The Princess of Cleves #01

In preparing her daughter for Paris, Madame de Chartes warned her, "If you judge from appearances in Court you will be deceived; truth and appearance seldom go together."

That faded rose would twitch her skirts, and continue her discourse. "Ambition and gallantry are the soul of the court. There are so many cabals, men and women alike playing, that love is always mixed with business, and business with love." While she spoke, her daughter, Rosalind, embroidered cushions and handkerchiefs, and changed from a girl to a woman under her gaze.

When she was 16, her daughter was allowed to start making her trousseau. If her daughter's hands idled, if her eyes grew soft, Mme. de Chartes scolded her. Even worse were the moments when her hand lingered on the folds of some intimate garment, then Mme. de Chartes sent her to room with a carafe of water for company.

At 17, silk was purchased to make a gown, a demure pink that Rosalind fell in love with. Mme. de Chartes choose a sensible gray broadcloth and honey velvet as well. It took only a month to sew the gowns, and the other eleven months Mme. de Chartes was driven mad finding tasks for her daughter. For two weeks they had been packing.

Mme. de Chartes looked over at her daughter in the carriage. It was the start of their long journey from the quiet of the country to the glittering city of Paris.

Rosalind was 18, and it was time for her to make her debut in court. Her delicate cheeks were flushed like a newly opened rose. Her hair a rich brown tinted with red, thick and lustrous, curled down her shoulders. She had a prim mouth, with a bottom lip that was a bit too large, and sharp little teeth. Her hands were small and neat, her feet trim in their little boots. Too naive for the court was all her mother thought looking at her.

Mme. de Chartes did her best to warn her daughter against the follies of romance. She even told the tale of a young maid, virtuous, who refused the advances of wicked gallant, though her body melted at every touch. What she never told her daughter was the maid was she, and the gallant Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. After that, Diana had become the sworn enemy of the de Chartes. It did not matter if it had been over 20 years ago, the widow still blushed at the memory.

They were young, the Mme. de Chartes just married. Diana requested her company one dreary afternoon to keep her entertained with cards. She wanted to bet playing Lansquenet, and suggested they use their clothing as money. Chartes stuttered at the request. Diana came and knelt by her chair. She placed her face in Charte's hands, and began to kiss her palms and fingers. As she did, she promised favors to the young beauty, but Chartes did not hear her words. Her eyes were fixed on Diana's bosom, heaving, as she confessed her passion for Mme. de Chartes. The heavy musk perfume she wore made Mme. de Chartes head spin.

She agreed to the terms, to stop the display of affection happening in her lap, and played her best at cards. She did not know that Diana cheated, and soon she sat naked in her chair. Diana took her hand then, and led her over to the bed.

The Duchess de Valentinois surveyed her prize. Mme. de Chartes looked beautiful, virginal, clad in her blushes and ebony hair. Diana trailed her fingers all over her body, her mouth caressed Chartes' most tender places. She looked distraught when Diana made her come with her hands. Chartes tried to hide her face when Diana kissed and licked and sucked her, until she yielded to Diana's lips and fluttered on her mouth. When Diana touched her tongue to her little pink anus, she tried to writhe away, but instead only undulated on Diana's fingers. But when the Duchess had lifted her skirts to crouch over her face, presenting her moist and twitching bloom, Chartes had shrieked and fainted. Incensed, the Duchesse left.

Later, the Duchess repented her haste. She sent Mme. de Chartes love notes and flowers, ribbons and jewels, yet Chartes remained cold. She could not shake the feeling of betrayal that struck her heart when she awoke alone and naked on the bed. She had been frightened; virtue, modesty, and God required she suppress such desires. Still, as she slowly removed her clothes under Diana's glittering eyes, she had begun to quiver. While Diana touched her, she dreamed of burying her face into those soft silk skirts. She had wanted to touch her, but felt the fear of God's wrath upon seeing that which she desired. She wept then as she clumsily dressed. Her husband asked no questions later, though he gave her a hard look.

While Mme. de Chartes dreamed of her past, Rosalind thought of her future.

Most of all, her mind focused on how she bounced in the carriage with her thighs pressed together. This is how a husband will make me feel, she thought, warm and soft. She had never committed the sin of Onan, but she had placed a pillow between her legs, and rubbed her most delicate parts against it, until her groin began to twitch and she gave a little sigh. Oh, how she wanted to place her fingers there, to touch those hot moist petals. She always resisted the temptation, rubbing against something instead, finding her meanest chemise to wear so her swollen nipples rubbed against the rough cloth. She had never ridden a carriage like this before. Had her mother not been lost in the past, she would have seen the flush on her daughter's cheeks and noticed her quick little breaths. Instead, the two women rode with one another, each dreaming of a different lover.

Soon though, their idle fantasies were punctured by a rotten smell. Rosalind wrinkled her nose and raised a handkercheif to her face that had be sprinkled with attar of roses.

"What is that smell mother?" she asked.

Her mother sighed. Underneath the sharp tang of urine and the fetid stench of dung, there was the sweet scent of decay. What better perfume for a court of philanders and gallants? Of men who swore love to ten women, and women who smiled at the promises of ten men. "It is the smell of romance my daughter."

Rosalind shot her a sour look.

"Do not make that face at me. You are not too old to have your ears boxed."

Rosalind sat back in her seat, and tried to remember the other things her mother had told her about Paris. The plays, the opera, the silks, the balls. Of course, with every pleasure came a warning, cutpurses, gallants, vindictive courtiers, poor grace and humiliation.

Rosalind began to fidget, and Mme. de Chartes handed her a small flask of brandy. The burning liquid always soothed her, as a warm fire in winter. Rosalind would have rode through Paris with her face pressed against the window, had her mother not pulled her away, scolding her for acting like a milk maid from provinces.

They soon arrived at their new apartments within the Hotel de Chartes. Rosalind tried not to gawk, but there was so much bustle, her mother had to pull her in by the arm. There were chocolates and wine waiting for them in a cozy little room. They rested in damask armchairs while their baggage was brought into the hall. They would tell the servants where to put it later. Right now, they waited for the Viscount to return from court. Mme. de Chartes needed to speak with him to determine which courtiers would be an appropriate match for her daughter.

* * * *

The King, Henry II, reached out to cup the pendulous breast of Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. The room was heavy with her musk perfume, and the King lifted his fingers to his noes. The King's ardor for the woman belied the fact that she was a grandmother in her forties. Their affair began when Francis I complained to her that his son lacked vigor. Ever obliging, Diana seduced him twenty years ago, and ruled him ever since.

The King worked the folds between her legs, rubbing his thumb on the tight bud within them. Diana lay on her side, one leg caught between the King's, the other splayed out over his waist. Her breasts beat in the same rapid tattoo as the King's buttocks. Diana undulated her hips, mechanical.

The King knew what he needed to say to spurn her on, to bring forth a spark of fire. Her whole body was raw with the annoyance. "I heard the Mme. de Chartes arrived today with her daughter."

She twisted her body, clamping down on him. "How dare you speak to me of her!"

Laughing, the King grasped her, pumping. "She's here to make a fine match for her daughter." He tightened his grip as Diana in her fury began to buck against him.

"That withered hag, she dare come to my court to make her fortune." He felt her begin to dance on him. "I would plot my revenge, but I know she threw a shriveled gnome of a girl."

"They say her daughter Rosalind is lovely. A hot liquid washed over the King's hand and testicles as Diana climaxed. He could make her come until the mattress beneath them was soaked, if only he had the time.

He pulled his phallus from her, and pressed it's tip against her anus as he rubbed himself. To please him, Diana tightened and relaxed her groin, making her wrinkled asshole pulse against him. As he came he grunted. When he attempted to rise, she clutched him to her. There was a haughty look on her face: she wasn't done with him, and she didn't care when the hunt was slated to begin.

"I love you," the King whispered as she thrust his still hard sex inside her, grinding herself against him. Her next orgasm made her legs contract and release as she let out a jagged moan. The King felt her womb try to swallow him, and he spilt his seed inside her quivering body.

He looked at Diana, her hair in disarray, her powder a mess, her whole body flushed red. In such a state of exhaustion, he knew it would be an hour before she rose to begin the process of dressing. Kissing her back, he savored the salt on her skin. She rolled over to embrace him, and their lips met. They idly kissed for a moment, then the King rose and and wiped himself with a cloth. Helping himself to some of Diana's spicy cologne, he hastily dressed, and left for his afternoon hunt.

* * * *

Meanwhile, there was a stir at court as the Duke arrived. Thick black hair curled on his head, his warm brown eyes flashed with gaiety, and his mouth was always crinkled up in a lopsided smile. The women blushed when he strode by, and the men stood taller. To obtain a mistress, all he need do was extend his hand. His wit was quick, his mien agreeable.

His stride, his glance, all appeared so natural, the courtiers would not believe the hours he spent in front of a mirror practicing. Well could they guess the vast sums of money he spent on his luxurious curled wigs, his coats heavy with gold braid and buttons, the gleaming white silk of his stockings. And on his cheeks, there was a red velvet mouche, shaped like a heart. He held a title as important as that of the King's Mistress Official Mistress Diana: he was the flower of gallantry. He searched the court for his lovely Marie, to arrange an afternoon tryst. It seemed he was always searching in these great empty halls.

He found her waiting for him in a corner. She sighed, whispered a day and time, and gave him a scented envelop. The Duke tucked the letter in his bosom and looked for an empty room.

Marie was prone to immortalizing their encounters in florid prose. Upon reading her missives the Duke was left flushed and pulsing. After, he would go find a girl, any girl, a scullery maid, a country lass, to satiate himself. There was little art to taking a woman quickly and quietly. Find an empty room, turn her around, flip her skirts over her head, then press her against the wall. For the most part, her petticoats would muffle her cries.

He took out the letter:

My Dearest Lover,

I can still feel your hands on my skin. When my corset it is unlaced, it drives me to a frenzy, as I pretend it is you undressing me. I must feign illness to explain the color in my cheeks.

I want you to take me riding again. Following you with the leaping beast beneath me only whets my appetite. By the time you lift me down from my palfrey, all I can do is melt in your arms. I love the feel of the sunlight on my naked body, I love the cool trace your mouth leaves on my skin. There were birds flying overhead as you made love to me under the blue sky.

The Duke grimaced at this line.

I blush when I think of how you kissed me between my legs. No one ever touched me like that before. I felt like a flower being coaxed open by an April rain. Your tongue inside my body made me shake as though it was the earth itself moving beneath me. I want you to take me again. I have thought of your request, and the next time we meet, I will take you into my mouth. I dreamt of you, your smooth hot skin. I want to use my lips and tongue to please you as you pleased me. I want you to pinch my nipples as I rub my breasts against you, with the tip of your phallus in my mouth.

I cannot wait for our next meeting.

M--

The Duke fanned himself with the letter. His breeches were tight, and he would have to hide in the shadows until his condition ceased to plague him. While he skulked, he saw the Princess Mary wander by with her lover, Monsieur d'Anville. He followed them to a small room at the back of the chateau. The door closed behind them and locked. Mary set the key on a table, and the Duke peeked through they keyhole.

He could see the lovers embracing, their lips pressed together in a passionate kiss. The Duke took his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around himself. As d'Anville climbed on top of Mary, he turned his ear to the door to hear her cries. The bed was creaking, and d'Anville was grunting. The Princess and the Duke climaxed at the same time. He scurried away, unsure of what to do with his soiled handkerchief. He thought about giving it to Marie as a love token, but worried he would start some fashionable trend of exchanging spoiled tokens. Instead, he stuffed it in a vase.

The Duke joined the rest of the court. His friend, the Chevalier de Guise, asked him to join in tennis. The women of the court gathered around to watch the two men play. Their fans flickered while the men leapt and strained. Between the ladies' thighs grew moist as the men began to pull open their collars, revealing the pale flesh of their throats.

The Duke and the Chevalier won. The women surrounded the victors, cooing congratulations and ordering servants to bring wine. The merry party wandered to Mary's court, where all the gay young ladies attended the Scottish Princess and the handsome gallants came to flirt with them. The Duke excused himself shortly to go and bathe.

* * * *

Violetta would scold him if he arrived smelling like a peasant. The Duke ordered a bath drawn for him and added some violet perfume to the water. He kept a plethora of fragrances, lily of the valley, gardenia, orange blossom, one for each mistress. It drove them mad when he would sail by, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief marked with their scent. Or he would wear something the color of their eyes. Even though he may have two blue eyed mistresses, the shade he wore matched their irises so perfectly it left no doubt in their mind for whom he wore it. Sometimes he felt like a pianist, performing his trysts for the entire court.

For Violetta, he had a vest made of a blue gray velvet trimmed in a dark brown lace. It lay waiting on his bed for him. Before he left the house, he made certain to take with him the small bouquet of violets that rested on the table. He was just about to dash out the door when he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. There was a curl out of place of his wig, and his heart was crooked. His eyes darted from the clock on the table to his reflection. So many mistresses' had scolded him for being late, all because he got stuck in the mirror.

His chaise waited for him outside, a quick bay filly snorting in the reigns. He sped over the streets of Paris to the forgotten chapel. Violetta darted out from the shadows, her veil fluttering over her face. As he greeted her with a crooked grin, he thought he saw the shadows behind the lace form a smile. Now they rode away, to an apartment he kept on the outskirts of the city. Violetta held the flowers to her face, and the Duke could not blame her. Paris stank. Overcome as they road past a butcher shop, he pressed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. It was the lovely fragrance of violets, although not as sweet bouquet his mistress inhaled.

He unlocked the door, and Violetta fell upon him. She was demure in public, rarely meeting anyone's eye, but in private, he had to undress before she tore his clothes from him.

She crashed into an armoire, knocking over a vase. The Duke picked her up, as she expected. The sound of the glass crunching under his boots as he strode to the bedchamber excited her. She began to bite his lips, his neck.

"Not so hard Violetta, you will mark."

She did not say anything, but began to suckle the joint of his jaw. In a moment she would bite, and he would shudder in delicious pain. A wild thing, she loved to hurt him, and often pulled his hair or scratched. Her teeth worked themselves to around his bone and pinched, a light testing nip.

He threw her onto the bed, and she rolled to her stomach, lifting her skirts up around her thighs. She writhed, luring him to kneel between her outstretched legs. Her eyes were searching the room, getting the backdrop correct for later, when she told her friends about their encounter.

Holding her buttocks, he prevented her from rubbing her pubis on the bed and arousing herself further. Instead he parted her lips and let his breath warm and cool her sex. Her flushed lips were becoming moist and he could smell the sea. Of all the woman he sampled, he loved the taste of Violetta the most, salty with a subtle tang. When she began to shake in his hands, he leaned forward to run his tongue up and down the petals of her sex. She suffocated him with her groin, and he hummed into her womb.

Violetta stopped breathing for a moment, and the Duke began to caress her anus. A few choked cries, then her whole body clenched and released in waves that rocked her pelvis against the Duke.

For a moment she lay on the bed, satiated. The Duke started unhooking the back of her gown. Pulling slowly at the laces, he untied her corset. When she reached down to touch herself, he swatted her hand away. Putting his thigh between her legs, he allowed her to rub herself against him. The last eyelet undone, she crawled out of her clothes and lay naked on the bed. The Duke kicked her gown to the floor, covering her body in his. He nipped at her shoulders as she struggled beneath him, trying to bring his sex against hers.

The Duke moved with her, keeping his shaft pressed tightly between her plump buttocks. It was easier to take her from behind; he did not have to avoid the nails she kept slightly sharpened. When she did manage to scratch him, he had to cancel his other assignations while the wound healed. The risk of seeing her thrilled the Duke.

His heated blood filled his sex, and the Duke pierced Violetta. He pressed her into the bed, and she grunted. Shifting his hips, he buried himself in her to his hilt. Beneath him, Violetta flinched in pain as he tapped against the back of her womb. There was a time when the Duke would have stopped to sooth her as he did his other lovers, but now knew she wanted to be held down and taken with the ferocity of a beast. He lay on top of her, one hand holding her throat, the other teasing her wrinkled anus.

Violetta was sobbing into the bed as her whole body shook. A moment of silence, and her womb attempted to swallow the Duke's sex. He came with a harsh cry in her ear. They lay like that, the Duke's seed seeping from her as her womb continued to twitch.

She turned her head. "You have not softened my love."