Chapter Three
That night, she dreamed of a beautiful naked girl. Such appearances in dreams were not uncommon to Juliette, as sleep did not end the urges of her days; it only moved them to a more malleable world. But the actions of this particular dream were not usual.
Juliette was outside, behind the house, standing on the lawn of M. Leclair's tennis court. The full moon shone down, the only light around, as the house behind her was completely dark, somber. She felt a shudder of discomfort looking back at the house, like it was infected with something foul, and was desperate to spread that foulness to her. There was a breeze rustling through the new Spring leaves of the sycamore trees that surrounded the tennis court, and she heard an owl hoot. She was wearing exactly what she'd climbed into bed with after a lengthy hot bath that afternoon, which is to say, she was completely naked - but she didn't feel cold. She could feel the blades of grass of the tennis court tickling between her toes.
In stark contrast to the dark and malevolent house behind her, the naked girl standing before her shone in the moonlight as though the moon was coming from within her. Ah, but she was beautiful! A young girl, perhaps not yet out of her teens. Her black bangs were cut straight above her eyebrows, and straight across at her shoulders, curling in at the ends, like the hair in a painting of a page boy from the age of castles. It was a haircut long out of fashion, but the effect of the quaint haircut on this girl was charming. She had huge dark eyes, a pert little nose, and full, eminently kissable lips. There was a small round mole just below her right eye. Her expression was sad, staring straight ahead, lost in some melancholy memory.
Juliette's eyes traveled down the girl's body, and her hands yearned to touch her. She was a solidly built peasant girl, with ample curves, but so delightfully formed, like an antique sculpture of a goddess of love, wherein the sculptor had clearly adored his model. Huge firm breasts, her nipples pointing up in slightly different directions, an ample smooth belly tapering down into almost comically wide hips, a large dark thatch of curly hair between her shapely legs.
The girl suddenly seemed to realize that Juliette was standing there before her, and the expression on her face slowly changed, from a wistful sadness to a kind of urgency: her eyebrows lifted and her huge eyes stared into Juliette's.
"But who are you, my bunny?" Juliette whispered to the beautiful girl.
The girl took one step towards her and opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came from her lips. She looked surprised, and concerned, and tried again to speak, again with no result. Juliette could not hear her, but could tell from her face that she'd just made a noise of desperate frustration to herself. Why could she not speak?
The girl's desperation increased. She held up her hands together to Juliette in a gesture of supplication.
"What is it you want?" Juliette whispered to her.
The girl's face changed again. Resolved. She'd made a decision. She stood up straight and held up one finger. Then she held both hands out flat, palms down, at the level of her waist and moved them around in small circles. She twisted her wrists and held both hands apart, thumbs up, fingers curled under, and then drew both hands towards her body.
"A table? You're taking a tray off a table?"
She shook her head, a little pout of frustration on her lips, and repeated the gesture, curving her hands and drawing them closer to her body again, for all appearances like carefully removing a tray from a table. This time, she added a new pantomime: she held both hands out, palms down, and angled them up, like something opening upwards on a hinge.
"I'm sorry angel, I don't know what you're trying to tell me."
Juliette walked closer to her, reaching out to touch her, but for every step she advanced, the beautiful girl stayed just out of reach. The girl opened her mouth again, and now, standing close to her, Juliette could see why the girl had been unable to speak: the girl's mouth was full of black earth. A clod of earth fell from between her lips and rested on her chin.
Juliette sat up suddenly in bed. The moonlight shone through her window, lighting the small room. For a moment she was still too sleepy to remember where she was, but rolling over on her side made her tortured ass twinge to remind her exactly where she was: M. Leclair's house. Where he owned everything, this little room he allowed her, the huge mansion surrounding them, her own body...
She lay back down, and moved her hands over her body, checking for marks. No, nothing that anyone could see, if she was dressed in her uniform. Bruises on each cheek of her ass where he'd swatted her. Perhaps some bruising around her anus. She suspected she had some bruises inside. Yes, his abuse of her would likely be invisible to everyone, and she suspected that this was of a purpose, that he knew enough to only leave marks where they'd be hidden.
She spread her legs apart under the covers and slowly slid one hand down to check her poor little pussy, subjected to more rough usage today than usually: forced to masturbate herself to orgasm before her master's cruel, watchful eye in the library, then the citrus reamer in the pantry, then roughly entered by her master's brutal hairy fingers as he shoved the greasy reamer up her ass with the other hand...
She bit her lip, preparing for some pain, and gently slid her hands down her warm belly to between her legs. Gingerly, her questing fingers teased apart her soft, swollen lips and pressed them gently. Her breath caught a little. There was no doubt that she had been used, hard, that day, but the pain was easily bearable. Her lips pursed a little as she stroked them, testing them for any injury. No, the pain is not so bad... she thought dreamily. It feels almost like pleasure does, she thought.
She was thinking about his hot breath in her ear as he degraded her, the sound of his deep, commanding voice calling her filthy names as he pushed the kitchen tool in her ass. How he made her come herself into a sweaty, shaking pile on the floor of the pantry. Her fingers were becoming very wet.
She reached over the side of the bed with her free hand and slid open the drawer slowly, continuing to rub herself into a frenzy, tangling her legs up in the sheet and thin blanket, her need beginning to consume her. Her hand smacked the bottom of the drawer fruitlessly and flailed around in it, a frightened octopus, until it landed on what she was seeking and she grasped it, sighing aloud in relief as she pulled it out of the drawer.
She switched it on and it began to hum its merry little tune. She tented the sheets above her knees and wriggled her shoulders against the pillows to put her body in exactly the right position, then pressed her humming pink plastic friend just at the edge of her clit as she held her lips open with the other hand.
As the first jolts of electric sensation hit her, she began to imagine M. Leclair in one of the usual scenarios she pictured, this one was a recent favorite, "The Tennis One." She'd created it the night after watching him play tennis with Mayor Porcher for the first time, just after beginning her work here. She pictured herself in a cute tennis outfit, short pleated skirt, of course without panties, a sweater vest and a white visor to shade her eyes, playing against him. She beat him game, set, and match with a powerful overhead smash of his final lob, and rejoicing, tried to jump over the net to shake his hand, but tripped and somehow flipped over enough to become hopelessly tangled in the net, helpless to move or extricate herself, her visor askew, her knees green from the grass, and her naked ass pointed straight at M. Leclair, who approached the net smiling faintly, swinging his racquet with obvious intent.
She knew that it was unlikely for a person to become so tangled in a tennis net just from tripping over it, but the physics of the fantasy were unimportant. Something about the swift reversal of her fortunes, from victory over him at first, to utter subjugation at his hands, was the most exciting aspect of "The Tennis One." As the fantasy progressed, he'd remove his shoe and his sweat soaked sock, and stuff the moist sock in her open mouth as she whimpered, struggling against the net, and then use his racquet to raise waffle-printed welts on her naked, waiting ass, while he grunted from the effort, sweating, and demanded that she tell him who her master was. She would willingly oblige.
It was over quickly. She switched off the toy and let it fall by her hip under the sheets, momentarily spent and breathing deeply. She raised both hands high over her head, grasped the headboard and stretched like a cat.
The door creaked open and Yvonne flounced through it in a short white chemise with frilly lace shoulder straps, her auburn curls bouncing with each step. Without speaking, she hopped up on the bed and knelt next to Juliette, her hands on her knees, leaning forward. "Thank God, everything is alright," she whispered. "I heard you through the thin wall separating our little chambers and rejoiced, 'my dear friend is okay and back in her usual nocturnal spirits!'"
Juliette giggled and punched her gently on her freckled arm. "You were worried about me, my treasure?"
"But certainly! I came to retrieve you from the pantry and you were gone. No one could tell me where you were. That old toad Vachon told me you were 'feeling suddenly unwell, and had taken to bed,'" here she made an excellent impression of M. Vachon's simpering voice, "and, well, after this morning... yes, I was concerned! I chewed off my fingernails, in fact. What happened to you?"
"Well, Yvonne, it's quite a tale. But I'm so sleepy and must be awake very early..."
