Duchess Difficult Novels & Stories

The place was a far cry from the mundane interior of the trenches. The floor here was tiled with marble for Goddess knew why. The left side opened to a huge gym partitioned from the rest of the floor by glass walls, its interior was Moroccan-themed with vibrant red and yellow. Every treadmill and bike was occupied, two of whom were running had almost lost their momentum at the sight of the duke, almost slipping off the machines. At the far end, even though there were about twenty chameleons at the dumbbell rack that stretched across the wall, the area was spacious enough that it didn’t look overcrowded.

I imagine it moving, and with a tiny push of will, the ball begins to roll across the floor. Duchess, who had been snoozing contentedly at the foot of the bed, suddenly perks up. Her ears twitch, and within seconds, she’s off the bed, chasing after the ball with her usual enthusiasm. But this time, when she reaches it, her teeth snap at empty air, the barrier keeping the ball just out of her reach. She circles it, paws at it, even tries nudging it with her nose, but the barrier holds firm.

Today the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine came to call upon me—mounted all of the means without even a wheeze—the lift gave out again recently! What an individual! How I respect her! She has worked splendidly since the contention began; her crisis facility is a supernatural occurrence; her primary kid was killed engaging gloriously at Verdun. She told me, "You look as miserable as a wiped-out feline."