One Final Night (5 page)

I had showered earlier at my apartment, obviously. I had spent a long time preening and pruning in readiness for whatever he planned to throw at me. I still took the bath because my head was in too much of a whirl to stop the maid from directing my actions. It was worth it, the initial immersion nearly satisfaction enough as my nerve-numbed body came suddenly alive in the hot water. It both relaxed and rejuvenated. My mind cleared at last. I was able to collate the jumbled thoughts and feelings.

My head, I decided, was anxious due to fear of the unknown and because of an innate worry of behaving “improperly”. My body had no such reservations. It wanted the same pleasures others got, all those who are less governed by misplaced ideas of reputation and decency. It didn’t want to boast about such pleasures, or tick them off a “to do” list. It simply wanted to
feel
these sensations, to know its full potential, so that there could be no regrets. If reputation was my only real concern, the blackness in the room would blank that out. If I was worried about the looks or the type of visitor I received, the blackness would blank that out. If I was worried about being seen doing such rude things, the blackness would blank it all out.

By the time the maid was wrapping me in a towel, my resolve had strengthened and I was beginning to see the night only as the golden opportunity he had designed it to be. I didn’t even mind going naked again for the maid. I didn’t bother arguing when she took a razor and oiled my legs in readiness, even though I had already seen to this chore. I didn’t flinch when she lathered the sparsely-haired vee I always kept, and took that off too, even though I’ve never before been so bare. I didn’t even blush when she asked me to raise my knees to give her better access to make sure I was completely smooth all over.

When she said it was time for my massage I laid upon the towels without hesitation. In fact, it was worse than that: I even told the maid to take off her dress – the first time in my life I have ever ordered anyone to strip. She complied quietly and without question, going down to matching knickers and bra, which I took as a sign that she expected to have her underwear on show this night, or perhaps any night while in his service. The massage meant more oil, applied warm so there was no shock to my system. Everything was about relaxation, of making me pliable and soft, and ready.

She soothed me slowly, paying special attention to my back and legs. She poured oil onto my bottom, and the trickle had me quivering. I wanted the contact there. I needed it. I even raised my hips from the bed a little, hoping to encourage the attention, although she shyly went back to my calves and feet, leaving the oily trickle to run and tease unchecked. When I went onto my front I could see her cheeks were flushed. The points of her breasts poked at the thin material, as hard as my own, although she hadn’t had the grazing contact of the towel to stimulate her swell. I had thoughts of those breasts coming free, of her spreading my legs and stroking me with those stiff points, right at my entrance, trying to part me and feel my slick wetness on her skin. I nearly asked her to do exactly that. Nearly.

She stroked the outsides of my breasts but only once went over the fullness of them; the lightest of touches just to allow a covering of oil there. She would have felt the stiffness of my teats at her palm. I was brave enough to watch her doing this, but not brave enough to tell her to do it again. When she touched my thighs they jumped apart involuntarily, but she didn’t take her chance to go in. She headed quickly for my feet again, although I saw her draw in a deep breath and bite her lip, as if the desire to go further had been hard to defeat. Maybe she was under instruction not to drive me to distraction, to soothe and relax me but no more.

Before I could summon the courage to issue further commands, the maid finished and brought me a gown to put on. The garment was no more than a very thin T-shirt in white cotton, a little longer than the norm so it could just about serve as a nightdress. No underwear was offered. I crossed to the dressing table to do my hair and make-up, even though it wasn’t necessary, although the thought of being at my best boosted my confidence. The maid brushed out my long hair, smiled at me in the mirror and said, ‘You are ready, Mademoiselle.’

Chapter Five

And ready I am; for him, for David, for the Comtesse. I have never been more ready. The maid rings the bell and Patrick comes for me immediately. It’s a good job it only proves a short distance down the corridor because my legs are shaking. He opens the door to the duke’s room. The main chandelier is already off. The huge portraits that adorn the walls, the splendid dark oak chests and walnut commodes, have all been swallowed by darkness. The centrepiece of the room, the great bed, is all the eye can see. The drapes on the near side are pulled back to allow me access, but those at the far side and the foot end are closed. I see there are spotlights clipped to the huge carved headboard to throw light upon the interior. The covers are in gold and red silks, just as they were when he took me on that whistle-stop tour of the chateau all those months ago. I wonder how many others have laid atop them over the years to receive their final night of him.

Most of the cylindrical bolsters have been removed to give me space to lie, but the soft stacks of pillows remain, and upon them the black leather straps for securing my wrists. I feel the butterflies coming back in earnest, but I’m not scared. Patrick takes my hand to assist as I climb on, making sure the gown doesn’t ride up and expose me as I shuffle into position on my back. It seems a misplaced piece of chivalry on his part considering what is to follow, but I guess until the lights are off the game has yet to begin.

Patrick quietly asks me if I am ready and I nod in assent. He then gently takes each of my hands in turn and puts them through the binding straps. I had visions before of being secured by cuffs, but actually these are just leather loops, loose enough to slide my hand back out of at any time. If I so choose, I could run the moment Patrick turned his back. I know I’m not going to. He leans back out of the bed into the darkness and pulls the drapes together, closing me off from him and the black of the room. I’m alone in the lit interior of the bed, my own little world of comfy opulence. It feels safe and thrilling, despite the ties at my wrists, despite not knowing what is about to come my way. Then the lights go off in my little world and suddenly darkness is everywhere, thick and impenetrable. I lie with bated breath, trying to adjust my senses now that I’ve been robbed of my primary one. I think I hear soft movements to my right, maybe feet on carpet or cuffs brushing against a jacket. Then the door clicks shut and I think I am alone.

Normally, with the lights off your eyes adjust; things start to emerge from the gloom. Not here. Everything stays pitch black, a darkness I can’t begin to see through. I can vaguely hear the party downstairs, a sound I wasn’t aware of before the lights went out. Elsewhere there is a judder of an iron pipe, perhaps bubbles in the plumbing or heating system. Mainly I am cosseted within the bed, the drapes damping the sensory information. I’m not cold in my body but my skin is tingling ever more, goosebumps raising and spreading to prickle against the thin material of my gown. I’m keenly aware of a need to take my hands out of the loops and bury myself beneath the bedclothes to seek comfort. I have another pressing need requiring the freedom of my hands, but I’ve not come here to do what I would do in the privacy of my own home. I just need to bite my lip and wait.

I don’t know how long for. It’s probably been no more than a few minutes so far, although each has been drawn out tenfold. I don’t know whether to close my legs chastely or leave them open as they are, even though the seep from between them feels so rude. He won’t keep me waiting, surely? He will know the torture of every second. I have it in my head that maybe Patrick is still here, closing the door as a trick to make me think I am alone. If he wanted to ravish me then this is a golden opportunity – a chance before the game has officially started. The thought of taking him first sets my heart pounding. I am ready, but maybe not ready enough for him. I would prefer a gentler introduction, although every second he doesn’t push his way back through the drapes is a second that sparks greater wanting. It’s too late now. He would have to have reported to his master or raise suspicion.

I try to picture the room downstairs, try to conjure some of those masked faces. Are those in the know already on their way? Are silent signals going between them to suggest an order to be taken? Are they even aware that others know, or do they think me a treat just for them individually? If he is busy relaying the details to the chosen few, will others sneak out to claim me in the meantime? I can’t wait much more. The anticipation is beginning to agitate. I feel as anxious now as before the bath soothed my doubts away. How long are they going to keep me hanging on like this?

My stomach lurches. That was definitely a noise. I didn’t hear an approach, but that squeak could only be the door handle. Every cell of my body is tense. I’m waiting for a creak to tell me the door has been swung open, but it doesn’t come. I’m waiting for a breeze, to sense a change in the atmosphere that lets me know I’m not alone, but it’s all enclosed in here, and the air around me remains thick and still. The floorboards are so old and yet they make no sound. The ghosts are here though, of that I am sure. I can make out gentle sounds, those of clothes swishing together through body movement. My ears strain, my head turns toward the noise. So on edge, I almost expect a clashing impact, an explosion. However, when my guest finally does come, the approach is so soft I can barely make it out. The drapes part almost unnoticeably, and then suddenly I feel weight at the edge of this vast bed, someone climbing on near my feet.

I almost reach out with my foot to touch this new arrival, just to gain even the slightest clue to their identity. However, I can’t imagine it will be a great start to kick someone in the face, so I stay frozen, trying to deduce if the weight pressing at the mattress is enough for a male. It doesn’t seem so, but surely he would want to come to me first? The initial contact is at my ankle and although I’m dying for it I still jump and gasp. Fortunately, I don’t lash out. Fingers are travelling up the inside of my leg. The hand is warm and the touch light. Then it stops, just at the hem of my gown. The material tightens against my parted thighs and a grating sound cuts the quiet.

I recognise the sound instantly. It is that of scissors cutting cloth. The pull of the gown at my thighs eases at once as the material comes apart under the blades. The scissors continue their slow, remorseless journey and I just lie back and let it happen. I tense as the blades near my crotch, but care is being taken not to hurt me and only a couple of times does the metal touch my skin. I feel cool exhalations on my newly shaved mound; twin gusts from nostrils no more than six inches above me. My belly is exposed, but no hands go on me. The cutting continues, the material springing open where it is tight at my chest. The blades briefly falter at the point of the vee below my neck, but then extra pressure takes them through and the gown has been split from top to bottom.

I breathe in, knowing my visitor is right above me. I attempt to gain their scent and do; a fragrance I cannot recall smelling before. The adrenaline pours through me. Surely
he
would be first? Would he change his cologne to trick me? Quite possibly. It smells as classy as he always does. Maybe I just cannot remember this particular one on him. I need to smell more: his skin,
his
aroma, not one from a bottle. A sudden thought hits me: in the fractions when I hadn’t recognised the scent, I had an extra surge of excitement at the thought that it
wasn’t
him. It’s not that I don’t want him here, because I do, because he will comfort and ease me. But, on reflection, I have to admit that all evening I have been imagining people coming to me, these unknown friends in their soldier’s uniforms, these well-endowed servants, these beautiful, titled ladies, yet not once in that time did I picture him.

Suddenly it strikes me that the fragrance might not be a masculine one at all. It seems too sweet, too floral. I try to concentrate but my senses are too jumbled and unsure for definitive answers. Whoever it is I need them, of that I am sure. I realise that since there is no going back I cannot wait for it to begin. I am open now and anticipate hands upon me. My skin is desperate for the touch. I expect urgent hands to grip me, a greedy mouth to suck me in. In reality, the first touch is almost imperceptible: a light, searching tongue-tip flicking across one swollen bud. It nonetheless has me gasping audibly, has every muscle in my body tensing.

Before I can recover, the same bud is engulfed by warm, soft lips. They suck hard, just once, the tongue-tip flicks over me again just fleetingly, then I am released, left with the little chill of wetness upon my skin. It was too quick to guess the gender of my visitor. It felt soft, but then who has hard lips? I have it in my head now that the fragrance might well be a feminine one, so my mind might be playing tricks on me. It might only be wishful thinking that I’m about to have another female make love to me for the first time. The next contact will give it away. I have another aching teat that will surely get its due. To my desperate disappointment, the touch doesn’t come. Instead, the pressure on the mattress recedes as my visitor retreats back down the bed. I nearly cry out for them to stay. I don’t understand why they won’t finish what they’ve started.

They have dismounted, but I still feel their presence at the side of the bed. Then they are back, although this time I’m sure their weight is greater. The dip in the mattress seems more pronounced. They come the same way, from the bottom up. I can hear the sound of them bumping and sliding against the footboard of the frame. The bed is so huge there is ample gap between my toes and the posts to take them. They snake in by the end panel and find my feet with fingertips, then guide themselves upward. I can feel the shift of their weight as more of their body comes onto the bed. They definitely seem heavier this time, which is confusing.

Up they come, fingers stroking the insides of my legs as before. The touch is firmer this time, and the hands seem big enough to be masculine. The same gusts of breath are there, letting me know how close their face is to me. My legs are being parted. This time, my visitor is not going up with knees astride me but sliding on their chest so that I must open to accommodate them. I can hear my heart. I can feel the rush of blood because the twin gusts are at my inner thighs, so close they are warm now, not cold. The tongue is tracing lines over my delicate skin there. The tease is supreme. I could happily feel this for the rest of my days, and yet I cannot wait for it to stop so that more pressing matters can be addressed. Then the tongue is travelling up, up to where I am wettest.

The hands are now holding me and I can feel their size, feel them spreading me. The twin gusts have turned to one long, cool breeze, direct at my entrance. He is gently blowing upon me. I know it is a he now, after all. It must be him. Only he would be patient enough to give me this tantalizing treat. Others would be in me by now. The back of one forefinger strokes down over my new smoothness, the knuckle just bumping the swell that protects me there. Even that light contact is enough to have me pushing my head hard back into the pillow.

The fingers are not finished: sliding down the insides of my thighs, they stay either side of my entrance. They apply just a little pressure and I hear the rude, sticky-slick sound as my lips part. The warm trickle from within is immediate, a dam threatening to burst. The little breeze is getting warmer, and that means he is closing in. Any second will see his lips in contact with mine. If my hands were free I would press his head to me, but for now all I can do is absorb the desperation and wait.

Just before he kisses me there, just as I can feel the open mouth and the warm breath only millimetres away, a new sensation overwhelms me. The big toe of my right foot is suddenly engulfed by a warm, soft mouth.

This is so unexpected I let out a whimper. How had I not put two and two together? Why hadn’t I guessed he was not alone? I have to describe the feeling as shock, because every nerve-ending in my body shoots messages to my brain. I have no time to ponder this further, except to register that it is massively erotic. Then his mouth is upon me. I get a fleeting vision of him biting into soft fruit, although I do not feel his teeth. He draws my flesh into his mouth and I can feel the pulse of my blood as he sucks me. Then his tongue pushes its way into me and I am writhing and panting.

With me so far gone I would have expected the tongue to be too great a tease, but somehow the simultaneous attention at my toes offsets this. Already I can see the brilliance of the
ménage à trois
. This dual pleasure alone is enough to make my night. Both suck, and briefly I have fingers inside me, curling upward to my inner wall, as is his wont. But this is new: the fingers come out and pinch the skin around my hood, squeezing hard to trap my little bud. I gasp, but the pressure only increases. The fingers roll the skin, so that although my
bouton du plaisir
is hidden from direct contact, the friction from the very flesh supposed to protect it sends the warm current surging through. Worse, the butterflies are loose again as I doubt once more that it’s him at all.

The grip releases and the tongue slips back inside me. I am way too slick to stop him pushing it deep. His lips crush to mine and his nose presses the same spot he has just been pinching. I’m searching for any clues, even trying to gauge the size of the nose from its press against me. It feels big, but how can I reasonably make such an assumption from this contact? Patrick’s nose is big – bigger than his master’s, anyway. He has seen his master make love too, so he might be copying some techniques to fool me. But why should he care to do this? I can’t think straight. Fingernails lightly rake my calves, and all my toes in turn are being warmly bathed and teased. Again, the dual attention at different erogenous zones puts my head in a spin. This feeling is most definitely not the same as one person trying to stimulate you in two areas: the concentration here is precise, as attention is not required elsewhere. It is two jobs being done perfectly, not two half-jobs being muddled through.