Chantilly Lace
By Adrian Hunter
"...and a pretty face
and a pony tail..."
-The Big Bopper
The sky glowered purple at the spindly winter trees studding the
perimeter of the outer fields.
"Doesn't look promising, does it?"
She continued to stare soundlessly at the juncture between the wall
and the ceiling, her chin held high by the cup molded into the top of
the leather dickey wrapped tightly around her neck.
He really wasn't expecting an answer anyway, given the size of the
bit between her teeth. And if her eyes betrayed her, he couldn't see
them around the blinders.
February is never a good month for outdoor activities, he reminded
himself. Too much rain, too much cold, too much mud. A difficult and
frustrating season for all living creatures. Especially those
straddling species.
He stared at her with a mixture of awe and pleasure. Such exquisite
composure. Patiently awaiting instruction without fidgeting in the
slightest. So rare and enviable. No wonder her master is elated with
her progress.
He slipped a finger beneath one of the myriad leather straps and
pretended to check for unwanted slack, even though the halter
girdling her groin and torso had been tooled specifically to her
measurements. They both knew he just wanted an excuse to touch her
pale, perfect skin.
His hand slid down to the cincher buckled fast around her waist.
Quite unnecessary in terms of her carriage, but a lovely effect
nonetheless.
He could feel her heart beating faster as he shifted his attentions
to her left breast, tracing lazy circles on the taut flesh that
bulged so enticingly through the metal ring.
She inhaled sharply through her nose when a finger strayed against
her nipple.
"Your tail is a mess," he announced in a voice that was practically
a whisper. Actually, it was perfectly groomed, but the strokes of the
curry brush had a marvelous effect on the lengthy plug that attached
the long black strands to her bottom.
98...99...100.
"Much better," he lied, watching the tiny trickles of sweat stream
down from under her arms, only to collide and dissipate against the
harness straps.
As the binder behind her back shuddered imperceptibly, he found
himself thinking there were few things he enjoyed as much as the
smell of warm leather intermingled with the secret scents of a woman.
His gaze wandered back to the window, now streaked with matching
rivulets of rain, then over to the double-door entrance to the
livery. "Le cheval est roi a Chantilly," read the inscription carved
above it.
He wondered what Patrick and Geric were doing over at Domaine today.
Probably putting their mounts through their paces on the all-weather
sand field. Such fanatics...180 stables, 20 paddocks, eight irrigated
regulation fields, even an obstacle course.
Such a pity to waste it on polo.
And that maniac Yves Bienaime, who somehow inherited the Grandes
Ecuries and turned it into Le Musee Vivant du Cheval. Completely over
the top. Almost as crazy as the chateau, although he enjoyed
wandering through its halls and chambers en route to his regular
viewing of Raphael's miniature portrait of the three muses.
Much better to keep things quiet. Low-key. Hidden from the prying
eyes of tourists who wandered by accident up the drive. Thank God for
Jean-Pierre and his rusty pitchfork, screaming and gesturing
obscenely at the petrified Germans en route to Disneyland in their
rented Renaults. One look at his decrepit shack at the entrance to
the estate, and they figured he was a crackpot best left alone. Those
who persisted were bullied into the purchase of a bottle of his badly-
fermented wine squeezed from the tiny grapes that somehow grew on his
decaying vines. But most backed down the gravel road at speeds that
rivaled the T.G.V.
"Putting on a show for the fucking Nazis," Jean-Pierre liked to say
with his crooked, leering smile. Unlike so many in France these days,
the old man still remembered.
He returned his attention to his charge, positioning himself
directly in front of her, his fingers resting on the hook that stuck
out maybe an inch from the front of the chastity strap. He pushed
down slightly, knowing full well the effect the pressure was causing
on the cumbersome missile lodged between her tender lips.
"Much too miserable to train outdoors," he said to her as the drops
drummed noisily against the roof. "But we still need to work on your
pacing."
He looked down at her new boots. Amazing what a craftsman could do
with reinforced arches...this particular design didn't even require
heels. And real horseshoes under the toes...he was terribly
impressed, as always, with her.
He continued to press on the curved metal as he pondered an
appropriate exercise. Not enough room in the barn for the
cart...perhaps stop-and-go commands in the outer hall...some advanced
dressage. He found his thoughts drifting to more traditional forms of
recreational exertion, specifically, the small gymnasium he
maintained for guests who derived some sort of pleasure from picking
up weights and strolling miles to nowhere on a rubber belt.
Ah, the walking machine...what do they call it? Yes, the treadmill.
That has possibilities worth investigating.
He released his grip on the hook between her quivering thighs and
picked up the reins dangling from the sides of her mouth.
"Allons."
He led her into the sheltered breezeway, walking briskly through the
wet air thick enough to use as paint, the clatter of her hooves
against the ancient cobblestones echoing off the stone walls of the
main house.
He was pleased with the way she lifted her legs high as they climbed
the narrow stairs to the exercise room. So poised and confident in
her steps. None of the petty insolence regrettably prevalent in most
fillies. Charging her master for board while he traveled was
practically criminal.
From the third floor, one could almost see the racetrack where they
ran the Prix du Jockey-Club every June. He surveyed the fields that
stretched to the horizon, meticulously maintained in perpetual homage
to the once-fearsome Bourbons and Condes. They may have made
Chantilly the pastoral envy of forever-urban Paris, but Napoleon
himself had ordered the execution of the last of the line more than a
century ago.
But some things never change, he noted as she huffed softly in the
center of the gym.
He motioned to the treadmill, and watched her step gingerly onto the
walkway.
"Wait."
He slipped out of the gym and hurried to the stockroom down the
hall, selecting a handful of items and returning before more than a
moment had passed. He could tell by the twitching tail that her
nerves were starting to get the better of her.
Quietly standing by her side, he placed his forefinger and thumb
around one of her nipples and began squeezing it. When he was
satisfied it could be coaxed no harder, he made it disappear between
the plastic-coated tips of a heavy clamp.
After the process had been repeated, he wrapped and knotted a long
piece of cord to the handrail directly in front of her, then tied the
two ends to the clamps so her breasts stretched out in tremulous
suspension.
He tied another piece of thin rope in a similar fashion to the metal
ring jutting out from the strap cinched around her groin, the twin
lengths dangling downward all the way to her feet.
Kneeling, he buckled the well-worn leather manacles, permanently
curved and smooth to the touch, around her ankles.
He threaded one of the ends through a ring on the left cuff and
hitched a knot that afforded precious little slack between its two
destinations.
And again with the remaining cord and her right cuff, taking his
time to savor her trepidation.
He stood and strolled slowly to the front of the machine, studying
the control panel behind the handrail from a backward perspective.
It's not too complicated, he realized. One apparently manipulates the
speed with the large knob in the center.
He dialed it down to zero and pressed the power switch.
Her eyes stayed properly focused on the ceiling, but he could see
them blink rapidly as the hum of the motor filled the room with an
ominous rumble.
He returned to her side, then reached over to the control knob and
twisted it a few degrees clockwise.
"Walk."
He was more than ready to assist her if she should stumble, but she
responded to his command at the exact moment the treadmill began to
move. It took her just a few seconds to adjust her pace to keep the
rope stretching horizontally from her nipples from getting taut. But
there was nothing she could do about the relentless bobbing of the
hook between her legs. Each step caused the cords that were fastened
to her ankles to jerk in a manner that undoubtedly created a great
deal of activity on the part of the prod inside her.
He watched her appreciatively, then gave the knob another nudge.
"Trot."
Her feet began moving faster to match the speed of the whirring
rubber sidewalk, obviously desperate to find the proper gait that
split the difference between the strain on her nipples and the
delicious agony in her pussy.
He leaned back against the wall, content to admire her impeccable
form, and wondered how long it would take before female biology
overcame her well-toned muscles and turned her thighs into something
resembling the consistency of marmalade.
He was pondering the exact setting for "canter" when a frantic
pounding on the door shattered their solitude.
"Monsieur! I must speak to you immediately," cried the voice in the
hall.
It was Diane, his apprentice. He was proud of her development over
the past few months, but she was having a terrible time dealing with
her latest project. He was a callow young man who had been left in
their charge by his new wife in hopes they could address his
regrettably-negative attitude toward "getting with the program," as
Americans liked to say.
He sighed and turned off the treadmill.
"Stop."
Her breathing poured out of her nose in hot, ragged snorts.
"Feet together."
He reached into his pocket and fished out a padlock, then bent down
and snapped it between the cuffs around her ankles, denying her any
hope of the release he knew she craved so desperately.
He briefly considered inserting a vibrator between her pressed-
together legs and demanding that it remain there without fail, but
Diane's wails distracted him before he could make the necessary
arrangements.
"Oh, monsieur, he is simply impossible," she blubbered as soon as he
opened the door to the exercise chamber. "I tried everything you
said, but nothing seems to work. He's the devil's spawn for sure."
Exactly what his wife had said when she had delivered the boy a
fortnight ago.
Henri was definitely a handful, but he had to admire the pure
dedication to the calling. Like all who placed themselves under their
tutelage, Henri came to the estate of his own accord. It was always
challenging to develop appropriate punishments for those who enjoyed
pain, but he often thought Henri could serve as the illustration next
to the dictionary listing of "masochism."
Diane had indisputable skills as a trainer, but the boy was proving
to be a formidable task. When it came to encouraging compliance,
whipping Henri did absolutely no good, nor did the usual clips and
clamps and prods and plugs. After a few frustrating days, he had
suggested that she work him like a plowhorse, a tactic which had only
served to make him more obstinate.
He knew he should reprimand Diane for interrupting, but now seemed
like a good time to listen.
"There, there. Come, let's sit in the salon. Tell me what the lout
has done this morning."
He looked back at the girl standing so still on the treadmill and
decided her imagination would more than suffice as entertainment, so
he slipped into the hall with Diane and closed the door to the gym
without another word. She has certainly endured far worse, he thought
as he led Diane down the stairs to his sitting room. Make that "will
endure," he corrected himself as he contemplated which number on the
machine's digital readout would equal "gallop."
When they had settled in a pair of comfortable chairs, Diane poured
out her tale of woe. She had gone to the barn this morning and found
Henri in his stable completely unbound and masturbating furiously;
apparently, he had somehow managed to extricate himself from his
sleeping yoke. Even worse, he had been utterly contemptuous to the
point of insolence when Diane insisted he stop touching himself. A
tussle ensued, and she was able to restrain him thanks only to the
collar still padlocked around his neck. She confessed there had been
a scary moment when she thought Henri was going to overpower her, but
she had managed to clip a chain hanging from the ceiling to a ring in
the collar and ultimately wrench his wrists into handcuffs behind his
back. Getting him into a gag required her to pinch his nose for an
eternity until he finally opened his mouth, spewing lungfuls of
obscenities.
He didn't say a word until he was sure Diane had finished her story.
Obviously, Henri was going to require a different approach, but this
could be an ideal opportunity to help Diane learn and grow in her
abilities.
"Sometimes, cheri, the ponies resist the bit and bridle for no
reason other than they can," he began, speaking softly. "They buck
and they whinny and they prance around the ring with the impertinence
of a satyr, practically daring you to break them."
She snuffled a bit, her eyes wet and gorgeous, and nodded her head
in agreement. Such a vision in her tight white blouse, beige jodhpurs
and gleaming black boots. His mind started to form an image of her
kneeling before him, wrists buckled behind her back, but he forced
himself to stay in the present. Another time, he promised himself.
Soon.
"You see, they're too proud to obey for the simple sake of
obedience. They want to respect the one wielding the whip. But that
respect is difficult to achieve when the colt enjoys the sting of the
crop. He knows that disobedience is the fastest route to what he
craves. The worse he behaves, the more forceful you become in your
punishments, and his happiness is assured."
She subconsciously twirled her long auburn hair as she contemplated
what he had said. He felt his groin stir. Perhaps an extra bottle of
wine tonight at dinner.
"To him, there's no reward to be won by acquiescence. So perhaps in
this particular case, a carrot may prove more effective than the
stick."
"I am open to your suggestion, monsieur."
He resisted the urge to lend voice to the vivid image of her
delectable ass exposed to his whims, and instead pressed his fingers
together in an approximation of deep concentration.
"You say you caught him masturbating?" he finally asked.
"Oui, but I don't think he had achieved release."
"Very good. We can start from there."
He stood up and walked over to the telephone.
"I know of a woman in Paris who manages the schedule of some of the
most appealing escorts the world has ever seen. The pleasure of their
company is quite dear, but the expense is well worth the investment."
He began dialing.
"I think we shall engage the services of one...no, make that two...of
her most attractive and experienced girls to provide an afternoon of
inspirational entertainment for our Henri."
He directed his attention to the telephone receiver. A moment later,
he was chatting pleasantly with someone whom Diane presumed to be the
madam. As he began to tell the person on the other end of the line
what he wanted, she smiled.
When he finished, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep
from laughing out loud.
"Excuse me a moment while I look for the proper accoutrements," he
said, winking as he opened the door to the hallway.
When he had departed, she clapped her hands in relief and
unmitigated glee. She was to return to the stables with a spreader
bar, a pair of thumb restraints, a very special harness, and a bowl
full of ice. She was first to cuff and string his hands high over his
head and secure his feet far apart. Then, while waiting for the
arrival of the Parisian femmes, she was to manipulate his cock into a
long, slow, painful state of excitement. When she sensed he was
seconds from forbidden release, she was to massage his balls with the
ice until the erection subsided. This process was to be repeated
until she was notified that the girls had been delivered to the
estate. At that time, she was to shrink his manhood a final time and
secure him in a harness designed to stretch his shriveled cock
several centimeters. It would be compressed between three thin metal
rods welded to two rings that he described as "perhaps more
appropriate for fingers" in terms of circumference. With the help of
some lubricant, these narrow circles were to be positioned around the
base and beneath the head of his penis. Locking leather straps would
hold it in place around the top of his scrotum, with the added
benefit of squeezing his balls so they were pleasingly vulnerable.
Once the harness was in place, he assured her Henri could not
possibly remove it without assistance, nor could he achieve any
semblance of an erection. But the shaft and especially the head of
his penis, not to mention all his other body parts, would remain
easily accessible to the attentions of the practiced hands, mouths
and orifices of his companions, who would be instructed to make it
their mission to drive him to the brink of madness for a period that
would most likely include tomorrow's sunrise.
A permanent stiffy, as the Brits might say...she closed her eyes and
imagined them taking turns riding his fettered cock while the other
one sat on his face until they both reached the kind of endless
orgasms that cause aneurysms. Of course, it would be prudent for her
to stay close by Henri's stable at all times to ensure the safety of
the participants. In fact, they may even need her assistance on
occasion, in case he abused the extreme privilege of wearing nothing
but thumb shackles.
When the girls had returned to Paris, Diane was to inform Henri that
the harness would remain in place for the remainder of his stay at
the estate. However, if his disposition improved and he showed
progress in his training, she might be persuaded to remove it while
he was prepared for his voyage home. Perhaps she could even arrange
to look the other way for a minute or two before he was restrained
for travel. Granted, his wife had been very explicit on this topic,
but accidents happen, non? Along those same lines, wouldn't it be a
shame if Diane were to inadvertently misplace the key to the tiny
padlock?
"I'll have to send Jean-Pierre to fetch our guests, as I have
another errand to run this afternoon," he said when he returned to
the salon with the cuffs and the harness, which Diane immediately
noted was both longer and narrower than she had expected. "I
sincerely doubt we will win many new friends if he shows up in his
decrepit old truck. Do you mind if he takes your car? Diane?"
He gave her a gentle nudge to break her out of her reverie, pleased
she had recovered so well from her earlier dismay. She was going to
be a good one, perhaps his best ever.
"Look, the sun is breaking through the clouds," he noted. "An
excellent omen of better things to come."
Like me inside you, he found himself hoping, although he had already
resigned himself to spending this evening once again alone.
"Begone," he commanded her in a joking tone. "And tell Jean-Pierre
that he should first stop at the vintners in St. Germain to restock
the cellar. You know those Parisian girls," rolling his eyes in mock
lunacy.
Diane laughed, gave him a kiss on the forehead, and danced out of
the salon as if spirited by angels.
He looked at his watch. Plenty of time to finish the demoiselle's
morning lesson in the gymnasium, but given Diane's more pressing
engagement, he would have to perform her post-workout rubdown
himself, following of course the taking of his own pleasure...most
likely from her ass, once more thinking of his apprentice.
Then it was off to Orly, where he was to pick up a most unusual pair
of guests flying in this evening from America. He had received a
peculiar phone call a few weeks ago from a man who spoke absolutely
the most atrocious French his ears had ever heard. After tolerating a
few garbled fragments, he had almost slammed down the receiver when a
woman got on the line. She explained in much more fluent terms that
they wanted to stay at the estate for a week and take advantage of
his facilities, as it were. At first, he was hesitant, especially
when she insisted they had no need for his or Diane's services, but
the woman eventually charmed him into an arrangement.
Most curious, he mused as he mounted the stairs back to the exercise
room. When he had discreetly inquired as to whether they would
require accessories for a filly or a stallion, she had replied
"both." Regardless, he found himself looking forward to making their
acquaintance, although he was still unsure how exactly he was to
recognize them at the airport.
"Trust me," she had said disingenuously. "I'll be the only one from
JFK wearing the pride of Oise. Just look for the shoes."
From the third floor landing, he could just make out the spires of
Chantilly's castle glistening in the struggling sunlight. Staring at
the endless green expanses of the departement, it suddenly dawned on
him that the American woman was referring not to riding boots, but
rather to the region's previous preoccupation, the one that was quite
the opposite of leather.
###
Copyright (c) 2003 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do
not repost nor repurpose without permission.
###
About the Authors
Adrian Hunter is the author of Ace of Slaves, Chain Reaction, Come
True, Crash Your Party Dress and Something Just Clicked, and the co-
author of Association and Once Bitten with Chelsea Shepard. He began
posting his fiction on the Internet in 1993. Four years later, he
published his stories on a web site, AdrianHunter.com, which has
attracted more than two million visitors. In 2000, he was the
recipient of the "Best Bondage Writer" award from SIGNY. His smooth
and kinky short stories, novellas, essays and poetry have appeared in
dozens of erotica compilations, publications and webzines, including
Clean Sheets, Darker Pleasures, MASTER/slave, Prometheus, Touch Words
and Sex Writer.
Chelsea Shepard has written two bdsm novels, Once Bitten and
Association, with Adrian Hunter, as well as short stories which ap-
pear in his compilations, Come True, Crash Your Party Dress and
Something Just Clicked. Her new novel, Two Moons: Worthy of a Mas-
ter, will be published in 2003.
Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard's books can be purchased online
through their respective web sites:
http://www.adrianhunter.com
http://www.chelseashepard.com
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