Chapter 25
Audrey
The Duboises nodded in perfect synchronization before disappearing silently toward what I assumed was the kitchen. Pierre led me across the marble-floored entrance hall toward a sweeping staircase that curved gracefully to the upper floor.
As we climbed the stairs, my discomfort increased with each step.
The plug seemed to press deeper, and the fabric of my dress brushed against my bare bottom, a constant reminder of my nakedness beneath.
I tried to focus on the opulence surrounding me—the hand-painted ceiling, the antique furniture, the original artwork adorning the walls—but my thoughts kept returning to the knowing look in Madame Dubois’ eyes.
I gathered my courage as we reached the top of the stairs, Pierre’s hand still resting possessively at the small of my back.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said softly, trying to sound normal despite the plug filling me.
“Thank you,” Pierre replied, his voice warming with pride. “It’s been in my family for generations. The original structure dates to the fourteenth century, though it’s been extensively renovated over the years.”
He guided me down a wide hallway lined with portraits—stern-faced men and demure women in clothing from various eras, all bearing some resemblance to Pierre. His ancestors, I realized, watching over their descendant and the strange American girl he had brought to their ancestral home.
“The Lavender Suite is just ahead,” Pierre informed me, stopping before a set of double doors carved with delicate floral patterns. He pushed them open to reveal a room that took my breath away.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows draped with sheer white curtains, illuminating a vast space.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the center, covered in plush white linens with lavender accents.
Obviously priceless antique furniture—a writing desk, a chaise longue, a dressing table with an ornate mirror—stood about the room as if I could use it the way I might use something from IKEA.
“This is beautiful,” I breathed, momentarily forgetting my discomfort as I took in the splendor of my surroundings.
“I’m pleased you like it,” Pierre said, stepping behind me. His hands settled on my shoulders, a possessive weight that anchored me to the present moment. “The bathroom is through there,” he added, nodding toward another door. “You’ll find everything you need.”
His hands moved down to my waist, and his fingers began to tug at the fabric of my sundress, slowly drawing it upward, to my knees… to the middle of my thighs. I froze, my eyes darting to the open door to the hallway.
“The door,” I whispered, mortified at the thought of the Duboises passing by and seeing me.
“They know not to disturb us,” Pierre replied, his voice low with promise. I let out a helpless whimper as the hem of the dress reached my waist. “Hands over your head so I can get this off you.”
I obeyed, feeling the cool air of the room against my naked skin as Pierre pulled the sundress over my head, then dropped it on a nearby chair.
Standing completely nude in this opulent chamber, while—as usual—Pierre remained fully clothed, made me feel like a naughty objet d’art: the kind of thing a randy aristocrat might display for his closest acquaintance in his private study.
His hands traced the curve of my waist, then slid down to cup my bottom. I gasped as his fingers found the welts left by the martinet, still tender and raised against my skin.
“These marks suit you,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing the evidence of my punishment. “They remind you who you belong to.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” I whispered, unable to deny the truth of his words. The sting of the welts, combined with the fullness of the plug, kept me in a constant state of awareness—of my body, of his ownership, of my submission.
Pierre’s hand found the base of the plug, giving it a gentle twist that made me gasp. “How does it feel?” he asked, his voice thick with arousal. “Having your master’s plug inside you in his ancestral home?”
For some reason, my mind flashed to the servants, the Dubois couple. They represented an essential part of this splendid milieu, of course. What did they know?
“Monsieur?” I asked timidly, looking back over my shoulder at Pierre’s gorgeous, hungry eyes. “Do… they… Monsieur and Madame Dubois…?”
“Do they know what, ma petite?” Pierre asked, frowning.
My voice dropped to a whisper. “Do they know what you… do to me? What we do together?”
Pierre’s lips curved into that knowing smile that always made my insides quiver. He stepped closer, his fully clothed body pressing against my naked one from behind, his hands firmly gripping my hips.
“The Duboises have been with my family since I was a child,” he murmured into my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
“They understand my nature, and they know exactly what happens to young women who need discipline, when they come into my power.” His hand moved to the base of the plug again, twisting it slightly.
“They know a young woman who keeps company with me, who I would bring here, is the kind of girl who should wear this sort of thing, and they know why. And I rather think Aimee suspects you’re currently wearing something like it. ”
I gasped, heat flooding my face as I imagined the distinguished couple downstairs discussing my punishment, my training, my submission. “But how could she know?”
“Madame Dubois unpacked your luggage while I showed you around,” Pierre explained, his voice rich with amusement.
“She found no underwear, of course. And I think she noticed how carefully you walk, and how you wince a little when you move. She’s seen a few young women in my care over the years, Audrey. She recognizes the signs.”
The thought of the elegant older woman examining my belongings, deducing my state of discipline and submission, made me tremble with humiliation.
Yet beneath that shame, I felt an unmistakable pulse of arousal, my nipples hardening as Pierre’s hands continued their possessive exploration of my body.
“And they… approve?” I asked, hardly believing I was having this conversation while standing naked in Pierre’s ancestral chateau with a plug in my bottom.
Pierre chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against my back. “They believe in the natural order of things,” he said simply. “They’ve seen how chaotic the world became when traditional values were abandoned. The Duboises appreciate that I maintain certain standards.”
His fingers trailed up from my hips to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my hardened nipples. I couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped me, my body arching into his touch, belying my mortification at our conversation.
I could hardly stand still, so strongly did this shameful news, along with Pierre’s hands, arouse me.
The knowledge that the Duboises were fully aware of my status, that they could tell I was being disciplined and trained, kept sending little shocks of forbidden excitement through my body.
My skin flushed hot beneath Pierre’s exploring fingers, and I found myself pressing back against him, a whimper escaping my lips.
“Such a needy little slut,” Pierre murmured approvingly, his hands tightening on my breasts. “You like knowing they can tell what you are, don’t you? That Aimee knows exactly what’s filling your tight little bottom right now?”
“No,” I protested weakly, but my body betrayed me completely, my hips moving of their own accord against his growing hardness.
In one swift motion, Pierre bent me over, pushing my upper body down onto the massive four-poster bed. I landed on my elbows, the impact causing the plug to shift inside me, drawing a gasp from my lips. He stepped back a little, and I sensed his hands working quickly at his belt and zipper.
“I think,” he said, his voice thick with desire, “that your body requires a reminder of who you belong to. And I think your mind needs to accept how aroused you are by the idea of others knowing.”
To my mingled dismay and helpless pleasure, Pierre clearly found my submissive need irresistible.
He bent me farther over the bed, positioning me exactly as he wanted, and then I felt the hot, blunt pressure of his cock against the entrance to my aching sheath.
Without warning, he thrust forward, burying himself deep inside me in one powerful stroke.
I cried out at the sudden invasion, my body stretching to accommodate his thickness.
“So wet,” he observed, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Your pussy practically dripping at the thought of my servants knowing what a well-trained little whore you are.”
He began to move with deliberate force, each thrust driving me forward on the luxurious bedspread.
His hand found the base of the plug, and he began to move it in counterpoint to his thrusts—pushing it deeper as he withdrew, pulling it slightly as he thrust forward.
The combination of sensations quickly overwhelmed me, pleasure building urgently in my pussy.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed, my fingers clutching desperately at the bedding. “Monsieur, please!”
The fullness was indescribable—Pierre’s rigid cock filling my vagina while the plug stretched my anus, both moving in a rhythm designed to drive me insane with need. Each thrust seemed to reach deeper than the last, touching places inside me that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through my veins.
“You’re close already,” Pierre observed, his pace never faltering. “Your cunt is clenching around me so beautifully.”
I was indeed teetering on the edge, the combined stimulation pushing me rapidly toward climax. The shameful knowledge that the Duboises knew about my submission combined with the relentless stimulation of both my openings had me gasping, desperate for release.
“Please, Monsieur,” I begged, my voice breaking with need. “Please, may I come? I can’t… I can’t hold back much longer!”
Pierre’s rhythm slowed unexpectedly, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, more controlled. His hand stilled on the plug, keeping it firmly seated in my bottom but no longer moving it.
“Your interest in the Duboises’ knowledge intrigues me,” he said, his voice thoughtful despite the strain of his own arousal. “I wonder how far that interest extends.”
I whimpered, my body suspended in a state of desperate need as he continued his maddeningly slow pace. “What… what do you mean?”
Pierre leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his lips close to my ear. “I mean, ma petite, that perhaps you would benefit from having them witness your discipline. Your training. Your use.”
My heart seemed to stop, then race forward at double speed.
The image from the car flooded my mind instantly, now with specific faces, specific people, to associate with the voyeur couple—myself bent over, naked and exposed, while the distinguished servants watched Pierre whip me, then take me.
The thought was so shameful, so utterly degrading, that I couldn’t believe the fresh surge of wetness it produced between my thighs.
“Would you consent to that?” Pierre asked, his voice silky with danger. “To be disciplined and used in front of my servants? To have them see what a good, obedient little slut you’re becoming?”
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words as the competing desires in my body and mind warred against each other. The need for release had become almost painful, my muscles trembling with the effort of holding back my orgasm.
“Answer me,” Pierre commanded, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust that made me cry out. “Would you consent?”
“Yes,” I gasped, telling myself I wasn’t really consenting, that I was only saying what he wanted to hear so he would let me come. “Yes, I consent. Please, Monsieur, please let me come now!”
“Such a shameless little whore,” Pierre murmured approvingly, his pace increasing once more. His fingers found my clit, circling it with practiced skill as his cock drove into me with renewed vigor. “You may come, Audrey. Come for your master.”
The permission broke the last of my restraint.
The orgasm exploded inside me with devastating force, radiating outward from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes.
I screamed into the bedspread, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically around Pierre’s rigid shaft as surge after surge of pleasure crashed through me.
As I came, my mind filled with the forbidden image of the Duboises watching Pierre fuck me—their dignified faces impassive as they observed my complete degradation. The fantasy intensified my climax until I thought I might pass out from the alloy of shame and sheer ecstasy.
Pierre’s rigid manhood pulsed inside me, his hands tightening around my waist to keep my pussy still for his final thrusts.
The thought that Monsieur Dubois might highly approve of the sight, of the way his employer exercised his mastery, brought another spasm to my vagina, so hard that it made me cry out.
What did I just consent to? I swallowed hard as the pleasure began to recede. Can I take it back?
Do I want to take it back?