Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A lice

Lucas had gone when I awoke. I didn’t mind, after I got over the initial, small pang of absence. I wanted—needed—time to process on my own. Try as I might to think it all through, or even to approach the memories in my mind, my thoughts just seemed to bounce off the mental image of Lucas’ face looming over me as he held me open and drove his hardness into my desperately needy pussy.

As I drank my coffee, as I spread butter on my piece of baguette, as I chewed and swallowed and descended the stairs and walked to my very first lecture… every time I tried to instruct my brain to try to figure out how I felt about having been whipped and fucked by an internationally famous, unbelievably handsome football star, all that happened inside my mind was that I saw Lucas’ cool blue eyes looking into mine as he fucked me.

Each time, I had to turn my mental gaze away, because of what happened in my body when the memory began to unfold not just in my head but in my distractingly stiff nipples, my distressingly tingling clit, my suddenly aching pussy.

Sitting in the lecture hall, though, among other students, listening to a world-renowned scholar delivering what I knew intellectually was a fascinating presentation about the appropriation of the daily life of peasants by the nobility in the fourteenth century, I found myself unable to stop the memory from unrolling in my mind over and over.

Lucas’ commanding presence, his skilled hands, the exquisite pain and pleasure he had wrought in my body. His face at dinner, smiling above his wineglass… his face when he told me to take off my clothes… his face when he tasted me, down there…

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, acutely aware of the lingering soreness between my legs. My cheeks flushed as I recalled how thoroughly Lucas had claimed me, how he had stretched and filled me in ways I’d never imagined. The memory of his deep, growling voice calling me his ‘little whore’ sent an unwelcome jolt of arousal through me.

Shame and desire warred within me as I struggled to reconcile my scholarly aspirations with my newfound role as Lucas’ plaything. Was this really who I was now? A kept woman, existing for the pleasure of a man I barely knew? Though I should have found the lecture much more interesting than the memories of the previous night—or I told myself that, anyway—everything about Lucas Moreau seemed a million times more captivating than the life of a medieval peasant.

And yet… I couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through me at the thought of seeing Lucas again. Of feeling his strong hands on my body, hearing his commanding voice in my ear.

I startled as the students around me began to pack up their things. The lecture had ended without me absorbing a single word. Panic rose in my chest—how could I hope to succeed in my studies if I couldn’t even pay attention?

As I gathered my things, I felt an urgent pressure in my bladder. The nearest restroom was just down the hall, a small haven of privacy amidst the bustling university corridors.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness between my legs. The bathroom was mercifully empty, the row of stalls stretching out before me. I chose the one furthest from the door, latching it securely behind me.

As I settled onto the cool wooden seat, I couldn’t help but become acutely aware of the tender flesh between my thighs. The slightly, naughtily sensual feeling of my pee rushing out of me into the bowl made me chew my lower lip.

I wiped myself as gently as I could, my teeth working a little more firmly and my forehead creasing as the soreness of my pussy flared at my touch. I dropped the paper into the bowl. My brain told my body to get up.

Instead, almost of their own accord, my fingers drifted back down, softly probing, tenderly exploring the still-swollen lips.

My… my…

“Cunt.” I whispered it aloud, shocking myself.

No. Not mine.

I bit my lip hard. A tiny whimper escaped as I remembered.

Not mine. His.

“ Monsieur ,” I breathed. “Please, Monsieur. Please… oh… oh, no.”

I gasped softly as I encountered the evidence of Lucas’ passion—my pussy felt puffy and sensitive, the entrance still slightly stretched from accommodating his impressive girth. As I explored further, I felt a warm wetness and for a moment I wondered if it might be my keeper’s seed rather than my own rampant, mortifying need. I blushed fiercely as I analyzed the thought and found that it thrilled me… that I longed to find Lucas’ semen inside me… longed for a reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed me.

My breath quickened as I recalled the sheer intensity of our encounter, the moment when he had shot his essence into me. The way Lucas had bent me over, spread me open, whipped my most intimate places. The burning sting of the martinet, followed by the exquisite pleasure of his skilled tongue and fingers.

Before I realized what I was doing, my fingers had found my clit. I circled it gently, biting my lip to stifle a moan. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this—Lucas had made it clear that he meant to keep the pleasure of my body as his private property. That thought, though… the very idea that my cunt belonged to him, and he would punish me if I stole its delights for myself…

My fingers moved faster, moving down to push inside, then up to rub the swollen bud that made my hips jerk at every new pressure. I let out a tiny whimper as I imagined Lucas catching me in the act. In my mind’s eye, I saw the bathroom stall door flying open, Lucas’ imposing figure filling the doorway. His ice-blue eyes flashed with anger and desire as he took in the sight of me, hand between my legs, face flushed with arousal.

“You naughty little slut,” fantasy Lucas growled, reaching in to grab my arm. “Touching what belongs to me.”

I whimpered as in my imagination he yanked me out of the stall, my legs wobbling beneath me. With effortless strength, he would bend me over the bathroom counter, pressing my cheek against the cold porcelain. I would catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror—eyes wide, lips parted, hair disheveled.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget,” Lucas would snarl, flipping up my skirt to expose my bare bottom.

His large hand would come down hard on my tender flesh, the sharp crack echoing in the tiled room. I would cry out, my hips jerking forward against the counter’s edge. My keeper would spank me again and again, until my bottom felt hot and swollen.

“Please,” I would sob, though of course, I wouldn’t be sure if I was begging him to stop or to continue.

“Please what?” Lucas would demand, pausing with his hand raised. “Please punish this disobedient cunt?”

Before I could object, he would answer his own question. He would start to spank my pussy. There in the stall, I let out a little sob I couldn’t have held back for all the money in the world. The fantasy shifted, suddenly: Lucas wasn’t a soccer player but rather a marquis, and I was a peasant girl… a scullery maid whose naughty cunt, so well fucked by her noble master the night before, had distracted her from her duties in the kitchen.

I had gone to the garderobe, in my marquis’ castle… I had told myself I needed to pee… but really I had wanted to touch myself in the forbidden place where he had claimed me the previous night…

The marquis, tall and strong like Lucas… a blue-eyed warrior on the battlefield just as Lucas did battle on the field at the Stade de France… he had many other duties, a whole pays to take care of, but he… he had fallen in love with the naughty scullery maid… me. He had wanted to know how I was doing, the night after my first whipping, my first fucking, my first hard ride on his massive cock…

Oh, no… please… The scullery maid whispered it on the hard seat of the castle garderobe. I whispered it in the bathroom stall of the medieval university where my own warrior had made it possible for me to study.

The marquis… he had come to the kitchen in search of me, and the cooks had told him with a sneer that he could find his little fucking piece in the garderobe… no, they would never disrespect their lord that way, would they? The cooks would tell the Marquis de Moreau, though… they would tell him he could find his petite Alice in the garderobe, and he would stride thither on those huge, purposeful, powerful thighs.

Oh, God. My fingers between my legs worked so frantically over the abused, terribly sensitive flesh of my pussy that it hurt. I couldn’t stop, though. I didn’t even want to… I wanted to make my… his cunt feel like my lord had taken it, possessed it so thoroughly that I wouldn’t walk comfortably for a week.

The marquis’ footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, growing louder as he approached the garderobe. My heart raced, knowing I would be discovered at any moment. I tried to stop, to compose myself, but my treacherous fingers kept moving, driven by an insatiable need.

The heavy wooden door burst open. I gasped, caught in the act, my hand still between my legs. The Marquis de Moreau stood there, resplendent in his fine doublet and hose, his eyes blazing with fury and desire.

“You wanton little strumpet,” he growled, crossing the small space in two long strides. “Touching what belongs to me.”

His large hand wrapped around my wrist, yanking me off the privy seat. With effortless strength, he bent me over the rough stone ledge that served as a washbasin. The cold, damp rock pressed against my cheek as he flipped up my coarse woolen skirts.

“My lord,” I whimpered, “please, I?—”

The first slap of his hand against my bare bottom silenced my protests. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls, followed swiftly by another, and another. I squirmed beneath his punishing palm, my hips grinding against the unforgiving edge of the basin.

“You dare pleasure yourself without my permission?” the marquis snarled, punctuating each word with a stinging blow. “This cunt belongs to me. I thought I had made that clear enough to you last night.”

My fingers worked frantically between my legs as I lost myself in the fantasy. I completely stopped being Alice Morgan, modern university student; I was that lowly scullery maid bent over a stone basin in a medieval castle, at the mercy of her noble lord.

The Marquis de Moreau’s large hand came down again and again on my bare bottom, each stinging slap sending jolts of pain and pleasure through my body. I squirmed against the rough stone, my hips grinding desperately as I sought relief for the ache building between my thighs.

“Please, my lord,” I whimpered, my voice echoing off the garderobe’s damp walls. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Oh, you most certainly will not,” the marquis growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to make sure you never forget who this cunt belongs to.”

His punishing hand moved lower, and I cried out as he began to spank my tender pussy. The pain was exquisite, each blow sending shockwaves of sensation through my core. I sobbed and writhed, torn between trying to escape the onslaught and pressing back for more.

In the university bathroom stall, I bit my lip hard to stifle my moans as I rubbed my clit furiously. The cool wood of the toilet seat was a poor substitute for the rough stone of my fantasy, but I ground against it nonetheless, chasing my release.

I was so lost in my fantasy, my fingers moving frantically between my legs, that I barely registered the sound of the bathroom door opening. Just as the imaginary marquis delivered a particularly stinging slap to my tender pussy, a wave of pleasure crashed over me. Before I could stop myself, a cry of helpless need escaped my lips, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom stall.

“ Tout va bien? ” a concerned female voice called out, startling me back to reality.

My eyes flew open, mortification flooding through me as I realized what had just happened. I had been masturbating in a public bathroom, lost in a lurid fantasy about my sponsor, and now someone had heard me. My face burned with shame as I hastily pulled my hand away from my throbbing pussy, wiping my fingers on a wad of toilet paper.

“ Oui, merci ,” I called back, my voice shaky and breathless. I fumbled with my clothing, trying to straighten myself out as quickly as possible. “ Pardon … ?a va bien … pardon… merci… ”

Each word that tumbled from my lips only seemed to compound my embarrassment. I could hear the woman shifting uncertainly outside the stall, clearly unconvinced by my flustered response.

With trembling hands, I flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would mask any further awkwardness. The rush of water seemed deafening in the small space, matching the pounding of my heart. I took a deep breath and tried to quiet my racing heart, my panting breath. I pushed the stall door open.