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In Which The Princess Palatine's Birthdays All Come At Once

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Liselotte wasn't quite sure what was happening. 

There were strawberries, that much was certain. And there had been wine earlier - quite a lot - and it was her birthday. These were the facts of the matter, and they were all pleasant things. Around her neck lay an exquisite necklace of emeralds, rubies and diamonds on a fine gold chain. Intricate and pretty, not like the huge clunking things so many women wore at court. Her husband had excellent taste.

As did the Chevalier, who had given her the matching earrings. 

They had presented them to her that morning, with a basket of pastries and a bottle of champagne. It was lovely. Entirely disconcerting, but lovely.

"Another strawberry, my dear?" Philippe dangled the fruit above her lips.

Liselotte was reminded thus of the confusion of the situation. 

She was reclining on her husband's bed. She was wearing nothing but her nightdress. She'd popped in to say goodnight, and thank you for the presents, and they'd had one last glass of wine, and now… well.

"It's my turn, Mignonette."

And it wasn't just her husband feeding her strawberries.

The Chevalier gently pushed Philippe's strawberry to the side, and offered her another. She bit into it. It burst onto her tongue: sweet fruit tempered with the bitter, creamy tang of chocolate. 

God, the man was a genius.

It was probably a dream. In which case, what could she do but lie back and enjoy it?

She watched Philippe stretch over her, a strawberry caught between his teeth, offering it to the Chevalier. They shared it, amid a lot of messy nibbling that turned, inevitably, to kissing.

Liselotte's aunt had told her that a woman learned a lot about herself through marriage. She would be surprised, Liselotte expected, to know just how right she had been in this case. When Liselotte embarked on her marriage to Philippe she'd done so with an attitude of determination and, as always, optimism. Yes, he had male lovers. One in particular. But he'd also had a wife before, and produced children with her.  It stood to reason, therefore…

Lesson one: reason had very little to do with anything where Philippe and the Chevalier were concerned. It was all histrionics and drama. It was love and passion.

It was, in its way, beautiful. This was beautiful: the two of them arching over her, lost in a moment of pure, unfettered desire.

Lesson two: having a husband who loved other men had unexpected advantages. 

It started when Philippe had been persuaded to share his fantasies with her. At first, she was simply curious, fascinated to know what aroused him, and then further fascinated to discover that the things that aroused him aroused her too. A lot. Perhaps in retrospect it shouldn't be surprising: they both liked men, after all. It turned out their tastes were quite similar. 

Often, after that, they would lie in bed and share a spoken fantasy in the dark, his soft voice caressing her like the plushest velvet. He would do it after they'd had sex, encouraging her to touch herself. All in the interests of encouraging conception, of course; there was no desire on his part. But he would hold her while she did it, whispering beautiful filth in her ear, and after she reached completion he'd stroke her hair through the aftershocks. 

He knew what she liked, what her naughtiest dreams were. And now, suddenly, it was more than words: he was playing out a favourite fantasy right in front of her. Philippe's lips were wet and the Chevalier's eyes were hungry, and she had never felt more aroused in her life.

She gasped at the prettiness of it all, and they both turned to her. The Chevalier smiled like a fox and said, "My darling, you are neglecting your wife."

Philippe kissed her, tasting of strawberries, and whispered, "Is this all right, my poppet? We can stop."

"Don't you dare," she said, and the Chevalier laughed.

Philippe rested a hand on her belly. She could feel the warmth of it, even through her nightshirt. He kept it there, watching as the Chevalier dipped another strawberry in the cup of chocolate. He held it above her mouth, let her taste the drips before feeding her the fruit. It was delicious. She could understand why the Queen had liked it so much. Although she didn't suppose she'd enjoyed it in quite this way. She couldn't imagine Louis ever… 

"Oh dear," the Chevalier said. "I'm so clumsy, I appear to have spilled chocolate on your décolletage. Philippe?"

They glanced at each other, a wordless conversation, then Philippe dipped his head. To Liselotte's astonishment, he ran his tongue across the curve of her breast, lapping up the chocolate that had dropped there. When he was done he raised his head and smiled at her. There was a smudge of chocolate on his upper lip; the Chevalier swooped in and licked it off, and then they were kissing again. More heated tis time, and then the Chevalier grasped Philippe's nightshirt and pulled it off in one, swift - and clearly practised - movement. It barely interrupted their kiss, but suddenly there was a naked man right in front of her, all sleek skin and lean muscle, his desire highly obvious. She wanted very much to touch him - it wouldn't put him off too much, surely? Actually, the way they were kissing she didn't think a bucket of iced water or a stampede of elephants would put them off. She reached out, tentatively, and touched his thigh. He didn't flinch - in fact he didn't even seem to notice. She moved her hand up to the curve of his very shapely buttock. And once there, on an impulse that surprised her, she smacked him. Lightly, with a soft hand, but the sound echoed round the room like a thunderclap. Philippe squealed in protest, but he was smiling.

"Well, now," the Chevalier said. "You didn't tell me your wife is a little minx in the bedroom."

"Truly, everywhere. I am surrounded by trouble. It is the bane of my life."

"I am deeply wounded by the implication of that remark." The Chevalier put his hand to his heart, and tossed his hair.

"You're overdressed," said Philippe. "Take your shirt off."

The Chevalier grinned wickedly at Liselotte, who found herself speechless; unable, quite, to believe this was happening.

The Chevalier made a complete performance of it, of course. He slid off the bed and stood to one side. Feigning an innocent expression, one finger touched to his lips, eyelids fluttering, he captured the hem of his nightshirt with his other hand and drew it slowly to his knees. He teased a glimpse of thigh. Rolled his shoulder provocatively, so that the shirt slipped down his arm. 

Liselotte giggled.

He worked the shirt up his body, over his head - quite gracefully, until he got one arm stuck. Then Philippe started laughing as well. 

The Chevalier freed himself, after a good deal of flailing, and rejoined them on the bed, giving Philippe a reproachful look.

Well. This was new. She had never anticipated seeing the Chevalier naked, and definitely not like this. His body was lean, like Philippe's, his belly perhaps a little rounder, his shoulders a little broader. He had a dusting of fair hair across his chest, and a trail leading down his body to… oh. Oh. Well. That was nice. The Chevalier's cock had an elegant curve to it, a pink flush to the skin, and it looked very eager. As did Philippe's, she noted, as they reached for each other across her body. She was well aware that both men's arousal was despite, rather than because of her, but it was quite a relief to be putting neither of them off. 

"And now, your wife has us at a disadvantage," the Chevalier said.

They both turned to look at her.

"It does seem so," said Philippe.

"And it would be a pity to risk getting chocolate on her nightgown."

"Perhaps we should-"

"-Remove it."

They paused, awaiting her decision.

"If you like," she said, her heart racing.

The Chevalier turned to Philippe. "Do we like?"

"I believe we do."

"Very well, then. She is your wife. I feel that you should be the one to unwrap her."

"I'm not a parcel," said Liselotte.

Philippe reached down and caressed her ankle, her calf. He slid his hand up her thigh, pushing her nightdress up with it. Liselotte felt lightheaded. Philippe eyes held a deep affection for her that made her feel warm all over. The look on the Chevalier's face, she noted, was altogether hungrier.

Philippe pushed her nightdress up to her hips. Her cheeks were hot, and she fought a terrible urge to pull it back down again. She couldn't be effortlessly seductive, like Philippe, or a fetching tease like the Chevalier. She was clumsy and her belly was soft from childbearing. She felt about as attractive as a sack of potatoes. 

He loved her. He'd told her so. He loved her as the mother of his children. He loved her for the way she'd taken care of the man he loved above all others. He loved her honesty, her loyalty, her intelligence. 

But he did not desire her.

She became aware that he had paused, his hand just above her knee, his thumb kneading the muscle there in little circles. 

"I don't understand what you want," she said. 

"I want you naked," said Philippe.

"Oh. Only, I thought…."

"You don't have to."

She looked from one to the other of them. 

They were both very, very naked. 

Perhaps it was only polite, after all.

Liselotte raised her arms. "You may."

Philippe had her nightshirt off in a matter of moments, and she had no time to feel vulnerable before the Chevalier picked up the cup of chocolate and poured a good measure of it over her chest. It flowed over her skin, running like a river between her breasts.

"Oh dear," said the Chevalier. "I slipped. Philippe?"

Philippe set to immediately, lapping up the chocolate with tiny, kitten licks. It tickled, in a very pleasant way. Philippe glanced up at the Chevalier. "Are you going to make me do all the work? It's your mess, after all." He looked at Liselotte. "Don't you think?'

Liselotte looked from Philippe to the Chevalier, and back again. "Oh," she said. "Well. That's up to you. Two. I, um. Yes. I mean it's not like I have any objections, so long as you-"

The Chevalier's look was positively feral. She felt like a small furry animal faced by a cat. She wondered if it was still adultery if your husband was the the one suggesting it, although she suspected the Chevalier was the one in charge. And then the Chevalier's mouth was on her breast, and she found it hard to think anything at all. Where Philippe was soft and playful, the Chevalier was bold and hungry. He swept up the chocolate in broad swipes of his tongue. He lingered at her nipple, then smacked his lips noisily and sucked it into his mouth. To her surprise, Philippe followed his lead, suckling at her other breast, flicking his tongue, grazing oh-so-gently with his teeth. Her back arched. Her fingers threaded through their hair. She was lost.


The Chevalier murmured something, and then Philippe's hand slid up her thigh, and dipped between her legs. He'd never really touched her there before. She'd assumed he'd never wanted to. She was wet (she'd have to be a nun not to be by this point) and his fingers slid easily over her most sensitive places. At some point she realised there were more fingers than she'd expect from one hand, and some were bolder, more expert. 

She gasped. A finger slipped inside her - the Chevalier, judging by the way he raised his head to watch her face. Then another joined the first, and pushed up, and-

"Oh my God!"

They both looked up. The Chevalier smirked at her.

"What did you do?" said Philippe.

The Chevalier whispered something in his ear, then Philippe's fingers replaced the Chevalier's, and wriggled about inside her until all at once-

Her hips bucked up of their own accord, and she whimpered.

"You learn something new every day," said Philippe.

"You can say that again," said Liselotte.

Philippe withdrew his touch; the Chevalier caught his hand, pulled it up to his mouth and sucked his fingers. Philippe looked at him with a quizzical expression, as if he wasn't sure what he was doing, or whether he liked it or not. Then the Chevalier closed his eyes and got to licking and sucking in earnest, and a smile grew on Philippe's face.

The Chevalier released Philippe's fingers, and gently guided them back between Liselotte's legs. They touched her together, the Chevalier inside, while Philippe found her hard little nub and rubbed her there. As they fondled her they kissed each other, they kissed her breasts, they kissed her, both at once, all together, a tangle of tongues and snatched breaths. The Chevalier grew insistent, thrusting into her so fast that that it made wet, clicking sounds, always hitting that spot inside that made her arch and cry out, pushing against Philippe's fingers.

In no time at all she was coming; the Chevalier whispered in her ear, "Yes, good girl, that's it," and kept stroking her there deep inside, so he could feel herself clenching around him. 

She fell back limp on the bed, completely spent, so sensitive that she twitched at the slightest touch. Philippe kissed her forehead.

"They always look like they're having so much fun," the Chevalier said, wistfully, to Philippe.

"We have fun," Philippe replied. "It's just different. Less…." He wiggled his fingers. "Squelchy."

The Chevalier laughed, and set about licking Philippe's fingers clean. Then he insisted Philippe did the same for him. Liselotte was astonished at how eagerly Philippe complied, and the enthusiasm with which he licked and sucked. Then she noticed the flush on the Chevalier's cheek, the quickening of his breath. The knowing look of mischief in Philippe's eyes. So complicated, so incorrigible, her beautiful boys.

"I'm going to rest here for a while," she said. "Feel free to carry on without me. Just imagine I'm not here."

She made a nest of pillows for herself a the head of the bed, and sipped at her wine. The Chevalier and Philippe wasted no time in getting on with things. They lay on the bed in front of her, their bodies fitting perfectly together as they lost themselves in long, indulgent kisses. The Chevalier's hands roamed freely over Philippe's sleek skin, pausing at the small of his back, the curve of his buttocks. They rocked lazily together. She could see the tip of Philippe's cock peeking from between the bellies.

She noticed how tender the Chevalier was with Philippe. She'd always imagined sex between men would be a quick, functional affair - something Philippe's fantasies has certainly implied. But this was different. This was love, affection, a celebration of decadence.

"I'm hungry, Mignonette."

"You want something to stick in your mouth? I can help with that."

"Hmm. I'm in the mood for something hard and salty."

"Oh, I can definitely help with that."

"You think it's--"

"My darling, shut up and suck my prick."

Well, so much for romance.

The Chevalier rolled Philippe onto his back and knelt over him on hands and knees. He kissed a trail down Philippe's body until he reached his belly. He paused there. He brushed the pad of his finger over the tip of Philippe's cock. Then he brought his finger to his lips, and licked. 

Fascinating. Philippe shivered with pleasure. 

"Delicious, darling," said the Chevalier.

"You'd better hurry up if you want the main course."

"So impatient." The Chevalier dropped his head over Philippe's groin. He swept his hair over his shoulder, giving Liselotte a clear view. He winked at her as he took Philippe's prick into his mouth. She winked back. There was heat growing between her legs again, her nipples stiffening. 

She'd expected the Chevalier to take Philippe all the way in in one go, but instead he took just the head into his mouth, slurping noisily. It had an astonishing effect on Philippe; he arched his back, clutched at the sheets and made noises she had never heard him make before.

She realised, with a little shock, that her hand was between her legs. She didn't remember putting it there, she'd been so absorbed by the display in front of her. She let her fingers wander, slipping through the wetness, her soft, puffy lips rewarding her with a rush of pleasure. 

At this rate she might beat them both to it. 

The Chevalier pushed Philippe's legs apart and knelt between them. There was a bottle in his hand, vanilla scented oil. She'd seen it on the mantelpiece in Philippe's bedchamber many times. The Chevalier gave Philippe a long, intense look. Philippe nodded, and then, making their attempts at silent communication irrelevant, said in a loud, rich voice, "fuck me."

Liselotte's cunt spasmed around her finger - somehow she seemed to have slipped it inside herself - and she let out a soft cry of "God, yes."

"He asked first," the Chevalier said, sweetly. "But I'll see if I can fit you in afterwards."

"That's my wife you're talking about," Philippe said. 

She was instantly curious, as hypothetical as it all was. She hadn't drunk enough wine to forget that it really wouldn't do to get pregnant with the Chevalier's child. Although if it were to come out with blond curls they would assume it took after her… No. That would be nothing short of a catastrophe. Besides, she was even more curious about what the Chevalier was going to do with that oil.

Whatever it was, Philippe was clearly looking forward to it. His prick was hard, and rather beautiful, if pricks could be beautiful. It was a nice pink colour, all flushed and eager, like a hound who'd caught a scent.

The Chevalier unstoppered the bottle and poured a puddle of oil into one palm. He dipped his fingers in it. His movements were practiced, easy. But then she supposed they would be. The two of them had been doing this for well over a decade, after all.

Liselotte chewed on her lower lip, stroking herself hard enough to take the edge off. It felt intrusive, to watch something so very intimate and intense. But it was also incredibly arousing, and she could not drag her gaze away.

The Chevalier smoothed oil between Philippe's buttocks. He picked up Philippe's foot, kissed the arch and rested it on his shoulder, giving Liselotte a perfect, uninterrupted view. 

Then he slipped his finger up Philippe's arse.

It should not be that erotic. It really shouldn't. 

But holy mother of God, it was. It was incredible. Her own fingers rubbed faster, plunged deeper. Annoyingly she couldn't find the spot the Chevalier had introduced her to. But it didn't matter, not with the spectacle laid out before her. She was hardly lacking in stimulation.

The Chevalier poured a little oil on his erection, re-stoppered the bottle and discarded it to the table. He stroked himself a few times, then used the head to rub over Philippe's hole. He took his finger out and, with surprising ease, slipped his prick inside. Philippe moaned, one hand clutching at the bedsheets, but there was no hint of pain on his face. Just desire. His prick looked harder than ever, and clear sticky fluid dripped from the tip.


The Chevalier paused when he was all the way in side, and leaned over to give Philippe a kiss. Then he knelt up, steadied Philippe's ankle at the curve of his shoulder, and began to thrust. 

Philippe reached down to stroke himself. Liselotte licked her lips, wondering what that fluid tasted like. The Chevalier had seemed to like it. 

"Do help yourself, my dear," said the Chevalier. "You're practically drooling for it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Suck him."

She glanced at Philippe, raising one eyebrow in question.

"If you wish," he said, as if it was of no consequence. He rocked his hips up to meet Chevalier's thrusts. 

Liselotte threw herself down beside them, her face just inches from the place where they were joined. Philippe flung an arm over her legs, and stroked her knee.

She'd never done this before, but she really wanted to. She longed to give him pleasure that was more than just a side-effect of dutiful procreation. She was also afraid. What if she did it wrong? What if he hated it? What if he hated it because it was her doing it? 

"For goodness sake get on with it," said Chevalier, sinking deep inside of Philippe, beads of sweat forming at his temples. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

She rolled her eyes at him, then dipped her head and licked across Philippe's hip, up his belly. She could feel the heat of his body against her lips. He smelled good; she nuzzled at his skin, breathing him in. She popped his prick into her mouth, and circled it with her tongue.

Both men groaned. She looked up to find two pairs of blue eyes fixed on what she was doing with absolute, undisguised lust.

She smiled to herself, and gave Philippe's prick a little suck. 

They found an easy rhythm between them. Liselotte let the motion of the Chevalier's strokes push Philippe's cock into her mouth, holding it steady with a hand wrapped around its shaft. She licked and kissed and sucked and bobbed, and apart from one squeak of, "No! No teeth!" she heard only groans of pleasure. She snuck a hand between her legs, only for Philippe to pull it away.

"Come here."

She didn't understand at first, so he pulled at her leg until she found herself on her hands and knees on top of him, one knee at the side of each shoulder. And then he was touching her. Fucking her with his fingers.

His prick was hard as ever.

Then he put his mouth on her, and she thought she was going to melt away to nothing. 

"You don't like women," she said, stupid with pleasure.

"Right now, he likes you," said the Chevalier. "Don't make him think about it."

She couldn't begin to understand how that worked, and frankly, she didn't care. Philippe's tongue was firm and insistent and wet; his fingers found that place inside her and his prick thrust between her lips. The Chevalier stroked her hair, murmuring soft words of endearment to both of them.

Her boys. Her mad, ridiculous, beautiful boys.

She felt orgasm approaching, a spread of warmth in her belly, her nipples hard and jolting pleasure where they rubbed against Philippe's body. Philippe seemed to sense it, sucking insistently at her, his fingers a steady, irresistible pressure inside. She had to take her mouth off him for fear of hurting him, knowing she was about to lose control. And there it was: that flicker of the certainty of pleasure, the almost-too-much throb of release. Her whole body shuddered and quivered; she heard the Chevalier laugh, his fingers tangled in her hair, Philippe's hand smoothing over her thigh, soothing.

But he didn't stop.

The Chevalier gently guided her head back as she caught her breath; she took Philippe's prick back into her mouth without even thinking about it. Perhaps she could resign herself to spending the rest of her life like this. It wasn't exactly a hardship.

"A little harder, my dear," the Chevalier said. "It's nearly time."

She pressed her tongue firmly against the part of Philippe's cock that made him moan the hardest. His tongue swiped over her clit, making her shiver: she was a bundle of over-sensitive feeling down there, but she couldn't bring herself to stop him, and all at once he started to fuck her with his fingers, his attentions hungry and passionate. She barely registered the Chevalier's, "My dear, you might want to-" before her mouth flooded with bitter fluid. She backed off in surprise; Philippe whimpered and she had the presence of mind to put her hand to work where her mouth had been, stroking him through the last of his orgasm. His come splashed her face, her lips, coated her tongue.

She looked up to find the Chevalier looking down at her with a glazed expression. His hips were still, his cock buried deep inside Philippe. Dazedly she realised what was happening and her cunt gave a few sharp, quick spasms. Philippe's fingers slipped from inside her; he sighed and patted her backside.

They subsided into an ungainly heap. She found her head resting on the Chevalier's thigh, his fingers still trailing, trembling, through her hair. Philippe's hand clasped hers. He sought out the Chevalier for a long, lingering kiss. 

She closed her eyes. As bizarre as it was after all they'd just done, it didn't seem right to intrude.


Later, after a lot of splashing about in the bath, she pulled on a clean nightdress, and reached for her robe. The boys were already in bed, nestled easily together, Philippe's back to the Chevalier's front, the Chevalier's arms wrapped securely around his middle.

"Well," she said, reaching for her robe. "Goodnight, then."

"Where are you going?" said Philippe, with a frown.

"It's late. I was thinking perhaps to sleep?"

"Not alone," he said, softly. "Unless you wish it."

"Does she snore?" said the Chevalier.

"Not as much as him," said Liselotte.

"Thank heavens," said the Chevalier. "A symphony would be more than I could handle."

"I do not snore," said Philippe.

They both looked at him; Philippe's brow wrinkled.

"We shall wedge him between the both of us," the Chevalier said. "So long as he remains on his side, the noise is far less, I find."

He reached over Philippe to pat the bed in front of them. 

Liselotte paused for a second - no more than a second - to consider how strange her life had become. 

Then she bounced into bed, and kissed both of them, the Chevalier on the cheek, Philippe on the forehead, before snuggling down, her back to Philippe. His arm snaked over her hip, and pulled her in a little tighter.

"Happy birthday," he whispered.

"Thank you, my king," she whispered back.

"So nauseating, the pair of you," muttered the Chevalier.

"Endearments are good for the soul," Liselotte said. "Especially after an evening of depravity."

There was a pause, and then the Chevalier said, "And did you enjoy our depravity, my dear?"

Liselotte smiled to herself, let the question hang in the air just long enough to give them cause for concern, and then said, "It was acceptable."

"Acceptable!" Philippe laughed. "Just acceptable?"

"The world shifted under your feet," said the Chevalier. "Admit it."

"I could not possibly say, as my feet were never on the ground."

"That's it, then," said the Chevalier. "We'll have to do it all again."

"Tomorrow." Philippe yawned. "I'm tired."

"Well yes, of course, tomorrow. Heavens. We mustn't wear the poor girl out."

"Perhaps next time we should invite Sophie," said Liselotte, with a wicked smile. "In case you boys leave me hungry."

They went still behind her; she could imagine the shock on their faces. 

She pulled Philippe's hand to her lips, and kissed it. 

"Goodnight," she said, and settled down to sleep, still smiling.