Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

A lice

I spent the rest of the seminar, of course, thinking not about fourteenth-century peasant life but about Lucas. The oppressed condition of women in medieval France didn’t help at all. Every time I tried to focus on the discussion I just kept thinking about whether Lucas would, for example, sequester me—even starve me—the way young wives could easily find themselves isolated and starved if they didn’t comply with this or that burdensome idea of Christian feminine virtue.

The fate of unmarried women—the kind of scullery maid, for example, I had so lewdly fantasized about—was even worse. And apparently Lucas Moreau, the man who seemed so perfect for me, thought we should go back to the old ways.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I knew I had to confront him, at least. The afternoon stretched endlessly before me as I paced my small apartment, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The gentle autumn sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to mock my inner turmoil, its warmth at odds with the chill of doubt that had settled in my chest.

I found myself drawn to the full-length mirror in my bedroom, studying my reflection with critical eyes. The girl who stared back at me looked outwardly unchanged—same wavy chestnut hair, same green eyes, same slender build. But beneath the surface, I knew he had fundamentally altered me. The plug nestled in my bottom was a constant, undeniable reminder of that fact.

My fingers toyed with the hem of my skirt, itching to reach beneath and remove the source of my physical and emotional discomfort. It would be so easy to disobey, to assert some small measure of control over my body and my choices. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the act of rebellion.

But as my hand moved toward the plug, I found myself hesitating. The memory of Lucas’ commanding voice, his piercing blue eyes, the way he made me feel simultaneously cherished and owned, washed over me. My fingers trembled, then fell away from my skirt.

I couldn’t do it. The realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed. I sank onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands as hot tears of shame fell from my eyes.

I told myself it was fear that kept me from removing the plug. Fear of punishment, fear of disappointing Lucas. But as I sat there on the edge of my bed, tears drying on my cheeks, a deeper truth began to emerge from the fog of my confusion.

It wasn’t fear that stayed my hand. It was need. A primal, urgent need for Lucas’ dominance that had taken root in my very core. The realization both thrilled and terrified me.

I moved to the kitchen in a daze, mechanically pulling ingredients from the fridge to assemble a salad. The crisp lettuce, ripe tomatoes, and tangy vinaigrette barely registered on my palate as I ate, my mind consumed with thoughts of Lucas and the conflicting emotions he stirred within me.

As evening settled over Paris, I found myself curled up on the sofa in my living room, staring blankly at the dark TV screen. The remote lay untouched on the coffee table, a silent testament to my inner turmoil. I couldn’t bear the thought of mindless entertainment, not when my world had been turned upside down.

The soft golden glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the room, mirroring the light and dark warring within me. I shifted slightly, the movement causing the plug to press against sensitive flesh. A shiver ran through me, equal parts discomfort and arousal.

My fingers toyed absently with the hem of my skirt as I debated whether to give in to any of the utterly conflicting impulses that throbbed inside me, almost literally. I wanted to take the horrid, shameful, much-too-pleasurable thing out of my most private place—throw it from my window and hope it would land in the Seine. I wanted to raise my skirt and touch my tingling clit, make myself come for the camera knowing that Lucas would see… knowing that he would whip me until I couldn’t sit down. I wanted to take off all my clothes and kneel on the floor to await the moment he would arrive, so that he could fuck my face and come down my throat the instant he came in the door.

The soft click of the door opening startled me from my reverie. I turned, my heart leaping into my throat as I saw Lucas stride into the apartment. His tall, athletic frame filled the doorway, exuding an aura of confidence and authority that made my pulse quicken. In his hands, he carried a long, slim gift box that I instantly recognized as the type used for lingerie.

Lucas’ ice-blue eyes locked onto mine, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “ Bonsoir, ma chère ,” he said, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine.

I stood, smoothing my skirt nervously. “ Bonsoir, Monsieur ,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance between us. He held out the box, an expectant look on his face. “A little gift for you,” he murmured.

I took the box with trembling hands, feeling the weight of it—and all it represented—settle in my palms. The smooth, cool surface of the box seemed to burn against my skin, a tangible reminder of Lucas’ control over me.

As I looked up from the box, I caught Lucas studying my face intently. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes. “What’s wrong, Alice?” he asked, his voice softening. “You seem troubled.”

I bit my lip, averting my eyes for a moment. When I met his gaze again, I swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “It’s nothing, Monsieur ,” I murmured, my eyes still fixed on the gift box in my hands. “I’m just… tired from a long day of classes.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to confront him about the article, not yet. Not when he was looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes.

Lucas studied me for a long moment, his piercing blue gaze seeming to see right through my feeble excuse. I held my breath, certain he would press the issue. But to my surprise, he simply nodded, accepting my explanation with a small smile.

“Very well, ma chère ,” he said softly. “Perhaps opening your gift will lift your spirits.”

His large hand came to rest on the small of my back, gently guiding me toward the sofa. I sank down onto the soft cushions, acutely aware of the plug shifting inside me as I sat. Lucas settled beside me, his thigh pressing against mine, radiating warmth through the thin fabric of my skirt.

“Go on,” he urged, nodding toward the box in my lap. “Open it.”

With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid of the box. A whisper of tissue paper greeted me, concealing the contents within. I pushed it aside, my breath catching in my throat as I revealed the most exquisite lingerie I had ever seen.

I gasped softly as I lifted the delicate garments from their nest of tissue paper. The bra was a marvel of intricate white lace, so sheer I could see my hand through the delicate cups. Tiny pearls adorned the straps and edging, gleaming softly in the lamplight. The garter belt matched perfectly, a wisp of lace and satin that would encircle my waist, holding up sheer white stockings with lace tops.

My fingers trembled as I ran them over the impossibly soft nylon, imagining how it would feel against my skin. The stockings seemed to shimmer, promising to make my legs look long and elegant. I could almost feel the sensual whisper of the fabric as I would walk, the slight constriction of the garters reminding me with each step of my submission to Lucas.

As I set aside the bra, garter belt, and stockings, my breath caught in my throat. Nestled at the bottom of the box were the panties—if they could even be called that. They were little more than a scrap of lace, held together by satin ribbons. But it was what was missing that made my cheeks flame with heat.

The entire seat of the panties had been cut away, leaving a wide, circular opening. I stared at the garment, my mind racing as I realized the implications. Wearing these, my most intimate places would be completely exposed, available for Lucas’ use at any moment. He could fuck my bottom hole without even taking off my underwear.

Lucas’ eyes gleamed as he watched me examine the panties, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Do you like them, ma chère ?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

I swallowed hard, struggling to find my voice. “They’re… beautiful, Monsieur ,” I managed to whisper, my cheeks burning. “But I… I don’t understand.”

Lucas leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “They’re designed to allow me access to what’s mine,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest possessively on my thigh. “While still keeping you properly attired. And they’re white, of course, because I’m going to take your final virginity tonight.”

A shiver ran through me at his words, equal parts arousal and apprehension. I couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through me at the thought of wearing such revealing lingerie, of being so exposed and available to Lucas’ touch. But at the same time, Louise’s warning echoed in my mind, reminding me of the article and Lucas’ supposedly traditional views.

As I gazed at the exquisite lingerie, a surge of arousal coursed through me. I imagined how the delicate lace would feel against my skin and how the garters would frame my thighs. The thought of wearing something so beautiful, so feminine, made me feel desirable in a way I never had before.

But then Louise’s voice echoed in my mind, speaking a line I remembered overhearing in my college dining hall, that had unaccountably stuck in my head: “Lingerie is a gift men give to themselves.” The phrase hit me like a splash of cold water, dousing the warmth that had been building inside me.

I looked at the lingerie with new eyes, seeing beyond the delicate lace and shimmering satin. The bra, with its sheer cups, would display my breasts without actually covering them. The garter belt would draw attention to my hips, emphasizing my feminine curves. And those panties… my cheeks burned as I considered again how exposed, how available they would leave me.

This wasn’t a gift for me at all, I realized. This was Lucas dressing me up like a doll, adorning me for his own visual and physical pleasure. The cut-out in the panties made that abundantly clear—I would be constantly accessible, ready for him to use at his whim.

A wave of shame washed over me, mingling confusingly with the lingering arousal. Part of me still yearned to slip into the garments, to see myself transformed into the object of Lucas’ dominant sexual hunger. Another knew I had to put a stop to it all.

“ Monsieur ,” I began hesitantly, setting the box aside. “I… There’s something I need to ask you.”

Lucas’ brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded for me to continue. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to say.

“I saw an article today,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “About your views on relationships and gender roles. It said… It said you believe in a ‘traditional marriage’ where the wife follows the husband’s lead. Is that true?”

Lucas’ expression softened, a hint of understanding dawning in his eyes. He reached out, taking my hand in his larger one. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “You’re worried about what that might mean for us.”

I nodded, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions swirling inside me. Lucas was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of my hand. When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured.

“Alice, ma chère , I won’t deny that I have traditional values when it comes to relationships. But perhaps I should explain what that means to me.” He paused, his eyes searching my face. “When I speak of a traditional marriage, I’m not talking about oppression or inequality. I’m talking about a partnership where each person has their role, where we complement and support each other.”

I frowned, still uncertain. “But you said the wife should follow her husband’s lead.”

Lucas sighed softly, his brow furrowing as he considered his words carefully. “In some matters, yes,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean the wife’s thoughts and feelings are disregarded. It’s about having a clear decision-maker when needed, not about dictating every aspect of her life.”

He paused, his eyes searching my face intently. “Alice, I would never want to stifle your intelligence or your ambitions. Your passion for history, your drive to succeed academically—these are things I admire greatly about you. I want to support your goals, not hinder them.”

I bit my lip, still feeling conflicted. “But then why…” I gestured helplessly at the lingerie box. “Why this? Why make me wear a plug all day, forbid me from wearing panties? It feels like you’re trying to control me, to make me into some kind of… sex object.”

My heart skipped a beat as I saw how Lucas’ eyes darkened at that.

“Well, ma chère ,” he said, his voice just above a growl, “I suppose I refuse to deny that. I’ve paid a good deal of money in order that, yes, you be my lovely, intelligent fuck toy. Now I think you’d better act like it, or face the consequences. Stand up and take off all your clothes. I want to watch you put on your present.”