The Princess of Cleves #01

The Duke kissed her throat. "I have not," he said, moving inside her.

"I want you to hold me, to kiss me this time," she said. She rolled over without letting him slip from her. He knew what she really wanted, to rake her nails down his back and claim him as her own. It was a game, to slip her wrists out of his fingers while he made love to her. He left a delicate pattern of bruises, like bracelets on her wrists, which she tried to hide from him. In court he would see her pressing them under her gloves, looking at him like a hungry cat.

She pressed her shin to his chest, and he moaned. "Pull my hair," she whispered.

While he tugged at her ebony tresses, she slipped her hand free. Her fingers ran up and down his back. He released her other hand to clutch her to him. It was dangerous to let her touch him, in the heat of passion; for a whim, she may draw lines of blood from his back. The Duke slipped into a frenzy, the world reduced to two sweating bodies twined round one another, and the smell of musty linen and violet. She traced his spine with one nail, and when she reached the knob at the base, he came again. Feeling his hot seed she orgasmed, her hands clenching his skin.

The Duke was lucky, she only left light scratches that would heal in a day or two.

* * * *

Queen Mary I of England died.

The Princess Elizabeth was to be crowned as her successor.

The Prince de Conde had just returned from that court and informed the King that this Elizabeth spoke of the Duke with great affection. Any time in the French court rendered both men and women enamored of him, and they told tales, creating a legend of wicked grins and broken hearts. It was the whiff of danger that turned Elizabeth's head. What could be done with this twist, and the most eligible woman in world, was another matter. They called for the Duke, who appeared before them disheveled after his tryst.

"The Duke, just the man we wanted," the King exclaimed, clasping the Duke in his arms.

"What is all of this?" the Duke asked, noticing the queer brightness in their eyes.

The Prince de Conde smiled. "Princess Elizabeth asked me many questions about you while I was at her court. I told her how handsome you are playing tennis, and how your clever stories charm all the ladies."

The Duke rolled his eyes. "Why do I feel like I have been summoned to some absurd conspiracy?"

The King shook his head. "If you overheard what Conde said, you would not find it such a fantastic undertaking. Is it so hard to believe a powerful woman would want the greatest gallant of Europe at her side?"

"If that is what you wish, your Majesty," the Duke said with a low bow. "It is such a bold maneuver, I must request it remain secret for the time being. I do not wish to be the laughing stock of the world if our ambitions should fail." It took all his studied effort for the Duke to mask the cold horror he felt at this idea.

The King nodded. "That is a wise plan. When do you wish to leave for England?"

The Duke thought for a minute. To rush to Elizabeth would not do, it did not show enough reverence. Better instead to send someone ahead of him, someone dear to his heart to flatter her and beam at her with love. There would be jewels and doggerel to send as well. "No, I think I will send M. Lignerol to England to look after my interests. It will need to be a subtle seduction, and to arrive there with a crowd of suitors would not do."

"You are right Duke, and M. Lignerol is an excellent choice," the King said. "Take a walk with Conde, he will acquaint you with all the particulars. I will leave the plans in your most capable hands."

Conde and the Duke bowed and left. As they spoke of Conde's time in England, the Duke wondered how his favorite, the sprightly Lignerol, would take to being sent away. With a wealth of blond curls, pink moist lips, and rosy cheeks, he was like a cherub from an Italian painting. The Duke remembered his sleepy face cradled in the crook of his arms, his warm breath on his chest, from this very morning. If he was honest with himself, he did not want to send Lignerol across that stormy channel. Though if he were King, for he could be King of England, he would shower his servant with gifts, and keep him close to his side as his valet. What better way to reward gentle sweetness of M. Lignerol?

As he expected, his lover did not take his assignment well. In order to convince him to leave, the Duke had to promise to quit the court: for if Lignerol could not be with his Duke, then his Duke could not be with his mistresses.

Lignerol fretted at the marks Violetta had left on his shoulders. "She is cruel woman, I do not know why you are with her," he said.

"It excites me, pulling her hair, her scratches," the Duke replied.

"No, the rumors it creates excites you." Lignerol rubbed his phallus against the Duke's buttocks. "I can be cruel, I will pull your hair."

Citrus stung the Duke's eyes, Lignerol was always bleaching his hair with lemon juice. He turned Lignerol around, to kiss him and take him in his arms. "It is not the same, you do not enjoy it."

Lignerol fixed him with doe like eyes. "You are right, I could never find pleasure in hurting you."

The Duke was straining at his breeches. Lignerol led him to the bed. He made the Duke lay on his side, and he gently worked his oiled phallus into the Duke's anus, while he held the Duke in his hand. This great lover of women sighed like one in the arms of his valet.

At first, Lignerol was slow, making the Duke lift his legs to cup his balls. When the Duke started breathing in quick little pants and pushing back against him, Lignerol draped one leg over the Duke's waist. He twisted himself to penetrate the Duke deeper and deeper, continually oiling himself. From this angle, he harried his lover with fast strokes that made them both moan.

The Duke grunted, and Lignerol's palm was covered in sticky seed. After cleansing themselves, they fell asleep in one anothers' arms.

When they woke from their first sleep, they made love again. In the darkness, the Duke took Lignerol into his mouth, and thrust his tongue into Lignerol's anus. The Duke always made love to Lignerol with his mouth first. It was a great joy of the Duke's, to listen to Lignerol talk and feel his legs twitch.

Lignerol whispered to the Duke, he felt like a delicate maid of the court whose virtue was under assault. The feeling Lignerol loved the most though was the Duke's pounding heart against his skin. All the women of the court thought they owned the Duke's heart, but truly, it belonged to Lignerol. He was the one who made certain everything was perfect, that he had perfume and flowers enough for his mistresses, that his clothes and wigs were immaculate. It was he who shared the Duke's bed every night, even if he was exhausted from the days affairs, the Duke always wanted Lignerol by his side as he slept. When he commanded the Duke to leave Paris, the Duke promised to visit the Duke of Savoy in Brussels.

After Lignerol was finished with his confession, the Duke made love to him to Lignerol like he was a woman. He loved to watch Lignerol's mouth stretch and compress under his tender ministrations. Lignerol came, spilling himself on their bellies, and the Duke pulled out to orgasm with his sex touching that of his lover.