Golden Girl

Chapter 12: Martyrdom

"Golden Girl. Step forward."

It was the Duc's voice, cold and commanding. Though Dorée was victorious in her first competition at the Chateau, she would get no praise from him. He had lost his wager against her, and he was not about to mask his displeasure.

But Dorée was too far gone for fear. She stepped forward, curtseyed deeply, and held the pose with uncommon grace. Her body still coursed with all the force of her arousal and it pulled her under like a fast-running river, so that she felt she was floating in a state of complete abandon to the current. She bowed before the Duc's will as if it were her own will to bow --which, in a way, it was.

"You have passed through the first trial of the night. Now, you must cross swords with me." The Duc said ominously. "Do you still challenge me for the fulfillment of your desire?"

"Yes, my Lord." Dorée said, still holding her obeisance.

"And what is it you want? Stand up and speak loudly so that all may hear you."

Dorée stood and raised her face to the crowd.

"I wish to be a martyr to desire."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the spectators watched the Duc to see how they should react. It no longer seemed something to laugh at now that it was a real possibility.

"Do you know what happens to martyrs, Dorée?" The Duc asked silkily.

"Terrible things. Miraculous things. And then...transcendence." Dorée intoned, as if speaking from a dream.

The Duc growled, his hands clutching the arms of his chair with claw-like rings.

"You expect to transcend this, do you?"

Dorée only smiled.

"I already have."

The audience gasped, and even the Scarlet Lady started in alarm at this insolence. But the Duc, whose eyes yet burned with rage, suddenly broke into a mad smile of his own.

"Then we are well met on the high field of battle, Golden Girl."

Languidly, he turned to his guards and commanded,

"Crucify her."

"My Lord, no!" The Scarlet Lady protested, bolting upright to stand between Dorée and the guards who stepped forward. "She's not in her right mind, can't you see? She doesn't know what you are capable of. Dorée, come here, now."

She gestured imperiously to Dorée, bidding the girl to come into her protecting arms. But Dorée didn't move. She simply stood there, nude and flushed, her blonde curls falling over her shoulders. In her sweet round face there was nothing but the gentlest gratitude and apology.

"My Lady, I would do anything you say with a joyful heart. But I have won the right to challenge the Duc for this, my truest desire, and I will claim my prize."

"He has twisted your mind, Dorée! You don't, you can't, desire what he will do to you."

"I do."

"And it will be done." The Duc said firmly. "My Lady, stand down. I will not go back on my word: you will be here when the turn happens. Guards, take the girl."

Tilting her head ever so slightly in agreement, the Scarlet Lady stepped aside. The guards seized Dorée one more time, pulling her down the steps of the dias and back onto the competition floor. While the Lady was speaking, an area had been cleared in the stadium by disassembling part of the race-course. In the resulting hollow, surrounded by a briar-patch of brass pipes, a St-Andrews cross had been erected: a fearsome X of rough pine mounted on a heavy base. Beside it stood Dorée's handler, now wielding all three of the handlers' nettle switches bundled together in one hand.

Dorée was brought to the foot of the cross. Before she could mount it, however, the Duc called out,

"Hold her there. My esteemed guests haven't had a chance to place their wagers yet. Normally, we bet on whether or not the challenger will succeed. But tonight, I put all of you to the test."

His voice rose to a roar as he turned to the crowd.

"Whose will shall prevail tonight? Do you bet on her...or ME?"

There was a shocked silence. Then, from the back rows, came a light, ironic voice:

"Why, my Lord, of course I bet on her! But I don't think she will enjoy her winnings as much as I shall."

It was the Fop. He stepped to the fore with a flourish to collect the laughter and small coins the relieved crowd flung his way.

"I'm with the Fop!"

"Me too!"

"I'm with the Duc! Vive Charenton!"

The hubbub rose as various members of the audience called out their bets. Bookies darted about jotting down names and wagers. Dorée stood serenely and listened as the crowd --this group of rich, educated, oh-so-superior human beings called the nobility-- placed wagers on the fate of a poor village girl. She was both distantly humiliated and strangely pleased to be the object of their amusement. She shifted her hips and received a stroke from the nettle lashes across her shoulders in return. The sudden, stinging pain almost broke her trance through sheer surprise, but as the burn lingered she sank back into it with a sigh.

"Last bets! Last bets! Are all the bets in? Yes?" the Herald called. Once the clamour had settled down, he announced, "The bets are in. Les jeux sont faits."

He turned and bowed to the Duc. Everyone in the audience joined in the bow.

"Let the Duel begin!"

No sooner had the final word rung out than the guards were on Dorée. Seizing her by the arms, they dragged her onto the platform, throwing her bodily against the rough wood. They lashed her wrists and ankles to the cross with hempen rope tied fast and hard enough to burn her skin. The handler stepped forward and passed his extra lashes to two of the guards. The three of them then proceeded to thrash Dorée with the bundles of stinging nettles, each of which had been reinforced in the centre with a stalk of thin, flexible thorn-bush. The tiny barbs of the nettles delivered their stinging poison, while the thorns tore at her skin. Dorée cried out as they scratched her breast and belly, drawing hot trickles of blood across her young body. But at the same time, she writhed in pleasure as the heat sparked by the race-course was fanned into a brilliant blaze of arousal by the beating. Her sex pulsed like a live thing, her juices out-matching the flow of her blood.

"Look at her, she's dripping!" The Fop called out. "I do believe she's besting you, my Lord. She's enjoying it too much!"

"If she wants pleasure, then she'll get it in excess." The Duc bantered back. "Have Thierry brought out, and Mariette too! It will be a great torment to the three of them to have my Table Steward fuck the martyr before his dear sister's eyes."

"O, la la!" The Fop called out in approval.

But the Chamberlain also stood up. In an apologetic tone, he reported,

"Thierry has...not yet recovered from being put through his paces, my Lord. It seems he cannot be roused by anyone at the moment, not even Mariette."

The Duc threw up his hands in frustration and called back,

"Then bring up Mariette, nitwit!"

"Yes, my Lord!"

The Chamberlain departed at a dead run as laughter rippled through the audience. After a few moments, Mariette was led back into the stadium. Thierry trailed behind her. His head was down in shame and his cheeks were stained red as his member hung limp between his legs. He was clearly taking his failure to win freedom for himself and his sister very hard. Mariette, on the other hand, carried her dark, glossy head as high as a showhorse on parade. Her face was tear-stained as well, but upon it was an expression of iron determination. Dorée gasped, for she had never before seen Mariette wear the look that was clearly natural to her: the look of a Princess born and bred. It was all the more striking since Mariette was still naked and marked with the impressions of the ropes that had held her suspended. Her hands remained bound behind her back, forcing her heavy breasts forward. And yet she held her head high as she was brought up onto the platform of the cross. The Duc smiled to see he would have some sport from her.

"Thierry and Mariette. You have failed in your challenge and remain my slaves. Mariette, as per our agreement, you are to take Thierry's punishment for him."

"As you command, my Lord." Mariette said coolly. Her words were subservient, but her tone was decidedly haughty.

The Duc's eyes darted to the guard, who gave Mariette a swift stroke of the nettle-lash across her shoulders for her impertinence. She flinched but did not cry out.

"To your knees, Mariette." The Duc commanded.

Her chin tilted a little higher. The guard who had struck her took hold of her shoulders and turned her in towards Dorée. Mariette stumbled and fell against the girl bound to the cross. Her skin was soft and supple against Dorée's, though her sweat stung the scratches on Dorée's breast and made her whimper.

For the briefest possible moment, Mariette's lips brushed Dorée's ears and she whispered,

"I have to."

Their eyes locked for a moment as Mariette was pulled back. Dorée's mouth formed the words,

"I know."

Then Mariette was driven to her knees before the St-Andrews cross. The guard grabbed her ebony hair and pressed her face between Dorée's wide-spread legs.

"Now, make the martyr beg!" the Duc thundered.

Dorée's sex throbbed at the mere thought of what would happen next. But her imaginings could not prepare her for the sensation. The touch of Mariette's tongue against her most intimate flesh was delicate. So delicate, so light and teasing, was it that Dorée found herself straining against her bonds, pushing her hips forward, trying to feel a touch that lingered at the very edge of sensation, but promised so much more. Dorée waited for her to delve deeper, but Mariette would not approach. She tongue-tipped along the outermost folds of Dorée's lips, pulling long shining strands of glistening liquid out for the court to see, but she would not delve in to satisfy the desire she stoked. This treatment, coming after the course and the thrashing that had stirred her so, was maddening. Her body cried out for force, for pressure, for anything so long as it was more than this. Despite herself she began to moan. A sense of desperation overtook her calm surrender. She hung on the edge of culmination, just as she hung from her bonds on the cross, but she was denied either a martyr's death or a woman's release.

"Please!" She finally cried out. "Please, please, release me!"

"Don't give in," Mariette gasped as she drew back to take a breath.

Dorée was hazily surprised to see that Mariette's hips, too, ground in helpless pleasure. Her hot breath came faster on Dorée's wet sex. She was suffering the same kind of erotic torment as Dorée. But she cast a dire glance towards the Duc, muttering,

"Break and he's won."

Suddenly Dorée remembered their first day together, when she had urged Mariette to look away from the spectacle of bared flesh, to resist the washing-chamber's lures. She nodded, then turned her face away as she had that first day.

"Conspiracy!" the Fop shouted shrilly. "The women are conspiring, my Lord! See how they whisper together!"

"Guards, remove Mariette." The Duc said.

"No!" Dorée cried.

"It seems her brother is now recovered enough to take over the punishment." The Duc added with dark delight.

Dorée looked over and saw that Thierry was indeed fully recovered. The sight of Dorée and Mariette gasping together in shared, frustrated arousal had revived his manhood. It strained, massive and fully upright in its nest of glossy black curls, just as he strained against the hands of the guards who held him back.

"Let us see if she can resist a spear to the belly." The Duc said, leaning forward avidly.

The crown roared as the guards let Thierry go. The young man advanced purposefully on Dorée.

"For our freedom, Mari," he said to Mariette as he passed her.

"No, Teri! Let me take your punishment!" She replied pleadingly.

But clearly his fervour had clouded his mind, for Thierry grabbed onto to Dorée as if his salvation depended on it.

"Save us, martyred Saint!" He gasped into her golden hair, pressing his body hard against hers. Moved by compassion, Dorée opened her legs to him.

His member slipped inside of her, guided by the trail of her wetness. It was her first time experiencing a man's cock and not a phallic tool or wicked claw. Though she was slick and gasping for fulfillment, she was yet tight and new, so the first stroke felt like being deflowered all over again. He was so thick she feared for an instant that she might split. But very quickly, the pain became overwhelming pleasure. His strokes were forceful and rhythmic, filling her inside as his thick hair pricked against the pearl Mariette had teased to exquisite sensitivity. Her legs began to shake with a shockwave that rose from her feet up through her calves and the muscles of her thighs to shake her entire body in a melting, convulsive glory. Unable to resist any longer, she screamed out her elation at the same time that Thierry gave a great cry and pulled out, spilling his seed across her body and spattering it on the cross. He leaned against her in his own little death, his muscles trembling and his legs near to collapse. The thing that broke Dorée's heart, even more than her own plight, was the fact that she could not hold him to comfort him.

When Thierry was pulled away, Dorée felt bereft. She had come to the very nadir of punishment: fucked for the first time, in public, in a dual desecration of the cross and her body. She couldn't save the beautiful couple. She couldn't even save herself. She felt she could go no lower.

This was the moment the Duc had been waiting for.

"Golden Girl. Look at me."

Dorée looked up. Somehow, while she had drifted in exhaustion, he had crossed the arena. He was standing right in front of her. Close. Too close. She winced up at him.

"Do you still wish to be a martyr, Dorée?"

"Y-yes, my Lord." She choked out. Where had all her graceful power gone?

"What would you endure to claim that title?"

The Duc reached out and ran his ring-clawed hand down her body. After the thrashing she had endured and the orgasm that had swept through her, her skin was like a tissue of nerves, so thin and sensitive that even the lightest touch was agony. He had but to stroke her and she screamed.

"Anything! Anything, my Lord!" She managed to get out.

"Would you go back into chastity for as long as you are bid?"

His claw sliced her this time. She screamed again.

"Yes, my Lord, as long as you wish!"

"Would you share my bed, Dorée, and allow me to glut myself on your pain, to fuck you in whatever hole I care to cut into you?"

"Yes, my Lord!" Dorée sobbed.

"Would you die, here and now, for nothing more than my pleasure and the entertainment of these fine noblemen and ladies? Eh, martyr?"

The Duc's claw found her throat and pressed in, into the throbbing vein of her life.

Suddenly, revelation flashed through Dorée like a lightning bolt in the night. It was a moment of divine inspiration that carried her back up to the heights of her fearless transcendence in an instant. Fixing him with her gaze, she called out loud and clear:

"Finish me, Charenton! I command you to finish me!"

The Duc stared back into Dorée's eyes. There it was again: the ecstasy. She was beyond fear, beyond pain. And she was calling his bluff. The Duc shook his head in disbelief. She had him in a double bind. If he destroyed her now, he would appear to be obeying her will, her command. But if he refused her, he would fail to follow through on his threat.

The Duc stood before her, empty handed.

Then, very slowly and thoughtfully, he said

"You leave me no choice. There is only one thing I can ask of you now."

"Anything, my Lord Charenton."

"I want you to show me what it is you desire...on the body of another."

He reached up and untied her left hand. Then he untied her right. She leaned back against the cross, clutching her arms to her breast to keep from falling over. Blackness started to close in on her vision, but she took a deep breath and held it at bay.

"I don't understand what you ask of me, my Lord."

"I ask you to do unto others as you would have done unto you. Take up the dagger and chain, Dorée. You have fallen as far as you can go. If you wish to remain in my tutelage, it is time to rise."

Dorée's eyes went wide. She stumbled forward as the lines at her feet were cut. The pair of guards caught her and wrapped a thick, soft blanket around her to staunch her wounds, which were after all not much more than scratches. Slowly, she nodded. Turning her toward the stand, the Duc took her right hand and held it high. In his loudest, most theatrical voice, he proclaimed:

"My esteemed and honored guests, I present to you your victor and my newest protégé: the Golden Lady!"