Golden Girl Ch. 02

A Herald who had been standing attentively by the door to the Ballroom straightened up and called out in a loud, clear voice,

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have the first lamp broken in! Wagers to be settled in the Grand Dining Hall! Any wagers on lamp number 2, the Golden Girl? Step forward and claim your winnings!"

Within a few moments, the Scarlet Lady swept into the room with her Companion. Going to the footman, they presented some sort of chit and collected a small velvet purse each. The Companion immediately flitted back to the Ballroom in a froth of bright blue-and-gold skirts. The Scarlet Lady strolled over to Dorée with a luscious, self-satisfied smile on her face.

"Golden Girl. I could tell you'd be the first to break. How kind of you to confirm my intuition."

As easily as one might pluck a flower, she reached her hand up to Dorée's cleft and ran two fingers along it, separating her nether lips. Her manicured nails scraped the tender flesh inside, so light yet so sharp that Dorée shivered in anticipation of being cut. Without meaning to she pulsed again hard. The Lady made a small sound of surprise as she drew back her fingers and rubbed them together.

"The first to break...and roused so early, too. Hmm."

Giving Dorée one more contemplative look, she sailed off into the crowd without even wiping the dew from her fingers. It was if she intended to show someone. Her friend, perhaps? Or the Duc? Dorée shuddered to think that her shameful reaction to all of this would be shown to anyone, much less the man who owned such a vast and powerful estate. She had no idea at that time how much her natural, involuntary responses to pain and humiliation would come to please him someday.

For the moment, Dorée returned her hands to their position atop her head and readied herself to wait out the night. She watched as her fellow lamps gave in to their discomfort, clasping at the bar and earning their punishments one by one. Each new surrender made her shudder -and yet it wasn't a wholly unpleasant feeling, knowing that at least she was not alone. The wax burned them all the same. Some guests collected wagers on the second and third lamps to break, but they didn't bother as much about the rest.

At eight o'clock a gong was sounded for dinner and all the fine noblemen and ladies poured into the Grand Dining Hall. Some of them paused to admire and fondle the lamps, while others took their seats after a mere glance, seemingly unaffected by the display of nubile bodies set out before them. In a perverse way, it was the indifferent ones who bothered Dorée more than those who touched her body, for those who ignored her made her sacrifice seem small, whereas the ones who touched her, in their desire for her, made her a worthy object of attention. Ah, there it was again: that feeling of carnal pride. She have her head a tiny shake, trying to clear such twisted thought from her mind.

Last of all to enter was the Duc himself. A fanfare was blown by two Heralds in full regalia. After a dramatic pause, the Duc in his dark glory swept into the room. He still wore the black damask coat from before, but now he also wore silver chains of office which adorned his breast and shoulders like the ceremonial gorget and epaulettes worn by high-ranking soldiers. In one hand he carried a long silver dagger set with a massive ruby in the pommel. Dorée now understood why the Duc's coat-of-arms carved on the doors to the chateau bore the device of crossed chains and dagger. As the Duc walked down the left side of the table, he held his dagger out to the side, directing its wicked point with careless menace toward the lamps. The men flinched back as the knife passed within a hand-span of their still achingly erect members. Dorée, however, held her position and allowed the blade to pass by her unflinching flesh. She could have sworn the Duc cocked a sardonic eyebrow in her direction. He did not halt is stately progress for her, though, and went instead to the head of the table, where he stood behind his chair, directly in front of the alcove of the red-headed Bretonne.

"Honoured Guests," he announced in a ringing tone. "It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to the Feast of the Fall. We gather tonight to celebrate liberty-" here the guests raised their glasses with a rousing cheer "-the desires of the flesh-" an even louder cheer "-and the education of the innocent!" At this last, the loudest cheer yet went up. Dorée, as one of the innocent about to be educated, trembled.

The Duc continued in a lower voice,

"It is tradition that we begin the Feast of the Fall with an offering."

A breathless silence filled the room.

"In this harvest season, we celebrate the flesh and blood of youth ripening into abundant maturity. And so it is fitting that we make a sacrifice of flesh and blood to open the night's revels."

The Duc raised his blade and turned to the red-haired girl behind him.

"I dedicate this sacrifice to the Fall."

'NO!' Dorée wanted to scream. But she was paralyzed as the Duc's dagger flashed...

...and traced but the faintest, most delicate cut across the terrified Bretonne's belly. A single sanguine drop formed, as exquisite as a gem. The Duc bent his head down, almost as if in a bow, and with one swipe of his tongue he lapped her blood up, leaving her clean again. The girl gave an audible sob of relief.

"Huzzah!" shouted the Footmen and the Heralds.

"Huzzah!" shouted the crowd.

"The Feast has begun!" shouted the Duc.

At these words, the slaves who had been chosen to serve the high table marched into the room bearing platter upon platter of food for the guests. First among them were the lovely dark-haired couple from the washing chambers. The girl's long, glossy locks had been bound up tightly in white ribbons which practically begged to be pulled loose. Her breasts were looped around with black ribbon in an elaborate harness, and the tops of her thighs were bound in a V-shape that dipped between her legs. Her mate, the dark-haired young man, had a matching white ribbon at his brow, and black ribbon around his pale throat and the base of his cock, pushing his balls forward. Like the gold leaf the lamps wore, these ornamental "uniforms" did not so much hide the bodies of the servers as expose them all the more. Despite all that, however, the lovely matched pair who lead of the line of servers carried themselves with grace and dignity. Many a noble Gentleman or Lady took the opportunity to grab and pinch the servers as they leaned in with platters dipping under the weight of the food. Through it all, the black-haired beauties kept their heads held high. The Duc seemed especially delighted with the two of them, and forced them to stay standing on either side of his high-backed chair where he could pluck whatever he wanted from them at will.

Once the Duc had been served, all the guests set to eating the first course with gusto. Dorée let out a sigh and leaned her weight back on her heels. Strangely enough, she felt almost bereft to be confined to her alcove and denied the attentions lavished on the gorgeous slaves chosen to serve at the high table. It was as if they were all in a fairy tale, and the two chosen for the head of the table were the captured prince and princess on whom the story turned. They had the beauty and pathos of heroes in legend, destined for a dramatic escape and a romantic conclusion. Dorée was merely a part of the backdrop, a figure to be forgotten as the plot moved on.

With resignation, she turned her eyes forward and gazed into the middle distance. She tried not to look at the food. It smelled so appetizing that her stomach began to growl once again. The guests gorged themselves on delicacies and fine wines, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Most forgot in their merriment even to look at the lamps that lit their tables. Dorée noticed, however, that the Scarlet Lady, when she was not feeding her spaniel-boy tidbits from her plate, was glancing occasionally at the lamps, and, it seemed to Dorée, at her.

Once the final cheese platter was finished and the ports and sherries brought out, the Duc stood again and tapped his crystal goblet for attention.

"My fine Lords and Ladies! Shall we have some entertainment as a digestif for our meal?"

"Yes, your Grace!" Called the company as one.

"Very well! Bring out the night's performers!"

At these words, a sound was struck up such as Dorée had never heard. There were chimes, and some sort of stringed musical instrument that she associated with faraway lands. The rhythmic sounds plucked at her nerves, taut and sweet. A flute joined in, playing a curving, sinuous melody. As the melody wound around, so a group of young men and women wound their way into the room. The men were clad only in loose trousers, and the women in veils and skirts which swirled as light as mist, offering peeks of their curves between the moving fabric. All wore silver collars around their throats and matching manacles on their wrists and ankles. At the ankles they were bound with fine chains, limiting the span of their steps. And yet, every dancer moved gracefully within the small compass allowed to them, winding their bodies into a sensual, beckoning dance.

The Scarlet Lady was the first to step up from her chair and take a dancer. A shy, doe-eyed girl with straight black hair falling to the small of her back had apparently caught her eye. All the guests watched as the Lady seized one floating veil after another, peeling them off as the girl danced to and fro in coy evasion. When the veil that concealed her breasts was torn away there was a sigh among the company, for they were indeed very beautiful breasts, and the girl's small hands tried to shield them in the most compellingly ineffectual way. The Scarlet Lady seized one nipple and squeezed it between her lacquered nails. The little dancing girl moaned. Her mouth shaped pleading words, though what they were Dorée could not hear. The Lady cast a glance at the Duc, who gave a beneficent wave of his hand, like a heretic Priest accepting an acolyte's offering. The Lady tore off the final veil with a flourish, baring the dancing girl completely. Then she pressed the dancer down to kneeling so that she could mount her conquest and use the girl's mouth for her pleasure. With help from her Companion, the Lady half-raised her scarlet skirts, so that the company could see the labouring dancer as she strained to please the Lady, but without revealing anything of her own noble body above the thigh. The dancer's small face disappeared into a rustling curtain of skirts. The Lady closed her eyes in serene enjoyment. Even at the height of her pleasure she never lost her lofty self-control, though the dancer seemed suddenly frenzied with rapture and moved her head like a cat lapping up spilt cream.

Two more guests after her selected dancers to couple with in public. As the night wore on, the displays grew more graphic and more violent. One muscular young man took another from behind in an act Dorée had previously thought both immoral and illegal. A dignified old courtier selected a girl half his age, at least, and made her cry out "Papa!" as he spanked her, then penetrated her with the shaft of a champagne bottle. An orgy of unspeakable acts developed before her eyes, things she never even thought possible, much less likely to occur so close before her. Dizzied and aching, she grasped at the bar, crying out aloud as a fresh cascade of liquid wax coursed down her back. She turned away from the crowd and closed her eyes tightly, unable to face the intensity of that which she witnessed. Her hips flexed in pain, a motion that somehow developed a sensual rhythm of its own despite her will...

Suddenly, she felt a hand invade her most private area. She was certain that the very next moment, she would be pulled from her alcove and ravished like all the poor slave-girls at this depraved feast. She shuddered but did not resist. The fingers burrowed inside her deeper than she had ever known, though somehow not quite deep enough. Then they withdrew and a rich, masculine voice murmured very near her face,

"An innocent girl, charged with a mundane task and subjected to pain alone...yet still so fully aroused. Madame was correct."

Dorée pulsed again. She felt her wetness coursing down her thighs. She could not for the price of her immortal soul open her eyes to look upon the Duc. A single finger, slick and pungent with her own scent, caressed her cheek. Then the presence pulled away from her and the urbane voice spoke again more distantly, saying:

"No one touches this one. Have her put up for the night."

And so it was that, besides a few caresses, Dorée was not molested at all for the duration of the Feast. She might have counted herself fortunate, had she not known that the Duc had put his mark on her -and all that would come about because of it.