Another hot little snippet!

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Tintoretto [Public Domain] via Wikipaintings

A step behind Rosalind was the Marechal. The entire court noticed how he was Rosalind’s shadow as she moved about the Louvre. He took her arm, and did his best to hide how her present state was affecting him, turning the bulge in his breeches away from her. The Duke had somehow gotten into her room, and he’d taken her. There was a subtle peace to her movements, a looseness, when normally she was tight and agitated. She had to pull her lips down in order to frown, instead of lifting them up in a hollow smile.

In his head, he pictured the Duke bending her over a table, pounding into her until every tension snapped and she came on his thick sex. All the Marechal wanted to do was throw himself in her path so she could trample on him. As he thought of it, he shivered, his sex painfully turgid. He turned to look at her, and she was staring back at him. She nodded, and he started. When she smiled at him, she showed her little teeth.

The Marechal wracked his brain for a place to take her, somewhere that would be empty, where they would not be seen. Two turns, and they would be at his chambers. If no one saw them, he could simply lock his door and tell her she must be quiet. Looking around, he saw not a soul, and he dragged her to a trot. Slamming the door behind them, he dropped his keys. He had to catch his breath before he was able to lock them in his room.

Rosalind flopped onto the Marechal’s bed. He crawled over to her, and began to kiss her feet, slipping them out of her shoes.

The smell of sex overwhelmed him as he began to move his mouth up her legs. She slid her groin closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her thighs as he buried his face between her legs. Her lips were hot and swollen, and the Marechal licked them lightly. He flicked his tongue over the opening of her sex, consuming the liquid that oozed from her, the trace of her and the Duke’s love. He moaned, and she moaned, grinding against his face. He rubbed her asshole, and pressed his tongue inside her. She fluttered on his mouth and whimpered as she came.

He rubbed his cheek against her thigh. With his finger, he felt her little bud throb. She lifted up one foot, stuck it on his chest, and kicked him out from under her skirts.

The Marechal lay on his back, looking up at her, and wriggled. If he moved like a worm she would know that he wanted to be crushed like one. She rose, and prodded his leg with her toe. She did not put her little slippers back on, but instead stepped onto his thigh. The Marechal reached up to give her his hands, to help her balance, and she slapped them away. She carefully curled her foot over his femur, transferred her weight, then planted the ball of her other foot in his groin. He wanted to writhe against her foot, but instead peeked at her through his half closed eyes. There was a wicked smile on her face, and he almost came.

She shifted more of her weight onto his groin and he hissed when she placed her foot on his chest, crushing his balls. He reached up to touch her legs, and she released his testicles, then smashed her foot into his face. When she stuck her toes into his mouth, he nibbled at them. Giggling, she almost lost her balance and he grabbed her hips to steady her.

Rosalind felt silly then, locked away in the Marechal’s chamber, standing on him. The Marechal could read her thoughts in her wide uncertain eyes.

“What is it Rosalind? I know what’s put you in a good mood, but not why you’re frowning,” the Marechal said, seeing her expression change.

“There’s all that intrigue about the letter. The Duke is in the middle of it.”

“The Duke, it does not surprise me, that man is prone to intrigue. Surely only a very naive woman would fawn over such a cad.” The Marechal tried very hard not to smile as he spoke.

Her lips pulled down in a moue and she put her foot over his mouth. “You, you are not to speak. You are far too clever. I want you kneeling in front of me.” When she stepped off him he scrambled to his knees. “Is that your riding gear?”

The Marechal looked at her, and then at the pile of clothes in the corner, the handle of his riding crop peeking out. He licked his lips as his heart began to throb.

“Strip,” Rosalind commanded.

The Marechal was thrown into a state of confusion as he undressed. As soon as he revealed a patch of bare skin, Rosalind would trace his flesh with the crop’s leather tip. He blushed furiously under her eyes. Removing his breeches, she massaged his sex with the whip. When he tried to kiss her hands, she gripped his hair and pulled so he was down on all fours. She started to hit him lightly, against his shoulders and the meat of his buttocks, quick fiery stings. Growing bold, she hit him harder and he gasped. There were hot licks on his ribs, his thighs; she would reach down and pull his hair and rub his genitals with the crop. She beat him, each blow inflaming a previous mark, a fiery network crisscrossing his skin until he came.

The Marechal wept on Rosalind’s feet.

Composing himself, he dressed quickly and took her to the King’s court. The serenity with which Rosalind moved filled the Marechal with pride. He was her confidante, his body bore the marks of her inner fury. Each step agitated his tender skin, a delicious pain. He could not stay at court, but instead shut himself up in his chambers. Stripping off his clothes, he lay himself down on his cool sheets. He took Rosalind’s stocking from underneath his pillow and wrapped it around his turgid sex. Stroking himself, he dreamed of Rosalind pinned beneath the Duke. With a groan, he came all over the white silk.



About this text:

Rosalind/The Princess of Cleves is based on Mme. La Fayette’s classic novel The Princess of Cleves. I wrote it for nano, but ended up abandoning it after a couple of editing passes. Needless to say, I am tickled pink to find that it’s (okay, she, I call her Princess) is receiving a warm welcome at Literotica. Thanks to all readers and writers who make that place great! You can find the first four chapters here.