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Here in the castle of Livonie, I am bored. I await the return of my maid Camille with news of the young man I saw at the ball, the one whose charm and good figure caught my eye before my mother the Queen saw and contrived to separate us. Now I am cooped up in my chambers, a lady captive in her own castle. Should I be denied my freedom, just because my mother is the Queen and I the Dauphine?
I open a book. I close it again. I set it down and quietly cross to my door, opening just a crack. The faint sound of snoring passes through; my guard is asleep on his feet. I smile and close the door once more, taking care to turn my key in its lock. The only other key belongs to my mother, and she is away in Tolède for royal business. I will not be disturbed tonight.
I pick up the book once more. It is a story of Agathe d’Saguenay, the heroine who is said to have travelled the land in the distant days of the Redcoat Crusades. Oh, to roam unencumbered by the baggages of birth! The book is opened to a page that I have read many times. Agathe is invited to the bedchamber of the Seigneur de Davison for a night of passion, as thanks for saving his castle from rust cult pagans. But she declines! My first reading, I threw the book down in disgust. The chance to experience something greater, to feel a connection deeper than any other, and she throws it away. Au lieu de se faire mettre, elle a merdé.
I often lay and wonder what it would be like to feel the embrace of a man. One day the mechanics were explained to me by my old housekeeper Madame Gladys, who rumor tells was once the most experienced courtesan in Détroit. I asked her what it was like. She did not answer. The next day, I was informed that my mother had recalled Gladys to her own court and I was to have a new housekeeper. This, more than anything, stoked my determination.
A series of knocks come from the bookcase in the corner of my study, and I carefully lay down the book. I pull the bookcase away, revealing the secret passage beyond; when the castle was built for Prince Francois, my great-grandfather, it was thought he might need a hasty exit. Standing there, draped in cloaks of rouillard brown, are Camille and – joy! – the boy from the ball. They come through the portal and Camille pushes the bookcase back. It is like the entrance is not even there.
“Mademoiselle Princesse,” he greets me, bowing. His hat is taken off to reveal his hair, deep brown and swept aside in Quebecois fashion. I can feel the blush as it colors my cheeks. “I am honored to be asked into your presence. What may I do for la Dauphine?”
Seated, I send Camille off for wine. “You may introduce yourself, firstly. I did not hear your name before... before the Queen called for me.” As he rises from his bow, I cannot stop myself examining his arms. What muscles lie below those red sleeves of his? My gaze falls upon his chest before I can force myself to look him in the eye. Whether he notices or not, I cannot tell.
“In brief, Mademoiselle Princesse, I am Chrétien Mathieu-Gallant-Giguere, son of the Comte de Flint. Whatever else I may be at this time, I believe, is up to you.” He is finely dressed for a count’s son. I motion for him to sit as Camille returns and pours two glasses of wine, before disappearing into her chamber. Faintly, I can hear the guard’s snores outside. For a moment the words catch in my throat, but I press on. “Are you courting anyone, Monsieur? I cannot imagine that one as... eligible as you is unattached.”
I see his cheeks redden to match his coat. “I have no woman to court, Mademoiselle Princesse. My father spends all his time arranging matters for my brother, his heir. There is, it seems, no time or money to spare for my marriage.” Chrétien takes a sip of wine. I follow suit. He tells me of his family, how intolerably his brother plays tricks on him and cheats him at games, and how his father the Comte does nothing to stop it. I tell Chrétien about my sister Antoinette, who continually tries to ruin me whenever we are together. We share our sibling miseries and drink more wine. Camille is called to refill our glasses two or three times as we talk.
Carefully, cautiously, I steer the talk to the subject of love, inquiring if he has experienced the warmth of a woman. As I ask the vital question, I subtly shift my body so that one shoulder of my dress slips onto my arm. Again it is impossible to tell if he notices; but his cheeks grow even redder as he sits in silence. “It is not right to keep secrets from your Princess, Chrétien,” I tease him. He takes another sip of wine before answering.
“Mademoiselle Princesse, it must be admitted that I have ‘made the potatoes’ with some of the peasant girls on my father’s estate,” he says. He looks at a point behind and to the right of my head. “Only for fun, Mademoiselle Princesse. And only when they offered themselves.”
I do not ask Chrétien how it felt or what he did. The words loom in my mind but the pounding of my heart drowns them out. As he turns his head away once more, I look over his body and feel myself growing impatient. My heart, my sex, my body desires him. I rise and he does the same. “No, Monsieur, sit,” I tell him. “I have... things to attend to. My Camille will summon you when I am done.” I take one final sip of my wine and note that it is quite dark through my study window.
As I enter my bedchamber I ring the bell for Camille. She scurries in through the portal to her chamber, already bearing my mirror and makeup. I can tell by her face that she is eager to hear what tidings, but with a force of will she waits for me to speak first.
“I think he will do,” I tell her. A repressed squeal escapes her lips as she brushes my hair, taking care to flip the ends in the style of the filles à clapet. With a giggle of my own I tell her she may speak. “Mademoiselle, it evades my skill to tell you how happy I am for you. Your first time, laying with a man! Oh,” she sighs, “I wish I had the chance!” I laugh, turning my head this way and that to see the fruits of Camille’s work.
“Oh, Camille, I am sure you will have your man soon enough. Où vont les maîtres, les serviteurs suivent, n'est-ce pas?” I rise from the stool, satisfied. “Now go and fetch the... outfit, would you?” As Camille scurries off I look in the mirror once more and think about my hair. My mother’s is brown by nature, although she has it dyed to a lighter color. Hers also conforms neatly to the guidance of her servant’s brush. But my hair is blonde to start with, strikingly so, and where my mother can coax hers into nearly any shape mine seems insistent on bunching up and forming waves along the sides of my head. Not for the first time, I wonder if the difference marks some greater distinction made by our Lord, reassuring me that I am not to follow in my mother’s footsteps. It is a comforting thought.
The pounding of my heart has calmed down since I left Chrétien in the study. I wait patiently while Camille lays out the items on my bed: a short blue chemise, one for which my tailor required twelve huard-dollar coins to embroider up and down with finery fit for a Princess; a pair of bobettes, comfortable but not too hard to pull off; a tiny piece of cloth, soaked in vinegar, to ward off... side effects; and, finally, two long black stockings. I ask Camille, once again, if the stockings are strictly necessary; but she reminds me that her sources inform her that men love them. I reflect that in order to carry out her research Camille must have entered many places that stretched her comfort, so in honor of her efforts I concede.
“You go and entertain dear Chrétien,” I say as she helps me out of my gown. It is a chore to pull it off, but we manage it together, leaving me in my undergarments. The plain casual chemise is thrown off to leave me in my bra; the sensible sous-vêtements I normally wear are cast off likewise. There is no shame in being so unclothed in front of Camille. As my maidservant she has seen me thousands of times, dressing or undressing or bathing. Gesturing to the items on the bed, I say, “I think I can put these on myself. Take Chrétien some more wine and I will call for him when I am ready.”
“Bien sûr, Mademoiselle,” she replies. As she exits I think about what I am doing. Absentmindedly, a hand slips to my sex, feeling the wetness begin. Soon, I remind myself. Patience.
I decide to keep the bra on for now; I long to feel my Chrétien reveal me, his skin on mine, throwing it away without a thought. The headband keeping my hair in place stays, too. My heart pounds again as I pull on the embroidered nightgown and les bobettes, inserting the vinegared cloth. The stockings are given another look. What sense is there in covering the skin, when to lay it bare to another is the essence of making love? But I trust Camille’s research. The stockings are pulled up to my thighs and the garters carefully tied behind my knees.
The reflection in the mirror is encouraging. My chemise is just long enough to cover the bobettes from most angles, while revealing the upper parts of my legs not covered by the stockings. The darker undergarments are just visible beneath. A final inspection of the mirror confirms that I am ready. I sit on the bed and call out that Chrétien may enter.
The door opens. My Chrétien stands, transfixed, red-faced. “Won’t you join me, mon Chrétien?” I ask, shifting slightly to what I hope is a more appealing position. In the corner of my vision I see Camille raise one thumb and pull the door closed. Still my boy stands there. I decide he needs some encouragement.
I rise from the bed, letting the chemise’s straps slip below my shoulders. When I reach Chrétien I throw one arm around his shoulders and let the other slip to his side. I see his eyes fall to my chest, resting there a moment before politely coming back up to meet mine. A real gentleman, I think, even in these circumstances. It is almost irritating. “Accouche, mon gentilhomme,” I tease, pulling his head in close with one hand while using the other to caress his back. My lips meet his in a brief, one-sided kiss. He smiles. This time he presses his lips to mine, and suddenly his hands are upon me.
At first Chrétien keeps his exploration to my back and hips, until I take one of his hands and place it on my rear. He plants kiss upon kiss on my neck as my own hands blaze a trail across his body. He is still clothed. Carefully, I retreat to the bed, pulling him after me. I tug at his clothing. Finally he realizes what I require of him, and without a word helps me undo his tunic. “Garroche-la,” I tell him. “Your clothes are not what I need.” The fine tunic is cast into a corner. His trousers and my nightshirt soon follow. Between him and my total nakedness are only my bra and my bobettes.
I feel my hand come upon Chrétien’s growing erection as we share another kiss. His hands wander across my back as, pressed close to me, he whispers, “I am all revealed to you, ma princesse. Whatever you wish of my body and soul, it is yours.” He brushes against the hooks of my bra but does not undo them. “It is all I can do to refrain,” he says, “but I would not dream of laying bare the nakedness of my Queen’s daughter, until she should command it.” The hand stroking his sex stops. My eyes narrow.
“I am not merely my mother’s daughter,” I snap, more sharply than I intend. “If I was, you would not be here. Es-tu un niaiseux? Envoyé!” I take in his expression. In a softer voice I say, “What you have started, now finish. Be my tutor, Chrétien; teach me to make love, as you taught the peasant girls.”
He smiles. The wandering hands find their way back to the hooks of my bra and begin to pull them apart. “As you wish, Mademoiselle Princesse,” he breathes. “But you do yourself injustice, comparing yourself to peasant girls. They cannot compete with your beauty.” The final hook comes undone. My bra falls to the bed.
Chrétien lays his hands on my shoulders and pushes me softly onto the bed. One of mine rests on his chest, caressing his muscles. The other has wandered down to my sex. There is very little thinking in what I do. I am ruled by passion now.
Pulling back, my Chrétien takes my breasts in his hands and very softly massages them. Kisses are planted up and down my body. For the first time I notice my own moaning. The small part of me which still has command of itself thinks, “can Camille hear?” I perish the thought as soon as it appears. Now is not the time to think about Camille. Now is the time to melt into the moment, into the here and now where my Chrétien continues to lavish attention on every inch of my skin. I could almost close my eyes and fall blissfully asleep, but I jolt back awake when Chrétien places a kiss right where my mound rests below my bobettes. Gently running his fingers up and down the embroidery, he asks if he may uncover my sex.
“Nothing would make me happier,” I say, withdrawing my hand. The tips of my fingers are visibly wet. Before I can move my hand away Chrétien starts to suck on them, raining a few kisses around the rest of my hand for good measure. Laying back again, I feel the bobettes pulled down my legs. I bless Camille’s foresight in suggesting that she shave the hair around my sex. With the bobettes slipped off past my feet and hurled away, Chrétien gently pushes my legs more open and prepares to enter me. With a hand I block his way. “Non, non, pas encore!” I breathe.
Chrétien is confused, but he instantly pulls back. He asks, “Do you not wish to totally lose your innocence? To feel my manhood and your womanhood joined as one?” Sitting up on my elbows, I say, “Ben, I do, very much so... but I would not lie here and be fucked comme une guidoune.” I close my mouth. I close my legs. I open my mouth again. Before I can speak, my Chrétien tells me that he understands.
“When you feel ready,” he continues, “climb on top of me and you may take the lead. Your desire, Mademoiselle Princesse, is my command. In the meantime, may I continue?” I inform him that he may, spreading my legs once more. He cradles one, commenting on the fine stockings. A row of kisses climbs up from my foot all the way to my sex. I blush even redder, if that is possible, when he smiles at me from below. Suddenly, I feel his tongue slide between my folds. My moaning grows louder as he wanders up and down, my hips beginning to roll with every cycle. Then he withdraws. I look down at him and whine, disappointed.
Without a word Chrétien smiles at me and moves up to join me in another kiss. His shaft rubs against the outside of my thighs. The rest of his body is pressed tightly against mine. With his eyes on me, Chrétien licks the first two fingers of his right hand and slips them gently into me, nibbling another sucette onto my neck as I lay my head back and sigh.
“No, Mademoiselle Princesse,” Chrétien says, using his free hand to pull my head up again. The fingers in my pussy curl upwards, flexing to create a slicking noise, and his thumb begins to rub at my clit, causing me to lose control of my moaning yet again. “I want you to see what I am doing. Does it feel good?” His fingers speed up. My groans grow louder and higher in pitch. I arch my back and buck my hips, unable to control myself. “Yes,” I cry out, “yes! Ostie sacré, don’t stop!”
My breathing is ragged. It takes all my control to turn my head and press my lips against Chrétien’s as he continues his assault. Below, my legs start to shiver and a weakness makes itself known in my groin. I scream in pleasure as la petite mort rolls over me, throwing my body into shakes. I can faintly feel Chrétien wrap his other arm around me and hold me tight, lavishing kisses on my neck and shoulder. Tears stream down my face. I black out.
I come back to myself to see my Chrétien lying on his back in the bed next to me, slowly stroking his cock. Looking down, I see where I have stained the bed-sheet. When he notices I am awake, Chrétien sits up, legs sprawling over the bed. He says, “Welcome back, ma Princesse.” I must look panicked because he joins my hand with his and continues, “you were only out for a few seconds. I don’t think I have ever seen a woman cum that hard.”
Ignoring Chrétien’s words, I slowly roll myself over and embrace him tightly, pulling him back down. I bury my face in his neck, breathing heavily. “Thank you, oh thank you, mon Chrétien,” I whisper, barely above a breath. A fit of sobbing comes over me as I lay there, pressed against the boy from the ball. Millions of thoughts are rushing through my mind. Foremost is: te bénisse, mon Dieu. A distant second is: see how “pure” is your wayward daughter now, mother! I open my eyes. Chrétien, soothingly rolling his hands up and down my back, looks down at me with love in his eyes. Of course, says another thought, insidiously sliding into my head, I haven’t totally lost my “purity” yet...
Grunting with effort, I pull myself further onto Chrétien. My sex, still sensitive, rubs against his leg; the sensation makes me collapse with a whimper. I try to pull myself up again. Chrétien, now sitting up, holds me down with one hand, running the other through my hair. “You must rest, ma princesse,” he says. A whine escapes my lips. The tears begin to well up again as Chrétien pulls my face up to look me in the eyes. He kisses me gently on the forehead.
“Not everything needs to happen at once. I want to make true love to you so badly it hurts,” he whispers, “but you need to be ready for it.” A soft push to my side rolls me over onto my back, head resting on Chrétien’s bare thigh. Looking down at my streaming face, he bends and kisses me again. His hand presses gently on my belly. I try to speak, but there are several false starts before I regain control of my voice. “I need it, Chrétien. I am ready. Please.”
Slowly, stopping and starting, I drag myself up to a sitting position, propping myself up against the headboard next to my Chrétien. My breathing is ragged, but I can feel the burning pace of my heart slow down. We sit there, unspeaking but enjoying each other's presence, for a while before I speak. “Ben, I am a prisoner in my own castle. My mother allows no guests that she hasn’t approved, and I am not permitted to leave without her own presence.” The reassuring warmth of Chrétien’s arm wrapping around my shoulders encourages me onward. It is devolving into a rant now. “She demands everything of me, and she hasn’t got even the kindness to think of my own needs. Viarge Marie, she even plans to marry me off to some foreign prince I’ve never met! Calisse de crisse de tabarnaque d’ostie de sacrament...” I trail off into a string of curses. We sit in silence for a while.
“Ma princesse, I can tell you wish to break from your mother’s control. I want to help you,” he says at last, laying one hand on my leg. “But you said it, you don’t want to be fucked comme une plotte salope. If you don’t let yourself regain your energy, that’s what it would be like. You would not be able to maintain your control.” He squeezes my shoulder a little more tightly. I cast my face down in embarrassment. My eyes slide over to Chrétien’s manhood, softer now but still visibly flushed. Hesitatingly, I reach out to touch it, looking up to him for approval. He smiles.
“May I?” I ask. Chrétien nods, leaning back to rest on his arms. My hand glides loosely down his length, eliciting a soft groan. I can feel my own sex growing hungry again, but Chrétien’s patience has convinced me to wait. Besides, a small part of my mind argues, am I not supposed to be learning to make love? It would not be much help to learn only to receive, and never to give. The fog in my head has almost totally lifted now. I say, “mon précepteur, I believe I am ready for the next lesson.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Chrétien tells me. He shifts slightly to bring his dick within easier reach and I grunt in appreciation. He instructs me to hold it a little tighter, to start with. A few moments later, a quiet yelp escapes his lips.
“Not that tight,” he says, one hand on my wrist. I loosen my grip. “Good. Ne vous étranglez pas lorsque vous voulez embrasser. Now, gently move your hand up and down.” I follow his directions, rewarded with another sigh of pleasure. I feel his sex throb against my hand. The heat I felt before from within returns. There is something about being told what to do, in that voice of love and experience, that makes every inch of my skin tingle. As my hand continues to glide along Chrétien’s shaft, I look back to him, waiting for him to tell me what to do next.
“You can stop now, ma étudiante.” I withdraw slowly. Chrétien presses the fingertips of one hand to the base of his cock for a moment before speaking again, using the other hand to massage one of my shoulders. He asks me if I wish to learn to use my mouth. I say yes, I very much would. He tells me, “Then there are two ways I can teach you. Either you can be on your knees, or you can lie on your belly. Which—” A vision passes before my eyes, of Chrétien standing above me with his stiffness in my face. My sex aches at the thought of it. I interrupt him, saying I will kneel. “As you wish, ma princesse. Then let us continue...”
I am on the floor, one of my bed pillows cushioning my knees. Chrétien is sitting before me on the edge of the bed, smiling softly, with his manhood held upright in one hand. I had not registered it consciously before, but the musk of it, this close, is intoxicating. Blinking, I open my mouth. My tongue emerges cautiously, eager to repay Chrétien’s earlier services. He purrs, “what do you want to do, ma étudiante?” What I want is to feel his girth within me, to watch it disappear into my core, to pull him inside and never let him go. I bite my lip. “I want to give you pleasure, mon précepteur,” I mumble.
“More confidence,” he instructs me. “Mademoiselle Princesse, you cannot learn without being open with yourself. What do you want?” I repeat myself, more strongly this time. Chrétien grins and places a hand lightly on my cheek, brushing past my ear. “Then do what comes naturally,” he says. “I will tell you if something is not good.”
My tongue comes out again, peeking through the corner of my mouth. I gingerly replace his hand with my own at the base of his cock, flexing my fingers a little before settling on a comfortable grip. I slowly swirl the tip of my tongue over his crown, savoring the taste of his skin and the precum already leaking out. “You’re so good,” Chrétien sighs. He ghosts his fingers down my cheek, dislodging some hair that has escaped my headband. I plant a column of kisses along the shaft, flicking my tongue out each time. He breathes, “That’s a new one,” as I start kissing back up again. “Do you like it?” I ask, pulling back slightly. He nods, shaking up his own hair a little more. To see all his musculature above me stokes the fire in my belly.
“Mère du crisse,” Chrétien murmurs as I resume my journey. When I reach the head again, instead of pulling away or trailing back downwards, I take his crown into my mouth. I can faintly hear him grunt in approval, but right now my mind is on other things. One of my hands, almost on its own, slips to my sopping folds and begins working away. The other matches motion with my lips as I begin to bob my head up and down on Chrétien’s cock, taking more into my mouth with each bounce. I feel a shudder run down his legs and pull off, kissing his tip before leaning back on my knees. His eyes open. He looks down at his sex, seeing how much of him I coated in my spit. He looks back at me and smiles.
“I take it you liked that, mon chéri?” I ask. One hand still at my groin, I shake my body, letting my breasts flop back and forth. Then I hunch over, positioning myself below Chrétien’s balls in mock-grovelling. “Do you enjoy seeing la princesse du Michigan on her knees before you? Sullying her royal purity with every touch of your dick?” I mean it in jest, but Chrétien looks like I had told him I intended to kill myself. He slides off the bed and embraces me tightly.
“Nothing that you ever do could sully you, ma princesse,” he breathes in my ear. To my surprise I can hear Chrétien’s voice wavering as he continues, pressed tight against me. “I need you to believe that. I love you, ma Violette.”
A small part of my mind rings bells in surprise. He used my name! “Queen’s daughter,” indeed! The rest of me is too distracted by passion to take notice. I hug him back, squeezing myself against him, savoring the feeling of our skin in contact. My entire body is burning, from the toes of my stockinged feet to my cheeks, brushing on his. For what seems like eternity, Chrétien and I kneel there together in near silence. The only sound is our mutual breathing. I whisper to him, “Avec toi, mon Chrétien, je suis au septième ciel.”
We do not stay there forever. After reluctantly prying ourselves away from each other, we resume our positions. Chrétien tells me, “Remember, you can do nothing to dishonor yourself.” I brush my cheek against his erection, sharing in his sigh of contentment. A thought flashes into my mind, prompting me to lower my head. I take one of his balls in my hand, looking back up to Chrétien to gauge his reaction. He gives me a reassuring nod as I ask, “Would you like me to suck them?”
“I would like that very much,” he purrs. I take one side into my lips, softly working the other with my hand. The other lays on Chrétien’s thigh, resting below one of his. He groans as I make my way back and forth, licking, darting my tongue this way and that, sucking on his balls and fluttering at the base of his cock. A faint sensation on my neck makes me decide to try something a little bit more daring. Gently, oh so gently, I rake my teeth across his sack. I hear a sharp exhalation from above, the pressure increasing on my resting hand. Chrétien pushes back my head, lovingly but firmly, until I am looking up at his face. Through his stoic grimace, he says, “Please, ma étudiante, don’t do that.”
I cast my face downwards, unable to hide my embarrassment. I murmur an apology. “I thought it would be a good idea,” I whimper. “Genre, sort of... deviant.” Chrétien’s expression softens. He says, “It’s a good thing that you are trying something new. Only, maybe that confidence could be used in less hasty... rather, more thought-out ways?”
“Come back up onto the bed,” he instructs me, seeing my expression. “How are you feeling?” My immediate answer is a whine. My sex is still sopping wet, and even with the embarrassment of what I have just done the fog is beginning to descend within my skull once more. The tone of Chrétien’s voice, too, sends almost painful throbs down to my clit. “I am feeling ready, mon amour,” I tell him as I clamber onto my bed, hearing the wheedling in my own voice.
“Then come before me, ma Violette.” I obey. I watch him take in the wetness of my womanhood, the fullness of my body. Not for the first time it crosses my mind that I am less thin than most of the other girls I have seen, and probably more so than my Chrétien’s previous lovers. To quash the distracting thought, I straddle Chrétien’s waist, pulling his manhood up behind me to stand between my buttocks. The sensation makes both of us sigh. I lay down on top of him and we both glide our hands around each other’s skin, punctuating our explorations with kisses. He suckles at my nipples, and I trace his with my tongue. Our fingers meet more than once, off to one side or at the foremost extreme of my slit. As our lips part after one especially deep kiss, he rasps, “I think now is the time.”
I raise my hips, allowing Chrétien to hold his cock in an upright position. Slowly, my eyes in constant contact with his, I slide backwards, until I can feel the tip meet my opening. I let out a moan. I hear him do the same. My eyes close. A hand spreads my folds as wide as I can make them, giving Chrétien an easy passage. I push backwards once more.
My body is on fire.
I shiver as a momentary stab of pain short-circuits my mind. Panting heavily, gritting my teeth, I collapse back down on top of Chrétien. A curse escapes my lips, but the pain is already starting to fade away. Replacing it is the most intense sensory experience of my life. My breasts, pressed tight against his chest. His warm breath on my face, intermingling with mine. The sensation of skin contact all the way down. Most powerfully of all, an overwhelming fullness in my core. What should have been words come out as whines. Dimly, I can hear Chrétien whisper, “Is it alright, ma Violette?”
Answering is impossible. Instead, I push my face into his neck, savoring the feeling of closeness. More noises of pleasure fill the air from both of us as I rub my body all over his. The fullness inside of me disappears as Chrétien’s girth slips out, left behind in my rush to feel every inch of his figure. I let out a disappointed groan. Sitting up, I reach behind to return it; the feeling of our sexes meeting again shoots another barrage of tingling arrows up my spine. With Chrétien back inside me, I shift to a squat and begin to ride his cock. My movements are sluggish at first, but the sensation of my walls clenching around him is driving me mad. I speed up, driven onward by the duality of Chrétien’s manhood reshaping my insides and his perfect hands kneading my breasts. Chrétien is breathing praise with every movement, telling me how good I feel, how beautiful I look, how perfect I am.
The sounds escaping from me grow higher in pitch as I start rubbing my clit. My motions are almost as horizontal as vertical now, desperately grinding on Chrétien’s cock, seeking climax. I collapse forward as he grabs my ass and begins thrusting, loud whines following every push deep inside of me. Overwhelmed by the pleasure and his musk, I bite at his collarbone, almost silencing the yelps threatening to become screams. An orgasm rolls over me, crushing what remains of my rational thought. Every ounce of me is dedicated to the feeling, building the stimulation to new heights, arching my back and bucking my hips back and forth as Chrétien continues to slam into me. Now I am screaming, calling out Chrétien’s name, benedictions to the Lord, praising them both in equal measure.
A new sensation makes itself known in my core. Chrétien’s thrusts become slower, more powerful, as he spurts his entire load into my eager pussy with a loud cry. La petite mort visits me once again, throwing me into spasms atop his body. It seems my legs will never stop vibrating. My convulsions pull me up off his cock, allowing me to feel the seed leaking out of my opening. I breathe in hitching bursts, laying heavily on top of Chrétien’s heaving chest. My face is buried in his neck, kissing and nibbling with no rhyme or reason, only an urgency of action. My eyelids grow heavy. Chrétien turns his face to mine, rasping breaths contributing to the stimulation.
“Violette, oh ma Violette,” he manages with difficulty, “I must be the happiest man alive.” The tears of joy visible in his eyes are matched by a wetness in mine. I slide off of him, landing heavily on the bed at his side. One leg manages to stay wrapped around his body, the other sprawled in the opposite direction. He and I exchange kisses all around each other’s faces and necks.
I murmur, “Louange à Dieu qui t'a amené à moi.” I feel lightheaded, and with the exhaustion I can only faintly feel the drip from my sex and the continued low-level shaking of my legs. “I love you so much, mon Chrétien, more than you can ever know.” He caresses my cheek, promising that he knows. We lay there, basking in the afterglow.
Finally, Chrétien works up the breath to whisper, “I look forward to the day when I am graced with your hand, and we can love one another forever.” All I can manage in my drained state is to mutter, “my hand...?” as sleep threatens to overtake my eyes.
“Ma Violette, I intend to beg la reine for permission to marry you,” he tells me. “I do not care how much I have to give up. If my inheritance were ten thousand times greater, still I would pay it all for the chance to live in eternal bliss with you.” The message finally makes itself heard, painting his words in bright burning letters behind my eyes. He wants to marry me.
I sit up with such speed that it hurts my head. Sleep is no longer an immediate concern. My mind is racing. I open my mouth. I close it again. I open it. My breathing grows heavy once more. For reasons I can’t understand, a mortal terror inscribes itself upon my soul.
I watch myself from within as my face creases itself into an imperious frown, as the arm extends itself from its loving rest on Chrétien’s chest, as the hand forms itself into a pointing finger. I listen to my voice command Chrétien to leave, to begone immediately, to never return, to burn eternally in the pits of Hell rather than ever hope to see me again. I hear the voice that is my own screech, “Dépêche-toé, niaiseux! That you continue to live is at my pleasure! Crisse moi patience avant de encore fourrer!” I see Chrétien’s face freeze in shock as he looks up at me, I feel the pain in his heart because I share it too. Inside, I am screaming.
“As you wish, ma princesse,” he manages, his voice cracked as tears begin to well up in the corners of his eyes. I watch him, stone-silent, as he rises and redresses himself. I feel my own arm pull up the abused blanket around my nakedness, denying him the pleasure of seeing what he so recently had been permitted to fully explore. All the remaining conscious parts of my mind are burning with a million thoughts all clambering for my attention, so it is with a detached soul that I observe Chrétien, my Chrétien, the boy from the ball, my soulmate, dejectedly drag himself to my bedchamber door, crying, and, with a last pleading glance at me, step through. The door closes behind him. The ears that tortured me by allowing me to hear my madness continue their torment by filtering through the sounds of Chrétien pushing aside the secret entrance and making his way into the long, dark passage out of the castle.
I will die. I should die. Mother will kill me. She wouldn’t have let me marry him anyway. I should have stood up for our love. I would have lost. I deserve to die. I had true love and threw it away. I deserve eternal damnation. We could have continued in secret. We would have been discovered. He loved me. I loved him. I still do. I could call him back. I could send Camille to retrieve him. I could apologize. I could give myself to him body and soul, not just for a night but until our deaths. I deserve to die. I want to die.
I fucked it up.
The thoughts bounce around my mind as the tears start to fall. My breath catches in my throat. The scream echoes around the chamber, a primal vocalization of utter despair. I bury my face in a pillow, sobbing uncontrollably. Rocking back and forth, the sheer agony of my psyche shuts down my rational thought. Everything hurts – the feeling of the bedsheets on my skin, the cold air in the absence of his body heat, the burning inside my head, my heart threatening to explode out of my chest with every pulse. The little bit of me still capable of speech hurls broken curses at everything in this cruel world. My mother receives the lion’s share, tied only with my own stupidity.
Camille’s soothing voice comes to my ears, but I cannot recognize the words. Everything is still too awful. I continue to wail despite the sensation of pressure deforming the bed next to me. My rolling stops as I come up against a coarse fabric texture, shocking me with the change. Camille’s face comes into blurry view, full of caring and concern. The full-body screams are over now, replaced by erratic breaths and tearful whimpers. My bleary eyes try to focus on her.
“Oh, Camille,” is all I can attempt. It comes out as a series of disjointed syllables, broken up by sobs, but the pressure of her hand on my shoulder comes as a heaven-sent relief. She rubs my bare skin gently, slowly, keeping up her silent massage until my breathing approaches regularity. “Hush, Mademoiselle,” she coos. “I know. I know. Là où les maîtres trébuchent, les serviteurs soutiennent. Let me ease your pain. Tell me what evil puts daggers into your heart.”
I tell her about my fit of madness and my Chrétien’s departure. She listens, sitting me up and massaging my back as time and again I burst back into tears. The telling is slow. When I am finished, we sit in silence. Camille, as gently as she can, tells me that she supports me. The Queen, she says, would never have consented to my union with another unless it was her own device. Hearing her say it pushes me back over the edge once more, but nevertheless I am comforted. Looking down at the stains from my leaking folds, I express worry that I may fall pregnant. Camille, with a cheerfulness I am sure arises from a desire to distract me, assures me that her sources all agree that, with the precautions we have taken, no such misfortune should befall me.
My eyes again grow heavy. Camille softly lays me down and covers my naked body with the blanket, taking special care to tuck it behind my shoulders. She picks up my discarded undergarments, folds them neatly, and stacks them in the corner. As sleep takes me, I faintly hear her say, “Sleep well, Mademoiselle. I am very proud of you.” Then, in a whisper to herself so quiet I am not quite sure I really hear it: “Thank you for the show.”