Bride of the Revolution Read online

  Pierre’s friends laughed and moved closer. Their tattered breeches bulged heavily at the crotches. They were muscular, powerful, and she knew there was no point in trying to resist them. Her heart was beating fast as the one who had first touched her pushed her away with a hiss of disgust.

  Another stepped forward. Had Pierre called him Raoul? He was tall, well built. ‘You must do exactly as I say,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Grace, letting her head bow in a pliant, acquiescent manner. Had she not been impaled upon Zeus’s cock and found pleasure in it? She shuddered within herself as she remembered the hard chill of the organ entering her tight passage, but at the same time she felt a tiny thrill of pleasure in her clitty.

  The man laughed nervously and looked over his shoulder at her half-brother. ‘Everything!’ His voice became huskier and she could see his rigid cock probing through a rip in his breeches. ‘Put your hands on your head.’ He was so excited his voice was scarcely audible, but he turned to Pierre. ‘She is very beautiful.’

  ‘And very obedient,’ added Pierre.

  Grace held out her hands, showing her manacles and wrist chains. ‘I cannot hurt you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t argue! Are you trying to make a fool of me in front of my friends?’ Pierre’s hand lashed out at her shoulder, but his aim was poor and he slapped her breasts, making the fine chains shimmer in the dim lights of the wall sconces, and making the pale flesh quiver. Her nipples became painfully erect and she felt colour drain from her face.

  Slowly, she raised her hands and placed them obediently on her head. The chains that connected her wrists swayed over her pale face and made her look more slavish than ever.

  Raoul probed a finger between her thighs. His hard mouth curved in a cruel smile that quickly changed to a snarl as he discovered her pussy lips were sealed by gold loops. Grace knew he could feel her dew, warm and slick, dripping on each jet frond and could, perhaps, feel her erect clitty nudging the closed lips.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked, tugging the rings as if he would rip them from her flesh.

  ‘I am a virgin,’ explained Grace, ‘and madame was determined to keep me so.’

  Pierre pulled her from Raoul and shook her. ‘But you are a putain for the court; a whore. I have heard that the courtiers used you.’

  ‘Madame taught me to use my tongue upon men,’ explained Grace, ‘to drink their spunk and be a receptacle for their come, but I remained a virgin.’

  Raoul let his breeches fall to the rough flagged floor and Grace saw the full measure of his bloated penis, which he stroked slowly back and forth. She watched him lick his lips hungrily.

  ‘Nothing else?’ asked Pierre with a frown. ‘She taught you nothing else?’

  Grace bowed her head in embarrassment, not wishing to look at any of the men. Pierre shook her again, causing her hair to thrash back and forth about her pale face.

  ‘Must I whip you to get the truth?’ he asked.

  Silently, Grace raised her eyes. ‘Yes, I have tasted whips,’ she told the men. She turned, allowing the tattered gown to open coyly to show the swollen hillocks of her bottom. She waited, expecting rough hands to part the rounded buttocks; to be invaded deeply. She quivered in this expectation.

  ‘So pale,’ sighed Raoul. ‘So plump and smooth.’ Grace stiffened as she heard his voice. It threatened her with everything that was degradation.

  It was as if this was a signal. Horny hands reached out and touched her, making the firm flesh shudder. Fingers grasped the smooth swellings of her breasts, tweaked the rings which pierced her nipples, bringing tears to her eyes. Knuckles kneaded her flesh pot, bruising the tender flesh as they tried to part the folds.

  ‘Robespierre will enjoy her,’ said Pierre. ‘But for now, manacle her to the wall.’

  ‘But we were promised our fill!’ Raoul growled out his grievance, his hands busy with his cock, rubbing the tight skin back and forth over his globe.

  Two other men pulled Grace towards the lichen-slimed wall and locked her wrists into the rusty iron chains.

  Pierre looked round, his eyes furtive, wary. ‘We must be seen to obey, citoyen. How did I know about the rings that keep her sex closed?’

  The iron was cold against Grace’s wrists. It was hard and the edges were sharp. The fine links of her gold wrist chains bit into her skin beneath the iron. She was chained tightly against the wall and her breasts and belly puckered at the damp chill. Her bare feet scarcely touched the rough floor and her arms were strained in their sockets.

  ‘Open her legs,’ husked Pierre. ‘Hold them open.’ She was splayed as far as her ankle chains would allow.

  Rough hands grasped her ankles and Grace mewed softly as the jewellery on her love lips tugged at her flesh. She felt her buttocks spread apart and her bottom hole investigated.

  ‘Tight,’ murmured Raoul, and Grace felt the tiny pleats spread open and the taut opening touched by a thick finger.

  Other hands fingered her breasts, the heavy fullness, the jewelled nipples. There was nothing Grace could do but allow the caresses and taunts. Her very helplessness increased the heavy feeling in her belly.

  Raoul penetrated her bottom with his finger, and Grace threw back her head as she felt the fullness in her sex increase. ‘She is very willing about the bottom,’ he said hoarsely. He withdrew his finger and Grace heard a sucking sound as he wetted it with spittle. The feeling of fullness returned as he thrust into her again, drawing the finger back and forth rhythmically.

  ‘Stop!’ ordered Pierre.

  ‘But we were promised,’ repeated Raoul. ‘Promised.’

  ‘A whore she might be,’ said Pierre, ‘but she is my sister.’ His voice was full of sadness. ‘And you are defiling her.’

  Grace felt Raoul draw from her and she heard his harsh breathing slow. She gave a small sigh of relief, even though with her legs straddled as they were her cunny felt ready for the soft moistness of a tongue, or the stroke of fingers, but her shame was intense at her profanity before Pierre.

  Her half-brother was at her shoulder, brushing her hair from her ears, whispering. ‘It is punishment you need, putain!’

  She shuddered at the intimation in his rough voice; that she could expect no mercy. She heard hate in his tone; hatred for what she had become. But how could she have stopped the train of events?

  ‘The paddle,’ said Pierre. He stepped back. ‘Yes, the paddle. That’s what you may use upon her, Raoul. Punish her. You seem to set great store by her bottom. I am sure you will find enjoyment in using the paddle upon it.’

  Peeping over her shoulder Grace looked at the smooth length of wood, polished to a sheen and whittled to a thin whippiness. The handle was thick and firm, a tube looking not unlike a turgid cock, but tapering to a short neck before flaring out to the blade of the paddle itself. Pierre had the instrument in his hands, admiring the workmanship with his fingers.

  Relinquishing his cock, Raoul’s eyes became alive as he focussed upon the finely shaped weapon. He took it from Pierre, smoothing the wood, waving it back and forth in the dank air. It made a high-pitched whistling noise that made Grace shiver and press herself closer to the wall.

  The last shreds of the gown were torn from her back, leaving her bottom very naked and vulnerable. She clenched her buttocks tightly and was immediately chastised by Pierre.

  ‘No, ma chere,’ he said. ‘Make your flesh loose and soft, otherwise how can Raoul and the other men watch the pretty quivers at each beat of the paddle?’ His tone was harsh, full of the hatred he felt for her.

  In her nervousness Grace found it difficult to relax her flesh, and she began to tremble against the damp chill of the wall. She turned her head this way and that, looking at the bared stiffness of the cocks of the men who stood so eagerly around her. In the flickering lights of the sconces the stretched flesh of
the weapons looked dark and glossy, standing straight from the bushes at their groins.

  ‘Is your bottom soft?’ asked Raoul, standing close to her. ‘Cool and smooth?’

  Grace managed to nod and felt the warm thickness of his cock probing into the crack between the firm hillocks of her bottom.

  ‘Good, ma petite,’ he murmured, and she felt the whisper of his breath on her neck and through the dark tendrils of her hair. ‘Soft and obliging.’ She felt the stroke of the paddle over her flanks.

  Almost immediately he stepped back and she heard the rasp of excited breathing from the other men. She heard the high-pitched whistle of the paddle cutting through the thick stale air. The paddle beat down, slicing over the softness of her flesh, making it burn with the heat of the blow.

  A sound like the prelude to an orgasm whispered around the men. Grace held back her mewl of pain, biting her lips, for she felt a deeper sensation; a pleasurable swirl of warm liquid deep in her belly, a melting which made her beasts feel heavy and her head light.

  ‘Again!’ groaned the men almost in unison, and Grace strained her head again to watch them. Their fingers flashed smoothly up and down their cocks and she saw the lengths of flesh throb at each touch.

  Scarcely had she chance to draw breath than the paddle sliced through the air once more. The sound of it was sharper in Grace’s ears and the landing on her flesh was harder. Her skin burned, for the paddle echoed the first blow. Her buttocks tautened with the pain, closing around her anus, hiding the tiny bottom mouth.

  ‘Is this what you do for the aristos?’ rasped Raoul. ‘Tease them? Deny them their pleasures?’ He lifted her hair, baring the pink shell of her ear, and she felt the slippery wetness of his tongue driving deep into the outer canal. ‘Well, we are not aristos,’ he grunted, and Grace felt his slimy tongue tip trace the soft lobe. ‘We are not refined and you can expect no mercy from us.’

  Grace shuddered as she felt him step away from her. She tensed as she heard the paddle whistle as he drew it back. No mercy, he said. No mercy. The words echoed in her head, rang in her ears and her mouth opened, ready to scream just as the paddle beat down upon the same swollen place on her bottom. She felt her body grind against the damp wall with the force of the blow; heard the chains chink against the cold stone. The breath was forced from her lungs and the whimpering sound that whispered on her moistened lips was scarcely audible.

  She lost count of the number of times the paddle battered her bottom hillocks. The pain and heat became as one, and in the midst of it came the pleasurable swirls making her cunt become the source of all her senses. Her juices bubbled over the locked sex lips, wetting them with a creamy sheen. Her hidden clitoris was greatly swollen, its hood drawn back, its tip raw and sensitive.

  From all around she heard the grunts of pleasure from the men. She heard the clatter as Raoul threw the paddle to the rough floor. She felt the moist silkiness of a cock tip, pleasantly cool after the heat of her beating. It rubbed over the puffy flesh of her beaten bottom; back and forth, leaving a trail of pre-issue as it was smeared across the heated surface.

  ‘Very shortly,’ growled Raoul, ‘you will feel the spunk of true citoyens. It will be more copious than that of the aristos – hotter, thicker.’

  She could hear the slap of fists pumping rhythmically, could feel the jolt of Raoul’s cock each time he slipped his foreskin up and down the thickness.

  ‘Yes…’ she murmured, surprising herself with the sound of pleasure in her voice. ‘Yes… I want it… I want to feel it…’

  ‘Good, ma petite,’ grunted Raoul. ‘Perhaps you’ll become one of us after all.’

  The slime of the first jet of his spunk made her jerk with pleasure as it landed upon the beaten flesh of her bottom. It was like a soothing balm. More spills hit her from every direction until her helpless body shone with male juices.

  Breasts swollen with desire, Grace’s nipples pained her around the fine gold rings, but even this was a source of pleasure. She almost thanked madame for her rigorous training; the training that taught her to find pleasure in whatever was done to her. The delight grew low in her belly, making it feel full and heavy and her sex very open, despite the rings that held it closed. If only, she thought, she had a lover who would penetrate her to the hilt. Her sex lips would welcome him, draw him in, pet his cock. As it was her cunt convulsed emptily, sucking upon nothing but air.

  ‘Stay very still!’ said a low, but very commanding voice.

  Grace gasped and strained her neck to look round at the newcomer. He wore a hat low down over his eyes. A long coat with many capes upon the shoulders covered him from head to foot. He held pistols in both hands, and although he spoke French he did so with an English accent.

  ‘Merde!’ growled Pierre. ‘The Black Rose!’

  The Englishman chuckled. ‘You are correct, mon ami, but please remember that you’re all very vulnerable with your breeches about your ankles and your cocks covered only by your grubby fingers. My pistols are cocked…’ He chuckled again at his double entendre. ‘Ready to fire.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’ asked a man at the back of the group.

  ‘Release the girl,’ growled the Black Rose, ‘and take care not to hurt her.’

  Who was he, this Black Rose? Grace asked herself. She began to tremble afresh. Her orgasm was just a faint memory, leaving her sex very wet. The chains that held her to the wall had become almost part of her and she was loath to be released.

  Rough hands unshackled her and fresh pain made her moan as feeling began to come back to her cramped limbs. She slid to the grimy floor, crouched like a young animal, her paddled buttocks glowing with heat and pain.

  ‘I warn you not to hurt her!’ rapped the Englishman, and he used the butt of a pistol to crack a head.

  Grace, crouching helpless on the cold floor, reached up to her rescuer. ‘Don’t hit him again! I moaned because my limbs have been cramped. He did not hurt me.’

  She turned onto her side and tried to wrap her arms about her breasts, to curl her legs close to them, hiding their fullness and the puffy wetness of her sex. Her movements were clumsy, far from graceful. She was stiff and slow and the men stared at her open thighs, at the gold rings that kept her outer labia so tightly closed. She began to weep at her clumsiness and her vulnerability.

  The Englishman looked at her from beneath the brim of his hat. A strange expression was in his eyes; a mixture of lust and contempt. He threw his coat at her.

  ‘Cover yourself,’ he rasped, turning his eyes from her breasts, the delicate slenderness of her waist, and the flare of her hips. ‘And follow me.’

  It was a struggle, with her chained wrists and ankles, but Grace managed to wrap the full coat around her and pull herself upright on shaky legs.

  Walking backwards, pistols in his hands, pointing with threatening steadiness at the sour-faced rabble, the Englishman gestured to Grace to follow him quickly through the dark labyrinths of tunnels that formed Robespierre’s prison.

  Within seconds they were out in the busy street and Grace found herself gathered into the man’s strong arms. She felt her breast squeezed with vice-like fingers and she tried to pull away.

  Deep-throated laughter filled the air around her head. ‘What’s this? Embarrassment? Humiliation? Surely not, from what I hear from Minette.’ His fingers became less cruel and he cupped the breast, thumbing her ringed nipple, pulling the gold until tears came to her eyes.

  ‘Not embarrassment, monsieur,’ she said, lowering her jet lashes modestly. ‘And as for humiliation…’ She smiled up at him. ‘I am trained to take any amount of that.’

  He pushed her into the shadows between two buildings and parted the coat, letting the chill night air caress her nakedness. His hand grazed down her silky skin, tracing the curves of her body until it reached the apex of her thighs.

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bsp; Lips fastened on the upper swell of her breasts and she shuddered, throwing back her head in ecstasy. His kiss was so sweet after the roughness of the men who’d kidnapped her. She felt the quiver which began in her breasts continue down to her belly and further to the downy black curls which grew so lushly on her mound.

  His fingers were gentle as they cupped the pad of her flesh pot. They hovered there for long moments, until driving down to the dark slit between the full lips.

  ‘Locked,’ he murmured, pulling the loops that fastened the plump flesh of her labia. ‘And within?’ he asked. ‘Is that, too, still locked?’

  Grace shuddered as he stroked the moist curls that guarded her sex. His touch was tender and she had an urge to open her legs for him. The stroking was slow and rhythmic and she could feel her clitty behind the swelling flesh of her labia. It was becoming hard, becoming more sensitive. She moaned, arching her body, offering herself to him.

  ‘Yes, ma petite putain,’ he murmured, a chuckle punctuating his words. ‘Come for me.’

  His coat fell from her body, leaving her naked, arching against his caresses. Grace could not contain the pleasure he was creating within her. Her whole body felt liquid, heavy, like quicksilver.

  ‘Scream for me,’ he urged. ‘Let me know how wonderful your orgasm is.’

  The release was exquisite. Her body glowed, was on fire with the pleasure he created. She screamed, letting out all the frustration which had built inside her in the months with madame; all the months in which she was taught to be graceful, delicately sensual.

  ‘Yes, putain. Yes!’ His voice was hoarse with lust and he turned her aggressively to face the wall. He forced her arms high above her head.

  The wall was rough against the fine flesh of her breasts. The stone grated her erect nipples, tugged at the rings. She still shuddered as the aftermath of her orgasm faded. ‘What have I done?’ she murmured.

  ‘Nothing,’ he rasped, and she felt the warm hardness of his cock butting at the crease between her buttocks.