April 8, 1765. Mid-afternoon. Château de Valangiès courtyard. Hooves clatter on cobblestones. Lieutenant Gabriel-Antoine de Pont-Valin dismounts. Robust frame. Blue eyes piercing. Groom bows low, leads horse away. Stairs creak under boots. Hallway shadows stretch. Domestics whisper. Grand salon door swings open.
Small, jaundiced count sits by window. Black clothes hang loose. Beside him, young Comtesse Constance. Fine waist. Fresh face. Vivid blue eyes lock on the hunter. He bows. Introduces himself. Grand-louvetier du Roi. From Normandy. She smiles. Comte fidgets, deaf to words. She leans, whispers. He snaps. She intervenes. ‘Let him rest. My apartments.’ Pont-Valin follows. Corridor dim. Parquet groans softly. Door clicks shut. Double-locked.
The Contact
She pours wine. Pays d’Oc red. Glasses clink. He spreads map. Explains hunt. Bête du Gévaudan. Prunières trap. But her eyes glaze. Cheeks flush. ‘Your scent… animal. Strong.’ He apologizes. Dogs, beasts. She refills. ‘I like it. No wife to mind?’ Free, he says. She locks gaze. Provocative. Empties glass. Approaches. Legs part slightly. ‘I’m soaked since you entered. Feel.’ Hand under skirts. Fingers slide. Wet heat. She gasps. ‘Ah… there… my pearl.’ Body shudders. Climax muffled. Lips bite back cries.
‘You finger like a god.’ She kneels. Unlaces breeches. Cock springs free. Thick. Veined. Heavy balls. ‘No lie. Huge prick.’ Mouth engulfs. Sucks. Tongue swirls. Saliva drips. He groans low. Floorboards creak under shift. Light filters under door. Servant steps outside? Pause. She stops. ‘Not yet. Save your load.’ Strips gown. Lies on bed. Legs wide. Cunt glistens. ‘Pull out. No babe.’ He nods. Dives face-first. Tongue laps clit. Nose buries. She writhes. ‘Fuck… dying…’ Multiple peaks. Whimpers stifled.
The Indiscretion
‘Tongue my ass now.’ He obeys. Rim licks deep. She bucks. ‘Devil…’ Then her turn? Later. She strokes cock stiff. Guides in. ‘Stretch me like a whore.’ Slow thrusts. Builds. ‘Harder! Pinch tits! Ruin me!’ Bedframe thumps soft. Muffled slaps. Skin on skin. Servants in hall? Heart races. Comte downstairs? Door rattles faintly? He pounds. Savage. She claws. ‘Yes… fuck!’ Pulls out. Spurts hot cum. Belly, tits, chin coated. Rope after rope. ‘Christ… flooded.’ She licks remnants off cock.
Light fades through shutters. Parquet sighs as he dresses. Cock still twitches. She laughs. ‘Soubrette in kitchen. Big-cock slut. Drain there.’ He bows. ‘Next time, your footman joins?’ She grins. Door unlocks. Hall empty. Stairs descend. Heart pounds. Grooms glance. Courtyard breeze. Office moans echo. Soubrette’s cries. High, broken. He smirks. Secret safe. Bête awaits. But this hunt… sweeter.