Under a Stern Reign (20 page)

His father looked sternly on him and asked if he had not been reading his letters. Rodolfo had not received any for seven or eight months, he explained, so his father nodded and related the events that Rodolfo had clearly missed.

The French Revolution had sent shivers down the spines of all the Portuguese monarchy, as it had done to all the monarchs of Europe. Queen Maria I was said to have had constant nightmares and lost her sanity in the wake of the death of the French king, Louis XVI.

The previous year, the year of 1793, Portugal had signed a treaty of mutual assistance with Britain and Spain, and with it had sent six thousand troops to join the Spanish army in an attack on Southern France. All three of his brothers were part of the contingent.

But after initial success the tide of the invasion turned. The French republicans successfully counterattacked earlier that year and had not only pushed the Spanish-Portuguese army out of France, but crossed the Ebro River and were threatening Madrid.

None of his three sons had been reported killed or captured, but he had not received news of them for two months.

Rodolfo's father was cynical of the treaty with Spain. The country was too deeply resentful of Portugal's old friendship with Britain, and in conflict could well turn sides. Together with the strengthening French army, Spain could well unleash its hostility towards either or both nations.

The present successes of the French in Spain could very likely precipitate that unwanted alliance between them, and he could picture the two countries turning on Portugal. But for now, he concluded, his sons were fighting alongside Spaniards defending Spain.

Genevieve found it difficult to keep the thread of what Rodolfo and his father were discussing. Her thoughts kept wandering, drifting back to her own recent past and all that had happened to her.

Out of respect for her they were both conversing in French, although from time to time his father would lapse into Portuguese, and she would only partly understand him. Rodolfo would then glance at her and resume talking in French, and his father would suddenly apologise to her and speak her language again too.

She could not take her eyes off Rodolfo throughout the meal. Washed, shaven and freshly dressed, he was so attractive that she found her heart pounding and a familiar heat permeating her insides. A lock of his black hair would curl out of its band and sweep over his bronzed forehead and she glanced at it thoughtfully, tempted to stroke it. Then she would gaze at his clear blue eyes. The bruise around his left eye had almost faded without trace.

For some moments she found herself reflecting on his penis, as described by Elise, and his exploits with women that she'd alluded to. She pictured him naked on top of her, her potent rescuer, saviour and lover, and smiled mischievously to herself. When Elise had said it was big, how big was big?

But immediately the word murderer filled her head. Again she pictured him killing Count de Tranville, attacking those three guards, stealing clothes from a dying man, shouting orders at her, and as the memories flashed through her mind she cast her eyes down.

And then she pondered how he had not pressed her at all for an answer to his marriage proposal. He had not mentioned it to his father, either. It seemed he had taken her desire to wait and reflect with great equanimity. Or perhaps his proposal had only be made light-heartedly, and that his intentions were actually trivial.

Having experienced so many women, and after what he'd done with Elise, was he not perhaps just playing with her; cruelly toying with her emotions as some egotistical sport? Could a man who'd done the things he had done be capable of... of loving her?

She glanced at his father from time to time, and felt instinctive warmth for him. It was clear that he loved and doted on his youngest son even though, she discovered, his wife - Rodolfo's mother - died whilst giving birth to him. Conde de Agora also admired Rodolfo; it was clear in his eyes. Yet he seemed gently critical of him in every way.

She perceived that, even though he disapproved of his other sons fighting to protect Spanish soil, he seemed to keep reproaching Rodolfo for not being with them. But it was not his manliness he was slighting. He commented that Rodolfo had been a better swordsman and horseman, and more daring than any of the other three, and chided him for his reluctance to pursue an army career at which he would undoubtedly excel.

In return Rodolfo responded by making fun of the pomp and circumstance of army life. It was a life for dunces and idle show-offs, he scoffed, making his father frown. At then his father made fun of Rodolfo's hazy plans, his boyhood dreams of being an explorer like the Portuguese navigators that went to Africa, the Azores, China, India, and the New World.

They argued over Rodolfo's old interest in Brazil and his dreams of adventure and wealth there, but Rodolfo clearly did not see what was wrong with his plans. Again Conde de Agora pointed to the urgency of what was happening at home, the conflict in which Rodolfo's patriotic and dutiful brothers were enmeshed as they spoke, and the possible fate of Portugal and its monarchy. The conflict with France was a call to arms for all European men of honour, how could he be deaf to it?

But before the argument could grow heated Conde de Agora excused himself for having hardly addressed his lovely guest, but it had been so long since he'd last seen his son.

He enquired about her family and listened with nodding grief to the tale of their deaths. It was a tale so many other French aristocrats had experienced, he explained. He still had relatives and many friends in France, all suffering in the same way.

After a few quiet moments he was prompted to suggest that she should acquaint herself with a circle of French aristocrats and friends he had in Lisbon. Luckily for them they had all escaped much earlier, and formed a circle to unite others against the revolution. They were in touch with sympathisers throughout Lisbon, as well as in Britain and Spain. They had accumulated reasonable funds and were lobbying for war, printing anti-revolutionary propaganda, seeking ways to distribute it in France and to rescue those aristocrats languishing in French prisons.

He clapped his hands suddenly. Why, his neighbour Count Jacques de Vaudville was an escaped aristocrat and a major figure among the emigres. It would be an ideal introduction to some of her compatriots. The émigré French count had a delightful wife, two daughters and a son of around Genevieve's age. They had come to Portugal the year after the Bastille was stormed in 1789, and having sold their possessions for a comfortable sum, they had arrived with enough wealth to live comfortably and buy a relatively large plot of land and a stately quinta in the hilly Sintra region - unlike some of France's destitute aristocracy.

Their uncles, aunts and cousins, on the other hand, had not been so astute, and had long since been killed.

Their quinta was a few miles away, heading sharply downhill and on the other side of numerous groves of lemon and olive trees, a wood and a river running from the hills and, eventually, finding its way to the Tagus. Rodolfo smiled at the mention of the river, for he and his brothers had waded and fished there as young boys. He wanted to show Genevieve the spot, for there was a waterfall she had to see.

She smiled at him, picturing him as a handsome boy fooling around by a river. He caught the glimmer of warmth in her eyes and returned it. Tomorrow, he suggested, they would take a picnic, there was so much to see. The area was like no other on earth.

But Genevieve declined the invitation, for she needed to be alone for a while to gather her thoughts and adjust to the magnitude of recent events and their repercussions. Rodolfo's father raised his eyebrows, somewhat perplexed. It was a beautiful spot indeed, and it would do her good to go outdoors and get some fresh air into her lungs and sun on her face. But Rodolfo's expression remained impassive, his eyes not leaving hers, probing them for an explanation. She looked down and his jaw tightened.

‘In that case,' he said indignantly, ‘I will head into Lisbon for the rest of the week.'

His father was surprised by the reaction and expressed his disapproval, for his son had only just returned after so long. But Rodolfo insisted that he had old friends in town he'd not seen for so long. He had catching up to do. And besides, it was June, too. There would be so much activity in town. A week was not a long time, and as he was not needed at home there was no reason for him to stay around getting bored.

Genevieve turned red, but would not change her mind. His father gazed at them both, shrugged, and excused himself from the dinner table, for he too was travelling the following day to Sintra, and he had to prepare for the journey. Many of the local aristocrats were meeting there daily to discuss the events befalling Europe, and he suggested that Rodolfo should go there too at some point.

 

 

 

‘Admit it, you careless little slut!' Elise hissed. ‘You spilled that over me on purpose!'

There was a cackle from the bed, where pale and naked, lounging with her hands behind her head, Madame Coubette watched the scene before her with a lecherous grin.

Emelie remained silent, blinking timidly at the naked, dark-haired girl who prowled around her as she knelt on the floor of Madame Coubette's bedchamber.

Elise held two objects. ‘You spilled it on purpose, didn't you?' she accused again. ‘You spilled it to get my attention. You want me to punish you, then you want me to do something more to you, don't you? Answer me, you little whore. That's what you want right now, isn't it?'

‘It was an accident, miss...' Emelie pleaded, but she was fibbing.

‘What do you want me to do to you, though?' Elise demanded.

‘I don't know what you mean, miss.'

Due to Monsieur Coubette's poor health and need for undisturbed rest, his wife had long since stopped sleeping with him, which had actually been a great relief to the sexually demanding woman. She had her own bedchamber with an enormous four-poster gilded bed, from which red drapes hung and a chaise longue stood beside. And there was a huge mirror covering almost an entire wall overlooking the bed.

Elise had been sleeping with her for ten nights, whilst Emelie was allocated a space at their feet.

That morning Emelie had brought them both a tray bearing bowls of hot chocolate, but as she handed one to Elise some of its contents spilled onto her naked breasts, and the affronted and livid girl had been right - it was not an accident.

Elise had cursed vehemently and then made Emelie lick the hot chocolate from her flesh, gloating as the maid obeyed, licking every last drop of it from the creamy slopes, even sucking some from her nipples.

Then still not fully appeased, however, Elise stared darkly at Emelie and ordered her to get down on the floor. ‘Kneel on all fours!' she snapped. ‘And keep your eyes closed!'

Emelie obeyed instantly, getting on her hands and knees, presenting her naked bottom. It was a beautiful bottom, she knew, and she should be punished for secretly wanting to be punished. She should be beaten for secretly wanting her bottom to be beaten.

She felt the cold, leathery surface of the phallus. It was ribbed, shaped like a large penis, and Elise rubbed it against the backs of her thighs, the insides of her thighs between her legs, up against the lips of her pussy, and after lingering at Emelie's pussy entrance, teasingly withdrew it. She then flicked the crop - the second object she held - lightly over the kneeling girl's vulnerable buttocks.

Emelie shuddered and rocked down onto her elbows, and then a spiteful snap from the crop struck her a few inches lower than the first slightly lesser swat.

‘Get up on your knees again,' and she did as ordered instantly, struggling to keep her eyes closed. Something was touching her forehead. It ran downwards, over the bridge of her nose to her lips. It paused there.

‘Open!'

Emelie's lips peeled apart and the phallus entered, pushing in slowly, stretching her lips even wider, her jaw immediately beginning to ache. Elise held it there, lodged halfway inside the pretty little mouth, savouring the moment, exchanging victorious smiles with the woman languishing on the bed, then eased her hips forward and pushed in a little further. ‘You will take it all,' she told the girl on all fours before her, and Emelie struggled valiantly to obey. It was not just large, but heavy, and it smelled of pussy juices and leather. Elise left it lodged fully within the girl's mouth and lazily ran her fingers over her face, appreciating the feel of her closed eyelids, her cute nose, her hollowed cheeks, and her stretched lips sealed tightly around the stalk embedded between them.

‘Don't open your eyes,' she warned, then something touched the insides of Emelie's thighs, switching back and forth. It was the tip of the riding-crop, skilfully stinging her legs. It slithered upward to her clitoris, tickled the lips of her pussy, then moved away again.

It came back, beneath her torso and stroked her nipples, circling them. The tip whipped her nipples softly but menacingly, alternating between them, then went away again.

Emelie's heart raced and secretly her pussy yearned for attention. Quite frankly, she admitted shamefully to herself, she wanted Elise to fuck her.

Nothing touched her for a while, their only contact being the stout leather column that bridge the tiny space between Elise's cunt and Emelie's flushed face and speared into her throat. Then she shivered, for something was tickling along her spine and tracing the contours of her buttocks. It was the riding-crop returned, but then it lifted again and she heard it being dropped to the floor.