Under a Stern Reign

by Raymond Wilde

  ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered. ‘If the count finds us like this again there’ll be even more trouble for us.’

  Elise ignored her comment, moving towards the dressing table. She sat down on the stool before it and looked at herself in the mirror. In the reflection she could see Genevieve, still watching her. She looked down at the table and picked up the heavy gilded hairbrush, running it through her long black locks.

  ‘What have you been doing today?’ she asked Genevieve’s reflection.

  ‘I made a new friend,’ Genevieve told her. ‘Someone you used to know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Elise said, arching her eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, Emelie,’ Genevieve continued. ‘You remember Emelie, of course. A very pretty girl, blonde and graceful. She worked here once.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Elise muttered. ‘And where did you meet her?’

  ‘She lives a few miles from here.’ Elise turned on the stool to face her friend, interested in what she was hearing. ‘It was once her husband’s home, apparently, but he’s left her.’

  ‘Oh,’ Elise said, looking quizzical. ‘You wouldn’t, by any chance, mean the old hunting lodge, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We own a hunting lodge in the woods. Because it was so seldom used an old employee of ours, Pierre Narbonne, asked my father a few years ago if he could live there. My father agreed, and then probably forgot about it. Emelie must have married Pierre. So that’s what happened to her... But the old lodge is de Tranville property.’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Genevieve muttered.

  ‘I know,’ Elise acknowledged, and then fell silent, and staring at Genevieve, she continued brushing her hair. Genevieve watched her thoughtfully, and Elise felt her quiet gaze, quirkily lowering the hairbrush to her thighs and passing it lightly over the dark curls between her thighs. Genevieve’s face reddened.

  ‘It was a shame how our little lesson was so rudely interrupted the other night,’ Elise mused. ‘We were only just starting and we haven’t yet managed to finish.’

  ‘I thought your stepfather had finished it.’

  ‘Well not as far as I’m concerned. So come over here.’

  ‘But what if he finds us?’ Genevieve asked anxiously.

  ‘He won’t, he’s in town. Now, we were learning about submission. Come here.’

  Genevieve obediently lifted the sheet and slipped out of bed, stepping lightly to Elise.

  ‘Not like that,’ Elise snapped playfully. ‘Get down on your hands and knees and crawl to me. Crawl like a cur.’

  Genevieve paused. ‘Must I?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, you must, now do as I say and crawl,’ Elise commanded.

  Genevieve obeyed again, and looked up to find Elise had parted her thighs, beckoning Genevieve towards their lush centre, lewdly massaging her succulent sex lips. ‘You remember my little pleasure bud?’ Elise whispered. ‘Now finish kissing it for me...’

  Genevieve swallowed and moved her mouth to Elise’s crotch, passing her tongue over it nervously. It was warm and wet. She closed her eyes and let her tongue flicker, gently passing it over the spot she had kissed before. Then Elise’s hand roughly clasped the back of her head again, pulling it tighter into the fragrant warmth.

  ‘That’s it, slave,’ Elise sighed, her buttocks squirming on the stood. She looked down over Genevieve’s lovely blonde head, bobbing quietly between her thighs.

  Bending forward she ran her hands over Genevieve’s back, stroking her from buttocks to shoulders. Then, on a whim, she looked at the hairbrush in her hand, and Genevieve’s buttocks seemed so unsuspecting, quivering away prettily as she licked. Laughing to herself quietly, Elise massaged the back of Genevieve’s head with one hand and then brought the brush down with a thwack on the side of Genevieve’s bottom, a shocked gasp instantly bursting from the kneeling girl.

  She pulled back and stared at Elise blankly, the pain intense and unexpected, destroying the passionate concentration into which she had drifted. What was the enigmatic girl doing to her? Why had she done that? She crawled to her so obediently, kissed her so intimately, so why hit her?

  Getting to her feet Emelie suddenly flashed into Genevieve’s mind, and the words of the pretty girl came back. The warning...

  With tears in her eyes she’d told her of how Elise had played games with her heart. And what was happening to her now? She was being taught how to enjoy, but to enjoy what? The cruel whims of Elise...

  ‘Come back here, silly,’ Elise ordered, but Genevieve shook her head, and turning rebelliously she grabbed her discarded nightdress and slippers from the foot of her bed and ran out of the room, along the landing and down the stairs.

  In a panic she stood in the hall, not knowing what to do. She wanted to get away but where would she go? Hastily putting on her nightdress and slippers she caught sight of the old woollen cloak Emelie had lent her. She hurried to it and threw it around her shoulders, again fastening it at her throat.

  Emelie, she had been so sweet and kind. She would go to her now, the only person she could turn to. Genevieve raced to the front door, unlocked it hurriedly and ran out into the cold night.

  After disciplining Elise and Genevieve in his library, Count de Tranville passed a restless night.

  The desirability of the two girls had been so deeply embedded in his mind, and as he tried to sleep taunting images of them, submissive and beautiful, swirled in his head and left him with an erection he was forced to relieve by his own hand.

  He knew in his heart that the whole event was of Elise’s doing, yet he had punished poor Genevieve more severely than her. He knew he was doing it, and he had enjoyed punishing them both so much that he was within a hairsbreadth of fucking one or both of them.

  Genevieve had surprised him, clearly getting lustful as her punishment was administered. He remembered how deliciously she writhed on the desktop, causing his cock to strain against the confines of his clothing.

  The next day he went into town to finalise affairs before his departure. Rodolfo would be arriving the following week and then they would begin their journey to the port of La Rochelle, and then by boat to Portugal... and then what?

  He arrived in Rency early in the morning and went to the bank immediately to withdraw his gold.

  Placing it within secret compartments under the bench of his coach he then went to see two acquaintances whom he knew to be loyal to the old regime, and who might be able to see that his estate would remain untouched and held safely until his eventual return from abroad - for return he surely would when the madness sweeping France was finally over. They were the notaries Michel Germaine-Troyes and Achille de Bourgogne, two respected gentlemen used to dealing exclusively with the affairs of the nobility. The two proved extremely sympathetic to the count’s plight, and assured him that they would do their best to legally safeguard his home and possessions.

  At around midday he finished with them, and as they wished him farewell and good luck he wondered what to do for the rest of the day. But he felt no urgency to return home.

  He instructed his coachman, a loyal old servant who had been with the family for many years, to return to the chateau and unload the gold into the safety of the cellars, then to return to Rency in the evening and meet him in a small inn at the town’s entrance.

  Alone, the count walked through the streets considering how this would be the last time he saw the place for several years. He stopped at the square, where groups of merchants stood selling their wares before the town hall. Fruit sellers, fishmongers, cobblers, many were there to make some money out of something. Bright colours and twittering sounds came from one stall on a corner of the square, and he approached it.

  An old man was selling colourful caged birds, and the count gazed at the beautiful exotic creatures. They were canaries, parrots and minor birds; birds from the New World, and t
hey talked! Birds that repeated names. ‘Robespierre!’ exclaimed one. ‘Marat!’ squawked another.

  Perhaps it might be nice to buy a few and take them home to impress Elise and Genevieve, he considered. But they would be leaving very soon, he reflected, and it would be silly to start burdening their journey with extra baggage.

  After a while he found a tavern, and by early afternoon he had lunched and, growing melancholy, gone through three bottles of red wine.

  A little later he found another tavern, and talking intermittently with passing locals, he managed to drink three mugs of beer, another bottle of wine and two glasses of a local brandy.

  As the late afternoon drew on, the count, slightly tipsy to say the least, made his way to another tavern that turned out to also be the local brothel. He sat, and was soon approached by two of the hostelry’s wenches. Both were plain and well-used things, but the count was bored and pleased to talk with them. They were keen to take him to a room, but he gazed at them wearily. One was blondish, short and chubby and missing a front tooth. The other was darker, round-faced and heavy-hipped. The count saw nothing to excite him.

  But, as his mind kept going back to his two charges and as he drank even more, he decided to go along with the two whores, so he went to their room.

  He didn’t ask them to undress. Instead he told them both to bend over and lift their skirts, and as the two, side by side, squatted with their flabby bare bottoms in the air, he skewered them both, absentmindedly passing his member from one to the other, slapping and groping their fat buttocks.

  He moved from one to the other, humping one for a few minutes, then humping the other for a few minutes, before finally telling them he’d had enough. He didn’t find the steam to ejaculate into either of them, but he paid them both well.

  By the early evening Count de Tranville was just about sober enough to remember his rendezvous with his coach at the arranged inn. He staggered through the darkening streets, but no coach was to be seen at the front of the designated hostelry, so he decided to go in and carry on drinking until it arrived.

  About half an hour later the coachman arrived to find his employer in a snoring, drunken sleep inside, slumped across an ale-soaked table. He had drunk more than six bottles of wine, four mugs of beer and four brandies by that time.

  The driver carried him to the coach, and de Tranville slumped in one corner as they rattled homeward, gazing with bloodshot, uncomprehending eyes at the passing countryside. His head began reeling with thoughts of the females that were beginning to complicate his life.

  Madame Coubette... she was still attractive, but with the nagging and the jealousies it was clear that she was becoming a problem. It would have to end, but how to do it without too much bitterness?

  How tempting Elise was, he considered. She was truly a delicious feast. Her eyes came back to him. He could see them staring, smouldering beneath the fringe of dark hair. They had weighed him up. They thanked him for the punishment delivered, and then asked for more. They saw the craving inside him, the craving he fought to suppress in the name of decency, the craving that manifested itself and was noted by her as a significant bulge in his breeches. How her sultry eyes had gazed at this shameful evidence, her moist lips pouting, silently beckoning him...

  If she were to stay with him alone it would be too tempting, he knew. No, something would have to be arranged. He would have to engineer a suitable marriage for her, to remove her as a temptation. But who would be suitable, during such volatile times?

  Then his befuddled thoughts weaved their way to Genevieve. How precious a beauty she was, too! Growing lustful he recalled her timid nakedness, so unaware of the exquisiteness of her innocence and loveliness. He remembered her as she undressed, and how hard it had been to resist latching his lips to those rosy nipples on perfect breasts as she coyly loosened her camisole. How fine were those buttocks that quivered before him as he rained his crop down upon them. He had sought to meet her eyes after the beating but she looked at him too fleetingly, shame and pain covering her face and making her eyes tearful. And yet during the beating he had distinctly seen how her hips squirmed. Oh yes, she was so coy, but there was a female of passion beneath.

  Strange, though, he considered; he had punished her more than Elise, fully knowing she was almost certainly innocent of any wrong. Could he, perhaps, have stronger feelings for her than he’d ever realised? It must be so...

  And it was as he reflected on the lovely Genevieve that the thought suddenly struck him; a marriage between a de Tranville and a de Montvert would be a very fine match! Why had it never occurred to him before? Yes, it was not a bad idea at all.

  He was getting on in years, he knew, and for so long now, it seemed, he had been in mourning. His home had become a shrine to the dark sorceress that was Elise’s mother. Surely this could not go on forever? Surely, sooner or later, it would be time to pull back the veil of darkness and let the light of summer break into his life again. And the fair girl, why she was as close to the wonder of a bright new day as any girl could be. Yes, the idea was a splendid one!

  As the plan took root in the count’s tipsy head he began to grow cheerful. Things might not be so bad after all, with a new and beautiful wife. They would still have to go to Portugal as exiles it was true, but surely not forever. And one day he would return, his treasure of a young wife by his side, and then, perhaps, they would have heirs.

  He would have to remove Elise from the picture, however. For with her around his cock would never be at peace and could not be trusted to be discreet. Her dark beauty would always shadow him, stirring desires that should be buried. Who could he find as her suitor?

  He tried to call to mind the eligible sons of other French nobles he knew. How many were still alive? How many were still in the country? It was impossible to say. But what about the young gentleman who recently dined with them - that dandy, Rodolfo? All right, he was Portuguese. But he was of noble blood. Could a marriage be set between him and Elise? Why not? He would be meeting the young man in a week and soon he would meet his father. Conde de Agora would certainly understand that the wealth and name of the de Tranville’s could not be erased by this vicious revolution. The old world order would have to come back sooner or later. So Rodolfo would be marrying into good prospects. They would still have to live in Portugal for some time, but not forever.

  The coach drew up at the chateau. The coachman descended to help him again, but the count stepped down unaided. There was even a slight spring in his step. Why hadn’t he come up with the marriage ideas before?

  What a funny day it had been, he reflected as he entered his home. The morning had been so gloomy, but now he felt good. Perhaps he could tell everyone of his marriage plans now? No, perhaps not, for they would see he was still drunk and not take him seriously. Tomorrow then. But he had cause for celebration now.

  The count crossed the hall, sat on the divan in the sitting room and called for a bottle of wine. Elise might moan about her wedding, he pondered, but Rodolfo was a fine young man. Virile too, he didn’t wonder, although hopefully not too virile; it wouldn’t do if the young stag broke Elise’s heart straight away by chasing other girls.

  And what of Madame Coubette? He had enjoyed her buxom body and boudoir skills for some long time now. But there was no longer room for her in the picture. She would be hurt, but she was a woman of the world and she would just have to accept life as it was. She was still attractive enough to move on and find someone else with whom to entertain herself.

  As the count sipped his wine he soon found himself growing tired, so he stretched out on the divan and fell soundly asleep, a broad, tipsy smile on his face.

  Madame Coubette padded around the guest bedroom inquisitively. She had never seen it before, for despite having been to the chateau many times there was so much of the place she hadn’t seen.

  And how strange, she reflected, that she had formed an all
iance with Elise, no less. The girl had always bothered her so much, her mere presence and wilful attitudes always filling her with anger. But now things had changed. Now they actually needed each other.

  She had followed her intuition, and cleverly conjured a plan that would solve some of her difficulties. She was sure her decrepit husband was not going to live another winter, and when he died, what would he leave her? He had made promises. He had talked of his will, but each time she alluded to the subject he stubbornly refused to let her see it. She had her own savings, but she would need much, much more to be comfortable in the manner to which she was accustomed.

  It was very late and the house was silent, so she decided to leave the room and explore what, if her plans worked out well, would be her home in the near future. With a candle in hand she made her way along the darkened landing outside the bedroom, and from the top of the sweeping staircase she could see the hallway and door of the drawing room below. Why, if the door was left a little open one had a perfect view into the room... ah, so that would explain how the little minx Elise knew about her and the count. It was a very good place for spying, she had to admit.

  Madame Coubette went softly down the stairs, and quietly pushed open the first door she came to. It was the library, with book-lined walls and a large portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. Next to the fireplace in the shadows she could make out a leather armchair and a writing desk. The painting piqued her curiosity, and with one hand shielding the candle flame, she approached it.

  It was a portrait of a dark-haired woman, a striking beauty. She had large dark eyes and a wide, sensual mouth. Madame Coubette immediately thought of Elise... this was clearly her mother.

  Looking away from the portrait, her attention was grabbed by an object lying on the desk. She put the candle down and picked it up. It was a riding-crop made from black leather, with a leather loop at the tip. She swiped it through the air a couple of times, appreciating its threatening whistle. Then she smacked it down on the seat of the armchair. It cracked loudly, the sound exciting her. She smiled - if only she’d had the crop with her earlier; it would have been delicious to feel its cool suppleness scorching the pretty bottom of Genevieve when she had the girl in her grasp. As she picked up the candle again there was a noise from outside the quiet room, so she went to investigate.