Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo by Colette Gale

pointing—but when his mouth closed over one of them, and he began to suck loudly and avidly, she felt hardly any response twinge down in her belly. She made a soft moan, however, knowing that men appreciated that, and drew herself up to touch his cock. It had made a bit of an effort to come to life, but there was still much further to go. Perhaps if she took it into her mouth, it would hurry things on a bit.
    But even after she closed her lips around it, and worked up and down over its head, letting her saliva lubricate the flimsy length, it was still loose and soft. His fingers dug into the tender skin of her back, as though to encourage her, but even her soft moans and teasing tongue made little difference.
    It was the same story as before.
    During the first months of their marriage, Fernand had been only a bit more easily aroused. It wasn’t until a few months after Albert was born, and Fernand returned to her chamber, that she realized why mating with him was so difficult.
    He preferred men.
    Though he’d wooed and married a beautiful, desirable woman in order to display her as a symbol of his masculinity, and in an attempt to banish his homosexual tendencies, it hadn’t worked as well as he’d obviously hoped it would.
    Mercédès wouldn’t have cared so much about his preferences—after all, she’d agreed to marry him although she loved another—if it hadn’t been for the humiliations that ensued: when he could not find satisfaction with her, he brought others to their bed, most usually men—but sometimes a second woman would help provide enough stimulation for him.
    The memories of those nights of twining bodies, limbs everywhere and grasping hands, too many mouths and the sight of Fernand bowing over the back of some other man, while Mercédès remained within his easy reach, had been burned into her brain. The shame of having to disrobe in front of another man—or woman—to be fondled and kissed and touched by her husband, or whomever else he invited. The gasps and deep groans, the slip and slide, the questing fingers and the demanding mouths . . . she preferred not to think about those dark nights, the way they’d made her feel, the humiliation of being beneath or next to two grunting men, or being entwined with another woman while her husband labored above her, in her. The way her body often responded to unsolicited stimulation, becoming aroused and titillated.
    Even now she gave a shudder and tasted grease in the back of her throat.
    And on those nights when Fernand didn’t have a willing addition to their bed, and he was unable to find his release . . . his hand or fist would fly, his roughness would send her sprawling onto the bed or, worse, the floor.
    A night like that had sent her running the next morning to Marseille those ten long years ago. But fear that he’d keep Albert from her had brought her back home.
    After another night like that, a year after she’d returned to Paris, Albert had begun to ask questions his father didn’t want to answer. Questions that had given Mercédès nearly nine years of peace from her husband’s whims.
    And tonight, the night after Albert had left, when Fernand found himself in the same frustrating position, he could not contain his anger and humiliation.
    He raised his hand to strike Mercédès once—only once. But this time she was ready for him. She had a gun in her hand, procured from under the mattress. “I will be leaving in the morning for Marseille, for Julie is ready for her confinement. I shan’t return until Albert is home. Now leave my chamber.”
    He did, dangling white worm and all.
    And the next morning, once again, she left the house on rue du Helder. But this time, it was not a frightened flight. It was a calculated plan.
    She’d decided long ago that she would never beg or plead again.
    Mercédès visited with Julie Morrel and her husband, Emmanuel, when she arrived in Marseille.
    “Will you stay away from him this time?” Julie