The Marquis

Two days later I was sitting in the coach with my mother, dressed in the new blue velvet dress, bound in by a corset. I watched the land snake past as the coach wound its way up the hill to the castle.

My mother looked me over with a scrutinising eye. She had drawn lines around my eyes, rouged my cheeks and lips and bound my hair up beneath my small hat. My hands were gloved, my shoes were polished. I was the very picture of a respectable, middle class young lady.

Beneath my dress, I was wearing no underclothes. My mother had forbidden me to put them on, threatening to burn my dress and send me naked if I didn’t comply. I kept my knees close together, glad for the heavy velvet which covered me to the ankles, but I still felt horrendously exposed. I shifted on the seat as the coach lurched over the stones of the road.

“Stop frowning,” my mother said. “You will have a line on your face before you are old.” I obeyed. I couldn’t argue with her.

The coach reached the castle’s grounds suddenly, the trees melting away to reveal the gravelled turning circle. The coach stopped outside the big wooden doors to the castle. My mother gave me warning glare as the door was opened by one of the Marquis’ beautiful, mute servants. I took a deep breath, gave my mother a kiss on the cheek and stepped out of the coach. Before I could even turn around to wave, the coach had rumbled away.

I was trapped here, now. The servant led me to the doors and opened the way for me. I hitched up my dress to step up into the marbled hall of the castle. It was then that I felt with a sickening feeling the warm trickle down my thigh. My moon-blood. I heard the door close behind me. The servant gestured to me to walk through to the drawing room, where elegant chaise-longues were set at careful angles to pick up the sun which fell through the high windows. I hovered beside a glass table on which sat a curling candelabra. It was adorned with the Marquis’ insignia of a sword piercing a rose. It was a cold reminder of why I was here.

The servant motioned to me to sit. I did not have the courage to decline, and I perched on the edge of a chaise-longue, feeling another spurt from my body as my womb tore. I kept my knees together, my feet poised on their toes so I was as rigid as I could be. I waited. I was almost impatient, for him to be done with me so I could leave this eerie place with its silence and polished floors.

Footsteps made me turn my head. It was then that the Marquis finally stepped into my sight. The man of stories and whispers and rumours was now here, in front of me. I tried to remain calm. He smiled, a practised, charming smile. He was well-groomed, with his hair pinned back from his face, a neatly clipped beard around his lips and chin. His clothes were from the finest tailors, moulded to his body.

He was tall. I remained seated as he walked around to stand in front of me.

“Miranda,” he said. “To be wondered at.” He smiled again. His eyes were dark, indescribable. I couldn’t see his pupils. “Stand, my wonder.” I obeyed. I felt my dress cling to my thighs with my menses. I couldn’t meet his eyes. Shame was flooding me. I felt a blush climb my face. He took my hands and gently tugged the gloves from them so he could run his fingers over my soft, pale skin. I felt a chill rush through my spine.

He took my hands and made me step forwards, turning me to face the chaise-longue where I had been sitting. I saw with horror the dark stain on the silk upholstery and on the marble floor. The Marquis smiled.

“All who come here bleed when they arrive,” he said. His voice was rich and his speech was accented with nobility. “It is how I choose for you to arrive.” I said nothing. He smiled again. “It shows you have followed my instructions,” he said. “I intensely dislike the confinement of undergarments.” He took my hand and kissed it softly. I felt his beard prick my skin. It took all my self-control not to pull away from him. If I displeased him, it would have repercussions for my family.

He lifted my hat from my head and tossed it down on the stained chaise-longue. He ran his fingers down my cheek, down my nose.

“Unpin your hair,” he said. I blushed again. Young girls and whores let their hair loose. Ladies of the middle and upper classes pinned theirs up to show off their elegant necks and diamond jewellery. Still I reached up behind my head and let my hair fall around my shoulders. The Marquis circled me, turning me so the sun shone on my hair.

“Like copper,” he said. “Quite exquisite.” He took my head in his hands and examined my eyes. “And emerald. A jewel amongst mortals.” I could feel a lump in my throat, but I was too proud to let myself cry. I would do what he wanted. He would not have the satisfaction of frightening me. “You must be hungry,” he said. “Come, we will dine before the sun sets.”

I had hoped he would allow me the modesty of something to catch my moon-blood, but he led me to the dining room and pressed my shoulders to make me sit on the upholstered chair. It had grooves for my legs, that forced me to part my thighs slightly. I felt it again, the maddening ooze from my body. I knew then I had stained another part of his furniture.

The meal was cooked delicately, with small portions and silver cutlery. He drank champagne. I drank nothing. Each course was served up by the silent servants, and we ate in silence. The Marquis watched the sun set over the town through the big windows that opened out onto a balcony with a balustrade. I could even glimpse the steeply sloped roof of my home out in the town. I longed to be there, in the cosy poorness of home, with my sisters and my father and the thought of my white wedding dress.

The Marquis motioned to a servant, and the curtains were drawn, shutting out the expanse of view. Shutting out my freedom. I took his hand when he offered it and he drew me to my feet. I glanced back, saw the dark stain on the chair. I bled away my dignity.

“You seem nervous,” the Marquis said with a charming smile. “There is no need. You are quite safe here.” He led me up the curved staircase, along a gallery that looked down over the vast entrance hall, to a heavy door that was bolted and locked with a great key. I felt sick. This was it. This was the moment.

He turned the key and drew back the bolts. The door swung open soundlessly. The room was dark, the windows were all shuttered. The Marquis led me into the room, and closed the door. I heard the key grate in the lock again. The Marquis flicked a switch and the room was flooded was stark electric light. I blinked, my eyes stinging at the brightness.

I looked around at the circular room. The walls showed scenes from Classical mythology. Of the gods raping mortal women. The ceiling was a great mirror. There was a door set in the wall, but it was closed. Around the room were tables and baroque chests of drawers, containing his implements of torturous pleasure. In the centre of the room was the chair. It sloped back, with enough wood for a torso. Two stirrups were on poles from the base of the chair, to support the legs.

The Marquis turned to me with a smile. “Come here, my wondrous creature.” I followed him into the centre of the room and stood near the monstrous chair. He drew a pair of scissors from his belt and proceeded to cut the velvet dress from my body. The tailoring which my mother had fussed over was left in shreds on the floor. I stood in my corset and petticoat. I could see the spot of blood on the floor by my feet. Shame filled me, all shame, as I gazed at the floor as the Marquis circled me again, like a lion examining his prey.

“No need to be afraid,” he said. “I have done this many times before.”

It was no consolation. This was not how I had imagined my deflowering. The Marquis cut the laces of my corset and ripped it away. I felt my breasts bounce as the support was removed. I was not large, but I was not small either. I wanted to cover myself with my hands, but the Marquis anticipated me and held my hands at my sides.

“There is no need for embarrassment,” he said. “I would like to see you. You are beautiful.” He circled me again. I was wearing nothing but my soiled petticoat. He stepped close suddenly, slit through the drawstring at my waist and ripped the petticoat away. It fluttered to the ground as he stood with his arms outstretched, admiring me as if I was a work of art or a prized horse. He sighed. I stood, biting my lip hard.

He pushed me suddenly, back and back until I fell back against the cold, varnished wood of the chair. He pinned me there with a hand around my throat, nearly choking me, and with the other hand he lifted one of my legs and the knee and set it in a stirrup, then lifted the other and place it in the other stirrup. I was suspended on the chair, my pelvis barely supported but by my knees hooked over the stirrups. He lifted a large wooden board from beneath the chair and slotted it into place. It pressed over my body, just above my breasts and beneath my armpits, to hold me in place. I could feel the ache in my breasts as they were pushed down and out by the board. I realised I couldn’t reach around the board at all. I was trapped in the chair, unable to touch anything but my head and shoulders. The Marquis pulled the stirrups apart, spreading my legs until the contraption locked and I was stranded, my legs akimbo to reveal my core.

He laughed, then. A delighted, child-like laugh, as if he had been given a new present. I could hardly see past the board to him, but I could see his dark eyes glinting as he pulled a trolley across the floor to me. I felt something cold press against my inner thigh, up close to my centre. It began to scrape, gently and methodically, and I realised suddenly what he was doing. He was shaving away my pubic hair. I wanted to writhe, to escape, but my position denied me any movement. He worked with a small frown, until he ran his palm down over the mound of my pubic bone and met no resistance.

“At last,” he said, and he reached around the table for a small strap. It ran criss-cross across my hips and between my legs. I felt something cold press against my lower lips. He parted them with his fingers, and the coldness reached a more sensitive place. He tied the strap down tightly. He stood back and smiled. He flicked a switch, and the coldness began to fizz and vibrate. I gasped, my hands slamming against the board in revulsion. He was pleasuring me with electricity. This was surely not what our science was intended for. I threw my head back at the intensity of the vibrations, right on my most sensitive place. The Marquis laughed as he watched me.

“The pearl,” he said. “I have my wonder’s pearl.” Every muscle in my body clenched, a violent spasm convulsed my body, my core, and then a melting warmth spread through me. The Marquis switched the little contraption off and unclipped the strap. I felt his fingers at my entrance, stroking, teasing, testing. I found my voice, then, finally.

“Please,” I said desperately. I was suddenly afraid, and had no pride left to hide it. “Please, no. I don’t want—”

“Hush, my wonder, Miranda,” he said. I felt his fingers slick with my moon-blood, rubbing up between my lower lips to caress my pearl, as he had so affectionately called it. I moaned. He smiled. “This is to be a great new country for you to discover. And I am your guide.” He lifted a hand to show me the redness of my own fertility. “I called you when you are bleeding because it saves you more discomfort, my dear. In a few days time, there will be more to this, our sexual act, than there is now.”

His blatant referral to his occupation – our occupation – made me shrink. He stepped away suddenly, disappearing from view. I strained against the chair, rattled my legs in the stirrups, but the way my weight fell prevented me from freeing my legs at all. I lay back, cold at my core where the air rushed around my most private of places.

The Marquis appeared between my knees once more. Now he wore a lacquered mask, bearing an exact likeness of his face, but there were not even eyeholes. It was a blank, emotionless face. I stared at it as he stepped closer to me, his fingers running between my folds, exploring the new territory. No man had ever been there.

He placed his hands on my hips, and I felt something else at my entrance. I stifled a cry, feeling him rub his member against me. It was slick, hard and hot. It probed gently at my entrance, sliding in a fraction of an inch. The mask did not change expression, but I heard the Marquis exhale sharply.

“Welcome to the new world, my wonder,” he said softly. He slid into me a little way further, another three inches. My mouth opened as I was stretched slightly, but no sound came out. I would not satisfy him with a cry. He adjusted his weight, slipping inside me, before he pressed in further, in one long slow stroke up to the hilt. I bled.

The pain ripped me apart. I could see my violation on the ceiling, see my naked body pinned to the chair and the Marquis’ still fully clothed, impaling me. I wanted to cry, to push and kick him away from me, but I could not. He stayed still inside me for a while, breathing hard. I gripped the edge of the board tightly, my fingers white and hurting.

He drew out again slowly, his membrum virile rubbing hard against my walls, the friction as coarse as sandpaper, but agonisingly slow. He worked back in again, widening me carefully. He did this three more times, drawing out slowly, pressing back in slowly, his hands gripping my hips tightly to keep me still. On the third slow thrust, he stayed where he was, buried in me. I felt him pull the straps over me again, flick the switch. My walls clamped again, but now they clamped around him, and he began to thrust, quick and shallow at first, then deeper and harder as the vibrations made my body react with a quiver and a moan in my throat.

He was grunting with each thrust, like an animal, his fingers digging into my skin at my hips as he pushed against me harder and harder until my resolve broke and I cried out at the pain, but he didn’t stop. His hands went then to my breasts, gripping tightly and kneading them together, pinching at my nipples and twisting until I cried again, all the while pounding in and out and into me again. All I could see was the immutable mask on his face, hiding whatever grimace or twisted expression he had. He growled as he worked deeper still, and I felt his sack slap lightly against my buttocks. His hands reached around beneath me, digging into my cheeks and spreading them, straining my tissues.

The vibration was not enough to keep me pleasured. The pain was all through my body now, where his hands had been working tightly, obsessively. The board pressed hard against my chest as he slammed into me, making my body jerk up against the chair. I cried, bitter tears streaming down my cheeks as he thrust harder and harder and faster into me, until suddenly he shuddered and groaned, and I felt his hot seed spurt up inside me. He kept pumping for a while, grunting and moaning before stopping and leaning against me for a while. The vibrator against my pearl was starting to take more effect now, despite his member still deep inside me. He stayed where he was until he felt my body arch and shudder and heard my breath deepen again, and only then did he switch off the little machine and slide out of me with a slippery sound. I felt the warmth of his seed trickle from between my legs.

He paced the room for a while, as I tried to compose myself and stop my quivering sobs. Then he opened the door and left the room. I heard the key turn and the bolts ram home.

I squirmed in the chair, feeling bruised and abused and horrified. All I could do was wait for his return.