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The Queen’s Consort
Leia Rice

www.spice-books.co.uk

Royal maid Arabelle fantasizes about taking the queen’s place, but not for power or riches. She wants to be pleasured by the queen’s secret consort. Watching them together arouses cravings that her trysts with other men and her sensual encounters with her fellow maids cannot satisfy. She longs to be given licentious commands from the mysterious man, and to give orders in return.

Then, in the secret halls of Versailles, Arabelle’s fantasy comes true—with even more wicked pleasures than she imagined….

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From behind a curtain, Arabelle watched the queen writhe upon silken sheets. She examined the smooth curve of her back, the ridges of her spine, and the way her toes curled when she was pleased in just the right way. Clutching the sheer curtain with her milk-white, gloved fingers, Arabelle sighed softly as the queen let her inhibitions go.

This illicit affair of the queen’s had been going on for weeks, and although the queen was careful to bite into her lover’s shoulder and muffle her lustful cries, Arabelle and the rest of the queen’s royal maids usually heard every last moan. They often asked each other how the queen could be so negligent in her duties when the whole of France seemed to be coming undone at its seams. Riots were becoming more frequent, and once, Arabelle heard that the revolutionaries had captured a noblewoman and dragged her down the streets to a whorehouse. None of the turmoil was present here, though, as the queen opened her legs just as eagerly as she opened her purse.

Arabelle was never able to get a good look at the consort when he visited with the queen. They always had a careful way of making love so that his face was never fully revealed to the chambers. This was usually done under the cloak of night, though he would sometimes have a show of bravado and come when the afternoon sun was high in the sky. On these days, the queen would pull down a sheer veil that masked their bodies just well enough so that you could see what was going on, but not in much detail. She probably passed him every day, but would never even know it. The mysteriousness of it all intrigued Arabelle.

On this day, Arabelle was in attendance alone. The lady’s maids were all sent out to be relieved of their duties for the night, but Arabelle stayed behind so that she could watch the meeting. Not only did she flush at the consort’s encouraging pleas, which often came in rough French commands like “fuck me,” and “harder,” but she bit her own lip as she felt her own passion swell between her legs. Arabelle was still a virgin, as was proper for young women her age, but she was growing tired of only getting to watch the queen. She had many encounters with men, but was always careful not to let them inside of her. She did not want to endanger her father’s plans of paying his family’s way up to the top by getting caught in some scandal with a royal guard.

She rubbed her thighs together, trying to coordinate her desperate want for an orgasm with the queen’s release. Arabelle enjoyed pretending that she was the queen on that bed, getting fucked by a man that she chose herself while her French subjects starved and protested in the streets. It was cruel, but she was the queen in her fantasy, and she’d have that power to live in pleasure. The fantasy made Arabelle feel powerful and sexy.

Somewhere above her, the curtain ripped as Arabelle pulled down on it to keep her knees from buckling. Crossing one of her legs over the other, Arabelle tightened her thighs and released them repeatedly, coaxing her orgasm to ripen just as the queen yelled out her own frantic end to the romp. Arabelle froze where she was, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breathing. She watched as the queen quickly pulled up her covers and stared at the curtains where Arabelle remained hidden. The principal maid pressed her back up against the wall and stilled her breath, watching carefully for any signs that she might have been caught. Her chest rose and fell, and she could feel the pink nubs that tipped her modest breasts brush up against the thick fabric of her dress. Every part of her was sensitive. Her body was on fire. She felt weak, but invigorated at the same time. Her legs still threatened to give out from under her, but before the queen could catch her, Arabelle ducked through a secret door, which led to a series of secret labyrinths.

Her heels clicked and echoed through the dark and damp passageways, and when Arabelle reached a dead end, her favorite shadowed alcove, she stopped to catch her breath. She listened through the beating of her heart to see if anyone was coming. Hearing nothing but the faint pitter-patter of leaking condensation that seeped through the stone, Arabelle slumped against the wall and drew in a deep breath. Pulling off her gloves, finger by finger, the golden-haired beauty discarded the white satin and pressed her naked fingers against her cheeks. They were still hot.

She was still hot. To be queen! To be given licentious orders by some mysterious man, and to give orders in return. Fuck her, fuck her. Fuck me, fuck me. Come, come! All of these lusty demands echoed through Arabelle’s head as she imagined herself in the queen’s place.

Turning to face the wall, Arabelle rested her forehead against her forearm. With her other arm, she reached down to pull up her skirts and find the warm folds between her legs. This was a difficult task with so many petticoats, skirts, hoops and underclothing and didn’t happen as quickly and easily as Arabelle wished. She needed to touch herself. She needed to release all of her hidden desires in full.

Suddenly, a force slammed Arabelle against the wall. Her chin caught on a rock, tearing a small cut into her delicate skin. She could feel the warm blood roll down her neck, and in her mind’s eye, she imagined the line of crimson that was tipped with a red pearl trailing down her collar bone, and dripping between her breasts. God, her breasts. She wanted to touch them, too. Momentarily stunned, Arabelle forgot about the driving pressure that was keeping her against the wall.

It was a man. A thick hand covered her mouth. A man with callused hands. A working man, perhaps of Versailles, like her. Arabelle couldn’t shout, as he left no room for her to draw in or exhale a breath. When she breathed through her nose, she discerned a musky scent on his fingers. A woman’s scent. He has had someone before her. She knew that scent well. It was the smell left behind on her fingers after she would finish pushing them inside of her, pretending that they weren’t her fingers at all, but the queen’s consort’s cock. It was the perfume of guiltless lovers. Was this the man that she had just watched have the queen? Or was this a pervert who lurked the secret halls in search of a maiden to possess? Arabelle shivered at the possibilities.

His other hand pushed over her breasts and pulled down at the fabric of her dress, ripping the satin so that the black whale-bone corset underneath was exposed. Arabelle pushed her hips back against him to desperately try to put some space between the two. Her skirts brushed against an erect cock that she could feel throbbing and growing against her hip. Her cheeks filled with the same crimson red of the blood that was now smeared across her chest. Despite the situation, and despite her own propriety, she moaned against his hand and pushed her hips back against the cock again.

“Just like my Antoinette.” The husky French words were breathed into Arabelle’s ear. She shuddered both with a fear of how familiarly this man addressed her queen, along with the desire that existed with every push of her hips. It had to be him. The queen’s lover himself!

“How she wants me just as you want me. How all I have to do is walk into the room and she becomes wet for me between her legs. I do not even need to touch her.” The man pushed himself against Arabelle in reciprocation, and if she hadn’t her dress between them, he could easily have taken her then.

“Who are you, monsieur?” Arabelle asked even if she suspected the answer. She needed confirmation. She needed to know that her fantasy could come true. Her voice quivered much like her legs as she grasped onto the wall, hoping for the added support to keep her standing.

“Do you need to know my name?” A large hand crept up her dress, pulling the skirts up above her waist awkwardly. They bunched up, the round hoops erect and pressed against her back. Her behind was exposed and the dank air from the labyrinth caressed her thighs along with the stranger’s fingers. Eventually, the hand made it to the lips of her pussy, probing around the swollen pink nub hidden between.