A Tale of Two Titties - A writing prompt I posted that I will be turning into a story!
The Chateau of the Baron de Borm, Paris, June 23rd 1792
Dresses whirl and heels click across the intricate mosaic floor as the noble women of the Second Estate dance with the young men lucky enough to accompany them for a dance, for the night, or in the case of the older couples present, for a lifetime. Candlelight glitters of jewelry wrought of silver and gold, inlaid with gems and adoring skin so pale that it may very well have never been kissed by the harsh sun. The sweet sounds of the string quartet, perched upon a raised dais at the back of the large hallway, faded into silence as the song ended. Across the dance floor the couples broke apart, some drifting away for a breather, some for the night, some simply waiting for the next song to begin.
Extracting herself from the mingling press of bodies Lady Dawn Le Tellier, cheeks flushed with the heat of the room and the exertion of the dance, glides across the room to settle on a stone bench, looking out through one of the open windows at the city skyline highlighted in silver by the glow of the full moon hanging heavily in the sky above. Fanning herself with a white gloved hand, she smiles gratefully at the young Marquis de Chauvelin as he hands her a flute glass filled almost to the brim with chilled Champagne.
It was quite a scandal for her to be here with him. She, the eldest daughter of a sonless but neither the less powerful noble house steeped in tradition and debts of honor as old as the French nobility itself, he the eldest son of a merchant who had purchased the title of Marquis from the crown only a handful of years before. But the scandal was part of the fun for Dawn. This night was partly about slumming it with a sweet young man eager to prove himself truly noble, but in a larger sense it was about snubbing the son of the Count of Orleans for yet again leaving her sitting alone in one of the more prominent Paris Cafés.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied Jacob de Orleans, standing among his friends, dressed in the crisp military uniform he always wears to such formal gatherings, flaunting his rank among the mostly ceremonial Royal Guard. She is pleased to see he is glowering darkly at the two of them. Keeping a smirk from her lips with difficulty she lets out a musical tinkle of laughter, lightly laying her hand on de Chauvelin’s shoulder.
“You have such wit my Lord, though of course I would expect nothing less from the scion of a family savvy enough to enter the Second Estate in such a short period of time.” Her voice is louder than it needs to be, her wide green eyes alight with a mischief that she is sure the smitten young man will mistake for something more cranial than sinister.
Her words and slightest touch has the effect she had desired. The sound of heavy boots on marble stifles any reply from the young merchant turned noble. A shadow falls across them as the footsteps step and looking up she sees the face of Jacob de Orleans, a storm of anger raging behind his steely gray eyes.
“Lady Le Tellier, may I have the pleasure of your company?” His voice brooked no argument and he waits for none, a strong hand wrapping around her arm and guiding her too her feet.
“Sir, I believe the lady was quite happily with the company she had.” Even Dawn is surprised. She had expected him to be cowed by the title and reputation of the Count’s son. Not that she was complaining ….
“Know your place whelp. The Lady Le Tellier is my betrothed and it is only her displeasure with the practice of dueling that stays my hand. Do you understand me merchant?” The last word is spoken with all the venom and hatred of a racial slur.
“I do not fear you Orleans. I will meet you on any field you choose if your honor demands it. But the Lady met with me tonight and it did not seem to me that she wished to leave yet.”
“I will send my second on the morrow then. It will be a fitting present to celebrate the elevation of your upstart father, the corpse of his upstart son.” With that he turned away, pulling Dawn unceremoniously after him. Chauvelin attempted to follow them, but Orleans’ friends had moved between them. The sound of their mockery follows the couple as they move out through the open window onto the stone balcony that lay beyond.
Out of sight of the others now, Dawn pulls her arm away from him, moving a few steps away to press herself against the marble banister. Her lilac dress is taught across her chest, cut low enough to give a view of the deep valley of her cleavage, her breasts pressed tightly together by the laced corset concealed beneath the fabric. It billows around her waist, hanging loosely from the wide curve of her hips. She looks over her shoulder at Jacob, her green eyes flashing dangerously as she reaches up to sweep her blond hair back behind one ear.
“You do not have to duel the young man Jacob ….”
“He did not have to try and claim what was not his to claim.”
“I was the one who accepted his invitation. You did not seem at all interested in …. Laying your claim.”
Jacob moves up next to her, placing one of his large hand over her smaller one, his frame towering over her.
“I have been busy my love.” He says softly, dropping his voice to a whisper as he turns her towards him, lowering his lips to hers, his arms encircling her waist. After several long seconds he breaks the kiss, smiling down at her as she tries to catch her breath, obviously flustered. “The Guard may not remain ceremonial for long.”
Dawn looks at him, her breathing heavy and slow causing her chest to rise and fall, and concern and confusion war behind her eyes. In a nearly inaudible whisper she breaths, “The rumors of Revolution?”
He smiles down at her, his hand lightly cupping her small face, his thumb lightly tracing over her quivering lips, “Do not worry about such things, we will quash the peasants before they organize enough to pose any threat to the natural order. Worms do not pose a threat to lions, no matter how numerous the worms.” He leaned down and kisses her again. “This party is bores me. Let me take you home.”
She bites her lower lip softly, glancing back through the open window, but the Marquise de Chauvelin is gone from where they were seated. She thought she caught a glimpse of him pushing his way through the far side of the crowd, but she could not be sure. Jacob lightly took her chin in his hand, turning her face back towards him.
“Come my love, it is time to go.”
She slipped her hand into his as they left from the party, passing silently through the grounds. She pressed against him as they awaited his carriage, smiling up at him as his arm wrapped around her waist again. She wanted to stay mad at him, but well … there were other things she wanted more.
Her nails trace lightly over his chest, leaning up to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “Perhaps tonight we could ….” She is cut off by the clatter of iron shod wheels on cobble stones.
As he helps her into the carriage he says softly, “Well, we are to be married after all.”
She made it perhaps five minutes into the carriage ride until she could stand it no more, the smell of him, the closeness of his muscled frame, the knowing smile across his lips. Without a word she reached over and begins to undo his belt, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Jacob raises an eyebrow, giving her a questioning look.
“I have been reading the Marquis de Sade’s most recent work and well .... you will see dearest husband to be.”
Her small hands undo his fly and draw his hardening length from within his military trousers. Lowering her head she kisses the tip of his member, her soft lips and warm breath caressing his sensitive flesh. Her lips part to allow him entry, her tongue running over his warm flesh as she sinks slowly down, filling her mouth with his fully erect cock. His sigh of pleasure spurs her on and she attempts to push herself further, down her full lips wrapping tightly around him.
Blond hair falls into her face, a soft slurping sound escaping her lips and she struggles to keep the obscene drool from running over lips. Excitement causes her heart to beat faster, peaking when she feels his hand pressing against the back of her head. Jacob groans, pressing her down, not stopping even when she gags, her whole body bucking to attempt to throw back the unexpected intrusion. He groans with delight as her spasming throat massages the length of his shaft. Just as he is approaching the edge, his hips bucking up to grind himself into her reddening face, the carriage comes to a stop.
“My Lord?” The voice of the carriage driver comes from uncertainty from above.
“What in the name of God is it man? I am busy.” He grunts the words, his hips moving in continues gyrations now as she continues to gag and choke on his length, drool running down her chin from the corner of her twitching lips.
“There is a rabble blocking the way my Lord …”
Jacob roars as his seed plasters the back of her throat and she swallows desperately, her eyelids flickering as she struggles not to drown in wave after wave of his seed. “Run them down man, I don’t care.” He grunts in satisfaction, allowing her to come up for breath as the carriage begins trundling forward again, picking up speed.
Dawn looks around, her eyes unfocused as she takes great gulps of air, drool and seed glistening on her pale flesh. “What is…” she is interrupted by a sickening crunch and screams of despair and pain. Turning to look out the window she sees the crowd of peasant, scattering down side streets like vermin feeling from the light. In the midst of the fleeing crowd is a young woman, screaming as if tormented, pointing at something behind the carriage that she can not see. Before she can catch a glimpse of whatever has disturbed the woman so, they turn a corner and the street is blocked from view.
The Revolutionary Prison of Liberty, Paris, October 27 1973
Dawn huddled in a corner of the damp cell, listening to the wails of her fellow prisoners. Her bright eyes have been dulled by fear, her blond hair matted and hanging about her face. Her cheeks are frame is thinner than it was though her curves are still prominently displayed under the thin, ragged shift that has replaced her beautiful dresses. All that remains of her fine jewelry is the wedding band upon her finger. Not that it symbolised much anymore … not since Jacob had been pulled from his horse by an angry mob.
Tears have begin filling her eyes as she remembers the bloody scene, her husband torn apart by the seething mass of peasantry as he and his men and tried to form a cordon before the great cathedral, attempting to shield the nobles within. She had tried removing the ring, throwing it across her cell when she had first been brought in here, but her jailors and forced her to wear it …. Anytime they had seen her without it they had beaten her. They wanted her to remember, wanted her to have to live with the ghost of her husband.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, towards her cell. She did not know what they wanted … would it be food … would she be dragged out and forced to act as decoration for some new Republican celebration ….. Perhaps they would just sate themselves on her …. Or bring were they bring her a new cellmate? The last one had abused her terribly …. she no longer cared. The queen was dead, the nobility broken, there was nothing she could do now but wait in the darkness of her cell and cry softly as she waited.
Master's study was always very cluttered, a fact that irked her whenever she stopped to think about it. But Master did not let her clean in here, he did not encourage her to read and so as he said, "You wouldn't know what to clean anyway." She moved with slow careful steps around the piles of books, Master's afternoon tea held gingerly in her hands. She must not spill a single drop. That was one of Master's rules.
Not that it was easy as she swayed her hips in an overly sensualized caricature of her normal walk. That too was one of Master's rules.
With each undulation of her body the liquid sloshed higher up the side of the porcelain cup, a little closer to the edge then the slosh before it. It was almost as if Master wanted her to fail .... but that wasn't her concern. If Master thought that she should fail He must have a reason and that was enough.
Almost there, she thinks eagerly to herself as she approaches Master where He sits at His desk. As always the sight of Him set butterflies loose in her stomach and cause her heart to race with excitement. Maybe it was the excitement that made her careless, maybe the task really was impossible, but just as she stopped next to Him brimming with pride, she heard a wet splat.
Looking down, she sees the dark liquid dripping down the side of the glass to patter onto the carpet. Looking up she meets her Master's eyes as her heart sinks into her stomach. With a sigh He closed the book from which He had been reading, shaking His head slowly from side to side.
