"This is the position you are to keep for the rest of the night. You can catch hold of the bar to rest your arms if you absolutely must...but at your peril, lamps. My advice is to move as little as possible. And remember, if you show the least rebellion..." He mimed the stabbing of a spear.
Lamps, he had called them. And so they were.
The maids returned with long tapers to light the lamps. Light and warmth flared to life above Dorée's head. She could see the dancing flame through the fretwork around the flared rim of the holder. Through the pierced decorations on the side, she could now see that there was a solid core of wax all the way down the centre of the sconce. She had never encountered anything like it.
The Footman watched avidly, enjoying the sight of all the lamps being lit. He didn't turn away until the very last one, the redhead in the front alcove, was lit. His bright, hungry eyes revealed his impure thoughts and Dorée squirmed again. She froze quickly, realizing that she had brushed the bar above her with the tops of her arms. But it was too late. Turning up her eyes, she saw a drip of milky-clear wax swelling on the rim of the candle. As she watched, it spilled over the edge and ran down the short, thick candlestick. The first drop cooled and hardened before it could fall. But the next drop ran further, tracing the course of the first. The next went further yet. Finally, one fast-coursing drop made it to a cut-out design in the sconce. It hung pendant, then fell.
The drop hit Dorée's breastbone just at the spot where her throat met the in-curve of her clavicles. She gasped at the blossoming heat and her arms jerked up reflexively, striking the bar above her hard. The candle-stick rattled in its hook and a fresh cascade of wax poured down through the wicked little holes and spouts in the cone to spatter her breast and belly. It was like the gold leaf all over again, except that it ran and flowed and splashed on her in such unpredictable ways, and it did not spare her most tender parts at all. The first drops to hit her unprotected nipples were agony. Dorée wanted to scream. She heard a hiss of indrawn breath from the man beside her. Another woman let out a quick-suppressed whimper. By this time, they all knew enough to hold their tongues.
Just then, a tall, masculine figure in a white-powdered wig and an opulent coat of black damask strode into the room.
"Lit already? Tsk tsk. You know I like to see the first agonizing drops."
The maid he addressed quailed beside him.
"But then again, if we want lovely crenellations by the time the guests arrive, I suppose they must be lit early."
He wave an airy hand, dismissing the maid. Then, on second thought, he snapped her back with a word.
"Wait. I want the men erect when the guests arrive. A pastille each should do it for them. As for the women...we'll let the guests see to them, if any are so inclined."
"Yes, your Grace." The maid said with a deep curtsy.
Dorée was distracted by the wax that kept dripping mercilessly onto her bare skin, but she was still aware of the Duc's presence. He commanded one's attention as if by natural right and disdained it just as easily as he'd won it. Dorée practically felt his gaze brush past her as he inspected the lamps one more time. Then he departed with a satisfied nod.
A brief eternity later, two of the maids reappeared with a dish of something small and round that Dorée could not quite see without turning her head and shaking the bar. Seen from the corner of her eye, they reminded her sacrilegiously of communion wafers. They were given to the male lamps to eat, along with a sip of water. As if to maintain some ritual balance, the maids also allowed all the female lamps a mouthful of water, though they weren't given any tablets. Soon enough all the men began to shift uncomfortably as their members swelled before them in compelled arousal. Once horizontal they were clear targets for the wax, and the men grunted in pain as they were spattered by stray burning droplets.
After a time, the wax began to form a cooled crust on the areas where it spattered most often, and Dorée breathed a sigh of relief as the burning heat dwindled to an almost pleasant warmth. She took this opportunity to observe what she could of the Hall by carefully moving only her eyes. She found her gaze drawn to the other lamps across from her. Even in suffering, each was unique and beautiful in its own way. The white wax showed bright against the darkest man's skin, wantonly spattering the elegant pattern of gold-leaf decorating his chest and encircling his proudly upright cock (which Dorée could not help but notice.) The contrast on the nut-brown farmer next to her must be striking as well, though she dared not turn her head to see him fully. The pale blonde woman directly across from Dorée revealed her blushes much more easily than either man: her cheeks flamed red and her skin was pink wherever the wax still burned. She trembled like a lily-of-the-valley in a hot rain, and only brought more pain down upon herself for her delicacy. Dorée wondered what she herself must look like with her legs spread apart, her body covered in drips of wax like theirs, and that broad stripe of gold-leaf leading the eyes down, down from her breasts to her belly to... suddenly, she felt the pulse again, deep inside her. A kind of sweetness wracked her body even as she knew her humiliation most keenly. She wanted to squeeze her legs together, not to hide herself, but to press what was between them and wriggle her thighs against it. Taking a shallow breath, she closed her eyes and tried to allow her spirit to transcend all that was happening to her. She would not look any more at this strange spectacle, she vowed.
Not long after, amused voices began to echo through the halls and the sound of high-heeled shoes rang on the marble. Cracks and claps and other sounds Dorée could not begin to guess the meaning of echoed through the halls. When the sound of those well-bred voices, all talking and laughing gaily, finally reached the Grand Dining Hall, her curiosity again got the better of her. She opened her eyes to the sight of a stunning noblewoman arrayed in a scarlet gown with a fashionable pannier skirt. Her fitted, low-cut bodice was fronted in black velvet and laced in gold silk cord. Her thick, dark hair was unpowdered and arranged in the most extraordinary coiffure of curls and feathers Dorée had ever seen. To her shock, Dorée saw that the Lady was leading a handsome young man on a silver chain, who crawled by her slippered feet like a spaniel. The Lady was openly examining each one of the lamps as she walked along the gallery. When she saw Dorée gazing at her, she gave a small but wicked smile. Turning, she beckoned to another fine Lady in sky-blue silk and a towering white wig who seemed to be her companion. The Lady in Blue came over, and the Scarlet Lady murmured something into her ear that was lost in the swirl of voices and music. They both laughed. Then the two strolled off arm-in-arm at a leisurely pace, the Lady in Scarlet tugging on her spaniel-boy's chain.
A string quartet struck up in the next room, which Dorée assumed was the ballroom. She took solace in listening for a while, since she so rarely heard any music beyond the simple tunes of country folk. There were loud exclamations of delight every now and then as something that excited the growing crowd took place elsewhere. The Dining Hall was not yet too occupied, but even a half-dozen people felt like quite a lot for Dorée, especially in their coats and gowns and towering hairstyles which made them look so imposing. She was immensely self-conscious of being watched and commented on by such powerful beings while she was naked and tormented for all to see.
Besides her nakedness, her posture was also beginning to cause her discomfort. She had been standing for quite some time without moving and her arms had set to aching. She tried resting them on the top of her head for a while, but even that grew difficult. She was not strong like the hale farmers and doughty milkmaids that surrounded her. Dorée's stepmother, while harsh-tongued, used her for relatively little labour besides housework. Even the willowy white-haired girl across from her seemed more settled in her posture now that she had a good coat of wax on her skin.
Dorée could tell that something terrible would happen if she grabbed the bar above her head. "At your peril, lamps," the Footman had said. But the prospect of some future punishment began to pale in comparison the aching in her arms and the tingling in her cold hands. Indeed, she found that she almost craved the sharp, enlivening intensity of her earlier pain again. The thought of it grew in her mind until she could no longer resist it. She braced herself, and as gently as possible she shifted her arms up to grab onto the rod above her. It was surprisingly warm, and for a moment she felt a rush of grateful relief. Then all of a sudden, the rod let down a bit with a mechanical jolt and -oh, Mercy! Liquid heat poured down her flesh not only from the front, but from behind. The small of her back and the sensitive flesh of her buttocks burned so unexpectedly that she yelped and stamped her feet like a horse while still hanging onto the bar, which only increased the flow. So there were spouts for wax behind her, too! No wonder she had felt a draft caressing her in the alcove. There was a raucous laugh as the guests noticed her writhing and called more attention to her.
