Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I bit my lip, trying to control my breathing as his fingers traced lazy patterns on my inner thigh, dangerously close to where I ached for his touch.
“In fact,” he continued, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur, “I’ve read that for some wives, having another couple present, invited to witness their punishment, even in the nude, helps them behave. The added humiliation of being disciplined before her friends creates a stronger incentive to obey in the future.”
My heart nearly stopped at his words. The image flooded my mind instantly: myself, completely naked, bent over while Pierre whipped me with the martinet… all while another couple watched my shameful punishment. The thought should have horrified me. Instead, a rush of wetness flooded between my thighs, so intense I gasped audibly.
I pressed my thighs together, mortified by my body’s response yet unable to control it. Pierre noticed immediately, his knowing smile making my face burn hotter.
“Does that idea excite you, ma petite?” he asked, his voice silky with amusement.
“No,” I lied, but my breathless tone betrayed me completely.
Pierre chuckled, his hand squeezing my thigh gently. “Your body tells me otherwise. I can smell your arousal from here.”
I turned my face toward the window, watching the French countryside blur past as I tried desperately to compose myself. The wetness between my legs had become impossible to ignore. I shifted uncomfortably, worried that I might soak through my dress onto Pierre’s expensive leather seat. The thought only intensified my arousal, creating a humiliating feedback loop I couldn’t escape.
“Be still,” Pierre commanded, noting my squirming. “You’ll make the plug shift, and I don’t want you coming without permission.”
I whimpered, but forced myself to be still, feeling the constant pressure of the plug reminding me of my submission. The rest of the journey passed in a haze of frustrated desire and shameful anticipation, Pierre occasionally asking me questions about my work at International Energy Partners that I struggled to answer coherently with the plug filling me and his hand resting possessively on my thigh.
When we finally turned onto a long, tree-lined drive, I gasped at the sight that greeted us. Pierre’s chateau was not the small country house I’d picture, but a mansion that reminded me of the Petit Trianon. Its pale stone façade gleamed in the afternoon sun. Perfectly manicured gardens surrounded it, with fountains and statuary visible from the approach.
“Welcome to Chateau Lemieux,” Pierre said, clear pride in his voice as he guided the Jaguar around a circular drive to the front entrance.
A middle-aged couple stood waiting at the top of the stone steps, their posture perfect, their dark clothing immaculate.
“Those are the Duboises,” Pierre explained. “They’ve served my family for two generations. You may find them a bit formal, but their hearts are golden.”
They welcomed Pierre and me at the top of the stone steps. Monsieur Dubois, a distinguished silver-haired gentleman with ramrod-straight posture, bowed formally. Beside him, Madame Dubois, a woman of similar age with her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, curtsied with practiced grace.
“Welcome home, Monsieur,” Monsieur Dubois said, his voice cultured and precise.
“Thank you, Etienne,” Pierre replied warmly. “This is Mademoiselle Campbell.”
I felt their eyes on me—assessing, knowing eyes that seemed to penetrate through my modest sundress to the plug nestled in my bottom and the welts from the martinet still burning my flesh. My cheeks flushed hot as Madame Dubois’ gaze lingered on my face for a moment too long, a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Enchantée, Mademoiselle,” she said, her voice warm, but somehow knowing. “I have prepared the Lavender Suite for your stay.”
“Merci,” I managed, fighting the urge to squirm as the plug shifted inside me. Did they know what Pierre had done to me? Could they tell, somehow, that beneath my innocent blue dress I wore nothing but the evidence of my submission?
Pierre’s hand settled at the small of my back, guiding me up the final steps. The simple touch felt possessive, marking me as his in front of his servants. Neither Dubois reacted visibly, but I sensed their quiet acceptance of his claim on me.
“Aimee has prepared a light supper for eight o’clock,” Monsieur Dubois informed Pierre as we entered the grand foyer. “Would you prefer it served in the dining room or on the terrace?”
“The terrace, I think,” Pierre replied. “The evening should be pleasant. Now, I’ll show Audrey to her suite.”
CHAPTER 25
Audrey
The Duboises nodded in perfect synchronization before disappearing silently toward what I assumed was the kitchen. Pierre led me across the marble-floored entrance hall toward a sweeping staircase that curved gracefully to the upper floor.
As we climbed the stairs, my discomfort increased with each step. The plug seemed to press deeper, and the fabric of my dress brushed against my bare bottom, a constant reminder of my nakedness beneath. I tried to focus on the opulence surrounding me—the hand-painted ceiling, the antique furniture, the original artwork adorning the walls—but my thoughts kept returning to the knowing look in Madame Dubois’ eyes.