Everyone in this tale is over 18. It is set in pre-revolution France, in a time even less enlightened than today.
*
Celine was a slut. Not a witch -- she didn't believe in
them,
anyway -- stuff of fairy-tales, old hags in silly hats flying around improbably on broomsticks. But a slut, she certainly was, and unashamedly so. She tossed her lovely mane of auburn hair proudly as she walked proudly down the village street, often clad in the sort of silk dress that only the Baron's patronage could ensure.
A year ago, Celine had been living with her parents, when her mother, a quiet, God-fearing soul, had suddenly caught an incurable lung disease, and died, within weeks. Her father, Georges, a brute of a man, and the village butcher, had blundered, drunk, into her attic bedroom, and ripped off the sheet that was all that covered her nineteen-year-old slender body on a warm summer night.
'You've been fucking half the village,' he yelled, 'now it's my turn, you whore!' But when he dived on top of her, she slipped adroitly off the bed, grabbed a robe, and ran downstairs and out into the street. Not really clear where to go, she eventually decided upon her aunt's house at the other end of the village.
Georges was furious, and denounced his daughter to the village elders, telling them she was guilty of witchcraft -- as she had 'bewitched' two devout monks from the local Abbé. It was true that Celine had given relief to the two young monks. Only the week before, she had come across the two of them sharing a book, on a bench in the park. When she approached, one of them tried to hide the text swiftly under his robes, and both looked red with guilt.
'Let's have a look!' she taunted, but had to wrestle the book from Brother Jean-Pierre's hands. It was full of drawings, graphic images of young women being impaled on massive phalluses. Celine took pity on the two, and led them behind a clump of bushes, where she lifted Brother Claude's robe, and took his erect dick into her mouth, while she pumped Jean-Pierre's equally eager weapon with an expert hand. Both came in great, relieving spurts of creamy cum, which she licked from each cock in turn.
As they left their refuge behind the bushes, who should be passing but Marie-Claire Souchaux, whom Celine knew to be the village gossip. 'Oh, shit!' she thought, but then thought no more of it, until the bailiffs came to fetch her from her aunt's house.
They started to drag her towards the door, but she yelled at them, 'You don't need to do that, you ignorant bastards, I'll come with you.'
They insisted on shackling her ankles with a heavy chain, and cuffing her wrists, then led her, head held high, out down the streets, as people watched, and began to follow. By the time they reached the square in front of the church, it was packed -- it seemed most of the population wanted to watch what Celine was sure would be her execution. She was even more certain when the two brutes led her up the steps to the wooden platform, above which the great stake towered. Her wrists were uncuffed, then tied tightly with rough hemp rope to a peg on the side of the stake, as the crowd bayed for her blood. She had expected to be burned, though, and no faggots had been placed around her.
Suddenly one of the bailiffs grasped the neck of her gown and rent it viciously down, exposing her whole upper body, though her breasts were partially hidden by the post to which she was tethered. The other brute took from his belt a braided leather whip, and the crowd started to howl, 'Whip the bitch, make her bleed, thrash her to death,' and so forth, as the bailiff drew back his arm and lashed Celine's tender flesh brutally. She gasped at the agony, but so relieved was she that it looked as if she would be allowed to live, that the pain soon became bearable. As she writhed under the lash she looked aside and saw that many of the men appeared to be masturbating under their robes, and she, too, could feel the beginnings of sexual pleasure allied to the pain of the whip. But worse was to come, and when the man threw down his whip, his colleague came up the steps from where he had been attending a brazier. He carried a red-hot iron, and without ceremony, plunged it hard against Celine's white, soft flesh, just below her shoulder-blade. She screamed wildly, then passed out.
The crowd soon lost interest and went about their daily business, but, as Celine recovered consciousness, having been taken down from the scaffold to sit alone on the bottom step, she found herself looking at the maroon, gold-trimmed robes of a nobleman, astride a lovely white horse.
She self-consciously pulled her dress up to cover herself. 'You are Celine, the butcher's daughter, I think,' said a cultured voice, 'and now you wear a
P
for
putain.'
I didn't know what it was, but it hurst like hell,' she said.
'Get some lotion on it quickly,' he said, and she saw he was actually quite a handsome man of about fifty, 'and tomorrow at ten I will have a carriage pick you up here.'
Before Celine could reply, he had wheeled his steed about and trotted off.
The next day, her back still hurting horribly where she had been so cruelly branded, she nonetheless stood awaiting the promised carriage, and was slightly surprised when it, indeed, showed up, and a supercilious footman opened the door for her, as she looked truculently at him. Celine had no idea what was in store for her, but it couldn't, she thought, be a lot worse than living oon her wits in the village, alternating between cleaning for elderly neighbours and giving small sexual favours to anyone who asked.
The castle she was brought to was splendid, she thought, set in rolling parkland, with lakes and gardens, and when she was shown into the great hall, she was almost overcome by its grandeur. The man who had invited her was now in front of her, dressed more informally, in riding breeches and a short jacket.
'Welcome to the Castle Deschamps,' he said,
'I am the seventh Baron Deschamps.'
She didn't know how she was meant to respond, so said nothing.
He looked at her with a small flicker of amusement on his lips. 'I saw your punishment yesterday, and I believe my earlier intervention may have saved you a worse fate. Now I am prepared to offer you some....er..employment, Celine.'
'And what form would that take?'
'You should perhaps start by addressing me as "Sir,"' he said, and waited until she said, 'Yes, sir.'
'You are an attractive girl, Celine,' he said, 'and I can use someone of your...er talents in my household, as my wife no longer shares my bedchamber.'
Celine was inclined to protest at this suggestion that she become, quite simply, his mistress, but he moved briskly on: 'My maids here,' -- and he indicated two silent girls she hadn't even noticed, stood in the far corner of the hall -- 'will take you and attend to your appearance and needs, and then we'll talk again, shall we, my dear?'
Before Celine could speak, the two grey-clad girls had whisked her off to a huge bathroom, where, giggling, they stripped her naked.
´Oooh!' said one she learned to call Rosa, when she saw her back, and she and her fried Claire spent half an hour soothing her wounds with scented oil. Then they carried on with her bath, gave her an elaborate hairdo, such as she had never in her life had, and giggled some more as they shaved off her pubic hair, with great care. 'The Master likes his girls clean shaven,' said Claire, and Celine noted the plural noun.
Finally they dressed her in a gown of burgundy silk, with a white lace trim, over a pristine white petticoat, and gave her long silver filigree ear-rings to wear. When she looked in the mirror, a complete stranger looked back.
She was taken in to the Baron's presence, and he looked her up and down, walked around her, all the time flicking his riding crop disconcertingly against his leg.
Finally he spoke. 'You are a beautiful young woman, Celine,' he said, then over her shoulder, to Claire, 'Take her to the Blue Chamber and disrobe her!'
She went meekly -- there seemed no other option -- when the maid led her across the great hall, her footsteps resounding on the stone flags, and through a big oak door, leading to a bedchamber like none she had ever seen. It wasn't that large, but the bed certainly was -- a massive four-posted affair, draped with fine silks, bearing the Baron's monogram, and covered in cushions. The walls were covered in mirrors, and a large window was draped with velvet curtains. Celine stood and gaped at her ssurroundings while Claire unbuttoned the dress she had so recently clad her in. As she slid the petticoat from Celine's shoulders, and she was left naked, she shivered, though it wasn't cold in the room.
'The Master will want you on the bed,' said the girl, and daintily helped her up on to its vast surface, then she promptly left. Immediately, the Baron entered from a door concealed behind one of the great mirrors. He was wearing a maroon robe, monogrammed like, it seemed, everything else. He came and stood beside the bed, looking down at her, his gaze moving from her breasts down to her unfamiliar shaven pussy. She resisted an impulse to cover it with her hands, and looked back at the Baron as evenly as she could.
'Do you like what you see, sir?' she asked, and, for answer, he looked down at his own body. Celine saw his erection poking out of the gap in his robe. She decided to play along, and tease gently, in a way he might enjoy.
'Oh, you
do
want me, sir,' she said, in a 'little girl' voice, and, opening her legs, she fingered her pussy, parting her outer labia with her first and third fingers, letting her middle finger play gently at the moist portals of her cunt.
The Baron could stand this no longer and heaved his considerable bulk up onto the bed, positioning himself between Celine's slim legs, which she obligingly opened stilll wider, offering her open, glistening pink pussy to him. He was in a great hurry now, and thrust his burgeoning cock into her without further ado. Two great, pounding heaves, and he came, in great, surging spurts, so that she felt as if her whole body was filled with his hot cum.
'There, that was great, wasn't it? A real man, for once, eh?' he roared, as he climbed off, wiping his now flacid cock on his robe.
'Er... yes, sir,' she replied, not at all inclined to point out that she had had a far better fuck from the Verger's eighteen-year-old son.
