The note arrived by a young messenger at her apartment around midday. "Four o'clock, No.12 Rue de St. Antoine, upstairs", was the curt message. Bold strokes on fine linen paper. The simple signature was a cryptic: "A devoted one."
The mystery was fascinating and irresistible. The countess bathed herself in perfumed waters and donned a fresh chemise, then called on her young attendant to help her into her new satin corset, which lifted her aging yet ample breasts into ripe mounds. White silk leggings were fitted up to her scented thighs and held in place by finely embroidered garters. A light, white petticoat completed the inner layer.
A suitable outfit was chosen from her wardrobe - a full summer dress covered in a print of cascading yellow jonquils, white lace trim and fan-shaped falling cuffs, with a small, yellow satin bustle and bodice, neither too demure nor too revealing. A perfumed sachet nestled between her breasts.
The young handmaiden had not seen Madame L'Contessa in such effervescent spirits in some months. A light dusting of powder and a stylish dash of rouge were tastefully applied. As a finishing touch, they shaped her thick chestnut hair in the latest fashion, tightly fitted at the forehead, and a tumbling mass of large curls down each side, capped with a wide-brimmed bonnet and a single ostrich plume falling from the rear.
As the appointed hour approached, she called on her horsemen to freshen the carriage. The servants received orders that all shutters be opened to air the apartment in preparation for a visitor. They all knew their routines. After making certain that everything under their care was in order, each servant was excused for the evening - the general presumption was that they would join friends at their preferred societes.
The highly bred countess stepped into the heat of a Paris midsummer afternoon and directly into the waiting carriage, paying no attention to the scenes in the street. The horses dashed forward, cantering along the narrow lanes toward their destination. The clatter of their hooves, the clank of metal wheels on stone pavement, and the clamor of gangs along their route: all served to mask the muffled moans from inside the coach.
The carriage arrived at its destination at the designated time. Stepping carefully from the carriage, she peered around to see if anyone was watching. Secrecy in matters of the heart was not normally one of her concerns (nor of many in Paris at that time), but her obvious station required that she was cautious of any sign of hostility from the cliques gathering at every corner.
She knew this part of the city reasonably well. The merchant guilds owned most of the shops, and this area, specifically, was home to the Jew gem merchants. She had visited here several times for a bauble to impress the Court, but never to this particular address. The sign outside read simply "M. Donneville, Fine Gems".
Climbing the narrow stairs, she knocked lightly on the door at the top. The door opened, and inside stood two men. The one with his hand on the handle was pudgy, with a large periwig, a ruddy complexion, pince nez spectacles, and the clothes of a businessman. The other was more appealing, taller, perhaps six inches taller than she, with gray-streaked dark hair, velvet breeches, and a dark frock coat. Although he was somehow familiar, she did not recognize him at once. He smiled.
He had not been this close to her in many years, and took a deep breath as he took in her lovely countenance. Her elegant bearing contrasted with the perplexed look on her face. Her waspy waist and luscious breasts invited him as though he were twenty years younger. She seemed to have aged not a day since their last rendezvous in his small apartment at Montmartre.
She offered her hand. Raising it to his lips, he recognized a familiar scent, and smiled. His tight breeches became tighter yet, and he grinned inwardly, wondering if he could comfortably sit again.
"My dear Contessa, it's so good to see you again," he said in his mellow baritone, "you're as radiant as ever"
As soon as he spoke, her heart leapt as she recognized her man of mystery. She took all of him in one glance. The bronzed face was more weathered and worn, a little less hair, with gray highlights, his frame a bit heavier than she remembered, but altogether still quite appealing. And obviously still interested, if the apparent bulge at the opening of his waistcoat was any sign.
"Jacque, my dear, it has been such a long time," she answered in polite tones, trying to restrain her growing passion, with little success.
"If Madame will have a seat, we shall begin", the small man proffered the right of two chairs in front of a small escritoire at the far end of the room. She nodded, inquisitively. She adjusted her dress, and her old friend seated her, then he took the left chair. The small man hurried through a door on the left, and quickly returned with an armful of wooden boxes, some plain, some ornate, and placed them on the desk.
He opened several of the boxes, to expose gorgeous jewelry, such as she had seen at the Royal Court on only a few of the more noble women. She had never hoped to own any such ornaments, even with the late Comte's generous legacy. Iridescent opals, carved jade from the orient, inlaid with gems and set in gold, pear-shaped diamond earrings, pearl necklaces, rubies, emeralds - the collection was dazzling, and took her breath away.
"These are all so...so...magnificent. Why do you show me these delightful things?"
"Make your choice," her former lover smiled, "any one you want - it's yours."
She looked at him carefully, but could not discern any trickery or deceit. She didn't recall his fortune to be so great, and his clothes seemed so plain. How could he afford such a gift?
"Would Madame L'Contessa like to see others?" the small man asked.
"Certainement, madame. We have..."
Jacque interrupted, "Perhaps you could fetch some of your more special pieces."
The small man nodded and hurried to the side room again. They heard him in the adjacent room, opening drawers and moving boxes. She looked at her friend inquiringly.
"But, Jacque, I don't understand. Why...?"
Jacque placed a hand on her arm. In a soft voice he began, "Mon cheri, it's because I have dreamed of no one but you these many years. In all my travels and successes, you have been at the center of my thoughts. For so long, I suppressed my feelings, but now I find I can no longer stay at a distance from you, I cannot resist you. Since we first met, I have always loved you, lusted for you, wanted you. Only you, and no other."
He gazed at her as his whispers became more and more agitated, "You have been the object of my desires, of my fantasies, for as long as I remember. You feel it, too. I see the passion rising in you, I can smell the heat rising from you. I am like the honeybee drawn to the rose." He took her hand and kissed a single finger, pressing it down, down to her belly, "Please, let me taste of your nectar."
She indeed felt the flush in her face and a dampness down below. She knew what he wanted. She had always thought it so charming how much he relished the taste of her, as if her essence were more piquant than the richest pate'.
He nodded. Without hesitation, still watching the ardor in his eyes, ignoring the chance that the merchant might return, she lifted the side of her dress with her right hand and reached underneath. She maneuvered her hand through the mass of fabric just as she had done in the carriage, pushing each layer aside until she felt herself.
He could tell when her hand found its target. Her countenance changed perceptibly, not so much a movement, more like a cloud falling away from the sun. Her eyes closed, fluttered, and her mouth fell slightly open. Her breathing quickened.
Letting her hem fall, she offered her hand again as though for a kiss. Taking it gently in his, he passed each digit under his nose until he found his treasure. He took the whole finger into his mouth, removing it slowly, deliberately, while he savored the fresh tang.
The sound of the small man's footsteps interrupted their intimacy. Placing several more boxes on the desk, he opened them for Madame to view, each bringing forth further exclamations of delight. One plain, pine box held a most exquisite piece.
The rays of the evening sun caught the contents of the box as it was opened, dazzling both of them with the brilliance within. They each moved their heads this way and that, trying to avoid the bright light so as to see better, but the sparkle seemed to follow their movements. As their eyes adjusted, they beheld an exquisite site - a small, silver tiara, in a floral pattern, glittering with hundreds of diamonds. The setting was a tremblant - the stones cut and fixed at precise angles, such that the light reflected and refracted, regardless of the wearers' position.
The countess placed a hand on her chest and gasped, caught her breath, then reached into the box, removing the hairpiece gently and respectfully. As the small man came around the desk and removed her hat, her old friend took the tiara from her hands and tucked it into place in her deep red hair. A mirror was offered, and she marveled at the sight.
"They are all excellent quality and craftsmanship. It is so difficult to choose," she sighed as the tiara was removed, "Perhaps M. Donneville has something he hasn't yet shown?"
"Hmm, well, yes, there are just a few items we have not seen," he said, "but they are of lower quality."
"Please fetch them," she requested, "so that we may compare them against these excellent pieces."
The merchant scurried away to the closet like an oversized ferret.
As soon as he left the room, she again reached underneath her dress and pulled forth a small velvet pouch. She emptied the contents of the pouch on the desk - a small fortune in gold coins, worth more than 100 livres - then snatched the tiara from the desk, and dropped it into the pouch. She grabbed her bonnet and her friend's arm, surprising him with her strength, and pulled him toward the door. As the merchant returned to the room he caught a glimpse of the couple disappearing into the hall, and smiled and clapped his hands gleefully as a second pouch arced through the air and landed with a chink on the floor near the desk.
She pulled her lover down the stairs. Outside, a late afternoon storm was gathering, mirroring the sentiment of the throng in the street. As she stepped into the carriage, placing the pouch beside her, he tied his mount to the back of the carriage then joined her inside, taking the seat opposite his love.
The coach started through the milling populace, and a rock bounced off the side as the horses picked up speed. Angry crowds were along every route, and the approaching thunder added a continuo to the tenor of the shouting assemblage. Maneuvering through the sea of people slowed the horses, much to the chagrin of the nervous coachmen, but to the delight of the coach's inhabitants.
As soon as the coach started he knelt before her, their mouths pressed hard to one another, locked in a passionate kiss. His hands parted her knees, their tongues intertwined in a playful dance. She held his head in both hands as he sucked on her lower lip and kissed his way down her neck, nibbling, licking, until he reached her breasts. Reaching up with one hand, he released her left breast from its satin prison, and suckled the erect nipple, eliciting a pleasurable moan from the Countess.
His hands returned to her knees as he kissed his way back up to her ears. Starting at her silk-clad ankles, his arms lifted her dress, hands sliding up her legs to the insides of her thighs, past the garters, until he found no covering for her silky skin. His hands continued their slow journey while he nibbled her ear and breathed heavily, full of passion. His hands met each other where her legs came together, and they played in the silky forest they found there, pulling gently on the tiny hairs, and running through them like children. One hand slid underneath her. She spread her legs further and tilted her hips forward, and he ran two fingers along velvet lips, from bottom to top. His fingertips moved in small, light circular motions over the tight skin before sliding back down to gather more of the dampness from her seeping well.
She shuddered with the slow entry of a large finger, sliding along the bottom of her quim, his thumb repeated the small, gentle motions on her hood. He broke their kiss, and with his free hand he lifted her dress, petticoat, and chemise up to her waist. He lowered his head to the source of her pleasure, and she held his head with both hands, guiding him to her.
He licked the moist, shining lips, and pried them open with his tongue, entering her with just the tip. Caressing the length of her lips with his, he grazed over the tiny pearl at the top and felt her shudder again. Her hips slid further forward, nearly off the seat, guiding him to her pleasure. With gentle, quick flicks on her button, harder, softer, harder, he savored the scent and the taste of her. She pushed his head down and sideways, where he suckled her lips, darting his tongue in and out of the widening, scarlet opening. When she directed his head back up to the top of her crease, he licked her hooded joy insistently while inserting two fingers below.
The constant rhythm and vibrations of the carriage over the rocky pavement and the insistent vibrato on her swollen button combined to overwhelm her. Her climax rolled over her like the brash finale of a symphony. She closed her eyes, tossed her head back, and moaned long and low. The sensations began in her arse, moving through her belly, and the low, guttural wail trilled higher as her hips bucked involuntarily. Her juices poured from her, which delighted him, and it was only her hands holding firm to his hair that allowed him to keep his tongue flicking at its target.
The clamor outside drowned her noises as they had on the earlier trip. The rising wind blew the curtains about, and the threatening storm dispersed the crowds. The coach arrived at her apartment with a sudden stop. The driver knocked twice on the top of the carriage, and she grabbed the velvet pouch in one hand and his hand in the other, pulling him out of the carriage and up the steps, her hair in disarray and one breast still exposed. The coachmen had seen Madame in such a state before, and besides, the storm was upon them, frightening the horses. The carriage bolted off to the stable as the couple burst through the doors.
Inside, she placed the pouch on a side table and turned to him, reaching her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down in a forceful kiss. She walked forward, still locked in the kiss, pushing him backward down the hall and through the doors of the drawing room, feeling his hardness against her belly and longing for the feel of him within.
Standing on a thick, ornate Persian rug, she held him in place with just the wanton power of her enthusiastic lips as she dropped both hands from his neck to release the drawstring of his breeches. When they fell loose from his waist, she turned her attentions to his coats, unbuttoning them and fervently pulling them off in layers.
Only when he was left standing in his chemise, his shoes and stockings, and his breeches dangling from the knees, did she relax her kiss. She pulled back slightly, lifted his chemise off over his head, and knelt on the rug, pulling him down with her. She laid him down, and unbuckled his shoes, then removed his stockings and breeches, leaving him entirely naked, and her, except the one nipple, completely dressed.
Standing above him, she admired his body for a brief moment, still muscular and firm for his age, a soft mantle of dark hair on his broad chest, his great cock, exposed from its sheath, standing proudly away from his body, as she remembered it.
Straddling his loins, she sat on him, reaching under her dress to guide his firmness into her. Slowly, she penetrated her still-moist hollow. Her knees on either side of him, she leaned forward and lay on his chest for a long moment, listening to his heavy breathing and pounding heart.
Eager to feel his ecstasy, she sat upright and began moving, tilting her hips forward until she sat on his hips, then rotating back until his cock head nestled at her opening, nearly falling out. With practiced slow and deliberate motions, her quim milked his cock like a maid on the teats of a heifer, pulling, squeezing, pushing, releasing, feeling him inside her, savoring each stroke.
The storm was on top of them: the room darkened, and the rain poured in torrents as each flash lit the walls with a crash of thunder. He tossed his head side to side, electric passions building inside him. He wished her dress out of the way, so he could watch the succors she paid to his cock. Supporting himself on an elbow, he tilted up at the waist and loosened her bodice and corset. Although the dress slid down, liberating her breasts, it did not come off. The new freedom from the whalebone stays allowed her greater ease of movement, however, and he was rewarded with new stimulations to his manhood, forcing him back to the floor in his euphoria.
She clasped his thighs tightly with her calves, and, using her body for leverage, fell sideways to the floor, pulling him on top of her. He took up the rhythm, stroking from side to side, touching the bottom and top of her opening, letting his bulbous cock head rub deep inside of her. He pulled the fabric out of the way so he could watch the penetration and withdrawal in the light of myriad flashes. She called his name, and he stroked her velvet lips steadily, powerfully, and growled as he felt the warmth rising in him. When he could no longer hold back, he let loose his seed with a cry. She felt the pulses and cried out with him, both rocking in tandem, swaying with each other as the storm echoed their fury.
As they lay together, side by side, the storm passed and a cool, refreshing rain fell. They spoke in whispers, talking of experiences and feelings, a little of politics. She lit two candles and retrieved a decanted wine from the closet, then pulled off the remainder of her clothing, save her silk stockings, before lying on her stomach next to him to share the crimson spirits in the cool of the evening. From the pouch on the table he tucked the tiara into her tousled hair, attaching it haphazardly with the few pins he could find there and admired her beauty.
Toes nuzzled feet, and hands wandered, caressing, gently exploring curves and crevices. Her slender fingers played across his chest, and she dragged her nails down to his navel, creating ripples of excited bumps on his skin. He was trying to tell her of his travels and successes in the colonies, but her interest was elsewhere.
Her hand floated down to the limp carcass of his manhood. As he made a futile attempt to maintain his composure and finish his story, she reached below it and cupped the velvet pouch embracing his jewels, squeezing them ever so gently, then scraped her carefully manicured nails across the wrinkly skin, stopping him in mid-sentence.
In the flickering light he saw her smile as she wrapped her hand around his soft cock, and she lowered her head to meet her hand. She took all of him in her mouth, washing the pliant flesh and tasting the combination of their juices. It was too soon for him, and he remained limp. She delighted in this state of affairs, however, and played with his cock much as their tongues had done earlier. Keeping one hand at the base, her lips suckled and gently pulled him then took all of him into her mouth again.
The stimulation was tantalizing. When she had done this several times, he placed a hand on her hair as he felt himself come alive again. He grew in her mouth, the phallus appearing from within its sheath and she was joyful that she could excite him in this way. She continued squeezing him with her lips as she withdrew, flicking the delicate underside of the head with her tongue before again drawing him into her mouth.
When he was sufficiently firm, she tossed her leg over his thighs and mounted him as she had done before. This time he was not content to be taken, however. Pulling himself up on his elbows, he reached around her waist with first one arm, then the other. He pulled himself up to her then bore down upon her with his weight, forcing her back onto the luxurious carpet beneath them. He stroked furiously into her several times in this arrangement, then, with a strength that surprised her, he managed to pull his legs underneath him and lift her from the floor, with enough leverage that soon he was standing erect, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist. Her bottom rested on his pintle.
Coupled in this manner, he walked the few steps to a richly upholstered love seat. He dropped to his knees again, so that her back rested on the cushions, and she raised her silk-covered legs to his shoulders. In this situation, his cock could easily move in many different ways, filling her deeply, stimulating the top, bottom and sides of her moistened quim. His right hand moved around her leg and he gently rubbed the small hood at the top, causing amorous groans to emanate from the Countess.
His strokes quickened to match the motion of her hips as the passion gradually mounted within her. He placed his free hand underneath a breast, and squeezed the nipple gently between his finger and thumb. The flickering of the candles revealed a sublime face, and sparkled radiantly in the gems of the tiara. Her eyes closed and her mouth fell open, gasping for air. Her breathing became rapid and short, and low sounds rose from deep within her until her ecstasy climaxed in a wild frenzy of bucking and thrashing and grunting.
Her fury subsided, and he rocked into her gently a few more times as her motion decreased. He withdrew, then picked her up and carried her to her boudoir, laying her beneath her fine linen sheets. He joined her there and cradled her head against his neck, where she cooed and breathed deeply, contentedly, kissing his cheek before falling asleep.
She awoke him later that night and they made love again, slowly and tenderly, and he remembered why he'd left her, and why he would never allow them to part again. And when he asked her, she did not hesitate to answer.
The morning sun rose on the irate mobs marching to the despised prison, their angry roar echoed from the walls of the empty apartment as a swift coach left a dusty cloud on the dirt road to Brest, where a heavily-laden ship awaited two more passengers before setting sail to New Orleans.
NOTE: The inspiration for this fiction, the diamond tiara, now resides as a lasting monument to their love in the Smithsonian Museum of American History, in Washington, D.C., U.S.A.
Jan 13, 2018 in romance