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“Vilmos,” said the duke.
His servant turned, to face her, Camille realized. He wore knee breeches, stockings and flat shoes with his uniform jacket. He stripped open his jacket and pulled apart the halves of his shirt to reveal a massive chest. His chest hair was only fractionally darker than that on his head, and just as dense. Then he flicked open the buttons on his breeches and withdrew his prick, partially erect and already thick as Camille’s wrist.
“Her Grace will accommodate you for a few moments,” the duke said, smiling nastily. “Her mouth must be useful for something other than insolence.”
Vilmos stepped out of his shoes, pushed his breeches down his hips, and stepped out of them as well. He padded over to her in his stockinged feet, one hand holding his cock. He stopped a pace away from her. Arno glared up at him. Camille said softly, “Arno,” and he rose immediately, though without releasing Vilmos from his gaze. She heard Kaspar’s hiss of warning from behind her. At last, Arno stepped back. He rested one warm hand on her shoulder, an unusual liberty, but one which she did not deny him.
Vilmos pressed his shins against her legs and held out his cock. He looked uncomfortable. He did not have the control she did. She would show the duke nothing of her thoughts.
Vilmos was so tall, she scarcely had to bend to reach him. Thankfully, he was clean, his hot skin smelling of chamomile soap. Had he known this would happen? If so, she appreciated the consideration.
In other circumstances, she might have enjoyed tasting so large a cock, but not in front of the duke. She opened her mouth and took him in, sucking hard and dipping her tongue into his slit to speed him along and deny the duke as much pleasure as she could. Vilmos swelled alarmingly fast; she pulled back once, but he pressed against her lips until she opened to him again. He began squeezing and stroking his own length while she licked and suckled at the crown; she could hear him gasping. Just as her jaw was beginning to ache, he tugged himself free of her mouth, his hands falling to his sides.
The duke lifted a ringed hand. “You and the maid will entertain me now.”
Camille nearly laughed at his indifferent tone. She could see his prick nudging his belly, its head shiny with fluid. Had her submission aroused him, or Vilmos’s unquestioning obedience?
She did not want to watch the duke. Pretending he did not exist, she turned to Vilmos and Marrine.
Vilmos cupped his hands beneath Marrine’s thighs and pulled her legs loosely around his waist. She crossed her ankles and smiled like a dancer about to take the stage. He had powerful buttocks that clenched impressively as he guided himself into Marrine, or at least to a point just past the flange of his cock’s head. There he stopped. Marrine squirmed. Her arms, which she had flung provocatively above her head, reached for their joined bodies as if to tug him forward.
Camille wondered if calling out advice was allowed. She suspected Marrine would have better luck being taken from behind. She also suspected this awkwardness was part of the show. What a show! She fought back a laugh. Would they follow with a trip to the menagerie? And where were the food vendors?
Vilmos drew back and thrust forward again, his hands shoving Marrine’s thighs farther apart. At the peak of each thrust, he held still for a moment, and then pushed forward incrementally more. Marrine had uncrossed her ankles and her bare feet bobbed in the air. She was panting. Vilmos let go of her legs and held open her folds, rubbing her bud with his thumb as he continued his stuttered rhythm. Camille could see he’d penetrated a bit farther, and as she watched, he eased in farther still. His cock was dark maroon, shiny with Marrine’s fluids.
Vilmos thrust hard and Marrine groaned, a surprisingly deep sound from so small a woman. The involuntary sound was shockingly arousing, a visceral reminder of her own afternoon with Henri. Camille’s quim dampened as Vilmos sped up his efforts and, all at once, slid fully into his partner. After that, it didn’t take long. Marrine slid among the furs with the force of Vilmos’s thrusts, her fingers plucking at her own nipples. She groaned more loudly. Vilmos was silent, though his fingers kneaded Marrine’s quim, thighs and belly with frantic grasping motions.
Camille breathed slowly, showing nothing, though her body wanted to writhe. Arno’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she glanced up at him in surprise. She had forgotten he stood there. He smiled at her, an expression she was not accustomed to seeing on the faces of her guards.
“Hurry!” the duke’s voice commanded. Camille twitched in distaste. Vilmos redoubled his efforts. Marrine squealed as she came, then relaxed as she rode out his last few thrusts. She was smiling, and sensuously writhed her shoulders against the furs.
Camille felt no such relaxation. Her bones thrummed inside her legs and arms. Her palms itched. Her quim contracted uselessly around nothing; her clitoris ached for her to press upon it. She focused on Arno’s grip on her shoulder. Gradually, she settled back in her chair. She did not want the duke to hear, or even see, her beg. She’d done so, before. Never again.
She heard a creak of wood as the duke stood. “My robe,” he commanded Vilmos.
Vilmos moved quickly for so large a man, and with surprising dignity for someone whose cock flapped free. He drew the robe from the duke’s shoulders and folded it over the back of his chair, while the duke went over to Marrine. As if inspecting a pastry, he prodded two fingers into her quim. She lifted her legs gracefully and clasped them around his neck.
The duke snorted. “I’ll have none of your theatrics, girl.” He reached up and gripped her calves, pulling them apart and down to his waist. “Vilmos! I require your service.”
Camille thought she saw a flicker of annoyance on Vilmos’s placid face, then it was gone. He bowed and returned to the naked duke. As the duke eased his prick into Marrine—whose smile this time seemed, to Camille, distinctly insincere—Vilmos warmed his hands beneath his arms, then laid them on the duke’s pumping buttocks.
Camille blinked. She had seen the duke use two female concubines at once, or even three, for his amusements, but never anything like this. And Vilmos had no erection whatsoever.
She meant to look away. She did not want to watch the duke, and his eyes were fixed on Marrine’s jouncing breasts, so he would not notice that Camille was ignoring him. But her curiosity kept her watching Vilmos, who had begun to trace his fingers down the crack between the duke’s buttocks. When the duke stopped moving and abruptly called his name, Vilmos bent and ran his tongue along the path where his fingers had been. To Camille’s astonishment, he then pulled the duke’s buttocks apart and began to lick around his hole. She thought he might have dipped into the hole with his tongue, but was not sure.
“Enough!” said the duke, and began to fuck Marrine again. Vilmos kept his hands on his master’s rear, his expression blank. When the duke stopped again and called his name, he worked two fingers into the duke’s hole. The rest of his hand jerked, as if he simulated a spurting prick.
The duke resumed his fucking, but this time Vilmos did not stop what he was doing. After a moment or two, the duke let out a cry such as Camille had never heard from any man and sped up his thrusting. His face had reddened, and sweat dripped from the ends of his hair. She watched Vilmos’s hand, and identified an upward stroke that elicited the duke’s pleasured cries.
The duke came very quickly. That much, Camille thought wryly, had not changed. She was impressed, though, with what Vilmos had done. She had never seen such a thing before, and if she had been watching any man but her husband, she might have found it arousing to see a man penetrated as if he was a woman, and to know that his pleasure came from the hands of his penetrator. The idea of that sort of control excited her in a way she was sure the duke had not intended. She had momentarily forgotten her predicament.
It appeared the show was over. Marrine was licking the duke’s prick clean, and Vilmos was washing his hands and surreptitiously rinsing his mouth with wine. Camille would have appreciated a glass herself. Vilmos brought a cup only to the duke, however.
“Your Grace,” Arno said softly. “Allow me to remove this.”
For a moment, she thought he meant her robe; then she saw his hand on the fur-lined cuff which bound her arm to the chair. She nodded, hopefully with aplomb. Arno set to work on one arm and Kaspar on the other. They both completely ignored the activity on the other side of the room, which she supposed made sense, as they were eunuchs. For the first time, she wondered if any sexual pleasure at all was possible for them. They still had, she understood, their pricks, though their sacs were empty.
When her bindings were entirely removed, she stood, careful to let the blood flow back into her knees before she attempted to straighten. She said, in her most commanding voice, “Do you have further need of me, Your Grace?”
Her husband had drizzled wine from Marrine’s breasts to her thighs, and was currently snuffling in her quim while she swatted at his flanks with a handful of the roses. He waved a negligent hand and said, “Vilmos, take her to her rooms and secure the door. Bring her back to me next week, and we shall see if she is more amenable.” Then he returned to his concubine. She was forgotten. Camille felt cold. The duke’s treatment of her made it obvious that he no longer cared if she became pregnant or not. She was only a toy to him now, and one of which he would soon tire.
Her time was rapidly running out.
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time Henri finished mucking out Guirlande’s stall and carting the soiled straw to compost, the moon was up. He stopped midway back to look at the stars.
Even a stableboy could be dazzled by the glory of the night sky. His heart slowed and swelled with awe. He couldn’t touch the stars, but he had touched the duchess.
He sighed and trundled his smelly wheelbarrow back to the yard. He needed to stop thinking of his afternoon with the duchess, stop making it into more than it had been. She had used him. Hadn’t she?
He couldn’t deny that, secretly, he had wanted her for years. Desire had slowly replaced his earlier fantasies that she’d singled him out for equestrian training because he was somehow special. Now the danger was past, he didn’t even mind she’d used him. There was no other way he could have had her.
How bovine he’d been, blurting out that he would help her escape. As if she would ever need him to rush to her rescue. Her maid was loyal, and her eunuchs. There would be others, too, greater than a stableboy. He wondered if any of them cared for her at all.
He took a last walk down the row of his charges, petting the noses of those horses still awake and eyeing him over their stall doors. He would have to be up early to school Tulipe in the ring, and Lilas needed to be conditioned on the longe line. Guirlande, he sensed, would be coming into season soon, and possibly Tonnelle also. That would mean a trip to one of the far-flung breeding barns and, for him, relative luxury. Not only would he be caring for far fewer horses, he wouldn’t be assigned odd jobs, as when he was easily in view of the stable- master and his chief grooms. He wouldn’t be catching the associated random blows. Even better, the breeding barns were built in past days of unimaginable affluence, for a duke who had loved his horses, so the hayloft where Henri slept would rival—well, he had used to think it would rival the very bedchamber of the duke, but today he had been disabused of that notion. It didn’t matter. Small luxuries were easier to enjoy.
He felt again the weight and smoothness of her dress as it sagged from his hands, inhaled the flowery perfume she’d worn in the crook of her neck. While he, Henri, stank of horse sweat and dung. She hadn’t flinched from his hands upon her. Still, he hadn’t dared touch her face, or kiss her lips. He wished now he had. Then he would feel they’d known each other, however briefly.
It was childish of him to expect so much. She was as far above him as the stars, and old enough to be his mother. It was true many men took brides much younger than themselves, so perhaps it wasn’t so awful. Why not the reverse? He imagined her in his imaginary cottage, gorgeously gowned, rocking a cradle, and he laughed. More likely he’d be rocking the baby and changing nappies.
He turned away from Tonnelle and headed out the double doors, into the night. His body hummed. He couldn’t sleep yet.
It was late, but not too late for a bath. Perhaps, afterward, he would indulge in something more. The Dewy Rose specialized in all sorts of relaxations, and he never spent much of his paltry wages, sleeping as he did amid the horses. Perhaps he would share some of his money with the girls of the Dewy Rose. He could afford one of the cheaper whores. For an hour, perhaps. He always allowed himself the possibility, though in the end he usually decided to save his money, knowing that if he was frugal, his own cottage would be real that much sooner.
He walked into the town, principal seat of the duchy. The streets were more active than the estate had been. Drunken revelers spilled from a tavern near the gate, coaches rattled over the cobbles, and a raucous game of dice devoured an entire alley. Most of the street whores ignored him. He looked like empty pockets. He was just as happy to be on his way unmolested. It hurt him to look at the streetgirls’ eyes.
The Dewy Rose, a massive building of rough gray stone, towered three stories over the neighbors on either side, its white windowsills scrubbed clean daily and the shingled roof trimmed with decorative strips of copper. Its baths were cheap and popular. It cost extra, though, to climb the stairs with one of the girls, and cost considerably more for one of the young men Madame Hubert had imported from a desert land far to the south. He had glimpsed them once or twice, on his way to the baths: slender men with flawless skin and dark outlining around their eyes, wearing only long silken drawers, layers of necklaces and silver rings on their bare toes. The duchess might have bought herself one of those, through an intermediary. Except their skin was too dark for any child of theirs to pass as the duke’s.
Torches crackled at either side of the grand front entrance. Henri shoved open the carved oaken door and was confronted by a giant elderly eunuch wearing a black robe. He silently held out one slablike palm, and Henri laid a quarter-copper there. The eunuch’s hand closed over it; with his other hand, he jerked a thumb at the corridor beyond. Manic laughter swelled from the house’s interior, mingled with the clink of goblets and knives and, faintly, a twinging harp.
The common room’s doors were folded back to allow heat to escape, and to let the bath’s patrons have a preview of the evening’s entertainment. Henri had meant to pass straight by. He could not resist a look, though, to see if his memories of the room’s appointments compared ill or favorably with those of the duchess’s.
He could not see much of the furnishings. The long buffet table bore food on either end and a nude woman in the middle; two men in shirtsleeves were licking honey and wine from her belly and breasts. A couple copulated in the chair nearest the door. The woman, bodice pulled down to her waist, gripped the arms of the chair to raise and lower herself on her partner’s swollen red cock, her white buttocks flashing as her minuscule skirt fluttered with each stroke. Henri gaped, amazed that they were allowed to do that in the common room, even in a brothel, until he saw a ring of watchers. This was some staged entertainment, like the two women arranged on a chaise by the fireplace, one daintily fondling the other, who plunged an ivory dildo into herself. One of the male whores was massaging her feet. She looked up, as if awaiting orders. Henri followed her gaze to the center of the room and saw the duchess.
He had seen that court gown at a distance, and the outline of her hair confined within its tiara was familiar to him from the coin he’d just placed in a eunuch’s palm. The skin around his cock tightened automatically. Except—she could not be here. She would not be here. He looked closer, and of course the duchess was only Madame Hubert, was only a whore.
If he emptied his savings and paid her fee, he could have her. Well, almost. In a year or two he would have enough. For a moment he considered it; but it would be a mockery. He felt ashamed even for letting the thought cross his mind.
He hurried down the corridor and exited into the quiet rear yard. The bathhouse occupied almost the entire space; the narrow alley between its wooden walls and the tall fence had been planted with wandering roses. Their scent flooded his nostrils, clearing the indoor stench of perfume and wine and sweat, and sweetened the woodsmoke which rose from stoves at the rear. He followed a white gravel path to the entrance and pushed open the door.
The bathhouse was unusually quiet; he could hear water lapping and trickling. The pre-supper crowd had already departed, and visitors to the brothel would not yet have emerged for a sluicing before they returned home.
Henri stepped onto a rough straw mat in the narrow corridor running the length of the building. To his right was an alcove with hooks and benches where he hung his clothes and left his boots. The child who normally guarded belongings was sleeping on a pile of towels in the corner. Henri let him be; he had nothing of value to steal, anyway, except his boots, which were mired in horse muck. He took a towel from a shelf and entered the next room along the corridor. The floor in there was limestone, just rough enough to avoid getting slippery. The sluicing room held stools and stone bowls of soft, gritty soap, the cheapest kind. Smooth perfumed varieties had to be purchased separately; Henri always used what was provided. It did well enough.
He hung his towel and scrubbed off. His shoulder and elbow were scraped where one of the upper grooms had shoved him into a wall that afternoon for being late. He washed the wounds gently, but they had stopped bleeding hours ago and the bruises were emerging. He’d barely noticed them at the time, and if they’d known the reason for his being late, it would have been much worse. A few bumps and bruises were a small price to pay.
Pipes trickled warm water into flagons; when they overflowed, the water drained through a hole in the center of the floor. During peak times, the time saved in heating separate containers of water balanced out the waste of it, and the brothel didn’t need to worry about their water supply running out since they controlled a natural spring, a secondary source of Madame Hubert’s wealth. The duke had a spring, too, somewhere in the bowels of the palace. To lay siege to a place with its own pure water supply would be the purest folly; that was one reason he held so much power. Or so people said. Henri thought it would be easy enough to take the palace, from the inside. But the people inside the palace lived in luxury, and were likely well satisfied with their lot in life. They wouldn’t want to tear it apart. Well, maybe the duke’s servants weren’t satisfied, but if he were one of them, he would go after the duke, not the palace. He’d want the palace for his own afterward. Any smart person would. A treacherous thought intruded: he would want the duchess for his own, as well.
Pouring water over his head, he didn’t hear the bathmaid enter. He shook his wet hair from his eyes and startled at the quiet figure standing near the door. She was perhaps his own age or a little older, with short-cropped ebony hair over a beautifully-shaped skull. The short cut made her dark eyes seem even larger than they really were. He didn’t often see this girl working in the evenings; usually it was the one-legged man, or the girl who never stopped talking.
She wore a thin shift that hung only to her knees. It clung damply to her small breasts and curving hips and a darker shadow between her legs. Sometimes the bathmaids worked in the nude, but Henri found her minimal clothing a thousand times more enticing. Her breasts looked like round peaches, just the size to cup in his two hands. She smelled of soap and roses.
He realized he was standing with his mouth open, soapsuds running down his legs, and a flagon dangling forgotten from his hand. He deliberately did not look down at his cock. It had risen as he handled it to wash, and he did not want to draw the maid’s attention to it. She likely had to deal with lecherous men all day, every day. He did not need to add to that. He’d had a tumble already. With mild hysteria, he thought of explaining to her that he was having a bath because that afternoon he’d fucked the duchess.
She said, prompting, “Are you ready for the tub, sir?”
Henri nodded. He hurriedly reached to place his flagon on the floor, but she took it from him, chose a full one, and said, “Stand still. There’s more soap.”
Henri closed his eyes as she doused him, head to foot, twice more. The water trickling down his body could have been her fingers, small and chapped from constant washing. He didn’t usually have this much trouble in the baths. Of course, usually the room was full of other men, and they would be dousing each other with careful courtesy. He wasn’t used to being alone with a bathmaid, much less a pretty one. He tried to think cold thoughts, and his erection did subside a little.
The bathmaid wrapped his towel around his waist before leading him to the next room. He’d never received such a service before. Perhaps she thought he was someone important? Or just hoped for a good tip. Or thought he was too slow to do it himself, and she wanted him to be done and clear out. She said, “My name is Nicolette. Nico.”
“Henri,” he said. Or perhaps she was being friendly.
She smiled at him and said, “I know. I’ve seen you here.” In the flickering lamplight, he watched the curves of her bottom move as she walked ahead of him and bent to turn a stopcock. Steaming water gushed from the pipe and into the copper tub. She tested the water and added cold water from a bucket, then tested it again. At her gesture, he climbed inside.
He’d worked hard all day, both before and after his visit to the duchess. The heat flooded his tired muscles like the rush of orgasm. “That’s nice,” he said, reaching out his legs and wiggling his toes.
“Let me wash your hair,” Nico said. “Here, lean back onto this towel.”
“I didn’t pay for—” He hoped she would not get into trouble for offering a free service.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We haven’t any other customers right now, and Suzette will tend to them if we do.”
“If you’re sure it’s all right,” Henri said, already tensing in anticipation of an unexpected treat. He leaned back.
“Suzette told me you work in the duke’s stables?”
Suzette had to be the one who never stopped talking. “I care for the horses that the duchess rode,” he said. “I hope someday she will ride them again.”
“I do, too,” Nico said. “I’ve always admired her. She seems so strong and dignified.”
Henri tried to think of a neutral comment. “She rides beautifully,” Henri said. “I’m lucky to learn from her horses.”
“Annette—she’s the midwife in the brothel—Annette has actually met her. In the palace, the duchess didn’t come here, of course. I asked what she was like. Annette wouldn’t tell me. She only looked sad. Annette never looks sad, that’s one reason why we…why I…oh, no. You’ll think I’ve turned into Suzette, if I keep on like this. You’re a good listener. Close your eyes.” She poured warm water over his head, then dabbed the drips from his face. She winnowed her fingers through his wet hair. “Your hair is so thick. It’s a pleasure to handle. I miss my own hair, but working here, it’s so much more convenient to keep it clipped. Madame Hubert requires it, anyway.”
“Clipped…it suits you,” he said. “I think so. I think it, it makes you look beautiful.” He could feel a blush scalding his cheeks, but in the dim room he hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind to say so.” She dug her fingers into his hair again, this time after coating them with soap. The scent of lavender washed over him as she scrubbed his scalp and squeezed the soap through hanks of his hair. He had to work not to moan at the pleasure of it. Each scratch of her fingers seemed to shoot straight to his cock.
“Do you like this?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. He felt drunk, only better, like being drunk ought to feel.
“Do you have time to stay a little longer?” Nico asked.
She’d sounded lonely when she spoke of Annette. “As long as you want,” he said.
“Sit up, and close your eyes.” She poured rinse water over his head, another hot rush of pleasure, then did it again, and again. Henri felt limp, except for his cock, which he could feel bobbing in the water like an eager puppy.
“Done,” she said. Then, “I would like you to fuck me.”
He began to turn around, but Nico put her hands on his shoulders, preventing him. “You’re wondering why,” she said.
This was true.
Nico began to massage his shoulders, digging strong fingers into the muscles by his neck, and he moaned. “You like that? Good.”
He more than liked it, he had never felt anything so good in his life, except his cock inside a woman’s slippery tunnel. He’d been ready to do anything she wanted after she’d washed his hair. He wasn’t going to tell her to stop, though.
Nico said, “The bathhouse is going to get crowded again later. It always does, after the shows in the house let out. Then we get another rush in the morning. Right now, it’s the only time there’s any privacy, and then you came in, and I’ve seen you. You’re always nice to us. Not like some others.”
“Hmm?” Henri said. He was listening, but her massage was making him sleepy at the same time that it aroused him.
“You don’t grab,” she said. “I like that. So I thought, why shouldn’t you get a reward? And why shouldn’t I have a little something for myself? We can enjoy each other.”
“Anything you want,” Henri said. Surely he was dreaming. No other explanation made sense for a day like this.
“Let’s go in the steam room, then. Have you ever tried it?” She gathered up his towel and a pile of others, tucking them under one arm.
“Costs extra,” he pointed out, standing up slowly. His blood was having trouble reaching his head. It kept getting diverted and pumping into his cock.
Nico held out her hand and he placed his within it. It felt natural to do so. She was like him, she knew what it was like to work all day and then to want to relax. He squeezed her hand and she peeked over her shoulder and smiled at him. She had a wide mouth, almost too large for her face, but somehow just right with her long nose and big brown eyes. When she smiled, her upper lip crinkled and so did the corners of her eyes. He would have followed her anywhere.
The steam room wasn’t very large. All of the walls were tiled, and running with droplets of water. Vapor poured into the room from a pipe near the floor. Through the billowing steam, he could barely see three wide benches placed against the walls.
He took a deep breath and nearly choked, the air was so thick. He began to sweat, or perhaps it was the steam on his skin. He couldn’t tell. “Easy,” Nico said, and then he could breathe, more deeply than he’d ever breathed before. The odor of crushed peppermint stung his nostrils. Relaxation flowed through him.
Nico spread the towels over one of the benches and all at once he understood their purpose. His cock, which had flagged a bit, recovered quickly. Nico turned to him and smiled again. “Would you help me with this?” She plucked at her now-sodden shift.
Henri palmed her breasts through the cloth first, sighing with her as he rubbed the wet fabric against her nipples. “I could eat them like apples,” he said. When he realized what he’d said, he looked away in embarrassment, but Nico giggled and put her hands on either side of his face.
“You are sweet,” she said, and kissed him. A droplet of salty sweat ran off her upper lip and into his mouth, and he swept his tongue after it, moaning low in his throat when she reciprocated, suckling his tongue and making him think of what it would be like to have a mouth on his cock. He ran one hand over the soft spikiness of her cropped hair over and over, but the other didn’t want to let go of her breast. He squeezed it rhythmically as they kissed, sure he’d found the softest thing in the world. It was funny that so soft a thing could make him so hard.
They stopped to breathe, slowly taking in the steam and letting it out again. He helped her drag her wet shift over her head, and then was lost again as he tasted the sweat on her throat and breasts while his hands traced her upper arms, petal-soft skin over muscles hard from labor. In return, Nico gripped and massaged his arms, his shoulders, his back. When her hands wandered down to his buttocks, he pressed his erection into her belly and thrust tantalizing, twisting strokes against her slippery skin.
His skin was wet, too, but felt as if it was on fire. He was going to come in a minute if he wasn’t careful. He pulled away from her, sucking air, and walked toward the bench with the towels, Nico playfully backing toward it as well. The bench caught her behind her knees, and she sat, reaching out her arms for him.
