Golden Girl Ch. 10

The Centrepiece

After her Ravishment, Dorée's sense of herself underwent a profound shift. No longer a virgin, yet not a bride or mother, she was cast into a sea of moral confusion. There was no word for what she was now, except perhaps "putain" -a fallen woman who sold her body. Dorée had heard that epithet flung at her older sister Livia when she left her mother-in-law's house for the streets of Paris. But Livia had never taken money for her sexual escapades, and Dorée was not exactly selling herself. She was neither virgin nor whore, maiden nor mistress. To add to her frustration, she was constantly consumed by desire but forbidden any outlet by the chastity belt. How was she to be, to act, to live, like this?

Her circumstances in the Chateau only intensified the passionate contradictions she struggled with, for now she lived two lives: the Life of the Day, and the Life of the Night.

During the day-time, Dorée was still in charge of the other maids in the South Wing. She had been granted a position within the Chateau, and this position was not taken from her just because she was in chastity. She was still allowed to dress in the long-sleeved blouses and apron-fronted skirts of her role as Head Chambermaid. She had to wear the belt under her skirt at all times, but she was allowed to open a small, hinged portal to attend to her bodily functions, though she had to ask Juliet for the key and suffer the Lady's Companion to listen in on her for gasps or other tell-tale signs of disobedience. Besides that small humiliation, however, she was largely free to decide her own daily routine. She set the cleaning schedule and oversaw the work. It was her duty to make sure every task was done to perfection by her underlings.

As she had learned on the night she first indulged herself, sharp commands and force of will were the only way to make her maids take heed. They scoffed at reason and distrusted kindness. They respected only power. So, more and more often, Dorée found herself wielding her voice like a lash to drive them towards their duties. Indeed, she was so tense with pent-up desire during the days that it was almost a relief to berate a maid who dropped a dustpan full of ashes, or to give a swift kick to the behind of a page who sauntered off too slowly with her messages. Except for her daily encounters with Juliet, or a pause to curtsey for the Scarlet Lady as she walked by (never stopping, never looking at Dorée), she spent most of her working time around servants who ranked below her. During the day, then, she learnt what it felt like to command and be obeyed.

At night, however, her position was completely reversed. Each evening, one of the Duc's elite Guards would appear in the South Wing and summon Dorée to the North. She always left the maids with the same order: not to send for her unless the Scarlet Lady demanded it. Then she followed the Guard out and into another world entirely.

No two nights were alike. The first night after her Ravishment, she was brought to a common room shared by several guest suites in the North Wing. It was lavishly appointed, with a large, broad hearth flanked by massive andirons in the form of serpents and a patterned fur on the floor from some even more exotic creature. Deep leather armchairs were set beside dainty Rococo tables, creating an air that was at once masculine and effete.

In this room were gathered four or five men who were staying in the adjoining suites as guests of the Duc. The youngest, a strapping lad who wore the garb of a huntsman, might have been 19 or 20. He glowered at her darkly as she entered. The oldest, perhaps in his early 60s, was the fop with powdered hair and bejeweled beauty mark who had called out to ask if the Duc would finish her at her Ravishment. He blew her a kiss and a knowing wink. The others were noblemen in their prime years clad in long smoking jackets that were probably meant to be casual despite their elaborate embroidery. They paid Dorée no mind whatsoever, engaged in a spirited debate of their own.

Not knowing what else to do, Dorée curtseyed and held her obeisance. She looked around surreptitiously through her tawny curls as she waited. What would be demanded of her here? The Huntsman was glaring at her with eyes like burning coals. The Fop was smirking at the Huntsman. The Nobles were still arguing, something to do with a horse. She was just starting to wonder if she ought to fetch a decanter of brandy off the sideboard and offer a drinks service when one of the arguing Nobles called her over.

"No, no, no, you see, a horse has got to be broken, just like a girl. Take her with force the first time and she's yours forever."

So saying, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and all in one move twisted her arm and drove her to her knees before him. She cried out involuntarily even as her pulse leapt in her throat. His hand closed over her mouth, stifling the cry. She stilled and quieted herself. When he let her go, she remained on her knees. He gestured at her as if her obedience were proof positive of his argument.

"Bah, that's no fun," said his opponent. "A broken horse has no spirit. When I give my horse its head, I want to feel it jump under me. How about it, cherie? Do you want to jump under me?"

Dorée glanced up at him and gave her head an uncertain little shake. He laughed raucously.

"Ah, but you can't, can you? The Duc's got you reined in tight. Let's see your reins."

Dorée began to tremble.

"I don't know what you mean," she said quietly.

"Of course you know what he means." Said the third Nobleman. "For you are not a horse. You're a thinking animal. I've heard how you debate with the Duc and challenge his principles. As a scholar of philosophy, I see the wit in you -however inferior it may be through lack of training and a woman's weaknesses. Would you dare to debate with me?"

Dorée shook her head again.

"O no! I'm simply here to be of service-"

"Serve, then!"

Everyone in the room jumped as the fiery young man slammed his hand down on the table.

"Enough of this chatter. You're here for our amusement and I intend to get my share at once."

He strode forward brashly toward Dorée, which would have been quite intimidating except that in his haste he barked his shin on a footstool, sent it flying, and nearly tumbled over himself. The Fop cackled like a crow.

"Tra la! Behold the impatience of youth: quickly fired and just as quickly fallen."

"Don't mock me, fool. You're the one they laugh at." The Huntsman muttered darkly. But he ceased his impulsive rush forward.

The three Noblemen gave each other indulgent smiles. Then one took Dorée's right arm while the other took her left. They raised her to her feet. The third unbuttoned her blouse, and none too gently either. Working with concerted effort, it took mere moments to have her standing before them with nothing but her chastity belt on.

'At least I have this to protect me,' she thought, touching a finger to the metal side.

Once again, however, she was quite wrong, for there was a great deal of her body exposed besides that part which was covered, and the men took it upon themselves to use it all.

The Huntsman was fascinated with her breasts. Seizing them roughly, he bit, licked, slapped, and pinched them until Dorée thought they would be black and blue in the morning. Sometimes he had the others let her arms go so that she would hide herself instinctively, only to tussle with her and pull her arms open, evidently enjoying the hunt of her nipples. With each futile attempt she made to evade him, with every cry she could not stifle and gasp she could not contain, the Huntsman smiled all the more.

The patient Noblemen worked always in union upon her. They stroked her body from all sides with many hands until her hips bucked in pleasure. The Scholar best liked her mouth, kissing her deeply, plying his tongue against hers, and drawing moans he described as "eloquent." The two Horsemen, on the other hand, liked to play at odds with her, the Breaker holding her down and trying to keep her bound, still and obedient, while the Jumper forced her to react by stroking her inner thighs until she melted only to strike her sharply enough to make her squeal.

But it was the Fop who was very nearly Dorée's undoing that night. After some hours of teasing and torment, when Dorée's desire was close to its peak, the Fop was the one to stand up from his chair, sigh theatrically, and say,

"Final Act, Gentlemen."

He brandished a tiny key.

"Where did you get that?" The Hunstman hissed.

"Ah ah ah! I never kiss and tell."

"If you put her over, it'll be you in chastity next, you know." The Horsebreaker said, though his tone spoke more of amusement than warning.

"I am no amateur player, mon ami," the Fop said with a finger by his nose.

Then he unlocked, not the entire chastity belt, but only the small hatch that allowed Dorée to evacuate her waste. He pulled back the door with the slow anticipation of a connoisseur. To her shame, Dorée's hips rose to meet him as the cool air stirred against her wetness, revealing just how very aroused their treatment had made her. But at the same time, fear thrilled through her. Was she allowed to be touched there while in chastity? And if she was, would she be able to restrain her desire?

"Please," she gasped. "I'm so close...and you would be punished too, if..."

But the Fop only laughed and withdrew a pair of opera glasses all finished in brass and mother-of-pearl.

"Not if I use only these."

"So you're going to gaze her into submission, are you?" One of the Noblemen asked sardonically.

"La, looking is only half the pleasure," the Fop replied.

With a theatrical flourish, he folded out the handle. It was slender and long like a magician's baton, but capped at the end with what appeared to be a tiny golden spoon, perhaps for taking snuff. Reaching down into the portal of her belt with one aristocratic finger, the Fop pulled up on the little hood of flesh just above Dorée's most sensitive spot. He peered through the glasses as he did so, using their magnification to see what most women keep hidden within nested folds of flesh. Then he cupped that secret pearl in the golden bowl of the spool and began to manipulate it.

Dorée could not help herself. She spread her legs wide and arched her body into the sensation. Its pressure was not strong, but it was so precise, enfolding and caressing her most achingly swollen, desirous part. Her breath began to come fast. Her hips began to thrust faster. Her thighs clenched and she drew a deep breath to cry out--

--but in that very moment, the pleasurable pressure vanished and a cold shock replaced it. She opened her eyes only to find herself blinking away ice-cold water, which had been dashed in her face. She tried to clench her thighs but the agile Huntsman grabbed her knees and held them apart. The Fop had the opera glass once again to his eyes and was watching the frantic twitching of her lower lips.

"Give that here, I want to see," said the Huntsman.

"This is indeed a phenomenon worthy of observation." The Scholar agreed, pulling out a notebook.

The others all crowded around to take turns with the glasses. They watched Dorée's misery until it abated enough that they lost interest. The Fop closed up the hatch and locked it again, making the key disappear before her eyes with a snap of his fingers. When Dorée gaped at the trick despite her exhaustion, the Fop gave her a fond pat on the cheek.

"I should like to have you again, Golden Girl, but there are many others waiting for you to make your rounds. So toddle off now and dream of what may, or may not, come."

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In this way, Dorée lived a life of alternating extremes. Days of monotony and control gave way to nights of helpless torment. In retrospect she would recall only flashing images of this time, like bright marble friezes carved upon a wall of blackest onyx.

A daylight scene: a maid kneeling at her feet while Dorée scolded her for letting the kettle boil dry. The maid begging for mercy and receiving none. Dorée commanding the girl to hold the full kettle over the fire until it boiled afresh. The girl's arms shaking as she tried to hold the kettle out, to keep the steam from burning her.

A nighttime scene: Dorée bound hand and foot to a bed, her body brushed with ostrich feathers until she cried from laughter. An agonizing softness that turned joy into desperation to escape. The jeering of the cruel young ladies who wouldn't let her go.

Day: Sitting in her room, commanding one of the maids to bring her tea. Staring at herself in the parallel mirrors that reflected her to infinity, more beautiful and powerful than she ever knew herself to be.

Night: Lying below a man who masturbated himself to climax, spilling his seed onto her face and breasts. The taste of him. A mirror above showing her to herself in degradation, the accessory to his carnal sin. Her body flowing with unabated desire despite her disgust at all that was done to her.

Day: Looking into Juliet's face as she demanded the key and knowing suddenly that she could command the Companion with the newfound steel in her voice if she so chose.

Night: Looking into the Guard's face as he commanded her to follow and knowing that she had no chance of escape that night, nor any night, for as long as the Duc desired.

By the seventh day, Dorée was almost fevered with desire. Beneath the chastity belt, her flesh was slick and aching. Her mind vacillated wildly between praying for night to fall and grabbing at the sky to hold back the sun. Her faith began to slip: her faith in the doctrine of "like cures like," in the Duc's sanity, in a God who would allow her to be so thoroughly despoiled.

On the seventh evening, however, she was not summoned by a Guard. She was instead summoned by a Herald bearing a scroll on fine parchment, accompanied by a Page-boy dressed in ceremonial velvets.

"Dorée, the Golden Girl, Head Chambermaid of the South Wing at Charenton Chateau." The Herald addressed her in a fine, loud voice. "The Duc commands your presence at a Fête to be held in honour of Midsummer's Eve. He sends you this and bids you use it before appearing in his presence."

The Page produced an object from his velvet tunic and placed it into Dorée's hand. It was a key tied with a bow of sheer gold satin. Not a small key like the one she used to open the portal each day. A large key. One that would unlock the chastity belt entirely.

"You are to be the Centrepiece at the banquet, so adorn yourself appropriately."

Doree's hands shook under the weight of the key.

"But how -I should say, what, what is this Midsummer's Eve fête? Is it like the Feast of the Fall?"

The Page piped up enthusiastically.

"O, it is much more intimate, Miss! Only the most honoured Guests! And they all-"

Here the Herald tried to elbow the blond boy into silence while still maintaining a dignified bearing. The Page dodged easily, dancing away.

"See that you are ready by the quarter of the hour. The Guard will arrive to lead you to the Hall. And it's a thrashing for you, boy!"

The Page-boy ran off, leaving the Herald to strut hastily after him.

Back in her room, Dorée untied the bow that wrapped the shaft of the key. She found that the material was not a narrow ribbon, but a sort of long shawl or scarf that would touch the floor if worn draped over the shoulders. The message seemed clear: take off the chastity belt and put on the golden robe. It was so sheer her body would be fully visible, but at least she would be adorned with something. It reminded her of the white robe she had worn when being introduced as the sacrifice at her Ravishment. Did this mean that now her ceremony would be complete? Dorée's heart beat faster at the prospect. But by now she knew better than to look forward with eagerness to the fulfillment of her desire. The nights of repeated denial had instilled in her a distrust of offers, invitations, and sexual solicitations. Most likely even the key was just a taunt with no real power to liberate her.

And yet, perhaps this time...

Taking a deep breath, Dorée inserted the key into the lock in her chastity belt. To her surprise, it turned a clunk. The pressure at her hips released. In fact, it was so sudden that she had to catch the belt before it went crashing to the ground. She stepped out of it and put it on her chamberpot, which was fortunately clean. She looked around. Could it really be that after a week in chastity, she could just take off the belt with no one around to see her or scold her?

Yes, it was so.

Cautiously, Dorée put the golden robe around her shoulders and adjusted it so that it fell over her breasts. It did not sting or bite. It was a bit rough in texture because of the threads of gold that were woven into it, but hardly enough to bother her. Still having some five minutes to wait, Dorée sat on her bed and tried not to imagine what was coming. If she had learned anything these past nights, it was that anticipation was useless. She simply had to submit to whatever befell her.

Finally the mantle clock in Dorée's room chimed the quarter hour. As the last bell faded, a knock came on the door. This evening there was not one Guard but a phalanx of four, all in dress uniform. Dorée bowed her head in obedience and, holding her shawl in place with one hand, she followed them out.

The corridors were bustling with activity as they passed through the Chateau. Along with servants at work there were also guests standing in the hallways, looking around expectantly. They called out when they saw her, and soon enough her route was lined with faces. Many of them Dorée recognized. She spied the three Noblemen and the Huntsman, though not the Fop. There was the man who had spilled his seed on her body. There was a matronly woman who had bound Dorée's breasts and thighs in ribbon woven with thorns. (How had she forgotten that until now?) Dorée blushed to see again all these people who had done such perverse things to her. But none of them, apparently, was invited to the fête.

The Guards whisked her past them all. Soon enough, they arrived at an ebony door engraved with the device of the dagger and chain. One of the Guards scratched at the doorframe in a well-worn spot.

"Bring her in," came a voice that was not the Duc's, but nonetheless familiar.

The door opened. Inside was a dining room, quite small by the Chateau's standards. The table was still being set. In two alcoves at the head and foot of the table, a pair of slaves had just been positioned to bear the candles, as Dorée had at her first Feast. Presiding over it all was the Chamberlain, who had overseen her first Feast -and who had once forced himself on Dorée in a back hallway.

"Well, well, you've risen in the world. We haven't had a Centrepiece for the Midsummer's fête in quite a while."

"What am I to do?" Dorée asked evenly.

"No moralistic questions or desperate pleading, then?"

"All my questions will be answered and my pleas ignored."

"You have indeed learned well."

"Yes. So tell me what to do."

The Chamberlain looked slightly taken aback by the edge of command in her voice. But it was part of his job to ready her, so he said,

"You are to be on the table here. Climb onto this platter. You may sit up for now, but when I give the word, lay back. Someone will be along to position you."

Dorée nodded. Without another word she climbed up onto the table. Despite her front of detached practicality, her heart was pounding. She could not help feeling that this was a special night. Something extraordinary was in store for her, beyond that which she had so far endured. She sat on the silver platter in the centre of the table as directed, trying to ignore the slick imprint her sex left on the mirror-polish. Serving dishes were brought in and placed artfully around her. The candles were lit in the sconces. Dorée heard an in-rush of breath when the first drops of wax fell like scalding rain on the skins of the lamps.