Chapter 5: The Salons of Madame de Pompadour

Evening, 1750 CE, Palace of Versailles, France

The private salon in the Palace of Versailles glowed under the flicker of crystal chandeliers, their light dancing on gilded walls adorned with silk tapestries, the air thick with lavender, beeswax, and the faint hum of a harpsichord from the adjacent hall, the evening sky beyond the tall windows a deep sapphire, the year 1750 CE a peak of French opulence. Madame de Pompadour (Margot Robbie), 29, stood at the center of the salon, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight, her blonde hair piled high with pearls, her body draped in a sheer silk robe, blush pink with silver threads, her heavy breasts swaying, pink nipples stiff, her trimmed blonde bush framing a glistening slit, her blue eyes sharp with charm, her scent of lavender and vanilla a seductive lure, her voice a purr as she beckoned her guests, the candlelight casting shadows, the harpsichord’s melody a pulse, the night a stage for lust, power, and seduction, the salon’s velvet cushions scattered with rose petals, the air charged with the promise of primal connection, the stars above the palace a silent witness to her influence.

Louis XV (Henry Cavill), 40, stood beside her, his tall frame clad in a velvet coat, sapphire blue with gold embroidery, his tanned skin glistening with sweat, his dark hair tied back, his brown eyes hungry, his cock stirring beneath his breeches, his scent of amber and musk sharp, his voice a growl, “My dear,” as he gripped her hips, his role as king a bond of power and desire, the candlelight flickering, the harpsichord’s notes a sultry backdrop, the palace’s distant laughter a rhythm, the night a blaze of passion, connection, intrigue, his fingers digging into her flesh, his body tense with anticipation, the air around him thick with the scent of lavender, the stars above a canopy to his lust.

Jeanne-Antoinette (Zendaya), 22, a young courtesan, knelt nearby, her fair skin glowing in the candlelight, her dark hair unbound, her silk shift damp with sweat, clinging to her curves, her pert breasts high, small brown nipples tight, her dark bush matted, her slit dripping, her hazel eyes wide with ambition, her voice a whisper, “My lady,” as she gazed up at Pompadour, her role as a favorite a delicate dance, her admiration a fire, the lavender scent mixing with her own rose, her body a gift, a surrender, the night a promise of primal connection, her fingers trembling as she clutched a silver tray of perfumes, the air thick with the promise of their shared pleasure, the stars above a silent witness.

A young page, Étienne (Kit Connor), 19, stood in the shadows near a gilded mirror, his pale body clad in a simple livery, his blonde hair tied back, his hands trembling as he held a clay lamp of melted beeswax, his breath shallow, the scent of lavender and musk mixing with his own sweat, his role to serve the court, his presence a silent witness, the candlelight casting his shadow on the wall, the harpsichord a backdrop to his racing heart, the night a forbidden spectacle, his gaze fixed on the trio, his body tense, his mind a whirl of shame and desire, the salon a world beyond his own, the stars above a canopy to his silent longing, his fingers gripping the lamp tightly, his chest heaving with each breath, the sight before him a torment he could neither join nor escape, the air around him charged with their tension, the night a tapestry of forbidden beauty.

Pompadour’s voice softened, her blue eyes on Louis, her hands sliding down his chest, her fingers tracing the embroidery, her touch a spark, Louis’s growl deep, “My flame,” her slit dripping, the candlelight curling around her, the lavender scent sharp in the warm night, her body trembling under his gaze, her lips parted in a silent plea. She shed her robe, the silk pooling on the floor, her slit glistening, her moan low, “Mmm,” as she approached Louis, Louis’s brown eyes darkening, his coat discarded, his cock throbbing, desire a pulse, the salon watching, voyeurs to her play, Pompadour’s salon a spell. Jeanne-Antoinette shed her shift, her fair body bare, pert breasts high, dark bush soaked, her slit gaping, her hazel eyes hungry, joining Pompadour on the velvet chaise, her voice a purr, “Let me serve,” her hands roaming Pompadour’s thighs, her scent of rose sharp, her body trembling, her ambition a fire, the lavender scent a veil, the candlelight flickering, the harpsichord a distant hum, her dark hair catching the light, her skin flushed with arousal, her fingers digging into Pompadour’s flesh, her breath hot against Pompadour’s skin, her own slit dripping onto the velvet, her body aching for Pompadour’s touch, the night a canvas for their shared desire.

Pompadour leaned back, her heavy breasts heaving, her slit dripping, her lavender scent sharp, as she retrieved a polished ebony dildo from a gilded box, its surface carved with fleur-de-lis, glistening with rose-scented oil, its scent earthy, primal, her voice a command, “For you, Jeanne,” her eyes on the courtesan, her hands guiding her closer, Jeanne-Antoinette’s gasp loud, “Oh gods,” her slit dripping, her dark bush soaked, her asshole twitching, the velvet chaise soft beneath her, the harpsichord a rhythm, the night a tapestry of lust, power, connection, Étienne’s eyes wide, his lamp trembling, his breath hitching, the forbidden sight a fire in his blood, the stars above a silent judge, his body frozen in the shadows, his restraint a painful reminder of his role, the air around him thick with their shared lust. Pompadour slid the ebony dildo into Jeanne-Antoinette’s slit, the polished ebony stretching her, fucking her slow, then hard, the rose-scented oil slick, Jeanne-Antoinette’s juices squirting, her moan raw, “Oh gods, deeper,” her slit gaping around the ebony, her body trembling, her pleasure a fiery edge, the candlelight a witness, the night a blaze of primal connection, their bond a dance of power and lust, a hymn to Versailles, Étienne’s hands shaking, the lamp slipping slightly, the wax spilling onto the floor, his breath a gasp, the sight a forbidden dream, the salon a world of kings, the stars above a witness to his shame, his body trembling with the weight of their desire, the air around him charged with their moans.

Pompadour reached for the clay lamp on Étienne’s tray, its beeswax melted from the flame, the warm golden liquid pooling, its honeyed scent mixing with lavender, her fingers dipping into the hot wax, her voice a whisper, “Feel this, my king,” as she dripped the wax onto Louis’s chest, the heat searing, Louis’s growl sharp, “Oh fuck, yes,” his cock throbbing harder, his body trembling, the wax cooling into golden trails, his pleasure a fiery edge, Pompadour’s fingers plunging into her own slit, stretching herself, her scream louder, “Oh fuck, it burns,” the dual sensations of wax and self-pleasure overwhelming, her charm a fire, the lavender scent a sultry pulse, the candlelight flickering, the harpsichord a distant echo, her blonde hair a cascade, her pale skin marked with wax, her body arching under her own touch, her slit dripping onto the velvet, her moans a desperate plea, the night a canvas for their shared desire. Louis pulled the dildo from Jeanne-Antoinette, its ebony slick with her juices, and slid it into Pompadour’s slit, the ebony stretching her, fucking her hard, Pompadour’s scream loud, “Oh fuck, yes,” her clit throbbing, her juices squirting, her heavy breasts bouncing, her lavender scent sharp, her nails digging into the velvet, the candlelight a witness, the night a blaze of primal connection, their bond a dance of power and lust, a hymn to the court, Étienne’s gaze locked, the sight of the wax a new torment, his breath ragged, the salon a temple of lust, the stars above a silent judge, his body trembling with the weight of their desire, the air around him thick with their shared lust.