The Ducal Pet

A light blinded her, even though her eyes were closed. The snap of metal and whoosh of fabric tore her eyes open anyway.

An older woman who Claire had never seen before marched to the bed. The woman's dress was prim and matronly, but her face was more fitting a warrior, at least to Claire's dream-weighted imagination. The woman flung back the covers, and the cold morning air whipped the last vestiges of sleep from Claire's mind.

"Who—who are you?" Claire asked.

A quick slap to the face told her not to speak. The woman dragged her from the bed and began Claire's morning ablutions, allowing no help from Claire herself. She rent the nightgown from Claire's body and washed it briskly with chilly water. Though she was exceptionally thorough around Claire's breasts and her lower parts, she was all business. She brushed out Claire's hair until it shone. She put her thumb into Claire's mouth, forcing open her jaws so that she could brush her teeth with powder.

When Claire was clean and naked, the woman said, "Down."

Reluctantly, resignedly, Claire sank to her knees. This was her life. She was grateful for the full supper she'd received last night. Grateful for the warm, plush bed, free of lumps or fleas. Those were the comforts of her position as the ducal pet, but this was her duty.

The woman produced a length of leather. Claire cringed back, immediately fearing the worse. A punishment, already. But the woman only chuckled and snapped it around Claire's neck, forming a collar and a lead.

Claire waited for further instruction, but instead the woman went to ring the servants' bell. They waited in silence, the lack of empty air extolling her position more clearly than harsh commands or insults could have done. As a pet, she was not even deserving of speech. As an animal, she would not even understand it.

A footman came to the door, one Claire recognized from the night before. He had touched her,

used

her.

"She ready?" he asked.

The woman handed the lead to the footman in answer. "Take her to his grace, boy."

"Yes, ma'am." The footman spoke with deference, his casual conversation apparently rebuffed. Claire had a feeling she would pay for that slight.

And so, when the footman shoved her into an alcove and touched her body outside and in, she bore it without a sound. She was determined to do her duty her, determined to demonstrate strength and dignity in a position that had none.

The footman unbuttoned the fall of his uniform and guided her mouth to his erection. Claire sucked in a deep breath to fortify herself and was rewarded with a gulp of musk and sweat. She engulfed the tip without ceremony and promptly pushed it further back into her throat. For her efforts, she received a low moan from above.

"So good, so fucking good."

The words warmed her. They even seemed to make the passing of his cock easier, allowing it to slide deeper into her throat. The muscles of her throat convulsed around his flesh, and finally she gagged. The sound seemed to trigger something inside him for he began to thrust, long and deep, holding her head still with both hands.

She began to grow lightheaded at the steady intrusions, unable to time her breaths or suck in enough air on the exit. As the cream of his pleasure filled her mouth, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and her body fell limp, but just as she would have slumped to the ground, she was caught. To her shock, it was the footman. He held her, almost cradled her body, having shortened his crisis to keep her from getting hurt.

"Can't have you harmed during transport," he explained with a grin, in response to her questioning look. "His grace would have my head."

They walked the corridors after that, him with a self-satisfied stroll and her on her hands and knees. She was naked, but somehow it felt more normal than wearing her poor village clothing. She was just an object here, like that marble statue. If she had feelings, no one cared.

She was led out to the veranda, where the duke was breakfasting by himself. Relief swept through her that Melissande was nowhere in sight. The footman handed the leash over to his grace with a short bow and retreated. Claire wondered briefly if the footman had been given permission to use her, if he would be punished if the duke knew what he'd done. But it didn't matter. Claire would never tell. A pet did not speak. She looked down at the shine on the duke's shoes, and waited.

"So docile," came the smooth, cultured tones that had invaded her dreams last night. "You take so well to your role. It's almost as if you were made for it."

His words stirred up fear inside her. Should she be fighting this more? What did it say about her that she wasn't?

Even more disturbingly, did her acceptance displease him?

"No, pet," he corrected, but his tone said that he was pleased. "I like you this way. It was just unexpected."

He continued to eat, with long pauses punctuated with rustling of paper, which made her think she was reading something. She would have thought he'd forgotten about her, but when she chanced a glance at his lap, she could see him standing erect beneath the fabric. Involuntarily, she licked her lips, tasting anew the essence of the footman. His grace shifted in his seat, and she realized he had been watching her. The sight of her tongue had aroused him, and the knowledge gave her a strange sense of power which she stored away.

She wondered when he would use her and how. Surely he would; that was why she had been brought to him. What was he waiting for?

Her answer came in the form of a formal announcement. The Countess Bathory had arrived to join him. He had a guest? At least it was not Melissande, she told herself. Although this new woman might be worse.

Claire watched with trepidation as the large, embroidered skirt passed her by. The duke stood to greet her, and the countess laughed softly.

"You are very prepared today, yes?" the countess asked in a teasing tone. Claire held her breath, remembering how harshly the duke had responded to Melissande's teasing the night before.

"So hopefully you will not disappoint," he responded blandly. Apparently the countess was special.

"Oui," the countess said. "My Gabriel, he is never disappointing."

And that was when Claire realized that another person had entered the room with the countess. She looked behind her to where a man knelt in the corner. Like her, he was naked. Unlike her, he wore no collar, no leash, but his submissiveness was no less apparent. Though his muscles were thick and well-defined, enough to bring a blush to Claire's cheeks and other parts of her body, his head was bowed. Clearly, he was the same as Claire—a pet.

Claire managed to hold in her gasp of surprise—that there was any other slave, for one. That a "pet" could be a man, owned by a woman, for two. And lastly, that the duke had habitually received any sort of entertainment from this man.

The man in the corner lifted his head enough to catch her eye. Claire caught the impression of soulful dark brown eyes before he lowered his gaze to the floor. In just that brief exchange, she had missed a command from the duke.

He slapped her, much harder than the woman this morning. "Little bitch. You see a stud and you can barely contain yourself."

The countess tsk-tsked. "These animals are so dumb. But you can hardly fault her for knowing her usage."

"Get on the table," the duke commanded.

Claire faltered, unsure of what he meant, how to do it. He reached her, unexpectedly gentle as he guided her onto a space bare of plates and saucers. She lay on her back on the concrete table and stared up at the blue, blue sky.

"What a nice specimen," the countess said. "Very nice tits. Full and plump, with good sized tips. I dislike when they are small, puny little nubs. But these are a good brown color." She accentuated her words with taps to the tips in question, not meant to arouse or cause pain. Without any consideration for the object at all.

"Save your excitement, Elizabeth. Wait until you see this," the duke said, a touch of pride in his voice. He raised Claire's legs so that he knees were bent and pressed to her chest.

"La!" the countess exclaimed, "a virgin! Where did you find one?"

Claire felt a mortified blush spread across her chest. She should not be able to feel shame, not after all she had been through. But somehow, the fact that they knew her inexperience made this all much worse. Whatever they did to her body, she could bear. But it was what they wanted with her mind, to shock her and humiliate her that was the true test.

"Ah, and she even blushes. A cliché," the countess said fondly, "a pretty little cliché." She lightly slapped Claire's exposed private area, the source of such intrigue.

"How shall we break her?" the duke asked.

Claire shuddered at the word—

break

. Hadn't she already lost everything?

She had begun to understand the dynamic, just little bit and pieces like fragments from a book. The duke appeared to be a few years younger than the Countess. It was also clear they had been intimate, and yet no tension was strung between them the way it had been with Melissande. It was almost as if the duke looked up to the countess. It was strange to think of this terrifying man looking up to any woman, but that made the countess all the more dangerous, despite her light words.

"I am surprised you have not already done so, Daniel. I would have thought that would be the first order of business."

"She is a pet," the duke said. "My proclivities do not drive me to fuck animals."

The countess laughed. "Well then, I must be deficient indeed, for Gabriel has fucked me in every orifice, to be sure."

The duke snorted. "She may use her mouth on me, of course. But I would like something different for her cunny. Something more befitting her status. I was sure you would understand."

The countess hummed. "Just as you said. She is a sweet bitch, and so she deserved a prime stud. I see why you invited me." She snapped her fingers in my face. "Get on the floor."

Claire scrambled off the table and huddled on the floor at the duke's feet. Suddenly being near him and under his command seemed so much safer than anything this woman could do to her. Surely they couldn't mean what their words implied.

Sweet bitch. Prime stud.

As if they were animals. Yes, she understood that was the game His Grace liked to play, but it was just that, wasn't it? She wasn't really an animal, and they weren't truly planning on breeding her, were they?

"Gabriel," she said in a strange voice, almost like a song. "Come here, my boy."

The man crawled over to us. Claire almost hoped for one second, based on nothing but a fleeting glance, that he would help her—save her—but as he moved, she could see his erection thick and strong. He would be no help.

Claire leaned into the duke's legs, begging with the slightest of pressures to be spared. It was a strange thing, to bed to be deflowered by this lord who clearly cared not at all for me. But it had to be better than to be ruined by this man, this slave, at the order of this strange woman.

"Wait," the duke said.

Hope fluttered in her chest.

"This is getting damned painful. I need some relief before we go on." He sat and undid his pants.

Claire froze, knowing it was her place to service him and yet caught in the terrible storm of confusion and shame.

"Him." The duke snapped his fingers at Gabriel. "I want him to service me, and the flavor of my seed on his tongue as he fucks her."

Claire stared as Gabriel crawled over to him and, after only the briefest hesitations, took the duke's member in his mouth. The picture burned through her mind as she struggled to make sense of it. Gabriel looked incredibly strong, powerful, and yet he had bowed to this man's will. It was true that the duke was powerful, and so was the Countess, but it seemed as though Gabriel could simply refuse them. He could stand up and leave. Unlike me, he could find other work in this world than providing sexual favors. So why did he do it?

Their coupling was quick and fierce. Gabriel fell into a quick rhythm, and the duke held his face down to his lap and groaned. Claire stared raptly at the duke's face, contorted in rapture and strangely beautiful in its honesty.

"My turn," the countess cried.

The duke had slumped in his chair, fully sated, as he buttoned up again. "Would you like to use the girl?"

Every muscle tightened Claire's body, but then the countess said, "Non. Gabriel, come here. I am too excited to train a new girl right now."

She bunched up her voluminous skirts so that Gabriel could duck underneath them. And then there was quiet, only the faint rustle of fabric as Gabriel worked underneath. I wondered that he could even breath.

The countess broke the silence with high pitched cries of pleasure. She pulled her own breasts from their tight confines and plucked at her nipples. Claire stared in shock, and then looked over at the duke. She expected him to be watching the explicit display, but instead his gaze was on her. A strange light glinted his eyes and she quickly looked down. He didn't comment on her lapse in deference, and she hoped that she had escaped reprimand this time.

She hadn't meant to disobey, but this whole experience was so strange. She had taken for granted the wickedness of man, ever since her father had slipped into her room, and her bed, at nights. He had touched her only. Claire had thought he saved her maidenhead for marriage, but when her father sold her, the plan became clear. Even Melissande yesterday had been the sort of jealous female that lived in the village, who expressed her outrage with sexual punishments instead of cruel words.

But the countess displayed the same wickedness as men, and she clearly held some power over Gabriel. None of this made sense to Claire.

At last, the countess gave a sharp cry at her crisis. Claire kept her gaze lowered throughout, but she felt the weight of the duke's stare.

"Go," the duke said, his voice no more than a rasp. "Fuck her now. Quickly."

Gabriel approached her. She shrank back until the cool stone wall hit her back. "Please don't," I whimpered.

"I have no choice," he whispered back. "If you resist they will make it worse."

She allowed him to position my body, so that she knelt on all fours like the animal they claimed she was. She shivered with nerves and remained mute; maybe she was nothing but an animal after all. But then the tear fell, hot and slick down my cheek, and she knew she was still human after all.

He mounted her from behind, his thighs spreading her legs and his back covering hers. She felt possessed; her body restrained by this thickly muscled man and her will chained to the man in finely cut cloth sipping his coffee at the table.

Gabriel pressed his face into her hair, and his voice was muffled as he whispered in her ear. "Is it true? You've never done this before?"

She stared at the crack in the concrete below my face, ashamed and afraid and somehow a little bit hopeful—maybe, maybe. She nodded.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as his hands gripped her—one on my hip to pull back and the other braced on my shoulder. A sharp pain tore through her, rended her in two, and she screamed. The pain seemed to go on and on, until finally it sunk in that he was still inside her, only the suffocating thickness and occasional throbbing to indicate he was still there.

"Go on," the countess cried. "Don't make her wait for it."

At the countess' words Claire turned to look. The duke had her bent over the table, as he rutted into her in much the same way Claire was being violated. He met her gaze, his eyes glittering dangerously. Those small differences were everything. They were fully clothed while we were naked. They held themselves over the table, still standing, while we knelt, bruising our knees on the stone floor. And they had a choice; she didn't.

"Oh God," she whispered.

"Not too loud," Gabriel said, but even he sounded different. Not apologetic like before but strained. She wondered if it hurt him too, being joined with her like this.

He felt too large and she must be gripping him so tightly, perhaps it hurt him. Just focusing her thoughts there seemed to make it hurt worse, and she squirmed to try to alleviate the pain.

"No," he gasped. "Wait. Good Lord, you must wait."

"Hurry up," the countess called out breathlessly. "If we finish before you, that'll be ten lashes for each of you."

Before she'd even gotten all the words out, Gabriel pulled back and forced his way back in. Claire couldn't help but to cry out again; it felt as if a tree was invading her, complete with bark to scratch and claw at her soft inner skin. He did it again, and again, and the pain began to overwhelm her. Each thrust drew some sort of sound from her—a grunt, a cry, a plea. That was another thing that made her human; in near mindless pain, she released the words pent up.

Please. No more. Oh God, no more.

"I'm sorry," he gasped behind her. "I'm sorry. I'm almost there. Almost, just..."

The high pitched cries of the countess intruded in our space and overrode our own sounds. "I've changed my mind," she said, panting. "If Gabriel doesn't finish first, the girl gets all twenty lashes."

As if propelled by her words, he slammed into Claire, harder, deeper than before.

The pain wrenched at her body from the inside out, and her muscles cramped down hard. Her whole lower body tightened and roiled.

He yelled out a word, something foreign and unknown, but in some universal human language, she recognized it as his pleasure. His body held still except for a small, intense vibration and pulsing inside me. Long minute stretched as his fingers dug into her hips, holding her against him as he reached completion.

He slumped onto her, barely supporting his own weight. She wanted to fall on the floor, and wouldn't even have minded the hardness or coolness, but she was too terrified of what the countess would do. In particular, even through the haze of pain in her private woman's place, she could not help fearing the lashes they had been threatened with.

But it seemed they were safe at least for now, because when the duke strode over to her, he was still glistening and thick and long. He yanked her up by her hair and shoved his member into her mouth. She tasted the musk she recognized from yesterday—his essence—and something else, something earthy that must be the countess. And then she tasted nothing, as the end hit the back of her throat and it was all she could do not to vomit. Instead she made wretching sounds around the flesh, so careful not to touch her teeth to the skin.

"Yes, yes, yes," he repeated on every thrust.

She chanced a glance up through her lashes. He stared down at her, triumphant. She realized then, even with her mouth and throat and senses overwhelmed with his maleness, that she had been wrong. He hadn't been trying to please the countess; he'd been manipulating her into exactly this. This was what he wanted; to see me used and degraded before he used me himself. He tangled his hands in my hair and used them like a harness, yanking my head to meet his thrusts.

I struggled to relax and failed, gagging loudly around the heated skin that invaded me. Then my nose pressed the crinkly hair and taut skin of his stomach. I tried to suck in a breath through my nose, but nothing happened. Consciousness slid away, and I wondered fleetingly if Gabriel was watching me like this before everything went black.