Bride of the Revolution Read online

  ‘Play with each nipple ring, my sweet,’ purred madame, keeping her eyes upon the stage. ‘Make sure the footlights catch the glint of gold, but do it discreetly, with grace and subtlety, being sensual but not brash.’

  Grace lifted her manacled wrists to the required height and parted her hands as much as her chains would allow. With the tips of her index fingers she agitated the tiny gold loops at her nipples. These were not in full view, but were partly hidden by the décolletage ruffle.

  Beneath her skirts juices spilled over the little gold rings that kept her sex lips closed. She felt her nubbin swelling unbearably, butting the labial jewellery.

  She became aware of eyes focussed upon her and she stared fixedly upon the stage, although had anyone asked her what was taking place she would surely have been unable to tell them the farcical antics of the actors who dived in one door and then reappeared at quite another.

  ‘A young man…’ whispered Madame de Genlis, leaning forward to whisper in Grace’s ear. ‘Can you see him, beyond the grille?’

  Grace allowed her eyes to dip into the pit.

  ‘He is an aristo for sure,’ continued madame, ‘perhaps English, by his clothes.’ The green eyes glistened at the sight of the young man who was darkly handsome, but dressed in the manner of the fashionable London gentlemen. He could not take his eyes off Grace and his excitement was all too obvious, even beyond the thick mesh of the grille.

  ‘And don’t get too excited, my girl,’ whispered Philipe in her other ear. ‘You must fetch the best price for madame.’

  ‘Mind your own business, Philipe.’ Madame spoke sharply and rapped her patron with her fan.

  The curtain came down for the first act and Grace dropped her aching wrists into her lap. Perhaps the young man would release her from her ownership, but perhaps also she was being unfair. Madame had provided much comfort as well as the little tutelage she devised so cunningly; the sensuality she was taught to enjoy. Indeed she did enjoy it! Her body was a receptacle for pleasure. For pure pleasure.

  Chapter Seven

  Minette wore only a light basque, laced very tightly at the back by her maid. The garment nipped her waist to wasp-like slenderness and, at the same time, lifted her breasts until they spilled over the satin upper edge. Below the lower margin of the tightly laced garment the slender swell of her belly was pale as porcelain, and below that was a puff of golden curls hiding the moist folds of her sex.

  ‘Albert!’ Minette twirled round, her pretty face aglow with pleasure as the young aristo stepped into her dressing room. She held out her arms in greeting, but Lord Albert looked distracted and she pouted at his lack of interest in her.

  ‘There is a girl,’ he told her, and he rubbed the crotch of his breeches which sported a large bulge. ‘I mean to have her, to use her.’

  Lord Albert had entered the backstage dressing room without knocking. As always his whip was coiled loosely in his hand and his expression was mocking, a finely etched eyebrow raised as if in permanent query.

  Minette threw her arms about his neck and brushed the fullness of her breasts against his broad chest until her nipples were hard as little beans. ‘You have me, Albert, and Charlotte. Why do you need more?’

  He claimed her lips, his mouth passionate. ‘Because this girl is different; a slave, taught to obey. Pliant and submissive. She would do anything for me. I know. I have seen the glint of her chains and rings that mark her as a chattel.’ He drew his hands down her tightly corseted figure until his fingers cupped the fullness of her buttocks. He prised them apart and rubbed them, and into the tight valley between them. ‘Even lay down her life.’

  ‘Hmm,’ purred Minette. ‘When you caress me in that way… I would do anything for you.’

  ‘Introduce me to the girl,’ he said, and his fingers drifted to the silky pad of her pussy, slithering into the valley between the delicious lips.

  Minette pouted until he thumbed the nub of her clitty. She became heavy and limp in his arms as he rubbed with regular strokes over the receptive little point. ‘Where is she?’ she murmured, her voice catching in her throat as her breathing quickened.

  ‘In one of the boxes reserved for the royal party,’ he said, smiling at her obvious pleasure. ‘I would go myself but it would not do for me to be seen mixing with the aristos.’ As her orgasm faded he squeezed her breast and stroked the loops of the folded whip over the hillocks of her bottom.

  ‘I shall go after the next act,’ said Minette, leaning back in his arms, bearing back against the stroking movement of the whip. ‘The death scene is my final appearance, but will you not reward me for obeying you in this task?’

  He laughed. ‘And the reward?’

  ‘To feel the sting of your whip on my bottom!’ She bowed her head in mock humility, but raised her eyes, looking at him under the fringe of her lashes.

  ‘Oh, I see. You are afraid that my attentions will be permanently elsewhere?’ The coiled whip was allowed to fall, the leather making a soft plopping noise on the bare boards of the floor. ‘You do not enjoy the whip. Why now?’

  ‘I wish to please you, Albert,’ she whispered. ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Bend down,’ he ordered coldly. ‘On your knees, bottom high in the air, and let your breasts hang softly. Your thighs must be fully open and you must tilt your sex so I see every detail.’

  ‘Yes, Albert.’

  Minette positioned herself as he required. Never had he known her so submissive, and he chuckled softly. He noticed the slight tremor of the buttocks and the pleasant looseness of the heavy breasts. The folded whip was stroked along the plump pleats of her sex and this, too, caused a quiver that was delicious to watch. He lifted the whip and placed the fold to his nose, savouring the musk of the excited girl.

  ‘Good, Minette,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps we may train you even yet.’

  ‘I shall do anything to please you, Albert,’ she whispered. ‘You know that.’

  The whip snaked through the air, whistling as it fell. The next noise in the little dressing room was the crack of leather upon flesh. Minette moaned, her lips pursed in a soft rosebud. Her heavy breasts trembled and the pert buttocks quivered as the leather lashed it.

  ‘Enough?’ asked Albert with a chuckle.

  ‘Non!’ Minette’s denial was faint-hearted. ‘Do not stop. It is… wonderful!’

  ‘You little liar! A weal as thick as a cow’s udder and the colour of a ripe mulberry is growing as I look and I know you are not a lover of the whip.’ He chuckled. ‘Ever the actress, Minette.’

  ‘Truly! It is wonderful. More. I want more.’

  The whip was brought down again and Minette groaned louder, but still she remained on her knees, her thighs open and her sex pouch tilted.

  ‘You are very wet, ma petite! The dew drips from your clitty. I believe you are really enjoying it.’

  ‘I am, but I must go back on stage. May I get up?’

  ‘One more to remember me by,’ said Albert with a chuckle. ‘One more.’ The whip cracked about Minette’s waist and he drew her upwards, wrapped in its folds.

  There was a rap on the door of the box. Philipe and madame looked at each other questioningly, and the cloak was quickly wrapped about Grace’s near-nakedness and the manacles and chains which imprisoned her.

  Philipe opened the door just a crack. ‘Yes?’ he said nervously. He saw assassins in everyone in these days of the revolution, but it was a girl; a sweet golden-haired girl, dressed in the costume of a country girl.

  ‘Ma cherie!’ Philipe flung open the door of the box, his crotch already full and aching. ‘Madame… it is Minette, the actress!’ He drew the girl to him, one hand dipping into the low cut gown and the other drifting under the full skirt.

  Minette moaned and winced as the searching fingers clutched her full buttock flesh. Immediately, Ph
ilipe whirled the girl round and folded her over his arm. She tried to hide the darkening bruises and thick welts with her hands. She raised her flushed cheeks to Philipe.

  ‘Who?’ he murmured. He had always loved Minette and would have married her had Louis given permission. ‘Who whipped you?’

  Minette shook her head, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘I cannot tell you. I come only to give you a message.’

  Again Philipe lifted the full skirt and forced Minette to bend over. His fingers traced the blue-black weals that stood out in stark relief from the pale hillocks. He traced the dark crease of the cleft between the buttocks and gently probed a fingertip into the tight bottom hole. He kissed each bruised and reddened swell and felt Minette shudder as his finger delved deeper.

  ‘Who?’ he rasped. ‘Who did this to you?’ In truth he was not angry. The sight excited him. He wished it had been his hand that wielded the whip.

  Minette gave him a frightened glance over her shoulder, but he could see the gleam of pleasure in her eyes beyond the fear. ‘The Black Rose,’ she whispered. ‘The Black Rose loves to tease his girls with the whip.’

  Philipe went pale. ‘The double agent?’

  No one knew just whose side the Black Rose was on. Some said it was the king and the aristos he protected but others said he started the revolution single-handed to further his own ends. This was Philipe’s belief as his interest in Minette’s body dissipated and he threw himself down on a chair, showing interest only in chewing his nails.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said madame. ‘You have a message?’

  Minette, with a last sorrowful look at her admirer, smoothed down her costume and nodded.

  ‘An admirer?’ probed madame. ‘For my treasure here?’ She thrust Grace’s manacled hands to her breasts, urging her to tweak the gold nipple rings. The muslin gown was thrust high above her thighs and she, without more persuasion, opened her limbs as far as the chains would allow, displaying her neatly locked cunt.

  The action brought its usual result; the pleasurable swirling in her belly, the flood of creamy juices which made the midnight blackness of her pussy curls glossy and the swelling of her enclosed clitty. Grace bowed her head, humiliated by her own unbidden reactions.

  Minette nodded once more, but lowered her eyes, embarrassed by Grace’s forced display. She had heard that many at court were lewd and decadent. This girl, although she acted so submissive, seemed actually to enjoy her own display.

  ‘Are they here? Have you brought them?’ asked madame of Minette, taking a glance, first at Grace to check she was showing herself to best advantage and then out into the dim passage behind the box. Shadowy figures lingered there and there was a murmur of voices. ‘There was a young Englishman in the pit who could not take his eyes from…’

  ‘I am so sorry, Madame de Genlis,’ murmured Minette. Her full breasts trembled over the low décolletage and she twisted her fingers in the looped skirt of her gown. ‘It is not the Englishman…’

  Grace gasped, her dark eyes wide with fear. Her hands fell from the gold jewellery that pierced her nipples.

  The shadowy figures stepped into the box and, in the richness of these surroundings, their clothing, no more than filthy rags, looked more misplaced than ever.

  ‘You filthy little whore!’ The rasping voices were suddenly all around her, scathing and insulting. ‘Putain!’

  Dragged to her feet by several pairs of hands Grace gave a plea for mercy. Her body seemed torn as if on the rack once more or suspended from the dungeon roof. Her handlers were rough, as were their hands and nails. Her flesh was bruised, her skin chafed and the fine chains tore at the places they pierced. She heard the soft clink of them, one against the other, and heard the hoarse breathing of her new captors.

  Her eyes darted to Madame de Genlis and Philipe, pleading for their aid, but Philipe huddled as far away as possible from the newcomers. Grace struggled in the rough hands that clasped cruelly around her bare arms and brutishly thrust down into the flimsy gown to grasp the soft heaviness of her breasts. It was then that she saw Pierre, his face contorted with anger and revenge.

  ‘I warned you!’ he rasped. ‘I warned you!’

  A claw-like hand reached out and Grace felt the sting of a ragged nail as it scratched the full swell of her breast. Her gown fell in shreds about her body. She drew in a long breath as the film of gossamer swirled loosely away from her, leaving her naked apart from the nipple rings and the looped gold chains that shimmered against her pale skin. She stood, head bowed, her midnight hair a silky curtain about her face, not daring to look at the faces turned in her direction.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ Madame stood, her handsome face at once afraid and thunderous with anger. She looked to Philipe for help but, overcoming his fear, he had eyes for no one but Minette. ‘I shall call the guards.’

  The ruffians laughed and gathered round Grace, mauling her breasts, sucking on the gold rings that pierced her nipples, thrusting their filthy fingers into the lush bush of hair on her mound.

  ‘Has it escaped your notice, madame, that the revolution is by the people and for the people,’ said Pierre. ‘The guards will do nothing more than join in our games. Come! We must go… Robespierre is not a patient man.’

  Madame gave a little cry of fright. ‘Robespierre? What does he want with my poor Grace? Will he have her beheaded?’

  The men laughed again, pulling Grace by the wrist chains, making her stumble. ‘Beheaded? No!’ said one. ‘There are any number of little games that Citizen Robespierre has in mind for this pretty little miss!’

  Grace tried to blink back the tears that gathered under her lashes. ‘I’ve done nothing,’ she murmured.

  ‘You are one of them!’ grated Pierre. His horny hands, one after the other, whipped across her buttocks. The sudden sting made her cry out. She felt a glow of heat from the blow. Aftershocks made the firm young flesh quiver and her well-tutored little anus sucked joyfully as if on a finger or Zeus’s cock.

  ‘I’m not, mon frere,’ she murmured. ‘I was taken against my will.’

  Pierre shrugged and gestured that his companions should take Grace, which they did, dragging her unmercifully from the theatre.

  Once out in the streets, which were still full with the milling populace, Grace tried to shrink back from the crowds. A roar of approval went up as they saw her, her gown in tatters fluttering about her naked body and her body pierced and bonded by the chains. She hung her head in shame and tried to bury her face on Pierre’s thin shoulder, but he pushed her away.

  This was worse; worse than anything she had suffered. Worse than the men who tried to rape her in the cemetery; worse than being impaled upon Zeus to be abused by the courtiers.

  ‘These are your people, Grace,’ muttered Pierre. ‘Not those aristos.’

  She knew Pierre was right, but the months she’d spent at Versailles had made her soft, used to comfort, no matter that madame and Pierre tormented her. She sobbed, stumbling upon the slimy cobbles and the remains of rotting food. She wished the ground would open up, swallow her, release her from misery.

  ‘Almost at Robespierre’s palace,’ said Pierre. ‘I believe he has quite a treat in store for you. Oh yes, ma chere soeur, we have heard what debauchery you enjoyed in Versailles.’

  Grace began to deny it, but in truth, she could not. There were times when she was delirious with the pleasure meted out to her. She enjoyed the warm silkiness of a cock between her lips, the throb of it, the feel of the moist smooth globe at the back of her tongue. And, best of all, the deluge of male fluid that poured into her throat.

  And madame had taught her the enjoyment of a tongue between her love lips. She could not resist the shudder in her captors’ arms as she remembered the lap of lingual flesh upon her sex; the tickle of it upon her clitty and the resulting joy which welled up within her, ma
de her spiral in a whirlpool of pleasure.

  Her captors grasped her arms and dragged her through the imposing doorway of Citizen Robespierre’s palace. The ill-clad guards leered at her nakedness as she was shoved ahead of her captors through the entry hall. This was magnificent in its grandeur, but unkempt, the ceilings draped with cobwebs.

  ‘Down!’ ordered Pierre as she was pushed through a narrow arch that led down into darkness.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, peering into the gloom. There was a chill in the air which made her bare skin roughen into goosebumps.

  ‘The crypts,’ replied Pierre. ‘Robespierre uses these to extract information from those who shield the aristos.’

  Grace shuddered against Pierre and, feeling the movement, he laughed.

  ‘Does it remind you of something, little sister?’ he asked.

  ‘Versailles,’ she murmured. It reminded her of the rooms beneath the king’s palace where she was punished when first used by madame. The walls ran with damp and were green with lichen and moss. She heard the low moans of pain and voices begging for death. She shivered in the wet chill.

  ‘Oui,’ answered Pierre. ‘We have heard about the king’s debauchery with his subjects.’

  One of Pierre’s companions stepped forward, coming from out of the gloom. His broad hands were outstretched, his eyes glinting with lust. He pressed her nakedness to him and she looked over her shoulder, pleading with Pierre, but he shrugged and turned away. ‘He merely wishes to keep you warm, little sister, until Robespierre is ready for you.’

  The broad hands rubbed her belly and trembled as they slid over her breasts, feeling the nipple rings and the chains which connected them. Grace’s breasts became fuller, more tender, and she arched towards the man. This encouraged him and the thick fingers entered the space between her parted thighs, gliding over the smooth skin. She shivered as the touch became more intimate, entering the crease of her bottom.