Cold. The dark cavern in which Maiselle crawled was ghastly cold. Periodically a gust of freezing air would rush into the myriad barred niches, having drawn the eternal damp from the cavern's rock walls along the mile that it had to traverse from outside to the darkest vaults of the cave. The outside...she let out a screeching sound, much like that of nails raked along a blackboard. It was immediately followed by other sounds: howls, bellows, panicked screams from the women who had only recently come here, all of them bouncing off the cavern walls, a cacophony of echoes that no one but the prisoners would hear. She coughed and convulsed, doubled over in her misery. She rubbed her forehead on the uncaring stone floor, and saw her yellowed skin be grinded to dust by her movement. The pain did not register. It had ceased doing so a long time ago. She had guttered out like a candle, a blossom fallen onto a stream of lava. Maiselle was no more: Maiselle only lived on in her memory, and on the rare occasions that
he
paid her a visit.
"An angel of mercy descended upon us decadent demons of the aristocracy", he said with only the barest hint of sarcasm in his warm voice. Maiselle had heard worse compliments in her time, yet it would take more than a hasty piece of adoration to impress her. Most men expected the ladies of the court to blanche upon being looked at in a lewd fashion (as was often the case when Maiselle frequented salons and ballrooms), but the man lacked that hungry look in his eyes. At least until now. Maiselle took a deep breath and folded her arms under her bosom, making their soft flesh rise to even grander proportions, taking a candid pleasure out of the flash of mulled pain as her corset dug deeper into her skin. She tore at the lacy boundaries of etiquette, as much as her looks constantly taunted the height of fashion. Where all of the other ladies at court were thin and waif-like, Maiselle maintained the buxom features of a commoner, with enough tell-tale hints of sultriness to confirm this. She also had no need to exaggerate the size of her bosom like the other women: the Lord had blessed her with firm breasts that were a bit too heavy for her height, yet she loved the dramatic effect of the corset. All the more for how a tight waist would further highlight her wide hips, which she wore proudly. Propriety be damned, Maiselle knew what all men wanted, regardless of what colour her blood was.
She shook her brown curls out of her face and locked the stranger's eyes with her own, piercing jade daring dark brown to come up with another fruitless attempt to get some tail. He had a somewhat cultivated ruggedness to him. Only the slightest shade of beard growth stood on his square, powerful jaw, a single deep groove cut into the swarthy skin of his forehead, with his own thick brown hair tied back with a grey ribbon. She also noticed that the lace that came from underneath his grey and jacket was slightly yellowed, which took away some of the beauty displayed by the rich black embroidery that festooned his jacket and breeches.
The man merely leaned back against the wall, looking around the ballroom where some of the other guests were already taking in interest in what Maiselle what do to him, the poor fellow. They had already seen it happen too often, and most women, and some of the men, had grown to hate her for it. Maiselle had a
reputation
, and stories about her hard-to-get behaviour were rife. She would have turned down the steward of the king, commenting wryly afterward that he was "inadequate, even after my tender administrations". The poor man had killed himself a week later, having flung himself into the river Seine. She was rumoured to visit skid row, taking on multiple men at once, and that she would demand to eat all of their seed so that she could go on all night. Of course she had added to these rumours herself in the past, discussing the merits of sodomy where this was not
de rigeur
, for example. Whether or not this man was familiar with all of these stories, she could not see. He disregarded her show of annoyance and smiled, rather beautifully.
"It seems that a great score of people present here tonight desire to be in your presence, mademoiselle" he said dryly. Maiselle snorted and flashed a feline smile of her own." I like to think most of them would love to be in my presence, but refrain from doing so for fear of being tainted by whatever disease they think I might have", she proffered. "Are you afraid of the taint, monsieur...?"
The man only gave a curt nod, eschewing the hand-kissing and all of the other sickening rules of propriety. A quaint diversion, she thought to herself.
"I am the Comte du Froid, mademoiselle Maiselle. And honoured and not afraid to be tainted by your presence, if I may add such a forward comment." She laughed, delighted at the subtle wit which seemed to sneak into every word the Count uttered. She offered him her hand, nails lacquered ruby-red. "The pleasure is mutual, Comte. Perhaps we can taint the entire assembly this evening. It would take some of the weight off my shoulders." She curtsied as he leant down to kiss her hands, as etiquette commands.
But the feeling Maiselle got was far from proper. As the count's lips fell upon her hand, she felt her skin prickling and
she got aroused.
It wasn't even the common tingle she would get before she allowed a brusque labourer to feel her up, let alone the feeble fluttering of love's butterfly wings. It was pure lust, a wanton feeling that made her swallow a whimper and heated the inside of her thighs below the deep blue silk and pristine white lace of her dress. It took her some moments to compose her thoughts (and even more so, her yearnings) before she realised the man had withdrawn from her hand, his face full of worry.
"Is something the matter, mademoiselle?" His voice was an animalistic rumble in her ear, and it took all her energy to stop from swooning when his hand fell on her shoulder, fingertips blessing her collarbone with the barest of touches. A plethora of possible answers came to mind, yet she chose the most obvious one, even as she saw little flecks of white light appear at the edge of her vision.
"I've been standing in one place for far too long. Would you entreat me to a dance, comte?"
It seemed like lucidity had come back after hours and hours spent in a trance, but only moments could have passed as she and the count were standing opposite each other on the marble floor, bowing to one another as the first chord of the lithe violins struck, heralding the start of the dance. Maiselle straightened herself and held her hand aloft, just above her face as it was met by the count's strong, warm hand. She clasped it firmly, her hand slippery from perspiration as her senses went completely haywire at the touch of this man. They circled each other, the count's strong calves flexing with each step. Maiselle tried to maintain her aloof poise, still beaming up at him with cold diffidence, but she felt her stature crumble with each moment that crept by, and felt that her craving was on the rise. His eyes held no malice, no scorn, just a heartfelt joy at the dance, the corners of his luscious mouth curled up in a polite smile. Everyone present had the ball had turned to stare at them, and even the chamber orchestra had torn their eyes off their instruments to gaze upon dancing couple. Comte du Froid took a step forward, his body touching Maiselle's, and she could see his strong arms pushing against their velvet sleeves and feel the heat from his chest flow into hers. She felt all strength ebb out of her body, and with a soft moan she let her body give in, her arms going limp and loosing her footing. But the count anticipated and she was held upright by a caress as soothing the a summer sun, and as he let his hands run from her shoulders along to her arms, she felt her strength surging back inside of her. Her feet stood firmly on the floor, and her hands were holding his, staring bewildered in the count's eyes.
When the orchestra stopped playing, followed by an uneasy applause of the assembled blue bloods, the pair was already stepping out of the palace and into the moonlit gardens, Maiselle's curls falling onto the count's shoulders as he led her away from the decadent devils to the heaven she deserved.
Cold. One of the last sensations she could still feel clearly, apart from pain. They both were endless. She lay with her back on the ground, feeling the cold seep into her very bones. And into her bones it went, for a soft crack made it clear to Maiselle that her dress had rotted further, and her exposed skin and dried flesh fell prey to the harsh cold, feeling the glacial bane strike at her ribcage, shooting up the centre of her spine. Such a waste. That dress had cost her dearly. Sunken eyes gazed down at the tatters covering her spindly legs, and bones that once could have been called fingers hitched up the mildewed fabric. The bones ran along husks of thighs, the skin flaking and peeling off under the charnel caresses. A rasping chortle passed Maiselle's rotting lips.
"I'll come with you. I will."
Few words were exchanged as they hurried out of the gardens and toward the grasslands and hills ahead. The cool night air seemed to return Maiselle to her senses, and it was only now that she saw that the count was rather flustered as well. She pressed herself closer against him, kissed him behind his ear.
"Are you going to sweep me off my feet and carry me to your castle, my precious upstarts count?" she breathed in his ear. His breath quickened at the kiss and he moved his right hand from her side down to her bottom, grunting as held his hand there. Again Maiselle felt her insides grow weak, what unknown pleasures was this man sparking deep inside of her? The count remained silent, yet he urged her on, further out into the wild. He spoke to her as the walked, told her things about lost loves, an emptiness that he needed to fill, had no choice but to keep filling that void, and it rained silently upon them. Maiselle took in his every word, her mind clouded, seeing nothing but his mouth speaking softly, hearing nothing but the need in his voice, feeling nothing but his body pressed against hers as they braved the beginnings of a storm. And seemingly without drawing breath, she told him of her little needs and candid pleasures. How she refused to surrender herself to an uncouth man, how she preferred to be
in control
