It was a cool day at the end of autumn, a Friday afternoon and the start of a long weekend, when her boyfriend suggested a walk in the park. The breeze was cold, but the sun was warm on the shoulders of her black coat, and he held her close to his side as they wandered, all the way to the other side of the park. The sun began to drop, sending its last grasping hands through the trees, and in the gold-flecked shadows d'Artagnan stopped and said to her,
"Listen. There's something I want to ask you. Something... I want to know if you'll do for me."
While he spoke, he took his phone from his pocket and turned it over and over in his fingers, but he still met her eyes, as bold as he always had been. When he was done with his explanation, he took one of her hands and kissed her palm. "If you agree to this," he said, "it will be the last choice you're allowed to make for the next three days, do you understand? If you agree now, you agree to everything that comes after."
Before him, Constance had always kept her romantic notions locked up in a hard case of pragmatism; likewise her fantasies were something that she only unfolded and lay out on the bed late at night, furtively cherished before being rewrapped and hidden away again. Before, in the days when love was made of familiarity, at rest in the inertia of the knowledge that some had passion and some had an amicable duty, and the comfort of that quietness. That part of her which had seemed to caught in immobility, though, turned out to need only a push.
"I won't be angry if you refuse," d'Artagnan said when she didn't answer right away. "We'll never speak of it again, I'll never ask you again."
It was that assurance, as much as her own desire, that made her agree.
He sent a text, and pulled her back to his side as they walked toward the street. A silver sedan pulled up moments after they came through the park gate onto the pavement, and d'Artagnan glanced at the driver briefly before opening the back door for her. Once she had sat, he slid in beside her and kissed her cheek. "I love you," he whispered, his lips against her ear. "Thank you, love."
The car turned west, toward the sunset, now enveloping the rooftops with its arms of purple and gold. It didn't take long for the car to reach streets that were unfamiliar. D'Artagnan took her bag and put it at his feet, and asked for her coat as well. It was warm enough in the car that she didn't mind, and he tucked it on the seat to his other side. They rode in a gentle quiet for nearly an hour before he sat up straighter, and put his hand on her leg.
"Are you wearing tights?" he asked. "Or stockings?" He rubbed her knee through the silky thin fabric, and she felt herself blush, glancing at the driver. D'Artagnan took her chin to direct her eyes back to him. "Pay attention now," he said. "You have to be ready by the time we arrive."
She swallowed and nodded. "They're tights," she answered, and he nodded.
"Take them off," he said. "Panties too. Then put your shoes back on."
It was awkward, pulling her tights down there in the backseat, and her nerves made her laugh. "I haven't done this in a car since I was a teenager," she said, and he laughed with her before growing serious again.
"Panties too," he reminded her, taking the tights and tucking them into her bag. They were easier to wriggle out of, and then her bare bottom was on the warm leather of the seat, and d'Artagnan was taking the scrap of satin away. She realized that she was getting wet, and the heater blowing up her skirt made her feel uncomfortably cool. She poked her toes back into her flats, and brought her knees back together.
"No," d'Artagnan said sharply, taking hold of her thigh and pulling. "Legs apart. Get used to sitting like this." She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she saw the warning in his eye.
"Now unbutton your blouse," he said, hooking his forefinger in the collar of the shirt. "Not all the way, but down enough to show most of your breasts. And take your bra off, and your jewelry too, you won't need it."
She struggled a little with the bra, realizing too late that she should've undone the blouse buttons first; she was able to unhook the back but not to get her arms free of the straps. It was ungainly and embarrassing, and at last d'Artagnan sighed, telling her to stop and lean closer. "You're wasting time," he said, and took his penknife out of his pocket. He'd cut the bra straps before she really knew what was happening, cut them and then reached up her shirt to pull it away. Her breasts fell heavy against her chest.
Silently, she finished with her buttons. She took off her earrings, her necklace, her ring, and handed them over, watching him put everything neatly in her bag. She vaguely wondered why bother keep the bra he'd ruined, but d'Artagnan's manner made it clear that he wouldn't welcome any questions. Her belly tightened.
A few minutes later, the car pulled up in front of a large, well-lit chateau, surrounded by a high stone wall. She had no idea where they were, what town, how far from Paris; she didn't recognize anything. The elaborate ironwork of the gate, sitting half open, might be forming letters, but it was hard to tell in the shadows. An L? An F?
"This is it, " d'Artagnan said, unnecessarily pointing at the house. "You'll go through the gate, up the path, and ring the bell at the front door. Someone will come to take you inside. Whatever you're asked to do, do it, because if you don't obey, they will force you. Understand? Now go, you'll see me again soon enough."
It was windier outside the city, and it felt like icy fingers between her legs, on her breasts through her thin blouse. She thought as she walked up the path that it hardly mattered any longer that she was, technically, still clothed. The layers she covered herself in day after day without thought were all but gone, and it was more disquieting than she would have expected, if she'd thought at all to expect any of this.
When she pressed the button for the bell there was no sound from inside, but scant seconds later the door was opened by a tall blonde woman; the woman wasn't smiling, but somehow gave the impression of it anyway. She was dressed in an old-fashioned style gown, made of deep green silk with gold details. Her hair was piled high in ringlets, and her breasts were pushed up by her dress — was that a corset? — so that they nearly spilled out over the deep neckline. All of this was striking enough, but what caught Constance's eye and held it were collar and cuffs the woman wore around her neck and wrists.
"Constance," the woman said, and it wasn't a question, but Constance nodded anyway, and stepped inside when the woman beckoned. In the foyer she held Constance at arm's length and looked her up and down, making her turn in a small pirouette before saying, "All right." She took Constance by the arm. "Come, let's start with a bath."
In the upstairs hall they passed several closed doors before going into a spacious bathroom suite. The tub was already full and steaming, and the woman took her blouse and skirt and ordered her into the water. Another woman came in then, dressed like the first but much more petite, with dark hair, a beauty mark on her lip and another on her cheek. Like the first, she too wore a collar and cuffs.
They washed her as one washes a child: gentle, but brisk and without shame. Once she was out of the water they towelled her off and rubbed lotion over every inch of skin before bundling her into a soft warm robe. It was something like what being a princess might be like, Constance thought as they washed her hair in a sink, then dried and curled and dressed it like theirs. She didn't have to lift a finger. They let her have some champagne; they did her makeup, lining her eyes in black and painting her mouth a deep wine red. They put a bit of rouge on her nipples, making them stand out against her white skin, and sprayed a musky perfume between her breasts, in the hollows of her elbows and knees, and at the base of her throat. One last puff of scent went between her legs.
"You're not waxed," the dark-haired woman commented in a low voice, the first thing that either of them had said that wasn't a direction.
"That's good," the blonde said, glancing at the door. "They'll like that." The dark-haired woman cracked a half a smile.
"A woman ought to look like a woman," she declared, clearly imitating a specific voice. "Not a little girl!"
Both of them covered their laughter with their hands, and Constance couldn't help but smile back at them.
"Shh, shh," the blonde said, even though no one had said anything else. She took the warm robe from Constance's shoulders and replaced it with a lighter one; it seemed to be made of the same green silk that they both wore. This robe was more like a cape: it barely covered her bottom, it had no belt, and hung open at the front, the sides fluttering when she moved.
Last, the dark-haired woman opened a drawer in an armoire and drew out several collars and cuffs. It was only then that Constance noticed what she had somehow previously missed: each had a steel D-ring set in the leather, of the sort that one might clip a leash to on a dog's collar. She swallowed. They locked with a tab like a seat belt, and unlocked with a small key which hung on a ribbon from the woman's belt; they only had to try a few to find the best fit, snug but not tight.
"Alice will take you downstairs," the blonde woman said. "She'll wait with you until they call you to be presented." The woman paused, as if she might say more, but then she turned away and left.
It was much colder in the hall than it had been in the bathroom, and Constance felt her nipples tighten and her skin pebble up as she followed Alice; on the stairs her bare feet stuck a little to the floor with each step. Once downstairs, she was led into a small room with pale blue walls, empty of furnishing except for a low settee placed in the middle, facing a second door at the back of the room. Alice sat Constance down with a firm hand on her shoulder, making sure she didn't sit on the hem of her robe, and pushing her legs wider when she would've left them just barely apart. Anyone coming in through the second door would see her first, see her exposed breasts and her cunt, and she felt herself blushing.
Alice didn't speak so Constance didn't either, and it was impossible to tell how much time passed before the second door opened. When the knob turned, rattling a little, she could hear herself take in a sharp breath, and Alice squeezed her shoulder. She had imagined all sorts of things while she waited, mostly frightening things, made all the more frightening by the fact that she was apparently not allowed to ask; in a way, the handsome man who came into the room was a bit of a letdown.
He was probably average height, lightly tanned, with wavy dark hair and a slightly pointed goatee; his eyes were brown, and looked like he was someone who laughed a lot. He was dressed in simple trousers and a white dress shirt, and Constance suspected from the state of his collar that he'd had a tie on earlier. He met Constance's eyes and smiled.
"Master Aramis," Alice murmured, and from the corner of her eye Constance had the impression that Alice was curtsying.
"That'll be all," he said, moving forward with his hand out. Alice handed over the key to Constance's bonds, and he nodded, slipping it into his pocket. "Good night."
He was frankly looking Constance over while they waited for the door to close behind Alice, and something in his manner, friendly as it was, made her feel sure that she shouldn't look back. So she kept her eyes down until the man took her by the chin, much as d'Artagnan had done in the car, and made her look.
"I don't think you're as meek as you're playing right now," he said, amusement in his tone. "But we'll see, won't we? Stand up."
She stood, and he looked her over again, walking to one side and then the next before turning and pulling the robe off her shoulders. He slipped it down her arms the way a man might take a lady's coat, and dropped it on the floor; he put his hand in the middle of her back and gave her a little push, making her stumble forward a few steps. Once she'd regained her balance, he stepped behind her, and took her wrists between one hand.
"This is your last chance to say no," he murmured in her ear. "Yes, or no."
"Yes," she said, and was surprised at how quickly the word came.
He clipped the cuffs around her wrists together with something that allowed her to move them at most ten centimeters apart; while she tested her bonds, he tied a blindfold tightly around her head. It was wide and the fabric was thick, blocking out all light and disorienting her in a way she'd never before felt. When the man pushed her forward again, she was sure that she would fall.
The rattle of the doorknob again, step step step, now thick carpet under her feet. This room was much warmer than any other she'd been in so far; was that the crackle of a fire? Low murmur of voices, indistinct but moving closer. Was she moving closer, or were they? Then the hand guiding her made her stop, and let go. She could feel his warmth leave her side.
"This is Constance," said a voice she knew. d'Artagnan. He sounded proud, but—cautious?
"Very good." This voice was new, sharp and rich at the same time. She thought of whiskey. The next voice was deeper, smoother, perhaps a touch of the Caribbean?
"Very good indeed," the voice said. "Beautiful breasts." A hand came down on one of them, and squeezed; she made a soft shocked sound, unable to hold it back. Someone laughed.
"You're allowed to make noise." The first stranger's voice again, sounding almost bored. "I imagine you'll make plenty of it before we're through."
Another hand on her other breast—was it the partner to the first? Was it someone else? There were faint rustles of movement but she couldn't place from where. Someone kicked her feet farther apart, someone pushed two fingers into her cunt. She cried out. Another laugh, this one next to her ear, and the disparate sensations coalesced into something like a picture: a man was standing behind her, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs.
"Your girl is dripping for it," he said, fucking her shallowly with his fingers.
The sound that d'Artagnan made was distant. The fingers left her cunt and pushed into her ass, making her yelp.
"God, that's tight."
"Did you bring us a virgin ass?"
"Yes, unless someone before me had it. I doubt it, though. She was a good girl."
"Was," said the man holding her. He twisted his fingers, and it burned. She gasped.
"You've had her mouth, though."
"Of course, but not often. She doesn't like to."
"Do you whip her?"
"No, I've never done."
"A virgin ass in every way." Someone slapped her buttock, hard, and she couldn't help clenching on the thick fingers inside her. She gasped again.
"Do you want to whip her first?"
"I want to fuck her first."
The man holding her handed her over to another after one last shove of his fingers in her ass; she was led forward a few steps and then pushed down onto some piece of furniture, like a hassock. Her arms were still secured behind her back and she was barely able to get her face turned away from the cushion so that she could breathe when she was taken by the hips, and one of the men began working his cock into her cunt.
She was wet but she wasn't ready for it, much bigger than the fingers, probably not bigger than she was used to but the surprise made it feel huge. Her cunt tightened, and the man fucking her growled and shoved harder. She screamed into the cushion.
She had thought that she wouldn't cry. She had thought that knowing what was coming was the same as being prepared for it.
They took turns fucking her, one after another; she knew d'Artagnan was one of the four but she couldn't tell him from the rest. She felt zippers digging into her thighs from their open trousers, someone’s cold belt buckle tapping her hip in rhythm with his thrusts. One of them jerked her body upright by her hair as he fucked her, and held her there for another to kneel on the hassock and take her mouth. Her makeup burned her eyes with her tears under the blindfold, and when she struggled, when she couldn't breathe and fought by instinct, the man fucking her mouth pulled out and slapped her.
She had never been struck in her life, not even a single spanking as a child, and the pain blooming along her cheekbone was almost secondary to the shock. Anger swelled in its place almost immediately. "Son of a bitch," she snarled, forgetting herself, forgetting her orders, and the man fucking her from behind yanked her back by her hair.
Some of the men laughed. She thought she recognized d'Artagnan in the sound, but she wasn't sure.
"As I suspected," said the voice in front of her, the man who'd slapped her. The man inside her had stilled, holding her head up for the other to take by the chin. "Not so meek at all."
It was the man who'd greeted her, she realized. Master Aramis, that's what Alice had called him. She tried to remember his smiling face, and failed.
"Whip her," said the bored voice from before. "Take her over to the wall."
She was dragged to her feet and across the room, tripping on the edges of carpets, once bumping into the sharp corner of some piece of furniture. Finally she was pushed face-first up against cool paneling, the wood soothing on her cheek. Her hands were released and refastened over her head, high enough that she had to go up on her toes a bit: not painful, but not at all comfortable.
The men were in some low-voiced conference nearby, but she couldn't make out their words. Noises she couldn't identify, then d'Artagnan's voice rose.
"No, use the bamboo," he was saying.
"Scream as much as you like," said the deep-voiced man. "I insist."
She tried not to. She tried, to spite them and their laughter; she was sure if she just bit down hard on her lip, or the inside of her cheek, that she could keep it inside, no matter how much it hurt. She had no idea how much it would hurt. The cane cracked across the backs of her thighs, just below her ass, and the cry tore from her throat as her flesh burned and then throbbed. One of them laughed again, and another made a satisfied sound.
The cane landed again, a little lower, and again, higher, across her buttocks. Each blow impossibly hurt more than the one before, and she found herself sobbing, twisting against the wall in a vain attempt to avoid the next stroke, and the next. All her struggle accomplished was to make the cane land wildly, on the sides of her legs, on her hips, and before long she simply leaned on the wall and wept.
After some time there was a pause, and conversation among the men that she couldn't hear over the sound of her own ragged breaths. She thought for a moment that they'd finished, she thought they might be done with her, then someone moved behind her again. There was a soft sound through the air and a stinging set of lashes fell across her back. Her body jerked at the new sensation but it was different than the caning; she whimpered and moaned and felt a terrible curl of want rising in her belly, felt her thighs growing slick again.
Eventually, the whipping stopped too.
"The trick is not to do it too much." Master Aramis's voice, and a cool hand slapped her ass. "They start to like it, if you do it too often, or too long." Fingers pushed between her legs, smearing over the wet lips of her cunt, and she clenched her hands, helpless in her shame. "See?"
"A lovely creature." Another hand came down on her ass, on the bruised skin there, and she whined.
"Bring her down. Back over here."
The bored voice again. He was the one waiting for her when she was untied, when she was half-guided, half-carried across the room to the hassock where they'd fucked her before. He ran his hand down her flank, the way the owner of a horse might, ending with a similarly proprietary pat on her hip.
"Hands and knees," he ordered, and she went without thought, feeling for and gripping the far edge of the cushion. The men were quiet now. She could hear the fire crackling, and someone pouring a drink. She knew what was next, knew it with a heavy, inevitable feeling: they had had every other part of her, and now this man was going to take the rest.
It was almost businesslike, the way he rubbed a bit of something greasy over her hole before spreading her with his hands and forcing his cock into her ass. It ached and it burned and she tried to pull away but he just fucked her harder, hands tight on her bruised ass. She opened her mouth on the cushion and a long, howling moan came out; she bit down on the fabric and she struggled and he didn't stop. She thought she'd run out of tears but they were burning her eyes again, spit soaking into the cushion, and he kept fucking her, until she actually did stop crying, until there was nothing left.
And even then there was one further humiliation, one she had not thought to fear, or dared to imagine. He circled her waist with one arm and pulled her firmly back onto his cock, hard enough to drive a gasp from her lungs; he lowered his fingers to her clit and began to rub.
"No," she said.
"It's too late for no," he murmured in her ear, and she could feel it rising, could feel the betrayal of her body. Her ass tightening on his cock, her cunt seizing on nothing, his lips against her neck, rasp of his beard and the roughness of his fingertips—
Constance snapped the book closed when she heard d'Artagnan's key in the door, shoving it down between the cushion and the side of the chair. For several minutes she hadn't even been reading, the words a blur on the page, and she'd lost all track of the time. She took a long gulp of her tea, now cold, and looked up to meet d'Artagnan with a smile.
"Hello, darling," he said, tossing his things carelessly on the other chair before leaning down for a quick kiss. "What have you been up to? You're all pink."
"Hot tea," she said, lifting the cup. "How was your day?"
"Oh, fine. The usual." d'Artagnan loosened his tie, giving her a fond look. "Athos asked us for a late dinner tonight, maybe to stay the weekend, if we wanted. I said we'd come. It'll just be us and all the guys, probably."
Constance tightened her hand around her cup, pressed her knees together and nodded. "Yes," she said. "That sounds great."