by Fox, Georgia
As the valet made the last adjustments to his jacket, Peter looked over at Cat where she crouched on the satin chair cushion, and he smiled. "You should have a diamond collar, Puss." He winked at her and Cat's pulse quickened. Ah, he was in a good mood because this plan was turning out so well and now he thought of giving her jewels because his heart was light.
A chinoisiere sewing cabinet stood nearby, full of threads and scraps of material. Her pussycat interest was aroused. Couldn't be helped. She stuck her paw into the first soft ball and pulled it onto her chair, watching it roll, already unraveling. She flicked her tail and looked away, feigning disinterest, but the ball of thread called to her with its siren song.
"I would keep that cat out of sight, my lord Revellaux, as much as possible," the valet politely suggested. "The Comte has no love for them. He is more of a dog man."
"As was I once," Peter replied. "Somehow that stray has become a part of my life, whether I like it or not." He chuckled. "But I will bide your advice." He patted Cat's head gently. "You stay out of the way, Puss. There's a good girl."
She rumbled another long, low purr and tucked her head onto her front paws, knowing it made her look cute. Ah, Peter my darling. How I will miss you.
****
The Comte's private chamber was small but comfortable and well lit. Servants placed wine and fruit on a small table between the two men and then retreated backwards, bowing. The door closed softly after them.
"Now we can discuss the matter of my niece, Revellaux." The Comte poured wine into both goblets and raised a toast. "To negotiations."
Grateful for something to steady his nerves, Peter drank the wine and felt it warm his throat all the way down. "To negotiations and to the Lady Serena."
What the hell was he doing there? He still could hardly believe he'd done this. He must have parted from his proper mind. Falaise could uncover the lie at any moment and have him executed on the spot. He wasn't even sure anymore that Lady Serena's aristocratic maidenhead was worth all this. In the audience chamber she looked shocked to see him, not pleased at all. Then she lowered her gaze to her shoes and kept them there, not even sparing him a smile of encouragement.
"I must admit you got my attention with the gift you sent to me, Revellaux. Few men have been so bold with their offer and none have had the creativity."
Peter quickly swallowed another gulp of wine. "The gift?"
There was a pause and then the Comte laughed curtly. "You're a sly fellow Revellaux. You knew she would pique my interest and my appetite. Was it your idea for her to run away, or was it hers?"
Hmmm. There was a misunderstanding here somewhere, but what could he do? What else could he say, but, "I'm glad you liked…her."
The Comte looked away at the fire and sipped his wine. For a moment he seemed lost in thought. Then he turned back again to Peter. "She told me it was a temporary arrangement. A loan only. Was that your intention?"
Peter nodded, lips sunk into his goblet again.
"I see." The Comte's fingers drummed along the table. "I cannot blame you, of course, for wishing to keep her. She is a splendid specimen." He paused again. "But she is in want of discipline. I see now you are young and you tell me you only recently came into your estate, which explains her lack of humility. You have not had time to train her fully in the ways of a good slave."
Again Peter nodded. This was becoming a very strange conversation. And a very interesting one.
"Does she give you much trouble, Revellaux?"
He nodded.
"Then perhaps, you will allow me," the other man shifted in his chair, restless, "to take on her schooling. I have had considerable experience and, in truth, she intrigues me."
Peter tried to get his thoughts in order. The wine was not helping his confusion, but it tasted good and had a very soothing effect on his nerves. It was much smoother than the rough ale and cider he usually drank. He could get used to the life of a Marquis, he mused.
"Revellaux." The Comte licked his lips, eyes shooting vivid silver sparks across the table, reminding Peter of standing in a blacksmith's forge as white hot metal was pounded into horseshoes. "Give her to me and you can have my niece. A fair trade."
Peter drained his cup and burped. "I can have your niece?" He couldn't believe it was this simple. For some reason he was not as overjoyed as he knew he should be. It felt dishonest. It was dishonest, he thought bleakly. "The Lady Serena?"
Slowly the other man nodded. "Where is the slave? I need to begin her training immediately," his voice grew husky, "because I can't…I don't care to wait."
"But I don't know where she is." Peter examined his empty cup until the Comte snatched it from him and refilled it.
"Come, Revellaux! You have kept me in suspense long enough. You win. I want that slave girl in my bed tonight. Can I have her, or not? Surely you can't want more from me than my niece and her dowry. Other men have offered me far more to win her hand in marriage. You offer me one wench. Lucky for you both she caught my fancy to this degree or I would curse your brazen manners and strike you through with my sword."
The Comte was getting more tense, his voice more hoarse by the word.
"I will treat her well. Is that why you hesitate? You fear my methods? I've heard some of the rumors —the things people say about me."
Peter did not know what to say. He shrugged. "I know nothing of your methods." Or anything you're talking about.
"Then you may watch. Perhaps you'll learn something of use to you. If you like what you see, let me keep her. If you don't approve, then so be it. You can go away and forget my niece, Revellaux, and take your sulky slave with you."
Who was this slave the Comte talked of so angrily? And why, if she was that bad, did he want her to this degree? It was plain to Peter that this man was almost unhinged with desire.
Curious to find out what this was all about, and also slightly drunk already on wine too rich for his blood, Peter finally nodded. "Very well. As you wish, Falaise."
The Comte leaned back in his chair and drank his wine in one gulp, his eyes blazing with victory. "Send her to me. The sooner the better." A quick sneeze tore out of him and he swore.
****
Behind the closed door, Cat listened, crouched with her ear to the wooden panels. The Comte, it seemed, wanted to possess her and, in exchange, was prepared give his precious niece to a man he barely knew. She sat up and shook herself. Excitement rippled her fur. She spread her claws and flexed them. Hmmm. Still thought he could master her, did he?
Thoughtfully she chewed on the end of that unraveled ball of thread, earlier requisitioned from the sewing cabinet.
She'd show him. She was ready for the Comte de Falaise this time.
Chapter Twelve
It was not long before darkness spread across the sky like spilled treacle. The castle gates were locked for the night, rush torches and candles lit. Somewhere within the stone walls a violin sang plaintively. In the yard, soldiers gathered around the braziers to sing songs and tell stories, their hound dogs sprawled beside them.
The Comte played host to several guests that evening. Cat had watched earlier from a window ledge as their fine carriages pulled up in the yard. Peter, masquerading as the Marquis, had joined the festivities in the grand hall and enjoyed himself to excess, before finally stumbling back to the guest bed chamber where Cat waited. Now, as night consumed the sky and belched up stars, he sprawled in an ungainly mess across a chaise lounge and, through a wide open mouth, snored loudly. The sound bore resemblance to that of a garden shovel thrusting into gravel and alternately being dragged over it.
Cat leaned over the chaise and woke Peter by shaking his shoulder. His eyes opened slowly and he blinked up at her with bloodshot eyes.
Drunk. Didn't take him long to adopt the habits of the aristocracy, she thought with a hefty sigh.
"The Comte sends for me," she muttered, shaking him again.
This time his eyes opened wider and tried to focus on her face. "
Who are you?" he groaned, holding his head.
Now that night came she was back to her human form again and for once she would make certain he knew this was no dream.
"I have been your slave," she whispered tersely. "Now get up and pull yourself together. Go and woo Lady Serena. Now is your chance. I will keep the Comte busy."
"You?"
"That's right. I am the slave you have given to him." She'd only woken him to say goodbye. Once he had what he wanted, the witch assured her this spell would be broken and she could go back to being Catherine the milkmaid. She would probably never see him again. If she did, he would not know her as the woman who'd lived at his side all these months. "Follow the thread to find your ladylove." She kissed his lips very gently, her heart aching. "Goodbye, master."
The guard called for her again, banging on the bedchamber door.
Cat left Peter still laying on the chaise in a state of confusion and she followed the guard to his master's suite.
She was shown into a large chamber with walls hung in fine silks. Iron columns filled with candles lent the room a warm, pulsing glow and the floor was spread with fleeces and furs, as well as pillows, big and small. This was not his bedchamber. It was big enough to hold a feast. Her gaze fell to the large wooden chest she recognized as the vessel that held his toys.
Where was he? He kept her waiting, naturally.
The thick scent of the candles was unlike anything she'd smelled before, perfumed with expensive oils no doubt. It lay in her throat, coated her skin, made her drowsy.
"So here we are again."
She spun around. He must have entered through an unseen door behind the pleated columns of silk, she thought. To her surprise he was fully dressed, jewels winking on all his fingers as he drew them through his hair.
"Where is the Marquis? I told him he should watch."
She swallowed. About to answer, she remembered his rule about speaking.
He raised one dark eyebrow. "Aha. I see you recall one of my rules at least. You may speak."
"He is tired, my lord. Your wine made him sleepy."
The Comte came toward her, his long stride crossing the room quickly. "A my lord, too? Are we not polite tonight?"
She nodded, eyeing him warily.
"But you come to me clothed." He gestured at the lacy shirt she'd stolen from his dressing room. "This will not do."
Slowly she lifted the shirt over her head and let it fall at her feet. He lifted one hand under her hair, raised it up and let it drop slowly. "I have a present for you, although I am not certain you deserve it since you left me."
Her gaze moved back to the wooden chest.
"You must say please, if you want it, slave." his finger moved across her mouth, pressing between her lips to open them. "Do you know how to say please properly to your master with this pretty mouth?"
She nodded. Here goes. Cat dropped to her knees on the soft fleece and reached for the buttons of his breeches. He was already erect. She felt the hard ridge through his clothing and when it was released it stretched up before her face like the tallest tree in the forest. She opened her mouth, but he grabbed her chin and made her look up. "Ask for it," he muttered, a slight twitch in his cheek betraying his impatience. "Say, may I suck your cock, master?"
Cat licked her lips. "May I suck your cock, master?" Her body softened when he touched her—even just the brief caress of his fingers to her jaw when he tilted her face upward to meet his gaze. She should not feel this. But she did.
"I think you may, slave."
She opened her mouth wider and he pushed the head of his cock between her lips. He tasted of herbs, so she knew he'd bathed tonight. Cat slipped her tongue over his crest and then sank her mouth further onto his length, taking him in, half inch at a time. His hands hung at his sides, his rings gleaming in the corner of her eye.
She heard his breath catch as she began to suck, her mouth nursing on his penis steadily. The muscles in his broad thighs tensed.
Her own pulse quickened, her pussy growing moist. She hoped he would not put her back in that chastity cup again. It was a cruel device that both excited and frustrated her.
Somewhere nearby a door opened. She heard voices. Closing her eyes she kept sucking, diligently tending to her task. Her hands came up to stroke and play with his balls. Although she had not asked permission to do this, the Comte said nothing. She was aware now of the large room filling with other bodies. They gathered around, sprawling on the pillows and furs, sipping wine, laughing softly and whispering to one another.
"Gideon," she heard the Comte exclaim above her head, "see what came back to us."
She opened her eyes and glanced to the right, then left. Gideon was beside the wooden chest, looking puzzled, probably wondering where the hell she came from again. She tickled the Comte's cockhead with her tongue and drank down a bead of pre-spend.
"That's enough for now." He pulled her up with a gentle tug of her hair. "I do not wish to spend just yet. Now you may have your gift." He clapped his hands. "Gideon, the boots."
Looking around the crowded, warm room, Cat realized now that she was the only person without clothes. His guests were still fully, and richly attired. There were women as well as men, all studying her with curiosity, some whispering in their neighbor's ear, some brazenly kissing and fondling one another.
The Comte led her to a large cushion and bade her sit. With her legs spread wide apart, of course. Gideon had retrieved a smaller box from inside the chest it was placed before her. The Comte knelt and removed the lid.
"I had the cobbler make boots for you, my pretty slave. Do you like them? Speak."
"Yes."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
They were black leather, very long boots that would come all the way up to her thighs and keep her legs warm. But the soles and heels were taller than anything she'd ever seen on a person's foot. They would require the balance of a circus acrobat to walk upon them. The Comte slid the first one onto her foot and laced the boot all the way up the back of her leg. Gideon placed the second boot and laced it in the same manner. Then she was directed to stand.
This was achieved with difficulty and only by holding onto the large wooden chest to keep her balance. Immediately the Comte bent her over and Gideon began applying the cold, wet lotion to her arse crack. He circled her anus with his forefinger, taking longer over it, she thought, than was necessary. Then the anal plug with the fancy pony tail was pressed slowly into place between her cheeks. She groaned and bit her lip as that wretched warming sensation began at once. Cat did not want all these people to see her helpless arousal, but they would.
"Stand upright, pretty slave. Make your tail dance, as you did before."
Applause rang out and even the Comte seemed pleased. She supposed that was what the quick lifting of his mouth meant and the darkening of his eyes as his pupils widened.
She was tall in those boots, on his eye level for once. It felt good to meet his gaze without having to look up. Now if only she could keep her balance and not tumble over.
"A pussy in boots," he whispered, his warm hand cupping her sex, squeezing, his index finger slipping between her folds. "My pussy in boots."
****
He felt the damp of her excitement in his palm. She might feign reluctance, but she was ready for her proper initiation. Slowly he led her around the room, parading her proudly as his new prize, encouraging his guests to examine her thoroughly. She trembled a little, but he doubted it was all fear. Perhaps she wondered how far he would let his guests go with her. It would be good to let her wonder. She would learn to trust him eventually, to give herself up to him completely. But tonight might be hard for her.
"Squat," he told her quietly. "Thighs spread. Let the Madame La Vere, admire my new acquisition."
He thought she might quarrel.
"Squat," he said again, firmer this time.
With some difficulty she obeyed, swaying in her high-heeled boots, her fing
ers holding tight to the sleeve of his brocade jacket. The Madame La Vere rested in an arrogant sprawl on a cushion nearby sipping her wine, one hand down a handsome young man's breeches. She looked over at his slave and smiled faintly. "How lovely. You're a fortunate man, Max. And you have excellent taste."
The Comte bowed. Urging his slave upright again, he led her across the fleeces to another guest and made her perform the same ritual. Many of his guests were plainly disappointed when he only let them look. But for once the Comte planned to save a newly acquired pussy all for himself. They would be his audience tonight, but they would not participate any more than this.
He moved her onward to be inspected by the next guest. Here he told her to cup her breasts and tweak the nipples, while she performed the same stance as before. She seemed to get accustomed to the height of the boots much quicker than he expected, soon stepping over pillows and fleeces without needing to clutch at his arm for steadiness.
The Baron Montmorency, leaned closer and cast his leering gaze over the new slave. "Hmmm. You let me know when you tire of this one, Max. She has spirit. I see it in her eyes. She's unbroken still."
"Yes," he replied smoothly. "But I do not tire easily."
The Baron laughed and reached over to touch her sex.
"No hands," Max growled as those fingers came within an inch of molesting his prize. "Look only," he added.
"Ah, then she is special."
"Yes. She is." He knew she looked at him, puzzled, but he kept his gaze ahead, leading her forward again on their progress around the viewing chamber. At every stop his fever gained another degree. He had planned this as her punishment for leaving him, knowing her haughty pride would pinch at being displayed to so many eyes. Yet, the delay punished him too. The scent of her hair wafted over him whenever she turned her head. The skin of her arm was finer than any cloth he could buy, for all his wealth. It felt as if she might melt in his hands, like a beautiful flake of snow. But she was not so fragile. This he knew already.