Angelique needs a scandal so outrageous it will shock all of Paris, and she has managed to find the two men who will help her enact it.
In the France of Louis XIV, Angelique Beaulieu’s stepfather is forcing her to marry the aging and degenerate Marquis D’Arly.
Made desperate by the Marquis’ threats of violence, Angelique visits a notorious Parisian hôtel where patrons indulge in wild sexual adventures. There, she meets the angelic-looking Christophe and his dark and brooding friend Armand. The three of them indulge in an orgy of sensual delight.
Angelique believes her actions have freed her from the Marquis…until she is abducted and learns that her connection to Christophe and Armand has become a threat to her very existence.
The outer door to the kitchen swung wide, and Aloysius, the Vicomte’s groom, swaggered in. No one knew more about the Vicomte and his activities than Aloysius, and, when not driving out with her stepfather, or caring for the horses, he spent much time in the kitchen, flirting with the maids and sharing a tankard or two of ale with the footmen.
“You should have seen where I took m’sieur after the Marquis D’Arly left last night,” the groom said. “If I had not seen it myself I would never have believed it. Let me tell you quickly, before the women get back from cleaning.”
A few low mumbles told Angelique he had caught the interest of the footmen, Jacques and Michel. The clear voice of Aloysius rang out again, “As part of the marriage settlement, the Marquis gave the master a Carte d’ Admission to an hôtel at Number Nine, Rue de la Chaussée-d’Aimay.”
Another low mumble, then Aloysius went on, “It is a very exclusive club.”
“Gambling?” one of the footmen asked.
“Would I need to ensure the women were out of the room if I were to tell you about gambling?” Aloysius responded. “This is a club for debauchery. Sex. Outrageous. Open. Men and women, of the aristocracy, behaving in a way… Sapristi! You would not believe what I saw, and I only peered in through the open door.” He cleared his throat. “I did not take part, you understand.”
“You are a servant—of course you could not interact with the aristos,” the other footman, Michel, commented.
“Did you recognise anyone?” Jacques asked.
“All masked.” He laughed. “And I understand why. In the foyer, I saw a statue of a man.”
“Hmmph,” Jacques snorted, “A statue is nothing to be remarked on.”
“This one was naked, with his prick erect,” Aloysius replied.
“Still not unusual,” Jacques said. “Monsieur Guy du Bonnet has a collection of such stuff. Priapus he calls them. My brother works for him and has seen them all.”
“Wait, I haven’t finished,” Aloysius said. Angelique leant forward. She had listened to enough servants’ gossip to know what the words prick and erect meant.
The sound of a mug being slapped back down on the table signalled the resumption of Aloysius’ tale. “As women arrived, they walked to that statue. Some merely lifted their skirts, some took them off completely, but they all impaled themselves on that huge, rigid stone cock and pleasured themselves.”
One of the listeners gasped. Aloysius went on, “If that makes your prick hard, listen to this! While I watched, the statue climbed down from the plinth and took a drink. It was no statue, but a man painted in some white stuff to resemble marble! And the whole time, while at least five women that I saw writhed and groaned on top of him, he did not move! Did not indicate in any way that he was a living, breathing, human being. If such things happened in the foyer, I can only imagine what happened inside.”
The words and the strange images they conjured held Angelique fast. Her cheeks felt flushed, her breasts heavy and tight.
“What of the Vicomte?” Michel asked.
“I don’t know that he did much himself,” Aloysius sniggered. “I doubt if anyone there wanted him. But what he watched made him excited enough.” He laughed. “He had a big wet spot on his best breeches.”
At that moment the clatter of sabots rushed past Angelique’s hiding place and one of the housemaids entered the kitchen. The men fell immediately silent. Angelique slid out of her concealment and sneaked back to the family’s part of the house.
The answer to her problem lay here, if only she had courage enough to seize it. The way to ruin herself beyond redemption, beyond hope of the Marquis ever forgiving her, had been dropped into her lap like a gift. She, like those other women, could impale herself on that statue…just once, so that her virginity would be torn asunder, then she could flee. The fact that the statue would not move, would not acknowledge her presence, would make the process easier to bear.
- About the Author
- Posts in the Past
Other writers have a muse who whispers inspiring thoughts into their receptive minds. Alysha Ellis has an inner tart who winks and nudges, shouts outrageous ideas for super sexy funny stories then says, “I dare you to write that!” And Alysha NEVER refuses a dare. Whether it’s from lust or laughter, you’re going to get your knickers in a twist when you unleash your inner tart.