The House Of Sophie De Frontenac

It had always been the same. Each time the shock seemed to repeat itself as if for the first time. The cruel reality of living in two worlds was brought into a harsh and sharply defined form, only at that point.

Whenever returning from some errand or duty, Abigail always walked towards the large grand house that dominated the exclusive square and paused at the same viewpoint. There she would stand, struck immobile for a few long heartbeats by the strange incongruity of what she saw. Never did it once, fail to surprise her.

The ostentatious and public moral certitude of the building where she lived, the grand facade, contrasted only too plainly with her own experiences. Very few knew of the sexual corruption that was perpetrated there, thriving secretly and darkly, within its pristine walls.

The outward moral righteousness no longer fooled her as it did others. Now she, Abigail, was also as much a part of the corruption that went on behind those rich and heavy doors, as was the mistress that she served – the font and source of that corruption – Madam Sophie De Frontenac.

Then, she had been overwhelmed and filled with pride when first she had joined the household, three years ago. Now she wondered if she would ever escape its dark hold upon her. Sometimes, and often during her bleaker moments, she wondered if she actually did want to escape. The very fabric of the house seemed such a part of her now, and the house almost seemed able to speak to her. It was speaking to her now.

The wall partition shuddered rhythmically. The pulsing, trembling vibrations transferred themselves almost insidiously inside Abigail's head as she pressed it hard against the spy-hole. They trickled through her very being, moving down, deep into and through her body, almost into her soul.

But it was not her soul that they inflamed. They inflamed another, far baser side of her, they touched her in those most private places, igniting her fire and repressed passion, and her body trembled in response.

Corruption, by its very nature, is invidious and infectious. Rationalising what we think and do is all too easy. And it had come this time clad in the svelte and seductive form of her beautiful mistress Sophie. It had effectively invaded Abigail – and seduced her. She could never have believed a mere three years ago, that she would be reduced to this, reduced to indulging her more base desires vicariously through her mistress.

The shuddering through the wall increased as Abigail pressed her eye closer to the spy-hole, drinking in the debauched sight that it allowed her. Her fingers quickened in response, stroking the wet and swollen lips of her starved sex rapidly, dipping her fingers deep inside herself as she watched her mistress take the pounding penis of her young lover.

Each powerful thrust pushed her mistress against the bed, which then in turn hammered against the wall from where Abigail watched transfixed. These were the vibrations that shuddered through Abigail.

He was taking her roughly from behind, gripping her hips fiercely, his fingers sinking into the flesh of her buttocks, leaving deep indentations in her pale smooth skin as he pulled her hard against him.

Abigail could clearly see, could almost feel each hard and deep thrust, almost as if it were she, and not her mistress that was being so wonderfully fucked. She watched open mouthed at the erotic sight played out in front of her, oblivious now of her own gasps that echoed the shouts and cries of her mistress.

Abigail was fully engrossed in the carnal action that was taking place beyond the partition, drinking in the sight of the two lovers with an unquenchable thirst. But these were not lovers. No, they were simply participants in carnality. And Sophie had chosen her partner well this time.

The young man's thick, long manhood, slick and glistening with Sophie's eager wetness, withdrew itself almost fully with each thrust into her clasping and writhing body. The flared head of his cock appearing briefly, before once more returning back inside her again and again, ever faster, as he rushed towards his building climax.

His eyes were mostly closed, his mind lost in the sensuous feel of his penis being repeatedly buried deeply inside her lovely body. Sophie's own face was contorted in a mixture of shock, pleasure and pain, as he filled her almost violently, his climax building uncontrollably.

Her mouth was wide, her cries building and staccato as she breached into her own long drawn-out orgasm, riding her eruption of pleasure as it swept through her, as she pushed herself against his thrusts, taking him fully within her, milking his passion, milking her own pleasure.

The room they were in was dark, the heavy Victorian curtain drapes hanging over the windows cut out the dying light of the day, making the space inside gloomily secret, allowing unspeakable passion the freedom it craved. Just the soft glow of two small oil lamps gave any illumination, and this warm light caressed the two lovers, giving their glistening skin, wet from their exertion, an extra sheen of sensuality.

He seemed to dominate her, pulling her to him with one hand, whilst holding her thick long hair with the other whilst he took her. Her face was half buried in the deep pillows, twisting from side to side, her hands gripping the sheets as she pushed back against him, giving the lie to her submission.

Their intensity increased as they pounded against each other. He, crying out with deep guttural animal sounds, she, adding her high singing cries to his, turning into pure screams of her extended pleasure.

With a final, deep and hard thrust, he released himself within her, his shouts drowning her own as he, at last, filled her with the release of his seed.

It sent the watching Abigail into her own shuddering climax, her fingers were his cock as she brought herself to orgasm, her wetness flowing over her hand as she fell limply against the wall, catching her breath. She had no time to relax, no time to savour; she had to do her duty. She left the small secret room to prepare, in order to adjust from the sexuality of what she had just watched.

Abigail closed the heavy oak door against the invading grey cold of the winter's evening. She pressed her small weight up against the wood, feeling suddenly weak, her forehead resting for a second upon the hard coolness of the polished surface, thankful to be shutting out the invading chill of the night air - and of the image of the young man whom she had just released from within her mistresses snare.

She turned away, reluctantly leaving the cool strength of the door that at once protected her and yet barred her escape, back into the warmth of the rich wood panelled hallway, its warmth no welcome to her. She wished once again that she could escape, like he had done, out and away into the cold darkness of the night, and away from this superficial comfort and ease. But she was trapped. Trapped as much by her timidity as by her financial servitude to her mistress.

A small silent sigh emerged from between her thin lips and, with hopeless resignation, she reviewed in her mind the picture of the now departed young man and his flushed face. She recognised the symptoms. His expression was of the kind that was now so familiar, yet still strange, an odd mixture of elation and fear, as he almost blindly stumbled down the steps and out into the safety of the waiting cab.

The cabs horse had whinnied impatiently, nervously pawing the ground, anxious to be away as if sensing the corruptness of the house it stood next to. The soft glow of the gas street lighting together with the evening mist conspired to draw a melancholy scene that seemed to mirror her feelings.

"Abigail!"

The shouted call, at once a command and a question, snapped her mind back from its reverie. She hurried towards the room from where the call had come.

"Yes, Ma'am?" Abigail said immediately upon entering the room in that nervous way she always did when confronted by the demands of her mistress. She hated herself for it, but she could never keep the tremor in her voice from betraying her. She was sure she knew that her mistress knew that she secretly watched her from that adjoining room, that she enjoyed the thought of her frustration.

Her mistress was lounging expansively upon her bed, the expensive cotton covers tangled from recent passion, her body barely covered by a silk chemise. She was always beautiful, with a confidence built from privilege and education. Her cupids face with its large blue eyes always held a slight smile of mischief, or contempt, an expression designed to seduce and deflect her true intentions.

She manipulated men with arrogant ease. Flattering her way to whatever she wanted, using her powerful sexuality with a rapiers accuracy and deadliness, thrust into the heart of any man she targeted. The softness of her beauty covered many things. Just as she intended they do. But Abigail knew her better, could see her beneath the veneer. And was afraid of what she saw and knew.

One of her slender long legs, Abigail could see, dangled almost languidly over the side of the bed, the other slightly bent as she lay back relaxing, cushioning her head with one arm, her face creamy pink, a sated look.

'Just fucked' was the crude expression that sprang immediately inside Abigail's head.

A knot of jealousy twisted and tightened within the pit of her stomach. Did I ever look that way Abigail wondered vaguely with envy? Is that how, perhaps to another unseen voyeur, how I might have looked after that first time? Abigail thought back to that time.

Thomas had been two years older than her, and much more experienced, or at least that was what she had thought. And she had fallen completely in love with him almost immediately upon meeting him.

He also worked downstairs, one of the many servants of the household. Tall, strong and confident, he had stood up for her, when the others had ridiculed her naivety. No one had done that for her before, cared enough about her, protected her. His good looks had captivated her immediately but her shyness prevented her from action.

She didn't think, had never even dared to think, that he had known of her existence. But then, stunningly, shockingly, he had shown clearly, wonderfully, that he had. Standing up for her, giving her a long and deep look as he protected her, he had taken her breath and her heart away. It was in that single, simple moment, she had fallen in love.

They met when they could, having to explain their absences made it difficult, but then one day, they met when the rest of the house was busy, and they would not be missed. They took their opportunity quickly, eagerly. He had brought her to his room, and they kissed as they had done so often before. But this time it was different. His bed lay behind him, the unspoken agreement between them manifest by its very presence.

His fingers trailed down her neck to her breasts as they had done before many times, and somehow she still felt she should resist, but instead, she let her head back and sighed at his touch. He continued to open her dress, unbuttoning the small silver buttons one by one.

His hands moved further down, lifting her dress up over her thighs and very soon, almost without thought, she was naked against him. She shivered as his hands explored her nakedness, moving with trembling veneration over her smooth skin, feeling first the full weight of her breasts and their nipples hardening under his touch, then down the smooth sweep of her back, down to the ripe globes of her firm buttocks.

His clothing felt rough against her skin as her breathing became suddenly short. Her legs suddenly felt as if they would crumple beneath her at any moment. She turned away gulping air, she must remember to breath! Moving unsteadily away, she stumbled away from his rough but gentle hands, and lay down upon his bed. She propped one arm underneath her head, as she lay naked, her legs slightly apart, and open before him. Shyness and shame no longer mattered, she wanted this, had imagined this, for so long.

She watched him as he quickly discarded his clothes. He was to her then and forever afterwards, the truly perfect vision of her dreams. Lithe and slim of body, taut with barely restrained arousal

Abigail dropped her gaze from his face and let her eyes wander down and take in the defined muscles of his body as they rippled beneath his taught smooth skin.

She gasped slightly then, a sharp intake of surprise as her gaze reached down, finding the seat of his arousal. She was shocked at the size of him, having never before seen a man's fully erect penis. She had, of course, often felt its eager hardness press against her, through the clothing that separated them when they had kissed. It had felt exciting and huge, but still, it had not prepared her for the actual sight

As he drew close, his wonderful and magnificent erection was held within his hand, almost as though he were fearful lest he breach and spill his seed too soon. She opened herself to him. He came to her.

She dragged her eyes away from the delicious sight of his approaching and engorged member, and back to his face. The confidence, so clear before, had vanished. Concern and lust seemed to fight against each other as they ran over his handsome features.

"Your sure, Abigail, your sure you want this?" He asked in a dry whisper.

Then she felt it, felt that crossover of power. No longer was she the timid and subjugated female, helpless against male strength and power. No, it was she who was now in control, she who now had the power. It was a revelation.

"Yes…yes, I do want it!" She pulled him down to her breast as he pushed himself eagerly into her.

She had not expected the pain. It hurt as he moved deeply into her, filling her for the first time. She stopped breathing for a long second as she felt a confusing mixture of fright and delight sweep over her. Then, his movements quickened and slowly overcame the last vestiges of the pain she felt, as he continued to delve into her, stretching her virgin depths with his hard manhood.

She felt herself responding instinctively, wantonly rising to meet each thrust, eager to devour him within her body. Faster and faster he thrust at her, deeper and harder into her each time, so she felt speared and consumed by him, filled by his lust and by his love for her.

Then, through her spinning emotions, she found her voice.

"Be careful! Oh! Thomas! Please be careful!" Her fear of pregnancy surfaced in a panic.

Hearing her cries, he withdrew, and she watched with wide eyes as his manhood sprang free of her tight confines, slick and wet with her juices, it bounced above her pubis, pointing directly at her. She watched, fascinated, as the dark head of his penis quickly grew larger, flaring even more at his building climax, before then ejaculating his seed over her. She drank in the sight of his jerking penis, forcing out with each deep spasm more of the thick white stream of his seed, watching in awe as each burst arched over and landed hot and wet, upon her breasts.

At each ejaculation, he cried out his pleasure. His face contorted with the pain and pleasure of his sudden release. Finally, it as over and she pulled his head down to her, pushing a few sweat-matted strands of his hair away from his face as he lay panting upon her. Now she understood, she knew for the first time, the power of being a woman.

"Abigail…? What are you thinking, girl?" The curt manner of her mistress's voice propelled Abigail back into the present. She shook her head to dispel the memories and quickly hurried to tidy the room.

Sophie De Frontenac narrowed her eyes at her servant standing motionless in the doorway before suddenly hurrying to do her duty. Abigail had that look of being slightly unfocused, with a distant, far away look in her eyes. She had visibly jumped at her name being called.

"Yes, mistress! Nothing at all, mistress! Sorry mistress!" Abigail had said, startled at being caught within her brief sojourn into her past.

Sophie watched the embarrassed girl hurry into the room, tidying up the disarray hurriedly.

These English people were so transparent to her, so unsophisticated and simple. It was clear she was dreaming of her lost love, or some other nonsense, but Thomas would be her guess.

Thomas, that was his name, Sophie remembered as she watched Abigail work. A rather good looking boy, yes, but rebellious. She had noticed and watched the two of them exchange those secret glances when they thought no one could see. But she saw. And after a while, she was sure that they were lovers, she had no doubt.

The small signals gave them away, despite their carefulness in trying in concealing their tryst. Openly ignoring each other, but when they passed, they would conspire somehow to pass close to each other, hands by their sides, and their fingers would reach out, somehow touch, catch fleetingly and then part. They thought no one would see. It was intolerable.

And it had been almost three years ago now, three years of living in this damp dismal country, so far from her home in Nice, where the warmth of the Mediterranean was kinder to her skin than the drizzle of this hateful London and its dreadful fogs!

She had married money, and had followed her husband to this cold place. He was twice her age and sexually uninterested in her. Although he liked to watch her with the men she brought home. He had built a special room adjoining her bedchamber, and there he would sit, spying on her, witnessing her conquests, watching her fuck and be fucked.

It amused her to think of him behind the wall, and she would debase herself to extremes, the thought of him watching her adding an extra spice to her bedroom frolics. It was, she thought, really quite perfect. He indulged her whims and left her alone to pursue his, and all he asked was for her to accompany him on the social circuit, which she did, not out of any particular duty, but because it allowed her to find entertainment. One such entertainment had just left her bed.

He was yet another young banker, arrogantly believing he had seduced this beautiful, wealthy woman from France. She smiled inwardly. It was easier to allow than their fantasies. She could control them that much better. And this one had stamina. She had ridden him to fully three orgasms, all in the space of one hour. Her sexual power was evident in how quickly she had made him regain his potency after each of his shuddering climaxes.

She smiled inwardly again as she recalled the look of shock mixed with pleasure on his face at how demanding she was of him. At how one so sweet, could utter such foul and demanding words and instructions. At how she could tell him where and how to fuck her, exactly how fast, or slow, and precisely where she wanted him to pleasure her. He was her slave, but he did not know it. None of them did.

And then love entered. Not her love, but Abigail's. It was intolerable she thought again, irritated almost as much now as she was then. She refused to accept she was, could even possibly be, jealous.

She had known love, had been in love, but had rejected that love, preferring a comfortable life to an uncertain one, and now she only despised it. Despised the weakness it brought. Abigail was her servant in all things and she would not allow this distraction to occur. Would not allow this to happen to her.

"Do you really think he loves you Abigail? She had asked her servant then, at that time. She could see the confusion in the young girls face at the question.

"Please do not try and deny it, only a fool could not see what you two have been getting up to!"

Abigail's mouth worked up and down, but no words came, only a deep rising flush rose up her neck and flooded her face.