Coming to a halt in front of a door, Madame looks at me and lowers her voice.
“Be a good girl. Just be silent and biddable and it will go well.”
Silent and biddable are two words that have hardly ever been used to describe me, but I can playact when there’s good reason for it. This certainly seems like good reason.
Demurely, I lower my head and put my hands together in front of me, pretending to be shy. Madame had told me that gentlemen would like that, especially since it lent a certain air to my virginal status.
“Good.” She nods her head and opens the door, sweeping in ahead of me. I follow meekly behind her, peeking from under my eyelashes at what’s waiting for me.
A severe-looking woman wearing a black dress with a stiff white collar and a white bonnet over her hair is sitting on a red-brocade couch, looking extremely out of place. Compared to the lush decorations of the room, her severe attire and expression seem even more buttoned up than they would have somewhere else.
Her gaze immediately went to me and something about it made me want to quail in a way that Madame Atout often attempted, but never succeeded in. Where Madame Atout was a shiny, gaudy attempt at confidence and power, this woman actually was through and through.
“This is her?” she asks, getting to her feet.
“Yes, ma’am,” Madame Atout says hastily. “This is Bettina. She’s been with me three weeks and had the usual training in comportment and such, though she remains a virgin.”
“Mmm.” The woman begins to circle around me, looking me up and down. I look up as she passes, meeting her gaze for a moment and feel the heat grow in my cheeks before I cast my eyes back downward. There is no playacting needed for that moment. My blush is real, as is my inability to maintain my gaze with hers.
There is something about her, and not just her height or her broad shoulders. It is the way she holds herself. Her surety. I feel… small. And I am not certain I like it.
“Undress her.” The command comes out sharp and quick, and Madame Atout jumps forward to do her bidding.
I am not certain what to do because the command had clearly been directed at Madame and not myself. Am I supposed to help? Stand there? I do the latter, letting Madame strip me down to nothing. It is not the first time I have been naked in front of others – that was part of the training. Men have seen me naked as well, though none of them touched me.
If I had not been a virgin, I would have received ‘handling’ as part of my training, to ensure that I did not panic at a man’s touch. Since I was a virgin, Madame told me that some natural panic was to be expected.
I do not feel panic now, but my heart begins to flutter rather rapidly in my chest as the woman circles around me again. As she moves to my back, her hand snakes out and smacks against my bottom, making me squeal and jump at the sharp sting of unexpected pain. My hands automatically go behind me, covering my buttocks as my eyes widen in shock and outrage.
I am too surprised to speak, and Madame Atout glares at me, pinching her fingers together beside her mouth in a reminder to be silent and biddable. Pressing my lips together, I rub the spot where the woman swatted me, shifting back and forth on my feet.
“Very good.” The woman sounds pleased and it takes all my willpower to hold my tongue.
A duke,I remind myself. I can tolerate whatever she wants to do in order to gain a contract with a duke.
Moving back to my front, she cups my breasts and gives them a squeeze. No longer pushed up by my stays, they are still quite pert and perky, filling her palms nicely. She pinches my nipples, watching my face as she does so. My mouth drops open at the pressure, which hurts but also makes my insides squirm. With my hands still over my bottom, I do not reach to try and stop her, especially with Madame Atout glaring at me over the woman’s shoulder.
I drop my gaze down again as she releases my breasts.
“Spread your legs,” she orders, tapping on the shaven mound of my pussy. Something that Madame Atout insists on for her girls. There are merkins that we can wear to cover ourselves to make it more appealing for the clients, but this woman says nothing about my bare mound. I spread my legs apart to a wider stance and my eyes widen as she crouches down to look at me.
Madame Atout had inspected me rather closely as well, when I first arrived. As I did then, I stare up at the ceiling, pretending it is of no matter to me what is going on between my legs.
Her fingers touch me, probing, moving. I have a bit of slickness gathered there and she rubs it around a little spot that makes me gasp as my leg muscles quiver in response. Madame Atout has spoken of the pleasure that women can find from the act of fucking, but I am not allowed to experience it yet. That little flash makes me hungry for more, but the woman pulls her fingers away and stands.
I watch in shock as she licks the tips of her fingers thoughtfully.
“Sweet,” she comments after a moment, and my cheeks flush again, as I realize she is talking about the taste of my pussy. She looks at Madame Atout. “She is a virgin everywhere?”
Madame Atout bobs her head like an eager sparrow.
“No one has touched her,” she assures the woman. I frown at both of them and the woman notices me, turning and raising her eyebrow.
“What is it?” she asks.
I know I am supposed to be silent, but I cannot help my curiosity. I keep my voice as meek as possible, though, trying to follow Madame Atout’s directions, especially as I can tell she is already peeved at me for speaking.
“What do you mean everywhere?” I ask quietly.
