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.
