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My elder sister, Louise-Francoise, is the current favorite legitimized daughter at the court of Versailles. She was married to a Bourbon cadet. They called him Duke and so she became Madam Duchess. Louise remained a chaste maiden until she bled three years hence.

I am Marie Francoise, betrothed to the son of Phillippe d’Orleans, Duke of Chatres. He is a foul-smelling brute whom I disdain. One day I will be compelled to yield to his desires and cleave with him, but I will do so only to conceive an heir and add to our proud Bourbon bloodline.

Our mother Francoise-Athenaise de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan, the favorite mistress of Louis Quatorze until this anno domini 1691, when she abruptly left Versailles. Apparently, the king’s royal scepter has replaced Ma Mere’s fleur de lis with a new velvet cushion in the hind end of a younger courtesan.

His Highness arose early for his morning stroll and found me and my hand maiden, Jean-Marie, on the grassy badminton court, hitting the birdie about with our rackets.

My father, the king, called out to me: “Ah, young ladies, you will overstimulate your bodily humors.”

I held my racket in my right hand and waved to him while my maid fell to her knees and bowed her head.

“Mademoiselle Francoise, is your girl ill?” the king of France asked sarcastically.

“She is honored to be in your presence, my lord.”

As I said this, I poked Jean-Marie’s shins with the toe of my boot and she rose to her feet.

Louis took both my hands in his, gently pulled me to his breast, and blew kisses on one cheek and then the other. His hair and skin smelt of flowery perfume.

“Have you breakfasted yet, my dear one?” My father clung to my hands as if we were dancing a minuet.

“We had some sweet meats with bread and wine,” I said, studying his hairline, detecting the seam that bound his voluminous wig to his high forehead.

“Ah, wonderful,” he said, still holding me fast to his chest. “Then you will come for a ride in my coach with me.”

“Where shall we go, sire?” I asked as he led Jean-Marie and I toward the great stable where a team was being hitched to the royal coach.

“Anywhere we choose,” he laughed. “Francais se mois. I am France.”

We met the coachman, a toad-like fellow with a half row of broken teeth, and Ma Per’s valet de chambre, Alexandre Bontemps, the servant who wipes le Roi de Sol’s bottom after toilette.

Alexandre was craggy faced with curlicue moustache and voluminous wig like the king’s. The valet bowed to me and ignored Jean-Marie.

My father did not, however. “She is quite the scrawny wench, no?”

My maid’s pale cheeks flushed rosy and her eyelids fluttered as if she were about to cry. Jean-Marie had a birdlike pointy nose and chin with close-set black eyes and nary an ounce of fat on her bones.

“She is my comfort,” I said, standing up for her and entwining my arms with hers as we approached the coach.

“Indeed,” the monarch spoke softly with a nod and offered me his great hand to help me lift myself up the step stool and into the coach.

I spied my father’s eyes shift to my blossoming bosom and my heart fluttered.

We sat in the coach, I next to Jean-Marie, facing sire next to his valet. I studied Louis’s face and saw that Alexandre had shaved him, except for the wisp of a moustache, as delicate as the down on my mother’s upper lip.

“What have we, mon ami?” the king asked Alexandre, regarding the bag he carried.

“I have apples, nuts, and hard-boiled eggs, my lord.”

“Ah, good,” the king chirped as the coachman clicked the reins and set the horses to gallop.

My father reached into Alexandre’s bag and retrieved two of the apples.

“Eat,” Louis said, smiling, and handed an apple to Jean-Marie and another to me.

“Thank you, no, sire I’m not hungry,”

“I want to watch you eat,” commanded the pendik escort most powerful ruler in all of Europe.

“The apple is such a coarse fruit,” I suggested, arguing gently.

“It pleases me to watch people eat.” The king spoke as his manservant took an apple from the bag for himself.

I barely grazed my teeth against the skin and felt a spurt of juice roll onto my chin. I glanced to the side and saw Jean-Marie following suit.

“Eat!” the king insisted, apparently meaning we should take bigger bites.

I heard the crisp crackling of the fruit’s core as I devoured the piece, filling my mouth with its meat.

“Vous mangez!” To my chagrin, my royal parent handed me a second apple to eat.

I took it from him and nibbled the second one more slowly, taking care to keep my mouth closed while I chewed, as did Jean-Marie. Humorless Monsieur Bontemps took no such care, his mouth a gaping maw of partially chewed matter.

After the apples were gone, the sovereign forced us to eat the eggs, and yet he took nothing at all. My stomach now ached, overstuffed.

We rode along the country road for two turnings of an hourglass and the king pointed out flora, fauna, hidden nests, and hunting grounds he had trod for sport.

“Might we stop, dear papa?” I asked, feeling a surging down below,

“No,” my liege spoke, barely moving his mouth. Perhaps he did not understand.

So, I told him. “I must tend to my necessities.”

“Non!” he repeated, unmoved. “I feel no need.”

Does Louis Quatorze enjoy others’ discomfort, ruling over them, forcing them to eat whether or not they were hungry, and not allowing them to relieve themselves?

We rode from morning till noontide. I strained in discomfort, even squeaking a bit, inviting a look of disapproval from the crowned head. Beside me, Jean-Marie had suffered in silence. I smelt a sharp odor from her. She had wet herself under her skirts, holding her breath and biting her thin lower lip to keep from crying in her shame.

Finally, our beloved king proclaimed, “Let us stop here. Driver!”

Now that Louis the Great needed to urinate, he took a certain glee in allowing the rest of to do so as well. He climbed out of the coach first and strode briskly from the road to a thicket. Jean-Marie immodestly lifted her dress and Alexandre exposed his prepuce fast alongside the coach.

I stepped in a direction opposite that of the potentate, but he beckoned, “Come hither.”

My father unbuttoned his singlet, lower his pantaloons, and rolled down the tops of his stockings. I gazed in awe at his wagging manhood. A golden stream flowed from his short, stout penis. I was surprised that it was so small, considering it was the instrument of the greatest power in Christendom.

I lifted my dress and petticoats and squatted over a rock, wetting it so as not to foul my shoes with mud from my piss. I turned my back, but looked over my shoulder to see my father watching me, my buttocks in plain sight.

We returned to the coach and continued to ride until midday when the French king announced we would dine and stay the night at Fontainbleau, an estate he had seized from an expelled Huguenot.

A brace of servants, all jolly and fat, prepared a feast of mutton, onion soup, olives, hard bread, and deep purple wine. The king ate sparsely, yet swilled several goblets of drink.

Night fell, candles and torches were lit, and the jovial servants showed us to rooms with modest but clean appointments. We were far from in the opulence of Versailles.

I undressed, used the chamber pot, and sat on a wooden bench to let Jean-Marie wash my face, hands, and underarms.

“May I brush your hair,” she asked sweetly.

“No, mon amour,” I said to her as she caressed my shoulder. “I shall do it myself. You must be tired from this very strange day.”

She laughed in agreement and maltepe escort laid down on the bed and pulled the blanket of stiff linen over her nude body. Many nights we touch each other affectionately, but perhaps not this night.

Suddenly, Alexandre burst into the room without knocking. He paused to look upon my nakedness and said, “The king summons you, my ladyship.”

“Oh, my!” I exclaimed. “I have no nightgown to wear.”

“Here,” Jean-Marie called, scampering from the bed. “There is a robe in the wardrobe.”

She retrieved it, showing her petite breasts, flat buttocks, and curly haired Venus to the king’s man.

I wrapped the robe about my shoulders and followed Bontemps to the room at the far end of the corridor, where Louis XIV awaited.

“Come, mon cheri,” the king beckoned, patting the mattress upon which he sat. He wore a white nightgown with an embroidered collar and a net on his naturally thinning hair.

I felt a wave of nervousness, making my feet unsteady as I stepped toward his bedside, and I gasped audibly.

He laughed and took hold of me, wrapping his broad hands around each of my arms and pulling me onto the bed.

“Let me see your beauty,” his majesty said, slipping his forefinger between the lapels of my robe and opening it. I shivered as if naked in the frigid air of winter.

The king gazed upon my breasts and whispered, “Such lovely little flower petals.” He traced my areolas and pinched my nipples with his big, strong fingers. Then he kissed my teats in turn and I felt an ocean tide rising in my feminine parts.

“Ah, I shall taste your sweet fruit,” he said, staring into my eyes with fiery intensity.

I moaned aloud as my father fully opened my borrowed robe and beheld my petite Venus.

“Just like your mother’s bountiful nest,” the reigning monarch remarked as he inspected my patch of thick curls. I tried to hold my thighs fast, but he wedged his hand between my legs.

“Sire,” I spoke weakly. “We mustn’t do this.”

“Nonsense, daughter,” Louis scoffed. “All life derives from love.”

He twirled his fingers through the hair covering my mound.

“You are my Papa. It is a sin.”

“You are of royal blood.” He pressed a fingertip against my wet slit. “You are worthy of no less than a kingly lover.” Thus, with a wink of his eye, he slipped two fingers between my labia.

I quaked. Father Louis nestled his head in my groin, rubbing his nose in my garden of pubis and sniffing all around.

“Ahh!” He savored my scents and tickled my sex spot with the tip of his tongue.

Still trembling and perspiring, the Sun King cradled me in his arms and kissed my lips. His breath was hot and sweet. Then my father the king sniffed my underarm and licked the swirl of hair.

“You are the soul of springtime and youth,” he said. I scarcely understood his meaning, but thrilled at the words.

I leaned my face toward his for another kiss, but he pulled me down to his lap. where I saw his short, stout penis standing upright.

“Kiss my majesty,” he said, pulling back his fleshly hood with one hand and cupping his hairy balls with the other.

I kissed the purplish tip and opened my mouth to take in his manly scepter. I began suckling as his hips writhed and thrusted.

I loved the feel of the thick hide of his little stick as well as its taste, a salty musk.

“You have a talent for what the Italians call the art of fellazione.”

Mon pere’s words stoked my inner caldron and I massaged his cock with my lips even more frantically, anxious to drink of his chalice.

Instead, he pulled his penis out of my mouth and pressed me to the bed, bringing his wide body on top of mine, so frail in comparison.

“I must scourge your maidenhead,” the divine-right monarch proclaimed and I shivered.

As the potentate spread my thighs and pried open my labia kartal escort with two manicured fingers, my feminine essence bubbled and rivulets of moisture seeped from my honey pot.

I uttered a faint prayer as he stabbed me with his great blade. The standard bearer jabbed my slice a dozen times before rolling inside me with a circular motion and finally sliding his meaty stud in and out of my unschooled cunt until I yelped with glee.

“I mustn’t breed thee,” my parent muttered as he uncoupled from me. He swiped a trickle of blood from my parted curtain and touched it to his lips.

I thought Louis would spill his seed on my belly or let me swallow it, but instead he rolled me over as if I were as light as a baby rabbit.

“We shall come in your trunk.” The crowned head used the imperial we, meaning “France and I.”

Before France fucked my most private spot, he lowered his face, spread apart my haunches and sniffed loudly. I feared a foul odor from my derriere, but he hummed a pleased note.

Then with great force he plundered me, shouting, “I fuck thee as the angel of heaven planted the lord’s seed in the virgin’s hole.”

Though his blasphemy shocked me, I was shuddering beneath his insistent ravages and called out, “Make me your whore, sweet papa. Fuck me to death.”

I dreamt of returning to Versailles as Louis’s new favorite courtesan, immediately displacing the premier mistress and one day deposing that sow acting like the queen, Françoise d’Aubigné, Marquise de Maintenon. All his regal glory and love will be mine.

I slept in my father’s arms, fast against him throughout the night. I waked to a gleam of sun’s rays through the curtainless window. I spied my king’s penis perked up despite his snores. I craned my neck to kiss the tip before covering it-balls and all-with my mouth.

With that, the great one woke and pressed his hand to the back of my neck and coaxed me to sucking his stalk at a vigorous gallop. He issued a goblet full of royal cream into my gullet. Pere’s cock tasted delicious to me. I had grown from novice to harlot in but one night.

His royal highness watched in amusement as I squatted over the ornate chamber pot at the foot of the bed, unable to hold my water. But a few moments passed before Alexandre entered the room, carrying the king’s toilette stool.

“Leave us,” the king’s valet ordered me as if I were a lowly servant girl.

I found Marie in the other room, sprawled on the bed, looking despondent.

“Whatever is the matter, mes chers?”

I sat next to her and put my arms around her thin shoulders. She laid her head on my breast.

“The pig, Bontemps, ravaged me,” she sobbed. “He ruined me.”

“Did he rape you?” I asked, kissing her forehead and stroking her matted hair.

“He wouldn’t stop grinding me,” she said, chin quivering. “I shan’t have the swine’s brat.”

“I will take care of you,” I whispered tenderly, licking the tears from her cheeks with my tongue.

“He pilfered my virtue,” she croaked through her tears. “No honorable man will have me.”

“Eh, never fear, mon ami.” I told her, “I am a princess. I will find you a suitable beau.”

Comforted, I told her of my dream to become my father’s favorite and replace the queen.

“Art thou your sister’s rival?” Marie asked, a bit harshly.

“Louise?” I shouted. “What do you know?”

“Our king has been fucking your lovely swan of a sister. Surely, you knew.”

No, I knew not, and felt my heart breaking. I spoke not a word as we breakfasted with head of state.

Instead of riding back to Versailles in his coach, a troop of cavalry arrived with the king’s steed and whisked him away. Perhaps a new war is brewing.

At home at the palace I resolved that the Sun King was a stallion who cleaved to every mare and filly in his stable. My role is not to replace the dead Spanish queen, Maria Theresa, but rather to serve my majesty by carrying on his regal line, which I shall endeavor to do with Phillippe-or another young nobleman at court should my spouse falter-now that my father has groomed me in the arts of eros.


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