The Queen's Consort by Leia Rice

 
    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