The Royal Orgy (1789) – A Marie Antoinette Sapphic Fantasy

I imagine myself as Marie Antoinette — not the tragic, powdered doll history remembers, but a woman of unspoken hunger. The court sees only my silk gowns and forced smiles, but behind velvet curtains, a revolution of the flesh is blooming.

It begins with the Duchess of Polignac, her lips stained with wine and secrets. In the candlelight, she teaches me the art of seduction with whispers and wandering hands. Soon, Princess de Lamballe joins us — her touch is soft, reverent, like a prayer offered to my aching body. We’re wrapped in lace, fingers sliding under corsets, exploring a world where desire is no longer shameful, but sovereign.

They call it The Royal Orgy in the pamphlets — scandalous, outrageous. But in truth, it’s liberation. Together, we make music more intoxicating than any opera. We share dildos adorned with ribbons, mouths tasting forbidden pleasure, moaning against the backdrop of a collapsing regime. For once, I am not Queen. I am a woman — devoured, worshipped, and finally free.

Let them write their libels. I will write my legacy in sweat, silk, and the cries of lovers who dared to touch royalty.