Chapter 27: Madame Dupré - Catherine's Perspective
"Do you want this, princesa? he demands. The bedroom candles are just enough to see the viscount hovering over me, moisture dripping from his torso.
I nod, biting into the fabric he's stuffed into my mouth. He tosses the rag on the floor.
"Say it. Say that you want your master's cock."
I ought to run or scream for help. How far would it be to the door or back to my family's estate? At this hour, I could make it to the bushes and wait for the dawn.
Instead, I use my moment of freedom for subservience.
"I want my master's cock."
His staff skims my pleasure spot before pulling away. "Then, you're going to have to earn it, slave girl."
Without further warning, he shoves two fingers into my tender opening. My shoulders slam back into the sheets. His burrowing fingers flutter my insides for only a few moments before pulling me to a kneeling position. Rafael guides my mouth towards his enormous member.
"Wet it," he commands.
His cock hardly requires my assistance. It is already drenched in its own anticipation. I stick out my tongue to lick pearls off its surface. A palm slaps across my face.
"Be quick about it," he says, his urgency starting to show. The master is in no mood to play games. I am lucky not to be punished further.
His thighs tense as I bob up and down. The hand in my hair tightens. When I slow to ease my aching jaw, he maintains the rhythm. A composer in 6/8 time. My throat is beginning to tire of the symphony. I try to conjure a gentler music into existence, but he smacks my hands away.
"Mine," he growls.
In one fluid motion, my wrists are plastered behind my head.
He throws me backward, catching my ankles and mounting them above his shoulders. With a quick pinch to each nipple, he enters me. My tight cavity initially struggles to accommodate him but soon envelopes his cock as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And in some ways, it is. Tender kisses rain down the side of my neck. My collar bone is lined with the marks of previous nights. Our sweat gathers beneath us, soaking the sheets of the bed, our rocking vessel. Rafael finds the deepest part inside of me and hammers endlessly. The sensation brings my nails to my breast.
They claw furiously to soften the bite of his blows. I will have long lines to match the searing tension running up and down my legs.
Once again, he pins my hands above my head, not permitting me to escape even a moment of it. We must both be present for the burning. He continues faster and faster until his chest is a blur.
I scream and then fall silent.
"Thank you, master."
His body wraps around my muscles before collapsing, both of us lost in the shattering waves. My head swims as I make my way back to the surface.
***
This is not what a young lady is supposed to be dreaming about the night before her wedding. I should be dreaming about a happy home with Benjamin, about rosy-cheeked children running through the corridors. One of those children might be sired by the viscount. Even in domestic fantasy, I cannot remove him.
My damp sheets make a presumption that I would never act upon. My slickened hand is disappointing evidence of a primitive urge. Nothing more.
I leap out of bed to straighten myself out. The pitcher of water has been refilled overnight. I splash water down the front of my shift to cool off and ring the silver bell. I pray that Annalise wasn't there to witness anything too improper.
My lady's maid comes rushing in, layers of wedding dress splayed out in her arms and an army of assistants behind her.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," she chirps, "What a wonderful day lies ahead!"
Before I can so much as nod, I'm adorned with petticoats and laces. White powder, released in a puff, is dumped over everything in such quantities that it stains the carpet. The gown is a cloyingly hopeful shade, a bright canary yellow. The tight laces shove my breath back into my throat. Ana manages to coerce my unruly hair into a towering creation. Dark tendrils drip off the heaping mound.
"D'accord!" Annalise steps back in awe of her handiwork.
I look into the mirror, and the costumed creature stares back at me. She is everything my mother always dreamed for me, save the taut fabric around my midsection. It will not be easy to pass the child off as Benjamin's, but it will be legions easier than explaining an immaculate conception.
"You look lovely, maîtresse," says one of the other maids.
This ensemble was selected by Maman, perfectly in vogue with the ladies of France. Unfortunately, a flawless string of diamonds and ribbon-covered bodice cannot undo the damage of what's beneath. I cannot help but feel like a counterfeit product, a soiled handkerchief. However, I know not the appropriate attire for a farce wedding.
With a sigh, I descend into the madness. The hallways are a sea of nervous energy and lavish decorations. Bundles of lilies are stacked at the tops of the banisters, precariously hanging over the edge, ready to anoint some poor passerby with the tastes of our gardener. Bows in the same pale pink as my dress ribbons hang over the door frames. Footmen and silver trays of food scurry across the foyer.
I swear my mother has sampled a hundred courses over the past few weeks. She stands in the foyer, menacing the servants,
"No, no, don't put that there. The birds will get into the food. Jacqueline, please, have you lost your eyesight?"
Noticing her daughter, she unwraps her arms. "Oh Catherine, you look just lovely," she says.
I look like an overstuffed marionette. "Merci, Maman."
My mother continues, "Nearly all of Saint-Michel has shown up to celebrate. More than twice the guest list. I don't know what I'm going to do. We'll simply have to turn away those without invitations."
Her expression does little to feign surprise. Every detail of the wedding has been meticulously planned, from the dove cages to the courtyard reception. Details of the event have probably been swirling about town since the first envelope was sent. For my parents' lack of a son, my husband shall inherit thousands of acres of sugarcane and hundreds of tenants. My nuptials announce the continuation of empire.
The servants follow Maman as she strides across the estate.
Benjamin gently touches my arm.
I turn. He wears a handsome, purple waistcoat with sleeves weighed down by gold cufflinks. A proud sword is mounted at his side.
"You know," he says, "I truly believe that we will grow fond of each other."
"I concur," I reply, the breath catching in my throat. What if I don't want to grow fond, slowly wilting into marriage like an un-watered lily?
He smiles. "You look beautiful. As always."
"You're very kind."
Benjamin plants a chaste kiss on my hand. Good friends as we may become, never will this man look at me with lust or desire.
