Making the Marquis

Author’s note: F/M/M

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After the strange experience with her fictional character that seemed to arrive into her living room out of nowhere, Lauren ceased writing her erotica. The whole thing was just too weird. Yet the abstinence from her naughty writings drove her crazy. Her collection of erotic fiction just didn’t cut it anymore. And she felt like a pervert when she would go to a Manhattan branch of Border’s Bookstore, perusing the erotic fiction for a book racy enough for her taste. She felt even worse when Dottie would be with her, happily kicking and chortling in her stroller, oblivious to her mother’s depravities.

After an expedition like this one, she arrived to her apartment in Queens to find a message from Helen Turner, the literary agent who she worked with when her first erotic story got picked up by an anthology. She remembered the nice little residuals she got from that anthology. She was able to buy all sorts of new clothes for Dottie, who was growing like a weed!

Excitedly, Lauren called Helen Turner’s office.

“Lauren! How nice to hear from you, dear. How are you?” the agent asked.

“Great!”

“Listen, are you writing anything else right now?”

“I’ve been playing around with a few ideas,” she admitted.

“Well, the publishing company was very pleased with your story. It was the most popular one in the book. They want you to submit another one for their next anthology coming out next year!”

“Really? Wow, that’s great!”

“Yes, but we don’t have much time. What are you writing now?”

“I’ve been starting a series but there have been a few mishaps with it…”

“Really? What’s the series about?”

“It’s about a villainous sexy nobleman, the Marquis de Marais, who has a revenge plot against a group of men who gave him a vicious scar during a battle. He seeks his vengeance by abducting their wives and mistresses one by one and making them submit to his demands.”

“Oh, jeez…I don’t know,” Helen hesitated. “The guy sounds too creepy. I’m not sure the readers will go for that. I mean women read the stuff to get turned on, not to feel like they’ve been traumatized. Rape stories are hard to sell.”

Lauren defended her character immediately.

“Well, he’s actually very good at what he does. Some of the women are married to jerks who only want them to bear their children; or they’re married only for their money. They’re cheated on or abused or worked to a frazzle, stuff like that. Some of them are simply mistresses who need a new thrill. When they’re captured by the Marquis, he brings them to an entire new level of sexuality. Most of them reach an orgasm for the first time under his imprisonment. And when they learn how fantastic the sex can be, they keep returning back to the dungeon by their own free will.”

“Interesting…”

“I mean, any villain could rape a woman and make her howl with agony the entire time. That’s no big feat. But the Marquis prides himself on his sexual prowess. He’s a man of great vanity. That’s why he’s so pissed off with this scar that he has on his face! Anyway, he intends for every one of his victims to find intense sexual pleasure at his hands, even while he uses cruel, demeaning and sadistic methods. His revenge becomes more complete that way, you see? The women become ruined for any other man’s touch. They cheat on their husbands or leave them altogether. In some way, he helps them find their own sort of freedom by imprisoning them while achieving his vengeance against his adversaries at the same time. Does that make sense?”

“Um, sort of. Could you fax me what you have so far?”

“Sure!”

“Oh, and one other thing…try to avoid too many clichés in this one. When a writer uses too many flowery euphemisms, the readers think that the author doesn’t really know what she’s talking about.”

“Oh, did I do that?”

“Only in the really juicy parts. Just beware of that, okay?”

“Sure.”

All excited from her conversation with the agent, Lauren was raring to go to start that new chapter.

Dottie was still asleep in her stroller from their visit to the bookstore…and time was going to waste…

She sat down at the computer to write, but then stopped as she realized just what had happened. She had agreed to do this Marquis story, but had imprisoned herself by doing so. If the Marquis was going to appear at every racy chapter, she was going to go nuts. Never mind the infidelity with her husband. Never mind how this all could warp Dottie’s fragile little newborn mind. But there was only so much hot sex a woman can stand on a regular basis! Maybe she should call Helen Turner and tell her she changed her mind.

Yet, she looked around the living room in dismay. She sure could use a new couch and rocking chair. The VCR was about to die; and the remote control passed away long ago. And it wasn’t like her piddling part-time temp job at the law firm was going to pay for any of it!

And the story was playing around in her head, desperate to get out in words. She didn’t want to write any other tales right now but those of the Marquis.

Damn it, she would not let her life be ruled by the Marquis de Marais! She would not be so intimidated by him that she would lose her chance to get published again and to make the money she so badly needed. And if she was prostituting herself to him for her writing, so be it!

But hopefully, it was all just a weird cosmic ‘alternate universe’ type mistake and wouldn\'t happen again…

Maybe she was just going a little insane. She laughed to herself as she turned on her computer. She was probably the only human being in the world who actually hoped she was going crazy!

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Hortense de Beaumont was escorted into the dungeon by several of the Marquis’ servants. She fought like a wildcat. Of course, she did. She was like one of those women that showed up so frequently in romantic adventure stories…a great heroine who would surmount any odds thrown her way without so much as mussing a hair out of place. She had traveled the world, solved crimes and survived battles in war. Truly, she was a woman of distinction.

Madame de Beaumont put on the show of being very much in love with her dashing husband, Roman de Beaumont. The story of Roman and Hortense’s love for each other was legendary. There was no fire they wouldn’t cross for each other, no ocean they wouldn’t swim. Never mind the fact that Roman had been committing infidelity on Hortense for years with his doxy, Lillian. Lillian was a famous courtesan, very popular among the gentlemen of the upper classes in Paris. Thus, everyone knew of Roman and Lillian’s affair. Yet, Hortense was such a respected figure that no one dared to speak of it around her presence.

Even with four of the Marquis’ able-bodied men, there was quite a time of getting her placed in the ordered position, but they finally managed. For the sake of expediency, he ordered for all of her clothes to be stripped off of her before entering the dungeon, save her chemise and corset. Her waist was chained to a wall, her hands were tied behind her back and her hips rested on a high stool. Her thighs had been spread wide and manacled at the height of her shoulders. The position left her pussy completely and horribly vulnerable to any torture the Marquis would think of. And he already had a few ideas in mind.

The Marquis had anticipated with glee how he would have his fun with Hortense for she would be a challenge. She was a proud woman and would give him a jolly good fight, even when bound. With long strands of ebony hair flowing down her back and flashing violet eyes, she was an uncommonly beautiful woman with perfect facial features. Her body was voluptuous in its proportions. Her large breasts spilled out over her corset, showing a tempting vision of cleavage. She had an hourglass waist and swelling hips that he couldn’t wait to squeeze. She was like a fine wine, only improving with age, as magnificent as ever. His mouth watered at the sight of her spread out and chained before him.

For years, he had lusted after her while she danced with her husband at all of the most exclusive balls in Paris. Whenever he tried to engage her in polite conversation, she would politely refrain from enduring his presence. She thought she was too fine and good for the likes of him. What would she do now that there was no escape?

“Well, if Roman de Beaumont could see his lovely wife now, what a hard on he’d have! That is if he could get his cock away from the enchanting Lillian long enough to do so.”

“A pox on you, Marquis de Marais, you villain!!” Hortense cursed, her eyes seething with hatred for him.

“Ah, don’t be mad, Hortense!” the Marquis laughed, chucking her chin until she pulled away from his touch. “I would fuck you over Lillian any day of the week. Your husband is a fool, Madame!”

Hortense remained stonily silent and did not even look at him, not dignifying his bawdy remarks with a response.

“Ah, yes, the proud type. Look at her, Bartholomew,” he quipped to his manservant. “With her head held high and proud. A woman of impeccable character and fortitude. I shall take the greatest pleasure in breaking her. By the time I’m done with you, Hortense, you shall be squealing like a scalded cat as you come again and again by my hand!”

She rewarded his wicked remark with a look of disdain.

“You are a dreamer if you think you can ever break me!” she spat.

“Oh, yes, I have dreamed of your hot cunt many times, my sweet Hortense. And now here it is, all spread out and waiting for me like a banquet! My lucky day! And Bartholomew’s too! He has been so taken with your charms that he begged me to let him have a taste of you.”

“I’m so flattered that your manservant finds me attractive,” she snarled.

Bartholomew shuffled about nervously, but the lustful gleam in his eye was obvious. He was an ordinary sort with a mop of short brown curls atop his head, not as handsome as the Marquis but kind of attractive in an amusing sort of way. His sense of humor was such that he could have been a court jester in the days of the Rennaisance. His bearlike body was solid and strong, built like an ox, and his cock was nice and thick. At least, according to all of the local barmaids in Paris.

“And so you should be. I don’t let Bartholomew play with just any woman. Pull down her chemise, Bartholomew. Let us see those legendary breasts that sailors have been known to write dirty limericks about.”

Eagerly, Bartholomew yanked down her chemise.

Her gorgeous breasts sprang free and jiggled enticingly, standing out prominently due to her binding and corset.

“Ah, the famous Hortense de Beaumont bosom! She’s every bit as luscious as those rhymes suggest, isn’t she, Barholomew?”

“No question about it, Marquis. She’s got a sweet pair of titties.”

As the Marquis ran lightly over one of her coral nipples, the fact was not lost on him that it hardened eagerly for more. He also observed the juices that began to flow copiously from her exposed pussy. And best of all, he was pleased to see the flushed complexion of Hortense as she struggled vainly against her bonds, obviously not as immune to him as she had pretended all of these years.

“And such responsive pretty nipples that swell at my lightest touch. Such succulent fruit is meant to be tasted. You take one, Bartholomew. And I’ll take the other.”

Hortense’s eyes widened as she grasped at their meaning. She opened her mouth to protest, but swallowed her words. She was a woman of too much pride to beg for mercy.

But every woman had her weakness.

The Marquis suspected that she had extremely sensitive breasts and would not be able to withstand the torment of two men’s mouths upon them.

She silently squirmed as the Marquis and Bartholomew proceeded to kiss and suck and bite at her nipples, trying so desperately to fight back the pleasure that was threatening to erupt in her loins like a volcano.

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“I suspect, my dear, that those are the sort of phrases that your agent alluded too. Erupting like a volcano is so trite!”

The now-familiar voice of the Marquis caused Lauren to jump out of her skin. Even though she knew that by now, she should expect it.

“Look, Marquis, I have my household finances to think about!” she announced sternly, not even so much as turning to look at him as she continued to type. “You are not going to scare me out of writing this story, do you understand?”

“Sweet Lauren, that is not my intention at all! Indeed, for the last two visits, I had no idea how or why I was sent to this futuristic world of my author! Nor did I comprehend my irrational desire to fuck your brains out at first sight. But I have a theory.”

She felt his hands creep about to caress her breasts. As usual, her writing had already brought her to a state of high arousal, the sensation of his fingers at her nipples seeming to leap directly to the spot between her legs.

“What theory is that?” she choked out.

“I wonder if you are not a writer meant for great things. If you are truly meant to scribe such perverse and scandalous stories, such an interest should be encouraged. After all, you could become another notorious author like the Marquis de Sade!”

Lauren shrugged, trying to dislodge his maddening hands.

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment. As I understand it, he was a really sick fuck!”

“But he didn’t have a broken rocking chair, did he? I\'ll bet he had only the finest of furniture in his home.”

She twitched as he pinched her nipples.

“Perhaps I am here to help you. You need my tutorage and experienced hands to prevent you from writing in naïve clichés and euphemisms. And I quite enjoy living in this modern world with all of its freedoms and scantily-dressed women. Perhaps we could work out a partnership of sorts.”

“You mean you get to act out all of your depravities on me while I slave away at my keyboard trying to write between play sessions? Yeah, sure!”

With a snarl, he pulled her up from her chair by the hair.

“No, I mean that if you are going to write about a woman being fucked by two men, you should have some idea of what you’re talking about! And my servant, Bartholomew, would love to help you with your lesson.”

“Oh, most indeed, Marquis!”

Lauren started at the voice sounding from the hallway by the front door.

“Oh, my God, he’s here too!” Lauren gasped.

“Yes, and I think it’s time to expose you to your next lesson: the pleasures of a ménage a trois.”

She gulped with dread and anticipation as she saw Bartholomew entering the living room with a grin…and with a hard-on the size of Texas in his breeches!