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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.
    â€œJust 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!
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œWho 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.
    â€œDo you need to know my