The Lady Submits Read online

  The Lady Submits

  By

  Chloe Cox

  Copyright 2012 Chloe Cox

  The Lady Submits

  (A BDSM Bacchanal Novelette)

  Sometimes a highborn Lady needs to be brought low…

  It’s the decadent, raunchy holiday of Bacchanal, and the Lady Lucrezia Grimaldi cannot find a man to satisfy her. Worse, she’s been saddled with the brutish Carlo Castellan as her bodyguard for the last night of Bacchanal. There’s only one thing to do: escape to the fabled House of the Severille…

  The imperious Lady Lucrezia expects to sate herself by dominating some poor House slave. What she gets instead is the harsh touch of a Severille Master who will stop at nothing to make the Lady submit.

  The Lady Submits

  It was a truth universally acknowledged, within the confines of the city of J’Amel, that no woman should go wanting during the Bacchanal. And yet the Lady Lucrezia Grimaldi wanted. She wanted very badly.

  “Oh please,” she groaned. “I’m so close!”

  Lucrezia helplessly ground her hips into her hapless lover’s face, desperately seeking her orgasm. She closed her eyes and grasped for it, only for it to flash and dart away, just out of reach. Since the beginning of the Bacchanal holiday, no man had properly satisfied her. She had one week of complete sexual freedom each year — one week in which it was actually sacrilegious not to indulge — and she couldn’t come.

  “Oh, this is hopeless,” she snapped, and shoved the Chevalier’s head away. He looked up at her with some surprise, her juices smeared all over his face. “You may go,” she commanded.

  “But Lucrezia,” he complained, sitting up as Lucrezia wrapped herself in a sheet and went to stand by the window, “look.” And he pointed at his erection, purple with pressure.

  “Then get a servant or something, Marc,” she said, and she rang the bell for service. She didn’t even bother to look at him as he gathered his things, muttering something about gratitude.

  Lucrezia knew she was becoming unpleasant, even to those of whom she was quite fond, like the Chevalier Marc Sancre. But she couldn’t help it. No one could be pleasant all the time under such circumstances. She felt as though she were swollen to the point of bursting, and had inexplicably forgotten how to release the pressure. Or ripe to the point of rot, with no one who can properly eat me, she thought with a grim smile. The streets of J’Amel below her were still relatively quiet, with most of the citizens sleeping off the previous night’s indulgences. Or, like Lady Lucrezia, indulging some more. Only they probably got some satisfaction out it.

  Tonight was her last chance, and yet it wasn’t a very a good one. Ivy House was having its party, the last of the Bacchanal Society Dances, and traditionally a boring, staid affair, a reminder for the upper classes that the world would soon have to return to normal. Lucrezia was expected to attend as the representative of the Grimaldi family, while her constantly scheming brother did whatever it was he found amusing, presumably hatching another tired political plot or something similar. She had sent him a pleading request that he go in her stead — for safety reasons, of course, neglecting to mention that it was the safety of everyone else that would be at risk if she were forced to attend — but she did not have particularly high hopes.

  “Antonia,” she said, turning to find her lady’s maid waiting patiently by the door, “has my brother sent word?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Antonia’s face told Lucrezia what her brother’s answer had been. Lucrezia felt a pang of anger somewhere below the din of her frustrated desire. She never should have asked; she should have just done what she pleased, like a true Grimaldi.

  “Oh, don’t say it, I know he was beastly about it,” she said, and wrapped the sheet tighter about her shoulders. The soft material grazed her nipple, and slid across her skin, stoking the fire in her core. Which was absurd. She was having a conversation about her brother with her maid. Sex should be the furthest thing from her mind.

  “Milady,” Antonia said hesitantly, “he didn’t just send word. He sent Carlo.”

  Lucrezia slowly swiveled her head. “I told him I wouldn’t have that brute in my guard.”

  “He’s outside the door, milady. He wouldn’t wait.”

  It was just like Carlo Castellan to barge into a lady’s private chambers and skulk outside her bedroom door. Lucrezia swallowed. Her sexual frustration had become a constant presence, a low hum, steadily growing in intensity and volume, and the vibrations were beginning to tear at her from the inside out. But now it was joined by a chorus of equally impotent rage, much of it directed at that damned Carlo Castellan.

  First, the man was common. A common soldier. It was obvious from his manners (none), his breeding (none), and his concern for social graces or standing (also none). Add to this that he was a large man, a physically powerful man, and that he obviously knew it. He didn’t hide his thoughts or feelings about the opposite sex, which were always readily apparent, and usually…well, “carnivorous” was the word that came to mind. Which would not offend if he restricted his attentions to members of his own class, but Carlo Castellan never met a boundary he couldn’t violate. He was basically a back alley tomcat, Lucrezia reflected, complete with a slight scar on his brow.

  And ever since Carlo Castellan had saved her brother’s life in some faraway battle, he’d been a constant presence in her life. It was rumored that he would be given a stake in the great Grimaldi bank soon, and then she’d never be rid of him. Until then, he’d been charged with providing for Lucrezia’s personal security, something that became more or less urgent with the waxing and waning political tides.

  Lucrezia felt that this arrangement was beneath her, and, to her eternal frustration, it was clear that Carlo felt it was beneath him, too.

  “Send him in,” she said through gritted teeth, “and leave us.”

  “Does my lady want to dress…?”

  “No.”

  If he wanted to surprise her, let him face the consequences. He’d never approved of any of her assignations, with typical male hypocrisy. If she couldn’t be truly satisfied, she could at least have the satisfaction of Carlo Castellan’s discomfort.

  She let her sheet fall a little, exposing one long, supple leg, composed her face in a mask of haughty irritation, and pretended to look out the window.

  Carlo Castellan strode into her bedroom as if he owned it, letting the door close loudly behind him. They were alone. He was dressed in his customary unadorned black leather vest, all martial utility and monastic simplicity, but his well-muscled arms and chest were bare to the heat, and glistening with a slight sheen of sweat. It was…disconcerting. Lucrezia watched his eyes fall on her rumpled, obviously well-used bed, and then slide over to her. He looked her up and down without apparent reaction, and without bothering to hide that he was doing it.

  “Lady Lucrezia,” he said evenly.

  “What do you want?” Now she was even more frustrated. She thought she’d at least annoy him.

  “I’m here to discuss your plans for tonight.”

  Lucrezia narrowed her eyes. A discussion implied that she had some sort of say in the matter. But that was too much to hope for, and she found the idea of Carlo Castellan’s condescension to be…humiliating. The buzzing inside her grew louder.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I will accompany you to the Ivy Dance this evening, my lady.”

  Lucrezia’s lips fell open in genuine surprise, and her sheet slipped dangerously off of one shoulder as she snapped her head around, and looked him in the face.

  “What did you say?”

  “I believe you heard me, my lady. Per your brother’s instructions, I will accompany you to the Ivy Dance.”

  Lucrezia c
ould not fathom it. It was…unfathomable. To be escorted by him? In public? Her mind raced as she tried to remember what she might have done to so offend her brother. They were constantly sniping at each other, it was a game between them, almost traditional. But this? This?

  She looked up to see the last remnants of a fading grin on Carlo’s face.

  That was too much to bear.

  “Fetch me a glass of amberwine, soldier,” she said coldly.

  Their eyes locked. Whatever Lucrezia thought of Carlo’s station, it was certainly higher than mere servant.

  Finally, Carlo dipped his head, and walked over to the cart she’d had brought up earlier that morning. He even moved like a cat, she thought, momentarily transfixed, with the grace and supreme confidence of a predator. What did it matter to him if he served her a glass of wine or not? He would still be himself as he did so.

  Lucrezia shivered, and held out her hand imperiously to hide it.

  “My lady,” Carlo murmured, and handed her the glass. His face was unreadable.

  Lucrezia tried to calm herself. Her hand would not shake in front of this man. She was a Grimaldi, and she would remind him of it.

  “No,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I don’t think I will attend.”

  Carlo’s arm snaked out so fast she hardly registered the movement before his hand was around her wrist. His grip was iron. Amberwine spilled from the glass onto her chest, and she looked down to find that her sheet had fallen, exposing her round breast. She was mortified to see her nipple hardening.

  “No, Lucrezia,” Carlo said softly, “you will go to the Ivy Dance, and I will accompany you, even if you have to go wrapped in this sheet and thrown over my shoulder. Your brother has asked me to do this. It will be done.”

  She was unable to speak, her voice choked by the sudden rapid beating of her heart and the insistent pressure of the pounding pulse between her legs. Her skin flared where he touched her, and it was impossible to think. She looked at him in wide-eyed fascination.

  “Lucrezia, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she finally murmured. “Please leave me now.”

  Carlo only looked down at her exposed breast and aroused nipple once, only for a moment. He said nothing. Then he released her wrist and strode out of the room without a second glance.

  Lucrezia’s whole being throbbed. This was unbearable. She could no longer distinguish between desire, frustration, rage, and hate. She knew there was only one place where she might hope to sate all of these things, only one place that might offer her any hope of release, and it was not at the Ivy Dance.

  She needed the harsh edge of the Severille.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Not that cloak. The burgundy. Yes. There’s no reason a clandestine adventure can’t still be stylish,” Lucrezia said as she modeled her carefully chosen ensemble in the full-length mirror. She was wearing, when it came down to it, artfully arranged scraps of leather. She’d had it especially designed for the Bacchanal season, and yet she hadn’t found proper occasion to wear it until tonight. A series of fine straps over her shoulders, back, and sides held the short skirt and miniscule top to her lush figure, leaving her belly bare and giving her the general appearance of barely contained sex. The overall effect was one of a particularly aggressive brand of sexuality. Even so, it was more than she expected most would be wearing at Severille House.

  Lucrezia had never actually been to the Severille Society House. She was, like all members of the aristocracy, a nominal member, but unlike most, she had a genuine taste for the Severille style. Her experience had so far been limited to informal games with various lovers, but she found that she enjoyed the power of it immensely.

  If there were any place she could go to be thoroughly satisfied in every way imaginable, it would be the Severille House during the Bacchanal. And it would mean that Carlo Castellan would charge up to her private rooms only to find her missing, and himself beaten.

  She was very much looking forward to her escape.

  “Antonia, you’ll remember to swaddle your head? Ideally, I’d like to fool him for at least a little while before he discovers you,” Lucrezia said. Then she smiled. “Though do make sure he discovers you.”

  “Yes, milady. I remember how the physician showed me the last time you had one of your headaches.”

  Lucrezia turned to examine her maid. She was dutifully dressed in Lucrezia’s dowdiest nightgown — a gift from some aging relation somewhere — and preparing to crawl into Lucrezia’s vast bed, only to be buried under every blanket the women could find.

  “You trust this footman?” Lucrezia inquired once more. She did not want to suffer the embarrassment of being apprehended mid-escape. That would be worse than simply suffering through the Ivy Dance.

  “Yes, milady. He’s at pains to impress me,” the maid smiled slyly.

  “Well done, Antonia.” Lucrezia gave an approving glance. “Now do these straps in the back for me.”

  A few minutes of artful cinching later, and the Lady Lucrezia Grimaldi was tied and bound into the most sexual clothing she owned, teased to a steady hum of vibrating desire, and ready. It was time. She covered herself in the dark burgundy cloak of lightweight damask, and hurried down the servant’s stairs. There at the service entrance waited a nervous footman of more than average attractiveness, wearing the red and black livery of her house. She didn’t recognize him, of course, but took the time to appraise him. Blond, strong jaw, broad shoulders.

  “Very well done, Antonia,” Lucrezia whispered, and allowed herself to be helped into a hired coach.

  The ride through the city was almost disappointingly uneventful. Lucrezia had expected clandestine adventures to be more, well, adventuresome. But the largest Bacchanal parties for the common people were all taking place on the other side of the city, around the ruined temples of the old Blood Canals, and the younger sons and daughters of the rich would be drinking their amberwine and fucking in the open air amphitheater. The streets were practically empty. Her coach rattled on, unmolested, all the way to Severille House.

  Lucrezia thought she had prepared for everything but she wasn’t quite prepared to be nervous. It’s just Bacchanal, she told herself. You’ll be fine once you’ve had a well-endowed Severille slave or two. But the thought didn’t bring her the thrill that it usually did, and she was feeling altogether disoriented by the time the coach rolled to a halt.

  Damn Castellan, she thought.

  “Milady?” the coachmen asked, though it sounded more like a demand. He was not what she would call properly deferential, but then she wasn’t adorned in the full regalia of her title. She had come out the service entrance, after all.

  “Yes, all right,” she said, and rummaged in her small purse while the coachmen got down and opened her door.

  “Stay here until I emerge. I’ll want a coach,” she said, and gave him the coins.

  He grabbed her wrist, hard. Lucrezia was speechless at the affront, possibly for the first time in her life.

  “I know what this place is. You’ll be needing to pay me a bit more if you expect me to wait for you to be done with it on the last night of Bacchanal. Milady,” he added with a smile.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said a clear, low voice. It was calm, but there was an edge that would have cut the most awkward silence. Lucrezia was too humiliated to turn her head, mesmerized by the brutal coachmen, all but his bearded chin hidden in the night shadows of the coach. “We will provide for the Lady’s transportation. You will drive that coach away from here, and count yourself lucky that you get to keep that hand.”

  The coachmen took only a moment to weigh his options. In the end, he decided a quick exit was the wisest path available to him. Which left Lucrezia with no choice but to turn and face her benefactor.

  It was a man with the first grey in his dark hair, tall, and with angular, severe features that suggested a bird of prey. His eyes were nearly black, and wore a simple black tunic, wrapped around his lean body
in a complicated pattern. Lucrezia had seen him at Severille events and various social functions, and vaguely recognized him as an authority within the Society. She cringed to realize that this man obviously recognized her, as well.

  “Lady Lucrezia,” the man said, bowing his head slightly. “Tell me, did he hurt you? It would be no trouble to have him followed.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Lucrezia said, still a bit dazed. The truth was she’d already forgotten the coachman. When he’d grabbed her wrist it had jolted her into memory of Carlo Castellan. The sensation still burned, and for a moment she had been back in her rooms, half naked and powerless in Castellan’s rough grip. She shuddered.

  “I’m pleased then, my lady. I do not think we have been formerly introduced, though I am known to your family. My name is Master Mallisine, and I am the lord of this house, if not the realm proper.” He put a firm arm around Lucrezia’s waist, and turned her towards a gate set in a high, thick, white wall. “And I am delighted to welcome you to the House of the Severille.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lucrezia had always thought of herself as worldly, sexually adventurous, and beyond shock. She was wrong, at least on that last point.

  Master Mallisine led her through a small, calm garden, decorated as much with the sounds of gently falling water as with the delicate vines that curled about the fountains. A soft light from low hung lanterns gleamed on beds of smooth white sand. It lulled Lucrezia into a drowsy sort of peace, which later, she reflected, was probably the point.

  And still, her first look at the courtyard of Severille House took her breath away.

  It was a cornucopia of sex. In any given direction there were couples in various states of copulation, which, by itself, was not unheard of at a Bacchanal event, but these couples all seemed to test some limit of the permissible. One woman managed to suck the cock of her master while her arms were bound to a bar resting behind her shoulders; another cried out as one masked man fucked her from below while another flogged her from behind. There was a man bound and blindfolded, flat on his back, and left begging for release. In the center of it all was a raised platform, furnished with benches and chairs and sofas, on which many took their pleasure, or simply relaxed and talked amidst a constant background of sexual exhibition.