The morning sun did very little to warm the drafty stone courtyard of the Valerius estate, but today, Eleanor didn't seem to notice the cold.
She sat at the heavy iron table, sipping from the crude clay teapot. But the desolate, frozen statue from yesterday was gone. Her silver hair cascaded down her back with a new, vibrant luster. Her pale skin held a deep, healthy flush, and her amethyst eyes were practically sparkling. Beneath her heavy linen day-dress, her body felt delightfully sore, her internal muscles still occasionally twitching from the phantom memory of Victor's thick dick stretching her out.
She let out a soft, dreamy sigh, the steam from her tea rising into the crisp air.
"You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself last night, Madam."
"Pfft—!" Eleanor choked, violently spitting her tea across the table.
She whipped her head around, her face burning crimson. Beatrice, her fiercely loyal personal maid, stood behind her. Beatrice was dressed in her usual austere, dark servant's uniform, her sharp eyes calm and her expression perfectly neutral. She was twenty-six, lean and lethal, and currently radiating an aura of intense judgment.
"B-Beatrice! What on earth are you talking about?!" Eleanor sputtered, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
"I am stating a factual observation," Beatrice replied smoothly, her voice completely deadpan. "You spent the entire night screaming the Baron's name, begging him not to pull out, and declaring yourself to be his 'dirty little slut.' If I hadn't activated a low-tier sound-dampening ward around your door, the guards in the courtyard would have heard you completely losing your mind."
Eleanor froze. Her brain completely stalled. The blood rushed to her face so fast she felt dizzy.
"Wait," Eleanor whispered in horror. "How... how do you know what I said?"
"Because I was standing behind the heavy velvet tapestry in the corner of your room," Beatrice stated matter-of-factly. "With a poisoned dagger. I assumed the Baron was going to hurt you, so I positioned myself to assassinate him the moment he caused you distress." The maid sighed, a rare display of emotion. "Instead, I was forced to listen to you getting pounded into the mattress for hours."
"Ahhhhhhh!"
Eleanor buried her face in her hands, literally steaming from the sheer, unfiltered humiliation. Her trusted maid had been standing ten feet away while Victor turned her into a dripping, squealing mess.
"Don't worry, Madam," Beatrice said, finally showing a hint of a smile. "I am glad to see you looking so alive. Though I must admit, I am highly skeptical. The Baron has never shown such... competence. What exactly did he do to make you sound like a feral cat?"
Eleanor peeked through her fingers. Victor's words from last night echoed in her head. Calibration. A system of pressure and heat. An aristocratic lady wasn't supposed to think about such things. But the sheer curiosity, combined with the lingering, addictive buzz of pleasure in her lower belly, gave Eleanor a sudden, reckless idea.
"Beatrice," Eleanor said, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I want to run a test."
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors of Eleanor's bedroom were bolted shut.
On top of the rumpled, scent-heavy sheets where Eleanor had been thoroughly conquered hours prior, the two women sat facing each other. Both were completely naked.
Even in a puritanical world devoid of sexual desire, women dressing and undressing together wasn't a taboo—but the context of this certainly was.
Eleanor's twenty-nine-year-old body was a masterpiece of soft, voluptuous curves. Her heavy breasts rested proudly on her chest, her wide hips practically begging to be grabbed. In contrast, twenty-six-year-old Beatrice was built for combat and efficiency. She had smaller, firmer breasts and a lean, tightly muscled core.
"Are you certain about this, Madam?" Beatrice asked, tilting her head. "I am perfectly willing to serve you, but I fail to see the logic here."
"Victor called it 'calibration,'" Eleanor explained nervously, her cheeks still flushed. "He said a woman's body is a system that responds to heat and friction. I... I want to know if it was just his technique, or if any friction causes that reaction. I need to know why I lost my mind like that."
Before her courage could fail her, Eleanor lunged forward. She grabbed Beatrice's shoulders and smashed their lips together.
Eleanor tried to mimic what Victor had done. She pressed her heavy breasts against Beatrice's chest, opened her mouth, and shoved her tongue inside the maid's mouth, swirling it around to mix their saliva.
After a few seconds, Eleanor pulled back, panting slightly. She looked at Beatrice expectantly. "Well? Is your... system reacting?"
Beatrice blinked, completely unfazed. "It is certainly a damp sensation, Madam. My lips are a bit tingling. But I do not feel the urge to scream my own name or beg for a dick."
Eleanor frowned. "That's strange. When Victor did it, my entire body felt like it was melting. Maybe... maybe it requires more direct stimulation."
Determined, Eleanor reached out and grabbed Beatrice's breasts, squeezing them and roughly rubbing her thumbs over the maid's pink nipples.
"Hmm," Beatrice hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose that is somewhat stimulating. But again, Madam, I am not currently dripping wet like you were last night."
The maid's blunt observation made Eleanor pout. "Victor said the system needed to be fully primed. There's... one more thing he did. The thing that made me climax the first time."
Eleanor crawled down the bed. She knelt between Beatrice's thighs and gently pushed the maid's knees apart.
Up until this exact moment in her twenty-nine years of life, Eleanor had never looked closely at her own genitals, let alone another woman's. The Church taught that the lower region was merely for excretion and duty. It was to be ignored.
But now, kneeling between her maid's legs, Eleanor got a very clear, very brightly lit view of Beatrice's neatly trimmed, pink, folded pussy.
Eleanor froze.
Her aristocratic brain completely short-circuited.
Oh my God, Eleanor thought, horror and absolute shock washing over her. It's... it's meat. It's folded flesh. And Victor... Victor put his actual face in there? On mine? He buried his nose and his mouth into this exact spot and drank out of me like a feral dog?!
The sheer, graphic reality of what her husband had done to her—the obscene, filthy, unbelievable intimacy of oral sex—suddenly became terrifyingly real.
"I can't believe it..." Eleanor whispered, her eyes wide as saucers, her hands trembling as she stared at Beatrice's crotch. "He... his mouth was right there... he was licking it... slurping it..."
Beatrice, completely misreading Eleanor's look of absolute, paralyzed shock, sat up sharply.
"Madam?" Beatrice's voice dropped to a dangerous, deadly whisper. "What is it? Did seeing this remind you of something? Did that bastard Baron damage your internal structure?!"
"N-no! Beatrice, you don't understand, he put his mouth—he used his tongue—!" Eleanor stammered, completely unable to articulate the sheer obscenity of foreplay to a woman who knew nothing about it.
"I knew it!" Beatrice snarled. In a flash of terrifying speed, the naked maid reached under the mattress and pulled out a jagged, wicked-looking skinning knife. "He tortured you! He did something unnatural to your reproductive organs! I am going to find him, and I am going to cut his filthy dick off and feed it to the hounds!"
"NO!" Eleanor shrieked, snapping out of her daze and lunging forward to tackle her naked maid. "Beatrice, put the knife down! Don't cut his dick off! I need that! I need his dick!"
"Unhand me, Madam! I must avenge your honor!"
"He didn't hurt me! He just ate my pussy!"
"What does that even mean?! Let me castrate him!"
The two naked women wrestled wildly across the massive bed, heavy breasts bouncing and limbs tangling as Eleanor fought desperately to save her husband's life—and her newfound favorite piece of machinery.