Once upon a time, there was a crack in the wall of Château de Versailles.

It happened in the Hall of Mirrors, center of the French king’s heart. A tiny drop of marble in the lower corner of the wall had eschewed its duty, and abandoned its rightful place. It was an insult to the majesty of the hall. Magnificence of such a level could not possibly be compromised by time; it had to stand inert, like the gold used in its decoration, and withstand ages in grace.

Unfortunately, just as every bad example, this one also proved to be popular, as a few other marble pieces followed. The crack ran down like a descending aorta and forked into two long branches. It didn’t spoil the beauty of the marble; but rather gave it an eerie appearance. A man standing in the hall alone could hear sobs - silent expression of anger and sadness, let out by ghosts of long dead aristocrats. Just like the Hall of Mirrors, they deemed themselves deities, but succumbed to deaths more grisly than those of mere mortals. Watching the decay of Château de Versailles’s heart caused a pain worse than the guillotine.

The corner of the Hall of Mirrors. This was where I fell out of my mistress’ handbag.

It was a rather painful experience, I have to admit. Even a fearless plush owl such as Kluvdiy Buch, your humble narrator, is not indifferent to pain, and I did let out a silent hoot when my left wing hit the cold floor. Fortunately, lack of bones allowed me to recover quickly. I lay there on my side, observing the fraction of the hall which wasn’t blocked from view by standing tourists. I saw my mistress in the distance, oblivious to the fact her beloved toy was missing.

I felt lonely. The giant mirrors made the hall look bigger than it was; and its visitors much smaller than they were. Gold incrustations and fleur-de-lis did little to elevate my unnamed fears. The crack was behind me; and I had the uneasy feeling that a silent eye was using it to spy on me. As it turned out, the real threat came from above. Ten minutes after I fell, I heard thumping on the marble beside me. Before I could react, a sturdy, manly hand enveloped my body, and dropped it in a black cotton bag, hanging at the level of his thigh. It was obvious that the person was male; this I found disturbing. Although I fancy myself as an owl free of prejudice, I didn’t enjoy being that intimately close to a man.

As my kidnapper walked, my cotton prison hit and rubbed against a medium-sized object, attached to his belt. Recognising it as a gun, I deduced I was in the hands of a guard. This raised my spirit. I hoped he’d leave me at the “lost and found” section at the entrance, so my mistress could collect me from there.

To my bitter disappointment, the thumping of his feet on the marble soon ceased, and became muffled sounds of male boots on an expensive carpet, as the smell of French cuisine filled the air. It indicated that we moved in quite the opposite direction from the doors of Versailles. Rather, we were heading to the restaurant at the heart of the building. The aroma grew stronger - pungent odor of fresh penny bun mushrooms and Bordeaux wine (Château Lafite Rothschild, vintage 1987, I believe. Not a bad year). I heard a two-winged door open. The man made several steps, stopped, and I heard his voice for the first time - although only in a whisper. Unlike my mistress, I’m fluent in French, and I could catch the words as they were spoken.

“In five minutes” the man said, “I’ll be in our closet. Come to me. Please.”

There was no reply, but the guard swiftly turned and walked out. After a few minutes of walking, I lost track of our location, but a door creaked and the small ray of light which penetrated through a hole in the bag disappeared. It was darker than a tomb, and the air was stale and dusty. My bag got open, and a hand started fishing for the lighter which rested inside. The lighter snapped, a candle was lit, giving light to the small chamber we were in. The feeling was claustrophobic, the small environment heavy with secrecy.

The door creaked again, slowly, eerily, and shut sharply. A feminine voice hissed:

“You are nuts, Armand, you hear me? Nuts! Completely! I cannot believe I’m coming here again, after we almost got caught the last time! What shall we explain this time? Ever since I saw the wolf with you, you keep putting my reputation, and my work, and my mental health, in danger! What do you care for me? Why should I love you in the first place? Why should I be trusting of you?! You are a man, and all men want is sex, and more sex, and you make me feel like a man. I can’t allow it!”

My captor’s hand slid into the bag, grabbed my wing, and pulled me out.

“Léonie, I didn’t ask you to come for…”

“Ha! You liar! Tell me now you do not want me. Tell me!”

“Darling, look what I found in the Hall of Mirrors.”

Armand lift me to the level of his secret lover’s face. My appearance was met by a flashing stare. True to her name, her eyes were feline-like: almond-shaped and amber-colored, they reflected the candlelight like flawless gemstones. Her complexion seemed rather pale in the frame of black, straight hair. I looked down upon her, and almost hooted at how young she was – she couldn’t possibly be more than 17.

Léonie’s chest still hadn’t developed fully. Were it not for the lion’s gaze, and the black uniform, the girl would look innocent and fragile. Her anger, however, had made her fierce, and fully aware of her situation. The ambers piercing me went a little softer after seeing me, and two gentle hands pulled me out of Armand’s grip.

“Oh, an owl! How pretty! Quel joli jouet! I pity the child who dropped it. Do you think we should take it to the “lost and found”?"

“That’s up to you to decide.”

The cat-like eyes looked at me again, this time exuding warmth and appreciation.

“I’ll call her Ambre”.

Her long, sleek fingers caressed my head and pulled at my beak. She lifted me up for a kiss and pressed me against her cheek. Black hair tickled my face. I felt so good from her display of affection that I instantly forgave her insulting me by referring to me as a female. When she spoke again, her throaty, seductive voice resonated through my body.

“You know,” she purred, “I think Ambre will suit me better as a lover.

She wouldn’t make me go to dark, dirty closets, just to have sex with me. She would really love me.”

“Léonie, are you ready to leave me forever, for a plushie?” asked Armand in mocked desperation. He grabbed me again. “She will never be able to satisfy you. Look how small and soft… ouch! Your owl bit my finger!” The woman smiled. “No, really! A toy possessed!”

Well, he did have it coming. Having a beautiful girl insult my masculinity is one thing. Having a man do so – quite another.

“Absurdité ”, smiled Léonie. “Plush owls don’t bite. I do. You must have scratched yourself somewhere. Here, give me your finger. Let me kiss it better.”

She lifted his finger to her lips. A soft, velvety tongue darted over it, giving it several quick strokes, before her mouth moved over, drawing his digit in between her lips. The man groaned in pleasure, and dropped me on the floor. My supposed-to-be new lover didn’t even notice. Her mouth was slowly sucking on Armand’s tongue now, and her fiery fingernails clawed at the front of his black trousers. A feline hiss filled the chamber.

“Are you as sweet down there as I remember you to be, Armand?”

This little woman pushed the man away from her embrace. His back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Armand slid down to the floor beside me. His tie, embroidered with the coat-of-arms of Château de Versailles, was pulled off and tossed in the air. I heard a zip being forced open, and the Bordeaux-colored manicure now caressed a hefty masculine shaft.

Her face lowered slowly . With each centimeter, the eye gemstones of this wicked girl grew darker, until they obtained a shade of molasses. A raspy tongue swirled around the glans several times, giving it a thorough lavage. Armand’s cock received long licks along its entire length, when suddenly she hit the underside. Just below the purple crown, with one swift stroke. The sturdy guard inhaled sharply and his body lapsed into convulsion. Léonie stopped, and watched with heated indifference as her lover struggled to recover from her assault. Slowly, Armand came to his senses, and even managed to smile feebly. But worse was to come.

“Do you know what good sex is about at all, Armand? Tell me! I know you don’t; most people never realise it. It’s never about power play or who will be on top. It’s not defined by how you look; it’s not bounded to a place, or number or participants, or even positions. It’s all timing and endurance; good sex is to be consummated slowly, like pouring honey over a delicacy. Today you’re getting no good sex from me, my love, because I don’t have the patience for it.”

Without warning, in one dashing move, Léonie’s lips hit the base of her lover’s pole, nesting its head firmly in her throat. She purred like a cat, making the shaft vibrate inside her. It was no longer a man’s organ; no longer his possession. It was life being tortured; a tropical fish, caught by a devious anemone - paralyzed, helplessly witnessing its devouring.

Scarlet nails dug into male legs for support. No human could endure this for long. Armand erupted. The woman held her lover firmly in her grasp for the entire explosion. Before her man could even come back from the nether world she sent him to, the vixen had positioned her slender self above his face, using her milky white hips to grip it firmly.

“Pouvez-vous s'il vous plaît retourner la faveur?”

Such a polite request eerily mismatched her forceful actions, but Armand was not too gentle either. He French kissed his lover’s clitoris. Deeply, passionately. Lava poured out her depths. The French maid lost balance, and fell onto her partner’s torso. The guard grabbed her helpless body from beneath him and pulled it erect. He maneuvered her, so she could face the opposite wall for support, and rammed inside her.

“No good sex for any of us, woman. Not today.”

Red nails left five deep scratch marks on the latex-painted wall. Léonie didn’t cry, or moan, like most women do. She stood completely silent, tense. Black strands ran down her face, covering her right eye. Armand increased the force and speed of fucking, determined to get her to scream for him. A huge cock pushed his lover in abandon. Her forehead hit the wall twice; no one seemed to care. Without breaking contact, he lifted her, turned her to face him, and smashed her body between Château de Versailles and himself. The French witch was caught. She’d burn at the stake.

“Kiss me, Armand, while I still can breathe!”

The guard lowered his head to face the lioness; a fatal mistake. Léonie bit his lower lip, pressed her breasts against him, and shook as her limits were finally broken. A climax waved through her.

And then there was silence.

The guard adjusted his clothes and helped his mate do the same. The woman put the candle out. One last kiss was shared; the screeching door opened and closed behind them.

Léonie had forgotten the little plush owl behind.

Caught in the moment, I hadn’t realised I would not see my mistress ever again. Now this realisation hit me. Who knew how much time I’d spend in this closet alone. Fear overwhelmed me; I let out a silent hoot in desperation. My eyes were useless in the darkness, but I could hear footsteps of rats. Having been scared by the light and noise, they were reclaiming their kingdom in the dark closet. On the floor, a plush toy stood no chance. Kluvdiy Buch was going to die.

“Oh, please, don’t cry, Mademoiselle. We will find it. Why, I even think I saw it somewhere here.”

“’I’ve already told you I’m a Madam!”
 
The closet door flung open and Armand kneeled beside me. A tiny drop of blood ran down his swollen lower lip.

“Awww, here it is! You see? There was no reason to run through the Château and scream like this. Some guests thought they heard the ghost of Marie Antoinette!”

The guard nervously chuckled and quickly dumped me into my mistress’ arms.

“Sir, I don’t like your attitude. We searched for you for nearly an hour, and they said you were the only one who guarded the Hall of Mirrors. Now I find my owl here, in a closet I haven’t put my foot in, and… Is that lipstick smudged on him?!”

Armand clearly did not enjoy the course of the conversation.

“My lady, I have no idea what happened to your toy. Please accept my apologies on behalf of Château de Versailles. Have a nice day.”