The Centrepiece
After her Ravishment, Dorée's sense of herself underwent a profound shift. No longer a virgin, yet not a bride or mother, she was cast into a sea of moral confusion. There was no word for what she was now, except perhaps "putain" -a fallen woman who sold her body. Dorée had heard that epithet flung at her older sister Livia when she left her mother-in-law's house for the streets of Paris. But Livia had never taken money for her sexual escapades, and Dorée was not exactly selling herself. She was neither virgin nor whore, maiden nor mistress. To add to her frustration, she was constantly consumed by desire but forbidden any outlet by the chastity belt. How was she to be, to act, to live, like this?
Her circumstances in the Chateau only intensified the passionate contradictions she struggled with, for now she lived two lives: the Life of the Day, and the Life of the Night.
During the day-time, Dorée was still in charge of the other maids in the South Wing. She had been granted a position within the Chateau, and this position was not taken from her just because she was in chastity. She was still allowed to dress in the long-sleeved blouses and apron-fronted skirts of her role as Head Chambermaid. She had to wear the belt under her skirt at all times, but she was allowed to open a small, hinged portal to attend to her bodily functions, though she had to ask Juliet for the key and suffer the Lady's Companion to listen in on her for gasps or other tell-tale signs of disobedience. Besides that small humiliation, however, she was largely free to decide her own daily routine. She set the cleaning schedule and oversaw the work. It was her duty to make sure every task was done to perfection by her underlings.
As she had learned on the night she first indulged herself, sharp commands and force of will were the only way to make her maids take heed. They scoffed at reason and distrusted kindness. They respected only power. So, more and more often, Dorée found herself wielding her voice like a lash to drive them towards their duties. Indeed, she was so tense with pent-up desire during the days that it was almost a relief to berate a maid who dropped a dustpan full of ashes, or to give a swift kick to the behind of a page who sauntered off too slowly with her messages. Except for her daily encounters with Juliet, or a pause to curtsey for the Scarlet Lady as she walked by (never stopping, never looking at Dorée), she spent most of her working time around servants who ranked below her. During the day, then, she learnt what it felt like to command and be obeyed.
At night, however, her position was completely reversed. Each evening, one of the Duc's elite Guards would appear in the South Wing and summon Dorée to the North. She always left the maids with the same order: not to send for her unless the Scarlet Lady demanded it. Then she followed the Guard out and into another world entirely.
No two nights were alike. The first night after her Ravishment, she was brought to a common room shared by several guest suites in the North Wing. It was lavishly appointed, with a large, broad hearth flanked by massive andirons in the form of serpents and a patterned fur on the floor from some even more exotic creature. Deep leather armchairs were set beside dainty Rococo tables, creating an air that was at once masculine and effete.
In this room were gathered four or five men who were staying in the adjoining suites as guests of the Duc. The youngest, a strapping lad who wore the garb of a huntsman, might have been 19 or 20. He glowered at her darkly as she entered. The oldest, perhaps in his early 60s, was the fop with powdered hair and bejeweled beauty mark who had called out to ask if the Duc would finish her at her Ravishment. He blew her a kiss and a knowing wink. The others were noblemen in their prime years clad in long smoking jackets that were probably meant to be casual despite their elaborate embroidery. They paid Dorée no mind whatsoever, engaged in a spirited debate of their own.
Not knowing what else to do, Dorée curtseyed and held her obeisance. She looked around surreptitiously through her tawny curls as she waited. What would be demanded of her here? The Huntsman was glaring at her with eyes like burning coals. The Fop was smirking at the Huntsman. The Nobles were still arguing, something to do with a horse. She was just starting to wonder if she ought to fetch a decanter of brandy off the sideboard and offer a drinks service when one of the arguing Nobles called her over.
"No, no, no, you see, a horse has got to be broken, just like a girl. Take her with force the first time and she's yours forever."
So saying, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and all in one move twisted her arm and drove her to her knees before him. She cried out involuntarily even as her pulse leapt in her throat. His hand closed over her mouth, stifling the cry. She stilled and quieted herself. When he let her go, she remained on her knees. He gestured at her as if her obedience were proof positive of his argument.
"Bah, that's no fun," said his opponent. "A broken horse has no spirit. When I give my horse its head, I want to feel it jump under me. How about it, cherie? Do you want to jump under me?"
Dorée glanced up at him and gave her head an uncertain little shake. He laughed raucously.
"Ah, but you can't, can you? The Duc's got you reined in tight. Let's see your reins."
Dorée began to tremble.
"I don't know what you mean," she said quietly.
"Of course you know what he means." Said the third Nobleman. "For you are not a horse. You're a thinking animal. I've heard how you debate with the Duc and challenge his principles. As a scholar of philosophy, I see the wit in you -however inferior it may be through lack of training and a woman's weaknesses. Would you dare to debate with me?"
Dorée shook her head again.
"O no! I'm simply here to be of service-"
"Serve, then!"
Everyone in the room jumped as the fiery young man slammed his hand down on the table.
"Enough of this chatter. You're here for our amusement and I intend to get my share at once."
He strode forward brashly toward Dorée, which would have been quite intimidating except that in his haste he barked his shin on a footstool, sent it flying, and nearly tumbled over himself. The Fop cackled like a crow.
"Tra la! Behold the impatience of youth: quickly fired and just as quickly fallen."
"Don't mock me, fool. You're the one they laugh at." The Huntsman muttered darkly. But he ceased his impulsive rush forward.
The three Noblemen gave each other indulgent smiles. Then one took Dorée's right arm while the other took her left. They raised her to her feet. The third unbuttoned her blouse, and none too gently either. Working with concerted effort, it took mere moments to have her standing before them with nothing but her chastity belt on.
'At least I have this to protect me,' she thought, touching a finger to the metal side.
Once again, however, she was quite wrong, for there was a great deal of her body exposed besides that part which was covered, and the men took it upon themselves to use it all.
The Huntsman was fascinated with her breasts. Seizing them roughly, he bit, licked, slapped, and pinched them until Dorée thought they would be black and blue in the morning. Sometimes he had the others let her arms go so that she would hide herself instinctively, only to tussle with her and pull her arms open, evidently enjoying the hunt of her nipples. With each futile attempt she made to evade him, with every cry she could not stifle and gasp she could not contain, the Huntsman smiled all the more.
