Marie Antoinette was dead. Paraded to the guillotine, head served on a pike, gawkers confirmed her demise with their eyes and mouths. None could question what they saw. Especially not after the libelles confirmed it alongside all the other sordid details of her life.
Murder. Orgies. Draining the treasury. Through their words, the depraved whore queen schemed death and all the seven sins to satisfy herself. Her own son confirmed it, confessing with the aid of Jacques Hebert to Marie's rampant bouts of incest. With so much reason to hate her, few people questioned it when the libelles wrote of her lifeless body tossed into an unmarked grave with the rest of her harlot kind.
If only they knew the truth. At 38, Marie still had many gifts to bear and nowhere to take them. Reveal herself, and the people would rip her to shreds. Leave without a name, and she would no doubt die in poverty. She was at the mercy of a new court with a new role assigned to her.
She would give them what they wanted. Starting with a stirring rendition of her most famous sin.
"Mon Dieu, zis is the most delicious cake I 'ave ever eeten!"
She smashed the layers against her lips. Sucking on them like a lover in a deep, desperate kiss, she blushed through her foundation like a horny teen yearning for more. Frosting smeared against her nose. Dribbled to her chest. In the tight fancy blue and white dress, her expressing cleavage rose and fell with the manic panting she did through and around her spongy red mess.
"Do you like it?" asked one of her judges.
"Ooooh oui, monsieur," Marie sexily whispered, "zis pussy is wet from the taste."
Her breasts pressed her frilly lacy tit hem to its limits. Any harder, and one of her corset strings might pop free. Or something might pop, at least.
Batting her eyes at Robespierre, she shoved another handful of cake into her mouth and loudly moaned. Her hands, now free, grimy and wet, reached down to lift her massive skirt to expose another very wet hole. The act set some men scoffing in disdain for the grace of God, and in her former life, she would not have entertained nearly this amount of shame. But she had little choice. Falling onto her royal ass, Marie diddled her slit with the velvet crumbs and white fondant of her horny treat.
"Let zem eat cake," Marie announced proudly, picking up another piece and forcing it into her clean bald cunt. She seized, faking an orgasm. Wailing to shake the windows. Her back arched in a way which at last exposed her stiff nipples to a rest beside her blue bow. She was sweating, steaming, the expensive fineness of her attire soaked and stinking of her eagerness to please with her pleasure.
Panting for breath, she idly molested herself while awaiting their verdict.
Once, she was Marie Antoinette, the last Queen of France. Wife to the king. Mother of four kids. Former archduchess of Austria. Today, she was the falsely prim, deeply whoresome jester of the Revolutionary Tribunal. Had she degraded herself well enough to earn some bread and good graces for a day? She sat in dread, fanning her neck while the sludge of her luscious lover oozed from between her legs.
Art used for this caption is by Laura Shull
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Royal Treatment: Marie Antoinette, Cake Lover
Marie Antoinette was dead. Paraded to the guillotine, head served on a pike, gawkers confirmed her demise with their eyes and mouths. None could question what they saw. Especially not after the libelles confirmed it alongside all the other sordid details of her life.
Murder. Orgies. Draining the treasury. Through their words, the depraved whore queen schemed death and all the seven sins to satisfy herself. Her own son confirmed it, confessing with the aid of Jacques Hebert to Marie's rampant bouts of incest. With so much reason to hate her, few people questioned it when the libelles wrote of her lifeless body tossed into an unmarked grave with the rest of her harlot kind.
If only they knew the truth. At 38, Marie still had many gifts to bear and nowhere to take them. Reveal herself, and the people would rip her to shreds. Leave without a name, and she would no doubt die in poverty. She was at the mercy of a new court with a new role assigned to her.
She would give them what they wanted. Starting with a stirring rendition of her most famous sin.
"Mon Dieu, zis is the most delicious cake I 'ave ever eeten!"
She smashed the layers against her lips. Sucking on them like a lover in a deep, desperate kiss, she blushed through her foundation like a horny teen yearning for more. Frosting smeared against her nose. Dribbled to her chest. In the tight fancy blue and white dress, her expressing cleavage rose and fell with the manic panting she did through and around her spongy red mess.
"Do you like it?" asked one of her judges.
"Ooooh oui, monsieur," Marie sexily whispered, "zis pussy is wet from the taste."
Her breasts pressed her frilly lacy tit hem to its limits. Any harder, and one of her corset strings might pop free. Or something might pop, at least.
Batting her eyes at Robespierre, she shoved another handful of cake into her mouth and loudly moaned. Her hands, now free, grimy and wet, reached down to lift her massive skirt to expose another very wet hole. The act set some men scoffing in disdain for the grace of God, and in her former life, she would not have entertained nearly this amount of shame. But she had little choice. Falling onto her royal ass, Marie diddled her slit with the velvet crumbs and white fondant of her horny treat.
"Let zem eat cake," Marie announced proudly, picking up another piece and forcing it into her clean bald cunt. She seized, faking an orgasm. Wailing to shake the windows. Her back arched in a way which at last exposed her stiff nipples to a rest beside her blue bow. She was sweating, steaming, the expensive fineness of her attire soaked and stinking of her eagerness to please with her pleasure.
Panting for breath, she idly molested herself while awaiting their verdict.
Once, she was Marie Antoinette, the last Queen of France. Wife to the king. Mother of four kids. Former archduchess of Austria. Today, she was the falsely prim, deeply whoresome jester of the Revolutionary Tribunal. Had she degraded herself well enough to earn some bread and good graces for a day? She sat in dread, fanning her neck while the sludge of her luscious lover oozed from between her legs.
Art used for this caption is by Laura Shull