This is when she realizes that the older woman has folded her dress back up all the way to her thighs, and is now twirling the blonde curls of her pubis with her fingers, even briefly inserting a finger into her gash, then smelling it with half a smile before licking the wet finger clean, and returning her hand below to stroke her swollen cunt.
The woman suddenly stands and walks over to the wall where she rings a call bell. Then leans back over the prostrate young girl, lips grazing her mouth, skimming the breasts barely concealed by the crumpled silk of the dress, lingering over the uncovered stomach and the thighs that part automatically under her caress.
There is a discreet knock at the door,
“Come in,” she says, without even looking up.
It’s one of the servants who had served at the dinner table; he has a peasant’s wide and tawny features, which she had earlier found almost comical beneath the powdered wig he is no longer wearing. But he is still attired in the Louis XV outfit meant to emphasize his thin waist, but which on him has the contrary effect, highlighting his thick muscles, the incredibly wide shoulders and the lack of neck. He is a heavy-set man; his ferocious eyes remind her of a dog.
“Come here,” she says. “Take your uniform off. That’s good. Show us your cock, now. So, what do you think, my dear?”
The object emerging from the salmon-coloured silk pants is just like the man himself: short and massive. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the woman takes hold of the purple glans between two fingers, just as earlier she had been handling the strawberries. With her nail she gently pulls on the cock’s crumpled surplus skin and the shaft begins to grow. Short but very thick, no more than fifteen centimetres long but so thick she has to use both hands to circle it. The prone young girl sees it all as if in a cloud, only the painting on the wall the focus of her attention, but another part of her is also aware that she is about to be breached by this almost unreal object. The mushroom head is dark purple, the blue black veins bulge, the hard brown shaft pointing towards her emerging from dirty pink boxers shorts, the whole thing seems more animal than human.
“Fuck her now,” the older woman cursorily orders.
The domestic positions himself between the young girl’s thighs, spreads them wide and places her feet high up on his shoulders, his thick shiny cock lurking at her entrance and gradually forces himself in. Slowly, his cock plunges in, her diameter expanding obscenely as if it were literally sucking in this monstrous cock, and she finally feels it head butting her inner walls as the silk of his trousers and the rough touch of his pubic hair rub against her thighs. She comes immediately – the tension was too strong, the expectation too demanding.
Now the domestic methodically ploughs inside her with brute force and she cries out repeatedly, the inebriation of her orgasm blending with the alcohol vapours, thrusting her ever higher on the scales of sheer pleasure. She can’t help crying, throwing her body forward, impaling herself even deeper, opening herself wider. At the same time, she feels ashamed to be enjoying this weird cock so much, and the shames doubles her pleasure, as if her being whored in this improvised way gives her latitude to scream like no other man has made her scream before, to give herself like she has never given herself before.
Prompted by the woman still sitting close to her, the domestic withdraws from her and with two sharp movements of his wrist he jerks himself off, long creamy jets streaming across the now forever soiled black dress, thick snail trails of sperm jetting from his bursting cock and landing all the way up to her neck.
The woman dismisses him with a single gesture.
Once again, she leans over towards the still breathless young girl, who is on the brink of tears as her orphaned cunt still gapes open, mumbling under her breath like a fish out of water, begging for the return of the cock that stretched her so and she kisses her. The taste of her tongue is sharp, warm and clever.
She then guides the young girl to the nearby bathroom and undresses her. “Arms up,” as if to a child. Helping her out of the long soiled sheath of the dress, pulling it above her head, and then the blissful feel of water unendingly running down her neck, her back, her breasts.
Then she brings her back to the large bed of crumpled satin, her body so deathly pale against the green surface, and dries her, methodically mapping every contour of her body, behind her ears even or between her splayed toes…
The woman indicates the silk dress, now all crumpled up at the foot of the bed.
“Won’t be much use again,” she says.
From a dresser, she pulls out a maid’s outfit, almost the same as… What was her name? Nora? – was wearing earlier. A black, straight lined skirt, a black shirt and a white apron with an embroidered pocket at the front. Before she is allowed to slip the uniform on, the older woman helps her roll on a pair of holdup opaque black stockings and, finally, hands her a pair of dainty, zippered small boots.
The woman quickly separates her hair into thick plaits and arranges a faultless chignon, with just three or four hairpins, almost a work of art.
Inside the apron’s pocket, there is a key.
“It’s a pass,” the ageless woman explains. “It allows you access to every room on this floor or the next. Come, girl. It’s all up to you now. You must prove to us we can trust you.”
And with a gentle slap on her bum, she dismisses her from the room.
In the corridor, the young girl hesitates a short while. Walk down again?
With the pass, she opens the next door, number Three.
It is empty.
On the wall a painting depicting a city scene with three young women wearing fancy hats, all holding each other by the arm, but totally naked. Somewhere behind them, another woman seen from the back is walking away, same hat, same nudity. She appears to be following a soldier whose silhouette can be glimpsed in the distance.
The three women are aligned by height, from left to right. Curiously, the shortest one sports the heavier breasts, the next one’s are pear shaped, well proportioned and the tallest woman’s are barely the size of two small apples, high on her chest, tiny.
“The tarots,” she says to herself.
She leaves the room just as another identically dressed maid comes running.
“Ah, there you are, hurry. Number Twenty has called again.”
Off they go; she follows instinctively, entranced by the madness of the place, down the corridor, up a spiral staircase, then through another passageway where they come across two other maids, one of whom is Nora, the only one whose name she actually knows, standing outside the door marked Twenty.
“What took you so long?” Nora said.
She knocks on the door and turns the handle while doing so, just as a loud “Come in!” reaches their ears. Inside are four men playing cards, with a fifth man watching them – the grey-haired man from the train, the Commander.
The young girl barely has time to register the fact that these are the same four men, one of whom is an ebony-skinned negro, the tarot players from the Paris-Nice TGV train – was it just this past afternoon? – when the grey-eyed man calls to her:
“Come, girls, come!”
Flabbergasted, she watches as her three companions kneel before three of the men and, without even being asked, burrow inside their respective trousers and quickly gobble up the still soft cocks they discover there.