The Debauched Of Antlin 12 The Small Metal Bottle

To combat the fatigue that is beginning to submerge him, the Viscount takes a small metal bottle out of the pocket of his blue satin jacket.

He takes his time to unscrew the magnificent gla.s.s stopper sculpted with three chimera heads and after a short hesitation, he approaches the small bottle to his nose.

The moment he breathes in the little powder contained in the bottle, the Viscount feels a most pleasant change taking place inside him.

His body softens and yet his thoughts are clearer than ever. He feels particularly light, but paradoxically, his muscles are stretched to the limit of their breaking point.

His blood flows rapidly through his veins similar to wide ca.n.a.ls whose dikes would be submerged by a violent tsunami. Viscount too tight in his pants wants to release what makes him a man, however, someone has the bad idea to knock on the door.

"Your Lords.h.i.+p, madam is having another of her hysterical fits."

Seeing the state of the Lord, the young maid at the blue-marked eye, fear that she came in at the wrong time. Everyone in the castle knows that at the risk of a bad end, when His Lords.h.i.+p relieves his stress, he must never be disturbed.

Viscount La.s.sale comes back more or less to himself. This kid who has just disturbed his peace deserves to be punished, but before that, if he does not calm the fury that he had the bad idea to take as a wife, this stupid creature could break everything.

"I'll be there in a moment, right away but for troubling me, you will go to the butler, who will beat you twenty times with a stick."

After the departure of the young maid, whose age must not exceed 12, unmotivated by the repet.i.tive drudgery of subduing the fury, the Viscount gets up without too much haste.

With his arms joined behind his back, he heads for the side door to which only he has the key.

Walking with a sure step on a floor softer than the clouds themselves, when his somewhat confused eyes turn towards the window, he believes he can discern in this garden where usually only his guards patrol, a war G.o.ddess more beautiful than the sublime women whose painters have been inspired to create their most perfect masterpieces.

Should he go towards her? What a stupid idea! This drug must be of the highest quality, that's all.

It doesn't matter if the G.o.ddess is a figment of his imagination, the Viscount takes great pleasure in observing her until she disappears after crossing the drawbridge of the castle.

…

"Stupid b.i.t.c.h! Will I ever be allowed to rest without you bothering me?"

In the west wing, on the second floor of the castle, all the doors have just been slammed.

After the Viscount's arrival, his six frightened concubines locked themselves in.

Nevertheless, not one of them intends to miss the spectacle of Madame who, like every day, gets beaten up by her own husband.

All six are leaning forward and, as if they had consulted each other, their little mouths stretched to the limit by the joy they feel, the women remove the keys from the locks so that they could observe what happening currently in the corridor.

"His Lords.h.i.+p, you don't know everything. I..."

Seeing their lover kick in the belly of the weeping Madam, whose lips are already swollen, the six women cover up quickly their mouths so as not to let their wicked little laughter be heard.

"Shut up, you b.i.t.c.h. You're old. You're ugly and you bore me deeply."

All of them would like to applaud their lover's words, but it's really sad... By doing so, they would reveal their voyeuristic side and the Viscount would probably not be very pleased with them.

The fists are raining down on the pretty face of Madame who, after having already defended herself against the six of them, has her hair completely dishevelled.

Could it be over already? Madam, whom their lover holds firmly by the neck, hangs softly forward. Their beautiful Viscount lets go of the s.l.u.t and indeed, to the great despair of the six young plagues who take so much pleasure in tormenting Madame, the woman falls heavily head forward on the red and white tiles of the corridor.

…

She was supposed to meet this Viscount La.s.sale in a living room, however, when she was taken there, Rhea found only a room devoid of all life.

Seeing their master absent, the guards entrusted her to the good cares of a few not very talkative servants, who almost mechanically took her to a room located in the first bas.e.m.e.nt.

Comparing the small bedroom of her hotel, certainly humble, to this room without light, only equipped with a bucket for her most basic needs and a little straw for her rest, Rhea supposes that the so-called good manners attributed to the n.o.bles are only lies that they themselves propagated in order to give an excellent image of their caste.

It will be more than time to worry about their lack of hospitality tomorrow, for the time being, she needs to rest.

…

When the Viscount who rarely returns home, is back in the capital, he takes off his n.o.ble jacket to put on the uniform of an army officer.

Between settling various conflicts that oppose regions or notables, repelling ever more numerous groups of bandits, fighting against these recently appeared barbarians, raising his sword on the battlefield, flatter women in various luxury lounges or more simply strolling around the Capital, his occupations are diverse.

This morning, seated in front a large table furnished with so many dishes that he doesn't know which one to choose, he waits impatiently to discover what the young woman looks like that the grey-haired vermin had the good idea to give him.

"Your Lords.h.i.+p, your guest has arrived."

Guest! That's certainly not the word the best chosen, but it is still more appropriate than the appellation, property.

Pointing to a pitcher of apple alcohol to a maid, Viscount's sketching a little smile. At last he will be able to appreciate the beauty of this newcomer. If she is ugly or does not suit his tastes, he will sell her or she will be employed as a servant.

Once his alcohol has been served, he takes a sip of this drink intended to wake him up.

"bring in my guest."

What will she look like? A blonde or a brunette? A redhead maybe? Why all these questions when the truth will appear before his eyes in a moment.

When (the truth) comes through the door of the great dining room, the Viscount's heart misses a beat.

How on earth can a woman even be so perfect? Plague be of this amazement which does not befit a descendant of the prestigious La.s.sale family.

The Viscount regains as well as he can his composed air that whatever the circ.u.mstances, a n.o.bleman must proudly display, and without taking his eyes off this beauty whom addresses to him with the most charming of smiles, gallantly, he slowly reaches out his hand towards a chair to invite her back to his table.