Helen (closed)

[sharingfantasies]

This is for Chauderlos and myself for now. We may decide to open it later, so enjoy the read and we'll let you know if/when we open it.


Lady Helen Bonham
5'6" brunette, green eyes 22 years old
125 lbs, 36d 26 (24 if the corset is tight enough) 35
daughter of the Duke of Layton
______________________________________________________________

Helen struggled to control her shock, as she faced the scruffy looking man in her parlor.

His voice was hard as he repeated his message. "I am here to escort you from the estate of the Duke of Layton. His estate is now owned by the Earl of Hamptington. The Earl demands that you vacate the premises within the hour taking only your personal clothing." The message was repeated in the tones that must be the Earl's Helen thought.

"Do you know where my father is? Do you know why the Earl believes he has possession of my home?" Helen was proud that her voice didn't crack.

With a slightly softer voice, she was told, "The Duke lost the estate to the Earl in a card game last night, well early this morning. The Duke then went to the Club's parlor and killed himself. He left a note that said he couldn't face you having lost the estate. I am sorry, miss."

Her father was dead? Her house was gone? Her life was shattered. Helen stood slowly, swayed a moment, then took a deep breath. She headed for the stairs.
Ringing for her maid, she stood in the middle of her room trying to figure out where to start.

The Runner was standing at the doorway, apparently waiting to carry her luggage down or to keep her from making off with the estate treasures. Helen put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at that thought. She was afraid if she started she wouldn't be able to stop. She wondered if the Earl had any idea of what he had won? The paintings were fake, the real ones sold off by her father to pay his gambling debts. The staff was cut to the minimum, the butler, housekeeper, cook, two maids and a young boy that did the menial tasks. The house was in hock to the local merchants and was showing signs of weathering on the front brick facade.

To keep the household going, Helen had been using her own money, left to her by her mother, who had been afraid that the Duke would eventually gamble himself into the ground. Helen's mother had not realized that her daughter would still be single at the old age of 22. Had Helen had the time to attend every rout and every ball she may have been married by now, but running the household on minimal funds took a lot of time. And dresses were costly. Helen went to the "must attend" affairs which were spread out throughout the Season, but she didn't attend multiple events a night like most of her peers.

Still in shock, not prepared to think about her father or what she as going to do, Helen began to instruct her maid Ellie as to what to pack and what not to pack. Ellie was curious as to why they were suddenly packing her gowns and why some strange man was watching carefully.

With deliberation so that there would be no misunderstandings, Helen proceeded to explain that the Duke had gambled the house away, and then committed suicide. That the new owner would be taking possession of the house that evening and that Helen had to move to new lodgings. Everything in the house and all the people that worked for the estate were now in the possession of the Earl.

Ellie cried out that she wanted to accompany Helen, but the Runner said that was impossible. Helen didn't know what to say to Ellie, she had no idea if the Earl would keep on the staff, turn them out or what. As Ellie packed, tears flowing down her cheeks, Helen went down the back stairs to the housekeeper's room to inform Mrs. White of the changes.

"Mrs. White, if you or any of the staff are turned out without references, come to me at Northstar House, and I will write them for you. I will be staying at the Inn until I know exactly what I am facing. Please thank the staff for all they have done for my father and I." Helen swallowed hard, determined not to cry. Impulsively she gave the housekeeper a hug, then hurried back up the stairs to see to the rest of the packing.

The Runner and Mr. Jones the butler, carried out the four trunks and placed them on the back of the dray wagon the Runner had driven in preparation of the eviction.

As they drove to Northstar House, Helen began to plan what she must do. "First I must call Mr. Lodge and find out how much money is left in the account from my mother. Then I need to let the Club know what to do about Father. Then I must figure out what to do after that."

As soon as she settled into the rooms at the Inn, she sent a message to Mr. Lodge. He attended her in the small sitting room adjacent to her bedroom. "Your mother left a fairly decent amount of money, provided you were just using it for pin money, but if you are now required to live off that fund, you won't make it longer than six months."

Helen nodded. She had pretty much figured that out herself. She asked Mr. Lodge to take care of her father's funeral expenses and pay for it out of her account. Luckily, her father could be buried in the family cemetary. The Earl had apparently agreed to that small bit of generosity.

When Mr. Lodge left, Helen sat with a cup of tea and began to think. Several hours later she had hatched a plan. While it might not be the wisest plan it was the only one she could concoct. She needed to marry and soon. She needed to find someone that was wealthy enough to support her, wouldn't gamble her home away, and needed a title. As the last of her line, the Duke's title could pass onto her husband or son. She began to make a list of all the men in the Ton that would fit the requisites. She came up with three names. One was sixty years old, and was the nineth son of the Baron Hugly, as a part of one of the richest families on the Island, he could afford to keep her, but as the nineth son he carried no title. He was well known for wanting one. The second man was the son of an Viscount, but should his father pass away, he would inherit his father's title so would have no need of a poor wife. The third she had scratched out, rewritten, scratched out and rewritten. He was the third son of the Earl of Fourtnoy. His father and two older brothers were still alive and the brothers had several sons between them.

Mr. Thomas Brightson would be a Mister for life unless he married someone with a title to pass on. Mr. Brightson was wealthy in his own right. Beside his connections to a very wealthy family. He was the owner of several ships that sailed to distant ports trading a variety of goods. He had bought his first ship when he was 20 with some money left to him by a distant dead uncle. By the time he was 25 he had expanded into a fleet of five ships. Now at 33, he was handsome, wealthy and the top of the matrons' list of eligible bachelors. Helen had met him a few times at various functions. Last year he had let it be known that he was seeking a wife with a title. Mr. Brightson had a goal and all that kept him from his goal was the possession of a title. It was Mr. Brighton's opinion that the wealthy titled peers of the country should take some responsibility for the poorer people living in the same country. Although his ideas were not that popular among Society's elite, it was also well known that, should he obtain a title, the House of Lords would welcome him. Mr. Brightson wanted to make changes in England, and the only way to do that was as a member of the House.

Helen mused, "He would be perfect for my needs if only..." The "if only"v was something she wasn't very clear about. The matrons, while saying he was the top eligible bachelor, didn't trip over each other thrusting their darling debutants at him. This was a very rare and odd occurence. Whispered rumors said that "he was "different", difficult to please, difficult to live with, that he had a secret life, that he was dangerous to women, that he made evil demands."

Having danced with him, Helen didn't understand what the rumor mongers were thinking. He had always been nothing but charming, a little intense but more distant than anything else, as he partnered her in dances that allowed him to sweep her across the floor his dark eyes always seeking the "perfect woman". Helen wasn't sure if he even knew she was alive. She needed to find a way to attract his attention and make sure she kept it. She needed to know what those evil demands were, then try to provide them.

So she had another part to her plan. Monsieur Philipp Saint-Jean. A French nobleman who had emigrated from France during the "Terror" and was now a teacher of sorts. Saint-Jean had established a school for ladies.. er.. women that wanted to attract the English noblemen, especially the wealthy ones. While Helen had marriage in mind, these women were seeking a slightly different position. Saint-Jean taught these women how to speak, how to walk, how to dance, how to appeal to the young wealthy men of London. His students came from the roughest parts of England hoping to become one of his graduates and join the ranks of the top Mistresses of London.

While this was not Helen's goal, she decided to take the last of her account, 500 pounds and hire Monsieur Saint-Jean to teach her how to attract the attention of Mr. Brightson, make him want her enough to marry her, and secure her future living.

Helen smiled brittlely, "And if that doesn't work, then I will have been trained for a job that I will need to keep my existence going."

She wrote a letter to the "Trainer" the next morning. Then waited for a reply.

 

[chauderlos]

The candles ignited sparkles in the gilded frame of the large mirror, above the mantelpiece, and in the crystal pendants of the chandeliers. Alone in the salon, Monsieur Saint Jean sat, legs crossed, lost in thoughts, in his favourite armchair. His long, greying hair was tied in a tail, knotted with a black velvet ribbon. His whole attire, redingote, breeches, was black, for he wore no other colour since the execution of Queen Marie-Antoinette. He always took great care of his appearance, of his clothing. That was important in his trade.

My trade… he reflected…. Teaching demi-mondaines and sultry maiden how to behave… To behave… to dance gracefully; to use the right fork for fish; to speak proper English… And after that came the secret part. When he taught these young persons how to attract wealthy men. How to turn their sheets into burning hell, their bedchambers into battlefields. To use every part of their bodies as deadly weapons.

A light knock and the door dragged him out of his thoughts. Two young women entered the room: Simone and Caroline, his pupils, as he liked to call them. Both had stayed at Beauplaisir Manor for over a month, and tonight was the final step of their training, the crucial moment when Monsieur Saint Jean will see if he deemed appropriate to send them back to the world.
Simone was a voluptuous redhead, wore a pearl white dress, low cut over her large breasts. A large green hem, a shade darker than her eyes, underlined her white round shoulders. Caroline was thinner, her body lithe and frail. Immense blue eyes enlighten her open face, and her blonde hair cascaded in neat swirls over her shoulder. Her dress was pale blue,

Both bowed in a graceful reverence, silk hissing, skin gleaming in the moving light of the candles. Saint Jean remained silent for a moment,

- Now, girls, let's see if I haven't wasted my time while trying to teach you how to behave properly. Caroline, he snapped, how would you address a duke, should you meet one?

- I would address him as "Your Grace", Monsieur.

- Simone, a gentleman, if you find on that would be foolish enough to make such a present to you, offers you a diamond ring. How do you make sure it's a real stone?

- By scratching glass with it, Monsieur.

- Caroline, how do you tell a gentleman you like him, using the fan language?

- I would press its stem against my lips, Monsieur

- Simone, where is the passionnée placed?

- At the corner of the eye, Monsieur.

- Caroline, quote some verse …...

The questions went, rapidly, Saint Jean barely giving the girls time to think properly. After a while, he got up and walked to the piano forte that stood before the windows of the salon.

- And now, the menuet, he announced, ringing a small silver bell that lay on the instrument.

Two men entered the room, large muscular men, clad in black. Their faces showed no expression, their dark eyes were unreadable. Despite their unfriendly attitude, they both saluted gracefully the two women and, at Saint Jean's signal, started to dance. Their feet were light on the wooden floor, as they moved in rhythm back and forth, saluting, turning, and starting over again.

- And one, and two, and turn around, yes… The reverence, Caroline, never leave your cavalier's eyes when you bow, yes, it's better…

As they had learned, the girls kept a large smile on their faces, never letting their eyes off their cavaliers. Saint Jean smiled inwardly: he was proud of what he had achieved with them.

After a last reverence, the dance ended, and he let the last notes trail in the now silent room. All knew that the moment of the last trial had come. Saint Jean came back to his armchair, sipped a little champagne; pondering his next move.

- Simone, you will service John, will you?

John unhooked his pants, Simone kneeled at his feet. In one swift move, she slid the top of her dress down, showing her ample breasts. She took John's for now limp cock in her hand, cupped his balls with the other. She planted little kisses on its head, parted her lips. His cock came to life, each blood pulse stiffening his flesh. Her lips were now all over his glands, her tongue flicking, sucking at the purple head. With both hands, she cupped her breasts and brought them around John's dock. The warm and soft flesh circled his. At each thrust, her tongue swirled around his purple head. After a while, she released him and went down to his balls, trying to swallow one. Then up to his head, and down again, while her fingers circled his hard shaft. She took him all in her mouth, trying to engulf his powerful stick. She grunted, lips stretched, but couldn't manage the whole piece.

- You throat, Simone, use you throat, snapped Saint Jean.

She grunted again, Simone tilted her head forward, and bent down. John's hand pushed her head, his hips pushing forward. Tears rolled on her cheeks. Slowly, painfully, she took a few inches more… and one more… until her nose touched John's pubic hair. She withdraw, bent down again. Her movements were fast; her lips tight around his shaft. Her breasts were shaking, hard nipples pressed against the rough fabric of John's pants. Her movements accelerated, she moved faster and faster around the burning flesh that fucked her mouth. John, fingers hooked in her ruined coil, pushed her head hard against his groin. With a loud moan, he climaxed in her mouth, hot shots of liquor oozing. She pressed her lips tighter, trying not to choke, swallowing what seemed to be an endless cascade of cum. Not a single drop escaped for her sealed mouth. When John withdraw, she carefully licked him clean, tasting the last droplets of semen that came from his limping cock.

- Good, good…You may dress again. And now, Caroline, it's your turn. We shall have…. The whippet, please.

Saint Jean had chosen this purposely for Caroline, for he knew her lithe frame would handle Peter's large tool with difficulties. Nevertheless, she went and all four, dress piled high over her back. Her smooth bottom, bare amidst the silk, shone softly in the candlelight.

- Spread you cheeks, never forget that you are to offer both entrances to your partner, you must show him something he never saw before …

With both hands, Caroline obeyed and spread her ass wide. Her puckered hole appeared in full view. Peter kneeled behind her, his already stiff cock in hand.

- Back or front, Monsieur?, he asked Saint-Jean.

- A la grecque, Peter, à la grecque. But give her a little preparation, please. I do no wish you to hurt her.

With a nod, Peter slid his fingers between her thighs, rubbing her lips with his middle finger until moisture sprang from her flesh. He applied her juices over her tiny hole, rubbing it and checking its elasticity. He inserted the tip of his finger, and paused. Caroline's eyes were closed, she did her best to relax her flesh, but she knew it would be hard to take it all without crying. Peter's finger was now completely in her, he slid back and forth for a while, until the felt the resistance easing. With a nod, Saint-Jean told him that time had come. He removed his finger, pressed his swollen head against her entrance. With one powerful thrust, he plunged in her. Caroline bit her lips, but did not cry. After a few moves, her muscles adjusted to the pressure, and pain was replaced by the familiar filling sensation that made this practice so delightful. Peter's hand hooked her buttocks, his moves became faster and faster. His face was red, large beads of sweat rolled down his neck. Caroline pushed backwards, trying at each moves to feel him deeper and deeper. Peter couldn't last very long; with a loud shout, he too shot his load. Caroline didn't stop moving, contracting her inner muscles, giving Peter added pleasure.

- Very well done, you can get up now. Gentlemen, he said to John and Peter, you may leave. Thank you for your help. I won't need your skills until next month. I'll call you then. As always, my butler will see that you get your gratification.

They left without a word. Saint Jean was now alone with Caroline and Simone. The girls stood, still panting, cheeks rosy from the efforts they had just performed.

- This, Caroline is for you… And this, for you Simone; he said as he handed both an envelope and a velvet covered box; to help starting you new life. I'm proud of you, girls, and I am sure you will soon become very famous among the high society.

The envelopes contained a letter of commendation; and the velvet boxes a pair of ear pendants: emeralds for Simone and sapphire for Caroline.

- Thank you so much Monsieur, the girls answered in unison.

- And now, it's time to say good bye. The carriage is waiting for you in the court yard.

After a last reverence, Caroline and Simone left, leaving Saint Jean alone. He stood at the window for a moment, watching the carriage depart; reflecting at the future of his former pupils. With a little luck, and talent, they could become a mistress of a wealthy your Lord, may be marry one… With a sigh, he went at his writing desk, staring at the envelope that sat on it since the morning. Cheap paper, but nice handwriting. He broke the seal, noting the coat of arms but unable to identify it. After having read it, he reflected for a while. Should he accept this offer? Should he turn it down? It didn't take long before he reached a decision. He wrote a few lines, sealed the letter and summoned his butler:

Please, make sure this letter reaches its destination as soon as possible, will you. We shall have a new guest, arriving in a few days. We will accommodate her in the green room. Oh, and please tell John and Peter I shall need their services sooner then expected.

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

It had been a long two days during which she had changed her mind a million times. She wasn't completely sure what she was asking for, only that she needed something, some weapon to get Mr. Brightson to not only notice her but offer her marriage. She knew she was taking a huge risk. If it didn't work, she would have nothing. Then her only choices would be to take a position as a governess in a house among those that she had once been equal to or to become the property of some young buckcatering to his more base needs. Her personality wasn't set for either position, but, Helen knew that she wasn't the first woman brought to these straits by the men in her family. "But, oh, it is so unfair," she seethed. "If only Father had been different." She knew that she could have brought the estate funds back to their original coffers if she had had free rein and been able to put money to the side. But her father had gambled it faster than the estate could replace the funds. They had been living from month to month on her funds, while he had continued to gamble money he didn't really have. She had never thought though that he would gamble away the estate itself, leaving her homeless. Sighing heavily, Helen picked up the piece of sewing she had on her lap. "If the letter doesn't come soon, I will go crazy with the doubt of what I am doing."

Later that afternoon, she stood in the parlor, her face white, her cheeks flushed with red. The letter had come and she was afraid to open it. "What if he agrees? What if he doesn't?"

She held the folded piece of vellum in her hand, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the wax seal. Her heart pounding with fear and hope, and even, she admitted, a little excitement. One hand pressed to her chest, holding her pounding heart in place, she glared at the envelope as if it were some kind of evil spirit. One would never have known that she instigated the receipt of the letter herself, her look so troubled.

Swallowing hard, Helen took a deep breath. Relying on her training from childhood to never show emotions, she carried the paper back into the sitting room, and settled into a straight back chair. With slow, deliberate movements, she broke the seal and read the short note.

Then leaned back into the chair as tears of relief flowed down her cheeks. He had accepted her proposal. In two days, she would become the student of Monsieur Saint-Jean and her future sealed. He didn't mention what her training would consist of, only that he knew exactly what it would take to accomplish her goal. She wondered if he knew Mr. Brightson personally or if, whatever her lessons contained, she would learn the key to all men.

Helen felt a burst of adrenalin surge through her veins. She was about to embark on an adventure. She had never had an adventure. This could be exciting. She would attend the services for her father tomorrow, and then make arrangements to be gone for a month or two. When she returned to London, the Season would be at its peak, and her best opportunity to ensnare Brightson would be at hand.

 

[chauderlos]

(Monsieur Saint-Jean's diary)

Accepting Lady Helen Bonham as a trainee could prove a mistake. As for now, I've only trained low class girls, chamber maids and in waitresses, quite successfully in some occasions. But a lady? The daughter of the late Duke of Layton? What could I possibly teach her? Dancing? Table manners? Poetry? And her motives are vague and confusing. I cannot see what she wants from me, for I do not think she longs for the darker aspects of my teaching. But, at the same time, her letter clearly states that she knows about this. So?
But then, when I was in Paris, it happened, once… But that was Paris and long ago, too. It's too late for this, too late to bring death remnants back to life.
She will arrive today, tomorrow at the latest. I will then see what will occur then. I can always turn her down, in a few days.

**********​

Saint-Jean put the quail back on the ink tray, closes his leather bound diary. He sits in the library of Beauplaisir Manor, a vast room filled with books, history, poetry, architecture… On the marble mantelpiece, a large gilded bronze clock minces the seconds away. He likes the silence, the slow running time, when he can think of the past, moments forever gone; his life in Paris.

The noise of a carriage and the clopping of horses' hooves entering the courtyard drags him out of his reverie. A few moments later, his butler announces him that the lady Monsieur was waiting for has arrived. He asks him to let her in.

Saint-Jean didn't stand up to greet her, nor did he offer her a seat. He remains silent, examining her from head to toe, taking in every detail, the slight disorder in her long brown hair, the good quality and cut of her dress. Tailor made, of course, and of quality silk, but two years out of fashion, and the lace cuff on her left sleeve is torn. Her green eyes are flashing with anger. No one never dared let her stand, like a servant.

Monsieur, she starts, but Saint-Jean waves his hand, ordering her to remain silent.

The only noise that can be heard is the even, precise, ticking of the clock.

Monsieur, she tries again, a trace of impatience in her voice.

But again, Saint-Jean turns her down, cold eyes on her naked shoulders, on the white lace that tops her dress. She moves to the armchair facing his desk, starts to sit on it.

Stay up. You will seat when I allow you to do so, not before, snaps Saint-Jean.

Anger flushes her face, her cheeks are red, he notices that her hands are shaking now ; but she remains standing. Saint-Jean is silent again, his eyes trying to decipher what lies beneath her anger and frustration. Fear? Pain? Dispair?

Tell me about your motives, Mademoiselle, he asks, his voice low, after what seemed an eternity.

Monsieur, as I wrote in my letter, my father, the Duke of Layton, gambled the estate away, and committed suicide, leaving me….

Saint-Jean interrupts, his voice even lower:

I now all this, I was asking you for your real motives…

Well, Monsieur, I have to marry someone, someone rich and influent, and I have heard that you were a trainer of sort, teaching young persons to…

A trainer of sort, yes, you are right. But not for a Lady like you, that's impossible. I thought it could work, but now that I see you, impatient, vain and stiff lipped, I am in the deepest regret to turn your offer down.

But I have money, I can pay for your lessons… Tears start flooding her face.

Money, money… Do you think it's only a matter of money? Saint-Jean gets up, pacing the library. Getting close to her shaking figure, he adds, his voice cold as steel: It's not a matter of money, Mademoiselle, it's a question of will, or better, of lack of will. You did not come to learn, you come here with your education, your high society background, your good manners… Good manners… I've seen chamber maids with more charm that you will never have, and more good will than centuries of high life will never offer you.

Saint Jean turns his back to her, he is facing the french window, staring at the woods that surround Beauplaisir Manor.

My butler will usher you. The discussion is over, he says, without turning.

A swoosh of silk, and Helen, voice trembling with tears:

Monsieur, s'il vous plaît…

Lady Helen Bonham, daughter of the late Duke of Layton, stands naked, in the library of Monsieur Saint-Jean

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

"I apologize Monsieur, it is not my way to be vain or impatient. It is fear and desperation that has me acting this way. I beseech you, help me!. Please, let me try to explain."

The Monsieur kept his back to her and Helen's shoulders sagged. She had failed and she hadn't even started yet. He didn't want her, he couldn't show her, there was nothing left. About to turn and leave, she had one desperate thought. Undoing the gown she was wearing she heard it slide to the floor in a swish of silk. Undoing her chemise she let it slide downward, then followed with her drawers and petticoats.

Standing naked, her clothing puddled around her ankles, she tried her last idea. "Monsieur, please, take this poor pensioner under your tutelage. You find me as I was born, without preconceived notions, prior tutelage or attitudes. I come to you because I need your help. I wish to attract the attention of a man, a member of the peerage. I must marry or enter prostitution or service to another. If I can marry I would prefer to do that rather than go into service. But the one man that who could make use of my possessions, my father's title, is not aware that I exist. I must find a way to attract his attention and then have him fix his attention on me. He can afford a wife and seeks a title. I have a title but no dowry. Please, Monsieur, teach me what a man seeks or failing that, teach me what I need to become a man's mistress. For if I cannot attach the interest of Mr. Brightson, then I shall have no other option than to become the mistress of one of the gentlemen that seeks such services.

Monsieur St. Jean turned to face her, his face stern, unyielding as he took in her nudity. His eyes moving slowly over her classical shaped face, her brown hair done up in the latest fashion. He moved down over her pale shoulders to the large breasts, standing upright, the dark nipples sitting flush in the center of each breast. Her skin alabaster white mottled with the red of her embarrassment. The areolae so light they were barely noticeable emphasizing the thickness of her nipples. His mind recorded the nipples standing erect, and noted their sensitivity to the cool air in the room. Then lowering his eyes he followed her flat stomach down to the triangle, a nest of brown curls covering the fat pouty lips of her sex, then down her very long legs to pause at the blue ribbons holding her stockings in place above her knees. When he reached the pile of clothing he slowly, insolently moved his eyes back up her body, assessing her as if she was a horse or piece of livestock.

"Please take this empty slate,"indicating herself with a wave of her pale arm along the length of her body, "and create one of the masterpieces for which you are so renown."

Pausing in her pleading, Helen waited. A deep blush on her pale skin. She had never had a man seen more than an ankle as she stepped in and out of a carraige and only her maid had seen her in a bath.

As Monsieur St. Jean sat there staring at her as if she was a bug that should be squashed, she knew she had lost everything. Her home, her account, her life. She had nothing. She bent down to pick up her clothing. Prepared to dress and depart. Her mind reeling as she wondered what she should do next.

As she lifted her drawers and began to do up the tapes, she said softly, "Thank you Monsieur for seeing me." Biting down on her lip, not wanting to cry more, "I appreciate your time. I apologize for bothering you."

She picked up the petticoats and began to pull each one up, wanting desperately to cover herself, and to leave. Her embarrassment for having invaded his life, so overwhelming that she could no longer speak. With fumbling hands she struggled to get the clothing on so she could leave.

 

[chauderlos]

Don't move. Stay naked, right where you are. Saint-Jean's voice was low, barely a whisper. And unfold your arms.

Helen did as she was told, arms along her body, exposing her breasts and belly. She closes her eyes, unable to stand his look all over her nakedness. Open your eyes, he snaps back. I want to read your eyes. She does as she is told, her emerald green eyes are glistering with tears, but Saint-Jean can decipher something else behind the tears. Pride, or is it pleasure?

Saint Jean walks back to his desk, sits in his leather armchair. He remains silent for a long while, his looks on her body, pale figure amidst the dark background of the bookshelves.

Right. I accept you as trainee. A wide smile brighten her face, she sighs with relief. But do not rejoice too soon. I accept you, on trial. If anything goes wrong in the next few days, you will be sent back to where you belong. Now, this is over. I'll see you tomorrow, he says, ringing the bell on his desktop. My butler will show you your room. Ohh, and do not bother to pick up your clothes, adds Saint-Jean. You won't need clothes in a near future.

As the butler and Helen leave the library, Saint Jean asks him to come back and take his orders for tomorrow.

Alone in the room, Saint-Jean opens a cabinet, fills a crystal glass of sherry. He crosses the carpet to his favorite place, facing the woods. Its pitch black outside, the trees are barely visible, black against the black ink of the sky. He stays, his thoughts wandering, far away, way back into the past. He barely noticed when his butler entered the library. The young lady is resting in the green room, as ordered.

Ahh, William, yes, your orders for tomorrow. Wake her up at 7, light breakfast, and bring her in here. Do not allow her to wear any clothing. In the mean time, bring the red chest that is in the attic down here. I shall have dinner in one hour. Ohh, and William: I do not want to see you around Miss Bonham's room tonight, is that clear?

****************​

(Saint-Jean's diary)

I did it again. My intelligence shouted "don't do it", and my guts said" do it". SO I did it. Helen is now my trainee. It will be a demanding task, but she will eventually succeed. I felt strong will in her eyes, in the way she stood, naked in the library. So proud, so angry. I'll have to bend that, to use her will to achieve her training. How beautiful she was, her full breasts, her long hair. This beauty, in the right hands, could become a weapon of dire power.

I wonder if I shall tell her I know Brightson, and when. Not now, of course, it's too soon. I shall wait until the end of the first week, and then see.

*************​

When William entered the library, Saint Jean sat in his armchair, facing his desk, as if he hadn't moved since the previous evening. He ushered Helen, completely naked, in; and left.

She stayed close to the door. Come here, in the middle of the room, so I can see you. Come closer.

For what seemed endless hours, he made her walk, move, turn around, in front of him. He gives her his orders, in a low, even voice that frightens her.

Walk the length of the room, face the windows, and now turn around and go back to the door. Where have you learnt to walk? More grace, light, you are not supposed to walk like a peasant, do you? And back to the window, and come here again… Stay where you are, facing me. Touch your breasts, feel the softness of you skin. How does it feel? Good, isn't it? Put your fingers on your nipples, make them hard… No, not like this, you are not kneading bread, you are suppose to please my looks… Yes, that’s better….And now, sit down… no, no, girl, not on the armchair, on the floor. On your knees.

When Saint-Jean gets up, Helen notices he is holding a thin leather covered crop in his left hand. Playfully, he traces lines around her body, her shoulders, her neck, her breasts, sending shivers through her whole body. With the end of his stick, he slaps very lightly her knees:

Rule number one, girl, when you sit in front of me, your knees must be parted. I said, parted, he repeats, this time gripping her hair and whispering close to her ear. That's better, way better, he says, as she slowly speards her legs, revealing her intimate folds. He combs her hair with his fingers, ruining her carefully built bun. Rule number two…

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

Helen's mind was spinning as he ordered to walk around the room naked. Determined to reach her goal she followed his orders. She had spent the night in a small room, with a narrow cot and a small dresser. Her clothes had been taken from her and she had shivered in the cool room. Wrapping herself in the comforter, she had tried to make sense as to what had happened, how she had come to be in this place, nude. Sleeping fitfully during the night, the bed uncomfortable, her thoughts even more so.

She had been woken at some ungodly hour, given some tea and toast, and brought to this room by that uncouth butler. She was tired, unsettled and hungry.

She wasn't sure what she had expected of St. Jean but this wasn't it. She hadn't bargained on this blatant invasion of her sense of who she was. Wouldn't Mr. Brightson want a Duke's daughter? She had been raised from birth to know how to comport herself in public, in the privacy of anyone's home. She knew how to run a large household and to take care of the accounts. Lord knew she was an expert at finagling funds to keep the household and her Father going. She was presentable to look at, she would not call herself beautiful. The world did not see brunettes as beautiful, only a natural blonde could have that title, but she had clear skin, a reasonably decent figure even if she was too large on top, and she dressed well. Yes, her clothing was little out of season but she had found that a bit of lace here, some piping there changed the look enough that the dress looked satisfactory for society functions. She could carry a tune, play the piano fairly well, wasn't much of an artist but she knew how to sew and knit. She danced reasonably well, even Mr. Brightson could attest to that.

So why was St. Jean doing this to her? Or more to the point, why was she allowing it? She supposed that men might want a mistress to walk around naked although she couldn't imagine why, but Brightson? Who would want their wife walking around a room naked. She had never heard such a thing.

Was it possible that St. Jean was just taking advantage of her? Had she been conned out of her money? She knew she was not all that experienced but she was no naive chit straight out of the nursery.

She had been walking for what seemed like hours, listening to him rant at her as if she hadn't been trained by the best governesses and dancing masters in London on how to walk. A couple of times she had almost snapped back at him. She was exhausted, hungry and naked. What did the man expect?

But she bit her tongue and kept making the adjustments he required. Helen could be very stubborn, and she had just about reached her limit of patience. When she was ordered to kneel knees apart, she grit her teeth. If he thought he could run her out of here by treating her this way, and keep her money, he had another thought coming. She had come here with a goal, paid for it, and she was going to get it.

Her determination building, her stubborn pride set in place, Helen followed each of this orders, her eyes set, her back straight. She didn't understand what he was doing or why, but she was going to outlast his efforts to get her to go home. What he seemed to fail to understand was that she was here because she had no home.

Spreading her knees so wide, she felt the private area between her legs, spread open, she shivered. She had never done anything like this before. But if this is what it took then he better get darn used to seeing privates, because she was going to follow every bloody order he gave.

Try and scare her into going home, humph.

 

[chauderlos]

Saint-Jean stares at her naked body, knees wide open, offering her lips in complete view, her full breasts rolling with her heavy breathing; he can see her eyes filled with anger, and rage – but no trace of fear.

Rule number two, you must follow my orders with precision, care and willingness. Disobeying will make things worst. Saint-Jean whispers to her ear. Rule number three, as my trainee, you must accept the fact that you know nothing, and I know everything. For as long as you will stay in my house, you will express no will, no objection, unless asked to. And, last, should you fail to execute my orders, or should you de foolish enough to challenge me, you are out. At once. Besides, you're free to leave, anytime. But if you leave, that will be for ever. I won't give you a second chance. Do you understand and accept these rules, girl?

Yes, Monsieur.

Do you want to leave, now? I'm sure you want to leave, to go back to your miserable inn. I'm sure you want to dress again, to protect your modesty, don't you?

No, Monsieur.

I can't hear you, what did you say?

I want to stay, Monsieur.

Saint-Jean grunts his approval, turns towards the red chest that lay on his desk, he opens it and, his back to the kneeling woman:

And now, girl, I am going to blindfold you.

And he wraps a thick black cloth over her eyes. She is now in complete darkness. She hears Saint-Jean leaving the library, leaving her alone in darkness. From time to time, she hears footsteps, around her, and the nothing, silence and darkness. She doesn't dare moving, she is still angry, and her anger gives her the strength no remain immobile, despite he pain in her knees and calves, the hunger.

After what seemed an eternity, she hears Saint-Jean's voice again, close to her ear. She didn't hear him entering the room, for how long has he been here, watching her ?

Good girl, you stayed right where you belong, he whispers. Now, get up. She can feel his fingers on her shoulders, her neck, down on to her breasts. Nobody ever touched her, her skin is sending unknown messages to her brain. His hands are warm and soft, she shivers, this is … good? pleasant? Feeling her breasts, his fingers become more insistent, circling her areolas, nearing her nipples. His hands are moving in unison, each one doing the same moves, touching the same part of her bust. The cool air of the library, the pleasant feeling of his fingers stiffens her nipples. All of a sudden, the caress is no longer pleasant. His fingers grip her tender flesh, pinching hard on their softness. She cries, more for surprise than pain. He releases the pressure. And starts again. And releases. Sometimes very hard. Sometimes just a soft stroke. He uses his fingers, and his tongue, too. Her fully erect buds are licked, kissed, nibbled. Sometimes, he acts swiftly, sometimes, endless minutes flow before he touches her again. Alone in he dark, her only contact with the outer world are his fingers, his lips, on her breasts. An unknown sensation is growing in her, she can feel, what is it? moisture? Form between her parted thighs. And he bites, and licks, and pinches, over and over again, until her nipples are swollen, sore, purple, glistering with saliva. Suddenly, he slaps her tits, fingers spread, leaving a reddish mark on her tender skin. A grunt of pain and astonishment escapes her lips.

You can go now, says Saint-Jean while unbinding the scarf that covered her eyes, lesson is over. William will usher you to your room. I'll see you tonight. Dinner at 7.

**********
(Saint-Jean's diary)

This girl is filled with pride, pride and anger. It is that pride I have to bend, to model, until she fits the exact mold I have in mind. Bend it, and she will later use it. Humiliate her, and then let her grow again.

She took her first lesson with great courage and, maybe, pleasure. Her ample breasts, her sensitive nipples are a pleasure to work on. Next time, I shall use clips, and see if she still enjoys it.

The question of Brightson remains unanswered, for now. Shall I tell her I know him? Shall I tell her how distressed and scared Sophie looked, three weeks after she became his mistress? Sophie, one of my favorites, lamb to the slaughter…

 

[sharingfantasies]

<will write tomorrow had a long day. >

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," was all Helen could think as she was being led back to her room. 'He...." She didn't even know how to put it into words. As soon as the door closed she threw herself on the bed and curled up in a fetus position.

"What just happened in there? She looked down at her breasts, the nipples bruised and sore, aching. His palm print on her breast. That had hurt the most. Helen's heavy breasts tended to sway and when they did, or when they were jolted, it tore at the super sensitive skin under the breasts. "Was this what it was like to be a mistress? Did men do these things?" She had heard many women speak of the duty of the marriage bed, so she knew sort of what was supposed to happen, and a few had mentioned there would be pain the first time. "Was this what they meant? Was she no longer a virgin?" That didn't seem quite correct but he had hurt her.

She felt tears come to her eyes as a sense of overwhelming loneliness flowed over her. She missed her old life. If only.. but she knew that "if only" was a waste of energy. She curled up and went to sleep. Hungry, sad, hurting.

 

[chauderlos]

Dinner was served in the red salon. White linen cloth draped the table. William, the butler, had set the table for two, heavy silverware, cut crystal glasses, fine china plates. French wines, both white and red, served in crystal carafes. Gilded chandeliers, creamy white wax candles, flames dancing on the mirror frame, on the facets of the glassware.

Saint Jean wore a purple velvet redingote, with lace cuffs. A pearl, mounted on a claw-like fitting, adorned his jabot.

When Helen entered the room, he greeted her, kissed her hand lightly.

Oh, Helen, girl, please come and have a seat.

He escorted her to her chair, served her a glass of white wine. Sitting in front of her, he lifted his glass, toasting to her beauty. Dinner went on, fresh oysters, foie gras, fine meats. Saint Jean entertained her with his witty conversation, asking questions about her readings, her pastimes, her family, telling her anecdotes over his former life in France. Just like an ordinary dinner. Except that she was naked.

Helen was flabbergasted. Her breasts still bore the marks of his slapping, a few hours earlier. Her still sore nipples reminded her how nasty he could be. And how much different he was, now.

After dessert, Saint-Jean got up, approached her. He unhooked his pants, took his flabby cock out.

And now, girl, the serious training begins….

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

Helen woke, still tired and even hungrier. She didn't know if she could go through with this. Standing up, she walked to the sink and washed her face. Fingercombing her hair into place, she sighed.

She didn't have a choice, she had to keep going. She was trying hard not to feel sorry for herself, a waste of time as far as she was concerned. She heard the door open and sighed again. Her nipples still hurt and the hand print was still bright red on her breast. She hadn't expected any of this, most especially the pain.

She turned from sink with a sigh, squared her shoulders and followed the man out. He led her to a diningroom where St.Jean was dressed in formal attire. He began to question her about her interests and past life. Soon she was relaxed and able to return his conversation. She ate slowly, having had very little to eat in the past 36 hours, she didn't want to make herself sick. As the courses went on, she could almost pretend that she was at a dinner party in the city. She forgot her nudity, the situation, her pain.

When he stood up and came to her end of the table, she was shocked when he undid his pants and exposed himself to her. It was the first time she had seen that part of a man.

He said that her training was just beginning but she wasn't sure what he meant. When he stood there waiting, one eyebrow raised, it dawned on her that he expected her to touch him there. She sat there, having no idea what to do. It looked kind of funny just hanging there and she reached out tentatively to brush the tips of her fingers on the soft shaft. She was surprised at soft it was and how it moved when she touched it. It jerked back and she pulled her hand back. Looking up at him wondering what he wanted from her.

 

[chauderlos]

So, she didn't dare moving more than a slight brush. It's about time to move a step or two further.

Saint-Jean gripped Helen's hair, and pressed her face hard against his crotch.

Come on, girl, what do you think? You're looking for a husband, and you do not know how to please him? There are hundreds like you around London, all pretty looking and wearing a title. And you know which one will succeed? The ones who know how to handle their husband's desire. The one who know how to keep them burning with desire. Not the tight assed virgins like you.

He released her, only to spank her face with is half erect cock.

Now suck, and you'd better be good. And remember, the exit door is always open for you.

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

Helen was in shock. She whimpered when he struck her in the face with his .. she wasn't even sure what that thing was called. She was supposed to suck his.. part?

Tentatively, grimacing, she touched the thing with her tongue. It was soft and hot and alive, and she thought, "That wasn't so bad." Tilting her head as she held it in her hand, she tried to figure out how it would fit into her mouth, not sure what she was doing, she slid her tongue over the head, and felt him retract. Glancing up, she wondered if she had hurt him, if his movement was supposed to happen. With a deep breath, released slowly, she squared her shoulders and opened her mouth, taking the top part inside. It felt huge, pressing down on her tongue, swelling her cheeks. She wasn't sure what to do next so she tried sucking, feeling her cheeks hollow out as she sucked. The suction pulled it deeper into her mouth, and she pulled back only to have the sucking pull him deeper again.

She heard a low moan, and startled, realized it came from him, St. Jean. She tried the motion again, feeling it slide in more then retreat. It seemed to please him, so she did it again, slowly learning that she had the power to please a man with her mouth. As she became more confident she began to take more of him into her mouth, her head bobbing back and forth. Continuing to suck, she could feel it pull inside him, along the shaft held in her hand. She heard another moan, and realized it was her.

The friction of him moving back and forth on her tongue was making her hot inside and out. The pressure on her tongue felt wonderful. She felt him sliding back and forth and the heat built inside her.

 

[chauderlos]

Humm, good girl, you're learning fast, good… run your tongue along, from tip to base, ohh, so good.

Saint Jean was holding Helen's neck firmly, pushing and pulling her until she reached the rhythm that suited him. He felt his cock throb as it slides smoothly between her lips. He watches intently at her face, she kept her eyes closed, a slight frown over her face, as if she was trying to sort her feelings out.

Disgusting, isn't it, girl, but at the same time so good… You're learning, ohh, yes, suck this, take it all. Saint-Jean pushes her head strongly forward; she chokes as his cock invades her mouth. She tries to release from his grip, but he holds her strongly by her neck, she cannot free herself, she's filled, his burning flesh is cramming her, she cannot breath… He releases her, letting her breath, and, thrusting his hips forwards, force her again. Alternatively smooth and brutal, he plays with her mouth, sometimes bringing her on the verge of tears, sometimes allowing her to gently wander her lips along his shaft. His left hand never leaves her neck, always there to grip her and force her to swallow him whole. He notices that her hand is resting between her thighs, rubbing her crotch surreptitiously. Good, you're learning what pleasure comes from giving.

But this little game cannot last for ever, and Saint Jean's will is soon stretched to the limit. With one last powerful push, he enters her mouth, and withdraws quickly. His cock is shivering, inches from her face, his bulging head aching and burning like embers; he holds her firmly, whispering:

Look, girl, open your eyes wide… Take this mystery all in you, ohh yes, take it all….

His knees weaken, his cock shudder one last time… He shoots his load on her face, her neck, her breasts. Having regained composure, he retraces the lines his load has drawn on her body with his finger; and caresses her lips with it

Taste it, girl, enjoy this taste. This is the taste of your power over all the men, this is the taste of their surrender…

Saint-Jean goes back to his chair, takes a few sips from his glass. His gaze seems to be far, far away.

You've been a good girl, tonight. You'll be allowed to dress again, tomorrow. See you then.

With a vague gesture, he dismisses her.

William, the butler, will later recall that that particular night, Monsieur Saint-Jean remained until dawn, alone in the dining room.

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

Her throat burning and aching, Helen was dismissed. She followed William back to her small room, her face still covered in St. Jean's seed.

As soon as the door closed, she went to the pitcher and poured water into the basin, scrubbing her face until it felt raw. Then curling up in her bed, she shivered and began to cry. The tears silently dripping down her face.

There was something wrong with her. This place was corrupting her. She needed to get away before the Devil twisted her mind and body until she was evil too.

She put her hands over her face. What was she going to do? She had never imagined, she couldn't have imagined that this was what would have happened. She thought she had it all worked out but this? It was unimaginable. What was she going to do?

St. Jean had said she could leave at any time, but where would she go? She had little money, no letters of reference, no home.

She curled up in a fetal position her hand over her mouth, sobbing desolately. It was the first time she had cried since her father had gambled her life away. The small bed shook with her heavy sobs.

It wasn't just the constant nudity, she had almost grown accustomed to that, it wasn't just the way he talked to her or treated her. What had brought Helen to this breaking point was that she had LIKED it!

When he held her head still, and thrust deeply, she had felt a tingling on her tongue, her mouth hot and full of him. As he slid across her tongue over and over, her body had begun to respond. Her nipples had tightened, began to throb, her body, there, between her legs had gotten wet and swollen. Her mind had begun to float. She remembered a gray haze had come down over her eyes making her feel as if she was floating on a gray cloud. At some point, her throat had opened and accepted him into her depths. The pain had disappeared and there was just the sensation of his hand holding her firmly, the friction heating her, the sounds of pleasure he made, and God help her, the sounds she had made.
Her body had begun to expand, as if she was being filled with air, and when he had exploded onto her face, she had exploded herself. She began to spasm inside, her muscles contracting in waves deep inside her, it had felt glorious. Then she had floated down from her cloud, to find herself willingly sucking on the finger he had coated with his seed.

Oh the embarrassment of it all. She had truly lost herself. She had gloried in her ability to make St. Jean lose control. She had felt grateful when he coated her face. She had felt wanted, desired, as if he had marked her in someway as special. Helen couldn't remember ever feeling special to someone.

Her tears slowly eased and her exhausted mind and body gave in to the need for sleep.

 

[chauderlos]

(Saint-Jean's diary)

This is going too far. I shouldn't have allowed this to happen. Way too soon in the training schedule. And to let her touch me, suck me, having pleasure with her. How stupid…

But, how studious she was… Hesitant, at first, and then… That little crease between her eyebrows, her fast breathing, her breasts heaving. The thin rosy skin of her cheeks. And her eyes, when I finally exploded all over her face, surprise, fear, and... pleasure…

Yes, it's way too early in the training. And too late in my life.

**********​

The next morning, Saint-Jean went to the stables, saddled his favorite stallion and left for the day.

Helen was left alone in the deserted manor. She slept late, took a bath, wandered in the empty rooms; wearing the pale pink gown she was now allowed to wear. She tried to speak to William, but the butler remained almost silent, instructing her she could wander everywhere, except for the library and the cellar. At 6, she heard hooves clapping on the cobbles of the courtyard. Peering through the window, she saw Saint-Jean, his boots muddy, his coat stained, coming back. A few moments later, William entered her room. The Master will be waiting for you in the library. Put these clothes on.

Helen looked at the bed where William had dropped the chothes he had brought. A pale pink whale boned corset. White cotton stockings. Satin slippers. And nothing else.

She slipped the stockings on, tying them in place with satin ribbons. When she had put the corset on, William pulled hard on the strings. Very hard. Her hips were now bulging, the bottom rim ending just above her buttocks. The cups were cut low on her breasts, supporting her flesh but hiding nothing. Wearing nothing else, feeling more ashamed than when she was meandering completely naked in front of Saint-Jean, she followed the butler to the library.

Saint-Jean was seated, as usual, in the armchair that faced the door. He didn't get up to greet her, simply gesturing her to get seated. On the carpet, of course. Without being asked, Helen spread her thighs wide, revealing her intimacy in full view. He contemplated her cunt for a while, her outer labia , the thin pink slit, and above, between pussy and corset, the brown patch of her pubic hair.

You'll have to remove this hair, girl. I shall see that William brings you a razor tomorrow… How was your day? Did you take some rest?

Yes, thank you.

Yes, MONSIEUR, he snapped back

Yes, Monsieur, thank you, she replied, her voice weak.

So, I'm sure you're ready for the little lesson I have in mind, for tonight. But before we start, what did you think of what I taught you yesterday evening? Did you enjoy it?

Yes, Monsieur, I enjoyed it very much.

Don't be a liar. You hated it, you hated having me fucking your mouth, you hated the very taste of my seed, don't you?

Helen blushed, her answer was a low murmur.

I loved your taste, Monsieur…

You see, this is what I want you to learn. You must hate me, for I order you to do dirty things, for I humiliate you, for I exploit the slut in you. And at the same time, you'll love me, for I give you the keys to pleasure. And to power…

Saint-Jean let his voice trail, eyeing her reactions carefully. When he called her slut, she had shuddered, like if a snake had bitten her.

But enough of that chatting. It's time for your second lesson. Get on that table, he said, gesturing towards a low rosewood table. Non, non, petite fille, don't stand on that table. Squat. On all fours.

 

[sharingfantasies]

Helen

Helen spent the day wandering the house. It was the first time she had been let out to wander free. William had given her a pink gown to wear. The material was sheer, exposing all of her through the material, but Helen was used to being naked, and the material felt almost rough against her skin, eventhough it was a fine quality linen.

Wandering the house had given her a feel of St. Jean. It was a man's house, lots of wooden paneling, dark furniture. No where was there a sign of a woman's touch about the place. Although there was fresh cut flowers in several rooms, there were no antimacassars on the furniture, no bits of fluff or color. He was a dark man with dark needs. He scared her with his ways, but she also recognized a lonely man when she saw one. She knew all about loneliness.

Eventually she had ended up in the library, settled into one of the large wing chairs reading a history of the area. She wondered what other women had thought when they were here, did they feel as confused as she did. She hated the invasion of her privacy, looking down she could see her dark nipples jutting into the material. She hated the way he talked to her like she was a piece of property. Was this really what Brightson would ask of her? Did she really want this for the rest of her life? Surely there was someone else in the peerdom that could fit her needs, but she knew she had already done the research. There was no one out there that would fit her needs and for whom she could meet his needs. She sighed.

She wandered back to her room, laid down and took a nap. When she heard hooves on the cobblestones out front, she stood up and looked out the window. St. Jean was back. His form as he brought the horse to a halt, was perfect. The big stallion responding to the slightest of touches. She smiled, even the horse had been trained to please him.

She ran her tongue across her lips, her jaw still slightly tender from last night. She had been shocked when he forced his large member into her mouth, and then roughly thrust into her, but her own response had shocked her more. The feel of his seed on her face had been warm, and made her feel protected, safe. She couldn't explain it exactly, she just knew that at the moment he began to spew onto her face, she had felt special, wanted.

St. Jean had said it was power. Her power, but she didn't feel that at all, she felt feminine, desirable, claimed. Something powerful had happened all right, but not what he meant. She had realized this was something he enjoyed, that she was wanton and that for the sensations she had felt, she wanted to do it again.

When William came, he gave her a corset. It was different from the one she was used to wearing. It had a slight ridge of material that fit under her breasts pushing them upward, making the large mounds bulge even more. The nipples were pushed into an upward position. The bottom of the corset did not end at her waist but went down lower in the front and back. Ending in points just at the top of her dark mound and at the top of her bottom. In the full mirror she could see how the material seemed to point to her private areas. She blushed. William pulled the stays. It felt extremely odd to have a man tighten the stays, she was used to her maid doing it. But he pulled harder and harder, until she gasped. She could barely breathe, her ribs constricted. The boning pressing hard into her flesh. When she looked again, her hips were exposed lewdly, her narrow waist narrowed to an impossible size, the pressure bringing her attention to the area between her legs, where her pink lips were now swelling past the dark hair.

She looked... she shook her head, she didn't even know a word to use to describe what she looked like. She felt more exposed in this than she had when she had been completely naked. She took short shallow breaths, all the corset would allow her and prayed she wouldn't faint.

She followed William to the library, the pressure on her ribs making her stand very straight. When she was in front of St. John she moved down to her knees, and placed her hands on her thighs as he had taught her. Her knees wide, stretching open the pink lips. and she shivered as the cooler air touched her private area.

She concentrated on breathing, keeping a steady rhythm, which was difficult when she heard St. John say she was to remove the hair there. She paled in shock, use a razor? She had never seen a razor used much less used one herself. She had seen razors before, of course, but she couldn't remember even picking one up. They had wickedly sharp edges when unfolded.

She wasn't sure how she was t affect this, but she knew it would happen. She tried to imagine her body without the hair but she couldn't.

She suddenly realized St. Jean was talking to her, and responded to his question automatically. When he reprimanded her she blushed. Repeating the response correctly this time.

He asked if she had liked his seed and she replied with the truth. This seem to upset him, he seemed to want her to lie, to say that it was humiliating, degrading, and yet, it had been exhilerating, freeing. But she didn't want to anger him so she did not tell him what it had been like. He called her a slut and she shivered. Was that what she was becoming?

When he told her to get up on the table, she got up from the floor and stood on the table as if she was having a hem measured at the modiste's shop. But with a tone of impatience he said he wanted her on all fours. She looked at him not quite sure she heard him correctly, but he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed down. She went down on her knees and he pushed her shoulders forward, grunting in satisfaction when her hands were flat on the table.

"Spread your knees wide, slut."

She blushed as her knees came apart exposing her body to him, in a way that left her open and vulnerable. She closed her eyes, this was much more humiliating than anything he had done so far. Her heavy breasts hung freely, swaying slightly the nipples scraping lightly against the table top, making her body spasm. To be here, like a dog, a bitch, spread open to his eyes. To know he would see the moisture gathering there. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, it was beyond bearing. She could feel the tears gather in her eyes but she bit down on her lower lip,. determined he would not know.