Chapter 30
Audrey
Madame Dubois’ obscene words made me moan around Pierre’s thrusting cock.
My face burned with shame at the suggestion, but the wetness between my thighs, as always, betrayed my true feelings.
Pierre’s rhythm eased momentarily as he considered it, and to my dismay I thought I could even sense his approval of the housekeeper’s bold request in a slight hardening of his manhood in my mouth.
“Aimee,” he said, his voice thick with arousal as he gently withdrew from my mouth, “your suggestion appeals to me. I think it would be educational for Audrey to be used so thoroughly in front of you both.” He pulled my flushed face from his lap, tilting it up so he could see my eyes.
He stroked my hair almost tenderly as I gasped for breath.
“Would you enjoy that, ma petite? Being fucked in all your holes while the Duboises observe your training?”
I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to see the knowing look I knew would be there. My rational mind screamed in protest at such complete degradation, but my body’s response was undeniable. My nipples had hardened to painful points, and I could feel my arousal dripping down my inner thighs.
“Answer me,” Pierre commanded, his fingers tightening in my hair.
“Yes,” I whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. “Yes, Monsieur.”
I gasped as Pierre guided me to my feet, his strong hands gripping my waist. In one fluid motion, he turned me around to face the Duboises.
He urged my feet apart, then pulled me backwards to straddle his lap.
I whimpered softly as I felt the head of his enormous erection against my bare, aching pussy.
“Hold onto my knees and lower yourself,” he commanded, his voice thick with desire. “Show Aimee and Etienne how well behaved you are when you have a penis in you.”
I placed my shaking hands on his knees for support, feeling utterly exposed to the Duboises’ unwavering gaze.
Madame Dubois stood with perfect posture, her expression revealing nothing but mild interest, while Monsieur Dubois watched with the critical eye of a connoisseur evaluating a fine performance.
Slowly, I lowered myself, feeling the blunt head of Pierre’s cock lodge itself in the entrance to my slick sheath. Pierre guided me down onto his rigid manhood, filling me completely in one long, deliberate motion that made me cry out with mingled shame and pleasure.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his hands settling on my hips to control my movements. “Ride your master’s cock in front of the servants.”
I sobbed as he began to move me, using his strong hands to lift me up and then pull me back down. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure through my core, made more intense by the lingering sting of the cane welts and the humiliation of performing this intimate act before witnesses.
“Etienne, Aimee,” Pierre said conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather rather than engaged in the most intimate act imaginable, “have you heard of the New Modesty program in America?”
I felt strangely disconnected from the scene as Pierre continued to move me on his cock, using me like a human pleasure device while initiating a casual conversation.
My body responded automatically to his skilled manipulation, my inner muscles clenching around his thickness as waves of unwanted pleasure radiated through me.
“No, Monsieur,” Etienne replied, his eyes never leaving the spot where Pierre’s cock disappeared inside me. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with it.”
“Nor I,” added Madame Dubois, her head tilted slightly as if studying a curious specimen. “Is it something to do with how Mademoiselle is being trained?”
I moaned as Pierre thrust particularly deep, my head falling back against his shoulder as he continued to control my movements.
“Indeed,” Pierre replied, his voice steady despite his exertion.
“It’s a relatively new initiative—clearly a very American idea—but one that appeals to me greatly.
Selecta has implemented it to help stabilize the energy markets, which is admirable enough, but what truly interests me is how it reflects the proper dominance of a husband over his wife. ”
My entire body flushed hot at the word ‘wife,’ my mind reeling at the implication even as my body moved helplessly, hips jerking at the ecstasy of being filled by my master’s hardness where I needed it the most.
Madame Dubois asked, clearly surprised, “Does that include anal training, Monsieur? That seems much more a European practice than an American one.”
The question hung in the air for a moment, my embarrassment reaching new heights. Before I could process the mortification, Pierre’s hands tightened on my hips, lifting me completely off his cock. I felt suddenly empty, but only for a moment.
“An excellent question, Aimee,” Pierre replied, his voice thick with desire. “Let me demonstrate.”
I cried out as Pierre repositioned me, the head of his cock now pressing against the tiny pucker of my rear passage.
His fingers gripped my hips firmly, holding me in place as he began to push inside.
The pressure was intense, the stretch burning even with my previous training.
I could see the scene perfectly in my mind’s eye: me riding my master’s lap with his penis slowly penetrating my anus, my bare, wet, well-fucked pussy on full display for his servants’ voyeuristic pleasure.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed as he sank deeper, impaling me on his rigid shaft. My hands clutched desperately at his knees for support as my most private place was invaded before the watchful eyes of the Duboises.
“Yes,” Pierre told them, his voice strained with pleasure but still maintaining that conversational tone, “the philosophy behind the New Modesty embraces a husband’s complete control over his wife’s body.
It even specifically encourages anal sex as a means of discipline—a way to remind a woman of her place and purpose. ”
I whimpered as he began to move me on his cock, lifting and lowering me with deliberate control. Each thrust sent conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure radiating through my core. I couldn’t bear to look at the Duboises, couldn’t face seeing their reactions to my complete degradation.
“Fascinating,” Monsieur Dubois murmured, his voice carrying a note of approval. “The Americans are finally beginning to understand what Europeans have known for centuries.”
“Indeed,” Madame Dubois agreed, her tone equally approving. “A woman properly disciplined in her bottom becomes much more docile and attentive to her duties.”
Their casual discussion of my anal subjugation as if it were the most natural thing in the world pushed me further into that strange headspace where shame transmuted into desperate arousal. I felt my inner muscles clench around Pierre’s invading shaft, my body betraying me yet again.
Pierre’s rhythm increased, his thrusts becoming more forceful as his pleasure built. His breathing grew heavier, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips as he drove deeper into my helplessly yielding body.
“You see,” he gasped, clearly approaching his climax, “how… completely… she submits.”
With a final, powerful thrust, Pierre buried himself fully in my anus, my punished bottom coming up against his muscular lap. I felt his cock pulse inside me, filling me with his hot seed.
Madame Dubois cleared her throat delicately. “Monsieur, would it be alright if dinner were a few minutes late? I’d like to bring Mademoiselle upstairs to help her clean up and put herself to rights.”
I remained frozen in Pierre’s lap, his softening cock still inside my bottom, his seed leaking from me in a warm flow that seemed to embody my shame and my master’s ownership.
The casual way Madame Dubois had made her request—as if what had just happened were perfectly normal—left me disoriented, hovering between mortification and a strange, floating acceptance.
“Yes, of course, Aimee,” Pierre replied, his voice warm with satisfaction. “Take good care of her. Mademoiselle will wear only her lingerie at dinner, however, please.”
His hands loosened their grip on my hips, allowing me to rise shakily from his lap.
The sensation of his withdrawal from my well-used bottom made me whimper.
I stood trembling before them all, naked and thoroughly debased, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as evidence of Pierre’s claim on my most private place trickled down my inner thigh.
His words about my dinner attire finally penetrated my thoughts then, and I bit my lip, letting out a tiny sob.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” Madame Dubois said gently, retrieving my blue dress and my lingerie from where she had laid it. She put her arm around my waist, as if to provide me with some modicum of comfort as she guided me toward the door.
Every step sent new pangs of soreness through my entire lower body.
The welts from the cane burned across my bottom, while the stretched, sensitive tissues between my legs and especially my behind throbbed with each movement.
I walked with small, careful steps, painfully aware that both Pierre and Monsieur Dubois were watching my retreat.
“Dinner in half an hour, then?” Pierre called after us.
“That should be sufficient, Monsieur,” Madame Dubois replied. “Etienne, bring Monsieur a fresh aperitif, please.”
As we reached the grand staircase, I clutched the dress more tightly around me, terrified of encountering other staff members in my disheveled state. Madame Dubois seemed to sense my fear.
“The rest of the staff has the evening off,” she assured me quietly. “It’s only the four of us in the chateau tonight.”
I nodded gratefully, unable to form words as we climbed the stairs. My mind whirled with conflicting emotions—shame at what I had been made to do and to undergo, confusion at how eagerly my body had responded, and beneath it all, a strangely peaceful state of mind that felt both alien and right.
Madame Dubois led me back to the Lavender Suite, closing the door behind us with a soft click. The room looked exactly as we had left it, yet everything felt different. I felt different.
“Into the bathroom, Mademoiselle,” she directed, her voice gentle but firm. “We need to clean you properly.”
The whole area between my waist and my knees felt like Pierre had used it thoroughly, and in the process had somehow completed its transformation into his personal possession.
Every movement reminded me of what had happened in the library—the caning, the humiliation, the pleasure.
I sat gingerly on the edge of the massive bathtub as Madame Dubois ran warm water, adding a capful of something that smelled like lavender.
“This will help with the soreness,” she explained, wringing out a soft washcloth. “Though some tenderness is intentional, I think. A reminder.”
I nodded, unable to find words as she knelt beside me. The dignified housekeeper, still in her immaculate uniform, began to clean me with practiced efficiency, starting with my inner thighs where Pierre’s seed had left sticky trails.
As she cleaned my pussy and bottom gently with the warm, soapy washcloth, Madame Dubois told me, very softly, “I have never heard Monsieur Pierre talk about marriage in any way, in relation to a young woman he’s kept company with.”
My breath caught. I looked down at her, searching her face for any sign of mockery or deception. I found only sincerity in her warm brown eyes.
“What do you mean?” I whispered, wincing slightly as the cloth touched a particularly tender spot.
“Just what I said,” she replied, her voice still low, as if sharing a precious confidence. “As I told you earlier, Monsieur has entertained many young ladies over the years, both here and in Paris. Never once has he mentioned the New Modesty, or wives, or marriage. Until you.”
A strange fluttering sensation began in my chest, something that had nothing to do with the soreness of my well-used body.
“Perhaps he was just… talking,” I suggested hesitantly. “Using it as part of the scene.”
Madame Dubois shook her head slightly as she continued her ministrations. “Monsieur Pierre does not speak idly about such matters, especially not in front of Etienne and myself. We have known him since he was a boy. He understands the weight his words carry in this household.”
She rinsed the cloth and applied fresh soap, working with gentle efficiency between my buttocks where Pierre had claimed me so thoroughly. I blushed, but allowed her to continue, sensing that this conversation was important.
“What else has been different?” I asked, burning to know even in these humiliating circumstances.
Madame Dubois was silent for a moment, considering.
“He watches you when you aren’t looking,” she finally said.
“Not with lust—though there is plenty of that—but with something softer. And he asked specifically about accommodating your preferences before you arrived. He wanted my advice on which suite to put you in, and which flowers to have on the table. He has never done that before.”
“He said he loves me,” I admitted, the words barely audible over the soft splashing of water.
“And do you love him?” she asked, her eyes meeting mine directly.