Victoria Janssen - The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover

Vilmos led them through a door flush with the wall paneling and down a narrow staircase lit by lamps burning perfumed, musky oil. Camille wrinkled her nose, then quickly repressed her reaction. She was obviously heading for another of the duke’s outlandish scenarios. He planned to make her watch. Inwardly, she sighed. She did not have the stomach to watch his pale buttocks pumping over some pliant maid in a strange costume for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, she had little choice. Had the last one been a milkmaid or an extravagantly female version of a courier? No, there had been two. One in a blacksmith’s apron and nothing else, the other wielding a bellows in ways Camille had found more humorous than erotic.

The stairs changed from carpeted wood to carved limestone. She had never traveled this passage before. Only servants and prisoners were obligated to visit the underlevels of the palace. She might be taken there if she were to be beheaded. Inwardly, she shuddered at the thought. Outwardly, she focused her gaze on Kaspar’s big shoulders moving down the stairs ahead of her.

She heard a clanking noise as Vilmos drew out a bunch of keys to unlock the red door she glimpsed at the bottom of the staircase. She guessed they must be adjacent to the cool rooms where cheese was stored, and for a wild moment considered what erotic use the duke had found for the duchy’s famed tart blue.

Camille entered the chamber, her guards swiftly positioning themselves at her shoulders. Vilmos had already dragged Marrine to the duke, who chucked her under the chin before he waved his hand toward a table heaped with furs. Vilmos lifted her as if she weighed as little as a broomstraw and deposited her there. Marrine did not fight him as he removed her cap and her red hair sprang free; she reached over her shoulder and began to unbutton her dress.

The duke strode over to Camille, reached out one manicured finger and hooked it beneath her jeweled collar. Camille took care not to jerk away; she did not want to be choked. “You’ve taken pleasure today,” he barked. “I know it.”

He didn’t know for sure, or he would have acted much more swiftly and decisively. “You keep an army of concubines, Your Grace,” Camille replied. “Do you begrudge me satisfaction? You’ve made no move to provide it yourself.”

“Women were placed on this earth to please men,” the duke said. His plump lips curved behind his silky gray beard, but his cold blue eyes did not change expression. “It has been a long time since you have pleased me .” He snorted. “It is a pity you had the time to dress before Vilmos brought you to me. Would you have liked to parade the palace naked, I wonder? Would your lover have seen you?”

His finger still crooked beneath her collar, the duke stepped closer. His floor-length robe of dense velvet was trimmed all down the front in silky black fur. One step more and the fur brushed her robe, raising a nasty prickle.

“You will tell me who it is,” he said. “I can make you afraid of me.”

She was afraid. He held her life in his hands. He simply didn’t want to see it. He wanted to break her anew each time, like a boy plucking wings off a populace of flies.

“I’ll have an answer out of you, Camille.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, hating herself for letting him bully her, but hating him even more.

His left hand rubbed up and down her cheek, his hot fingers squeezed by rows of rings. The set stones caught the light and glowed dully, angrily: ruby, emerald, topaz, amethyst. Square plates of gold interspersed with hunks of tourmaline banded his thick wrist. She stared at the stones rather than look up at his leering face. She could smell the perfumed oil in his beard and the cloves he chewed for his breath.

At last he released her collar. He trailed his finger down and squeezed her breast through her robe. Perhaps she was to be his vessel tonight. He had to fuck her at least once, in case she had managed to become pregnant that afternoon. She wasn’t sure how she was going to manage that part. She closed her eyes, feeling her nipple draw tighter at the duke’s manipulations. Given enough time to prepare herself, this could be bearable. Just once, and never again. Just once—nausea strangled her. She could not. She would do anything if she never had to see his prick again.

She stared at his hand as his fingers pressed painfully into the soft flesh of her breast. His other hand grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to her knees. “Have you learned to swallow a cock yet? I’m told a lack of breath is an effective incentive. Vilmos, perhaps you could hold her, so she may learn properly how to please me.”

Camille couldn’t help her flinch, a choked whimper escaping her lips. The duke shoved her away onto the floor. He traced his foot over her bare fingers, as if contemplating how best to crush them, then shifted and ground his toe into her quim. “You are less amusing than you once were,” he said. To the air he said, “There is a throne for Her Grace. Secure her there.”

A spectator again. Relief drenched her. Arno glanced at her apologetically as he strapped her arms to the ornately carved chair. He settled at her feet like a faithful hound, his shaven head almost touching her knee. Kaspar stood behind the chair, a looming shelter. She could feel the warmth of his body on the back of her neck.

Camille had a clear view of the cellar room, which was carpeted in plush red silk and hung with erotic tapestries she recognized as having once hung in the duke’s bedchamber. She’d always despised them, because the women were always depicted being taken unwillingly, if one could guess from their stark facial expressions. An ebony table held a basin and pitcher; another held wine and cups. She could particularly see a side view of the fur-heaped table where Marrine reclined, naked and with her hips elevated on a pillow. A pile of cut roses on long, thorny stems lay near her. No costumes tonight, then, unless someone was to wear the flowers.

The duke unfastened his wide, jeweled belt and tugged it free. He draped it over one shoulder, the buckle dangling in front. His robe fell open, baring his naked body. He was thickening around the waist and sagging in the chest but his legs were still powerful. His prick hung turgidly; he stroked it as he lounged in a chair similar to Camille’s, though his boasted a padded, embroidered seat.

Camille glanced at Marrine, then at the duke, unsure of his intentions. He was not inclined to restraint. She lifted her chin, anticipating a new threat to be faced.

“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.