his valet’s fist.
His knees almost buckled as the sensation of jism began to rise within him, creeping up from his balls, into his shaft. Pre-cum began to soak both the wet towel and Francois’ thin fingers, the stench of which made Francois close both eyes. Laurent enjoyed the deep aching in his balls, as if the semen were on fire, a fire that had begun to slither into the shaft of his dick. Laurent began bucking his cock into Francois’ hand, fast and furious, as the spunk throbbed, begging to be released.
Suddenly Laurent stopped fucking his servant’s hand, letting the quickness of Francois’ stroking bring the spunk to the surface, bringing him to the point of blessed release. Francois turned his face away in anticipation. Laurent reached out and braced himself on the valet’s shoulder. The bubbling of cum inside Laurent had reached a boil. Laurent made loud groans, his face contorted as he began to cum with large streams of jism from his cock splattering the room. His body twitched and ached as the jetsam of milky white torrents flew into the air. His cock pulsated, making Laurent hunch over, arch his back, as he grab Francois’ shoulder more firmly and ground his fingers into him, thus forcing the most out of Francois’ clenched fist.
In spite of trying to shield himself, several large wads of smoldering cum found its way to Francois’ powdered face, to his wig, to his vest and waistcoat; he grimaced as the warm liquid burned his cheek, his forehead, his chin. Quiet disgust filled him as he sniffed the pungent odor of the spunk that came to rest upon him, the globs that slowly began to slide down his forehead and face.
A sense of happiness and contentment filled Laurent while contempt filled Francois. Laurent removed his hand from his valet’s shoulder and stood tall as his cock, drained of cum and the blood began to withdraw, becoming flaccid. Francois stood, picked up the basin, and walked back to the bureau. He grabbed a larger towel and some perfume and readied himself to return to Laurent.
A wave of humiliation came over him as he looked at himself in the mirror, the sad reflection of his aging face. The jism had cooled, but was dripping down, mixing with the powder, muddying. He turned to walk back to Laurent. As he did, instinct took over and he raised the towel towards his own face.
“No.” The word was simple, clear, and hung in the air. It pleased Laurent to see his cum on Francois’ face. He always felt an intoxicating rush of empowerment at the display of his valet’s humiliation, the blatant demonstration of his control. Francois obeyed.
Laurent raised his arms and allowed the valet to towel him dry. He enjoyed the sensation as Francois used the towel to rub his flaccid cock and balls, removing any of the remaining spunk. Laurent closed his eyes as the valet filled the air around him with perfume. It drifted through the space and gently fell upon his cool body.
“I shall want my riding clothes today, Francois, my gray riding suit,” said Laurent in an instructive tone, as if Francois were in need of tutoring.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Francois moved to a richly lacquered cedar armoire and began to remove Laurent’s clothes and riding boots. The valet longed for the moment he capped his master off with a freshly powdered wig. Within a few minutes, Laurent was dressed and exiting his chambers leaving the messiness of the room to Francois.
Laurent rushed through the corridors of the château, the heels of his boots reverberating, the flaps of his carmagnole flowing. He had already decided to forgo breakfast, subconsciously choosing to let his rage feed him. He nurtured this anger. He passed the ornate gardens, but the scent of the flowers did little to assuage his rage. He crossed the grounds to the stables, a large stucco building with a thatch roof, where he found a stable hand sleeping on a bale of hay. Laurent kicked the young man awake and barked, “Ready Barakah. I shall be riding him today.”
Barakah, an Arabian, whose alabaster coat made the creature appear all the more statuesque, could be heard whinnying in the distance, reacting to the sound of his master’s voice.
“Yes, my lord,” the youth stated. The stableman raced to saddle his master’s steed, fearful of Laurent’s temper. Quickly, he rushed into the stable and soon brought forth the horse. Hurriedly, he slung the saddle over its back and began fastening the straps and belts. Minutes later, the bridle was in place - the stallion was ready. The lad had a smile upon his face, happy with the speed with which he had prepared the charger.
Laurent eyed the youth, his long brown hair pulled into a pony tail, tied with a crimson bow that infuriated him even more as an image of the crimson orchid tattoo on Solange’s thigh again burned in his mind. Laurent mounted the horse and practically ripped his riding crop from the young man’s hands. With a swift motion, he landed the crop on the back of the boy’s ass…
“I’ll deal with your laziness when I return.” The words made the youth shudder. Laurent then swatted and kicked the horse, commanding it into motion. The horse bolted into a gallop, turf flew as the stallion sprinted from the stables and across the greens. The stallion raced across the pasture, and as it leapt over a small brook, it appeared to defy gravity itself, as if it bore Pegasus’ wings. As the horse galloped, so did Laurent’s mind. He must find the Monseigneur Marcel - he must have the answers to the riddles that were plaguing his soul. Laurent whipped the horse, venting his fury upon the animal.
An hour later, he forced the stallion to grind its heels into the dirt, stopping it in front of the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste d'Aire. With no thought of reverence, he burst through the doors of the church and gazed into the dimly lit chamber. Seeing a nun, he seized upon her, grabbing her by the shoulders and gently shaking her. Her wimple bounced on her head.
“Where is he? Where is Marcel, Monseigneur Marcel?” he said, frightening the woman.
“He’s in the groves, he’s in the orchard,” she meekly responded, flushed by the surprise of Laurent’s request and of him laying his hands upon her. Laurent rushed back outside and around the corner of the church. He hastily made his way into the groves, a patchwork of fruit and nut trees, and a labyrinth of tall hedges. The ground, covered with the fresh grass of spring, muffled his stomping as he beat the side of his leg with the riding crop.
“Monseigneur Marcel!” shouted Laurent, announcing his presence, his words echoing off the bark of the trees, even rising above the leafy canopy. Laurent slapped his riding crop against the trees as he strode through them.
“Marcel!”
“Is that you, Laurent?” a voice barely rose above the rustlings of the leaves.
Laurent stopped in his tracks and peered through a gap in the hedges. Upon seeing the priest, he entered the small arbor. Monseigneur Marcel Van de Camp, a short rotund man, balding, wearing his cassock trimmed with violet with ruby rosary dangling, turned to the young maiden, a novice who was resting on a bench, and touched her on the shoulder. Instinctively, she rose.
“Please excuse us, my dear,” Marcel said in a fatherly voice. The young woman rose, curtsied to both the Monseigneur and to Laurent, and removed herself from the arbor. Upon her exit, Laurent fell upon Marcel, grabbing him by the shoulders, gently shaking him.
“We have been betrayed!”
Chapter Four
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme
Solange rested upon the chaise longue, swaddled in a thin sheet slowly recovering from her ordeals. She smiled at the thoughts of Sabine sexing her, thoughts that had begun to chase away the unpleasantness of the evening before and the pain, the throbbing below. Sabine, her cherub, her angel of mercy, was in Solange’s boudoir preparing her clothes.
But this momentary peace was soon shattered as the door to her chambers was flung open and an elegantly dressed woman, clothed in ivory colored silk, decked in pearls, with pompadour bouncing as her heels clicked upon the floor, entered unannounced.
“Where is she?” demanded the woman. Solange’s eyes rested up her, noting her age to be late fifties, possibly early sixties. The woman vigorously fluttered a lace fan in the air, cooling herself.
“Yes, Madame?” spoke Solange meekly, tightening the cloth around her.
“Ah, the latest Marquise de Poix,” said the woman with some contempt. “I wish you better luck than your predecessors.”
Solange rose as the woman stood unyielding, her skirt fanning out around her and coming to rest. Sabine rushed into the room, pausing to curtsy to the woman. As if lighter than air, the woman extended her hand.
“I am the Duchesse Anna-Marie Baptiste Fountaine de Périgord,” she stated in a remote voice. The Duchesse removed her hand before Solange could even think about touching it.
“I am pleased…”
“Prepare her, Sabine, and be quick about it. I haven’t all day,” the Duchesse said sternly and imperiously. As Sabine rushed to the bureau, the Duchesse moved in closer and placed a long, thin finger on Solange’s chin, lifting it. Solange gazed into the woman’s pale blue eyes, eyes framed by a heavily powdered face. The scent of chamomile hung heavily in the air around her.
“Yes, Madame,” Sabine said softly.
“You have your father’s eyes; but your lips are like your mother’s,” the Duchesse said wistfully, as if peering back in time, a period which she apparently held close to her heart. She could see the fear and confusion in Solange’s eyes. The Duchesse moved from Solange, fluttered across the room, coming to rest upon a large sofa that sat squarely facing the chaise longue. Solange watched her movements, intrigued by the way she gracefully floated as if an ivory bird upon the wing. The sound of the fan fluttering in the air added to this imagery.
Sabine drew Solange’s attention by touching her gently on the shoulder and motioning for her to recline upon the chaise longue with her legs touching the floor. She noticed the basin of water and the small woven basket that Sabine had placed on the floor. As she sat on the edge of the chaise longue, Sabine moved between her legs.
“Please, Madame, lie back and relax.”
Solange did as she was instructed while Sabine moved about between her legs. She heard the rustling of Sabine fumbling through the basket. Once more, Solange felt the warm touch of Sabine on her thigh, her breath upon her warming Solange’s flesh. The sound of shears snipping echoed in the room as Sabine began to trim her mistress. The sensation of heated breath and cool air alternated as Sabine cut away her pubic hairs. Again she began to become aroused as Sabine worked. The tender touch of Sabine’s fingers pulling and tugging on her flesh and the sensation of the piercing as it wiggled, excited her. Her breath was starting to become more ragged. The sensation of the razor upon her skin sent waves of titillation through her body.
And, when Sabine rinsed her off her minou, Solange gasped, revealing that she was finding the experience extremely pleasurable. Sabine produced a small bottle of lotion and began rubbing and stroking Solange, who fought to remain still by clutching the sides of the chaise longue.
All thoughts of the woman, the Duchesse, being present were soon forgotten. She could not see the delight with which the Duchesse herself was enjoying the exhibition before her. She could not see that the fan had been closed and was now being tapped against the woman’s bosom, that her clothed nipple was being stimulated, her bosoms straining against the bodice. Sabine deftly welded the blade upon her mistress’s flesh, scraping away the hairs, making bare her cunt. Sabine herself could feel the blood rushing through her. The smell of Solange was intoxicating for her as she found herself feeling moist, sensuous. Sabine longed to please Solange, to go back to a mere hour or so before when she had bathed her, held her, and taken her.
A final swipe of a cool wet towel brought Solange back to the reality of the moment. Sabine removed herself, but not before leaning in close and letting her breath warm Solange’s pudendum. Her longing was echoed by the Duchesse’s heavy breathing. Sabine collected the basin, the basket, and the towels before returning them to the bureau. The Duchesse effortlessly rose and walked the room, standing before Solange and looking down upon the recently shaved pussy.
“So, it is true. You are Musette and Alain’s daughter.” The Duchesse tapped the crimson orchid tattoo with her fan. Solange nodded, while wincing from the ring rubbing her.
“Well, a promise is a promise. Though in hindsight, I do not believe I will ever understand the power he held over her.” Her words hung in the air and with a sense of both fatality and finality. “He was both a fool and a drunkard.”
“Sabine!” shouted the Duchesse, “Bring me some lemons… and some chocolate.”
Sabine exited the room while Solange moved to cover her nakedness.
“Never mind that, my dear. In case you haven’t guessed, I am here to educate you.”
“But…” Solange fumbled for words.
“No, no, no…” said the Duchesse as she pushed the fan to her lips, shushing Solange. “And, there is no need to hide yourself. My dear, you have a very exquisite pussy. It is a beautiful flower that needs air to breathe, a force of nature calling life into existence. And, I see by your piercing that little has changed with Laurent.”
Confusion riddled Solange’s face, showing her ignorance about her parents and the lives they had lived.
“No doubt your mother’s handiwork enraged him.”
As Solange again nodded her agreement, Sabine returned with a tray with fresh lemons and small squares of chocolate. She placed the tray upon a console and stepped away to the side of the chaise longue. Solange attempted to stand.
“No, my dear, you stay right where you are.” The Duchesse turned from Solange and walked to the tray. She picked up a lemon and judged it, noting it size and nipple-like structure where it had once been attached to a limb. A wicked smile crossed her face as she took a knife and sliced it into two halves.
“You see, you’re a woman now and there are certain things that I’m sure education at the convent lacked - an education that no genteel woman should ever know. So I am here upon your father’s dying request and a promise made to your mother.”
Both Solange and Sabine’s eyes widened as they watched the woman briskly scoop out the fruits innards, leaving only the rind intact.
“…Sabine, may I have a candle please?” the Duchesse instructed as she squeezed and plied the lemon between her hands. Thus, she removed the stiffness from the fruit’s skin. Sabine promptly produced a candelabrum. Using another candle, she lit it for the Duchesse. The Duchesse, however, had moved on to the chocolates.
“Now, Sabine, please give Solange and me some brandy. It will make this all the more pleasant. And bring the candelabrum closer.”
Sabine quickly did as she was instructed, and within minutes was handing a snifter to Solange.
The Duchesse dumped the bowl of chocolates onto the tray, picked it up, and moved to Solange. Solange now sat on the edge of chaise longue as the Duchesse kneeled before her. The liqueur that Sabine gave her burned softly as she sipped. The Duchesse took a sip of her brandy as well before she placed a napkin on the chaise longue, tucking it partially beneath Solange’s pussy and buttocks.
“The more relaxed you are, the better this will be,” said the Duchesse most sweetly, with anticipation danced in her pale blue eyes. Both Sabine and Solange looked curiously upon the Duchesse. Often, she would take a rather large sip of brandy herself as she worked. They watched as she licked her lips, savoring not just the taste of the liquid but also the feel of the moment.
“This,” said the Duchesse, “Will protect you in a variety of ways.”
The Duchesse took the bowl that held several small squares of chocolate and proceeded to use the heat from the candles to melt them. Sabine not only wished that she too could have some brandy, but that she was in Duchesse’s position.
After sufficiently melting the chocolate, the Duchesse dripped it upon the hollowed out lemon, coating it both on the inside and out. She then blew small puffs of air, cooling the liquid. Her hands then moved to between Solange’s legs. Using her elbows, she knocked and forced Solange to spread her legs. The Duchesse’s fingers found their way into Solange’s labia that she parted with one hand. She was not particularly careful, and apparently unintentionally she pulled and tugged on Solange’s jewelry, which sent shivers of pleasure rippling through Solange’s flesh. Deftly, she began to slide the lemon inside her. Solange quickly took a much larger sip of brandy.
She gasped as the warm chocolate and the firmness of the lemon slid inside her. The Duchesse was careful to keep the nipple of the lemon pointing upwards. She massaged Solange as she slid it in deeper and deeper. Solange sensed the warm gooeyness within her; she felt her own juices begin to flow, lubricating against the invading chocolate-coated lemon peel.
Sensuously, the Duchesse moved the lemon half deeper and deeper inside Solange, aroused by touching her so intimately and the soft moaning now emanating from Solange. Sabine herself had never seen such, and she too could feel the blood coursing through her being. She was also beginning to breathe more heavily, and her breasts were becoming firm and her pussy growing moist.
The Duchesse massaged the crevice, and the cavity opened before her as she pushed slowly until she could feel a solid resistance. In a slow spiral motion, she removed her fingers, coated with both chocolate and Solange’s juices. She then leaned over and ever so softly tugged on Sabine’s skirt. Instinctively, Sabine knelt and placed her face before Solange’s pussy. Tenderly, she licked Solange’s lips before forcing her tongue between the freshly shaved folds and letting her tongue flick the thin metal ring.
The vision of the crucified Christ, the ecstasy of that moment filled her mind. Solange wondered if the imagery that the nuns had taught her about what must have passed through Christ - a moment of supreme joy - was what he had felt. Was it the same emotions she was feeling now that had happened upon his crucifixion?
After leaning back and looking at the smeared chocolate upon Sabine’s face, the Duchesse took a towel and gently dabbed her. And, before wiping her hands, she licked the chocolate and juices from her fingers.
“Sabine, please clean up the rest for me,” said the Duchesse removing herself. “My dear, the lemon will offer you some protection against getting pregnant too quickly and the chocolate, well, I’m sure you can sense its numbing and sensual effects.”
The Duchesse stood, picked up her fan, and crossed the room to the bureau and looked at herself in the mirror. She licked a small trace of the chocolate mixture from her lips before finding a fresh towel, wetting it, and then dabbing her face with it.
“I must be off now. And, Laurent must never know that I was here. Oh, and I suggest you do this often. Sabine is at your disposal. She can repeat what I’ve done. And don’t worry about Francois, he is… how shall I put this delicately? He is indebted to me.”
The Duchesse found a small box of powder and using the small tuff, applied pale cosmetic to her face.
“Oh, and one more thing, my dear Marquise and Sabine, you both must act surprise when we meet again. I expect it will be in a few weeks at the Masquerade de Deauville. But I doubt if we will recognize each other.”
Solange was dumbfounded, but grateful. Sabine was as equally confounded and oddly appreciative.
“…Yes, Madame...”
“…Yes, Madame,” Sabine echoed Solange.
“You be good girls now.”