Bride of the Revolution Read online

  ‘A kiss, my darling,’ murmured Charlotte, ‘and let your lips linger on my flesh.’

  Grace buried her nose into the soft wetness and heard the woman groan in ecstasy. Her lips felt the swollen hardness of Charlotte’s clitty and she took it into her mouth, rolling back the little hood with her tongue and sucking as if upon a milky teat.

  As she sucked, slowly and rhythmically, she let a finger slither into Charlotte’s open cunny and felt it clutch as if to imbibe it into her body.

  ‘Two fingers,’ groaned Charlotte, ‘and push hard, back and forth. You’re giving me so much pleasure, my darling. So much. I cannot hold back…’ She groaned so loudly that Grace could almost imagine she was in pain, but her body was throbbing with pleasure and she continued to suck and delve into the soft wetness.

  Mouth slippery and glossy with Charlotte’s juices, Grace was at last pushed away.

  ‘The salve, mistress,’ said Cava, standing over them.

  ‘Then use it on the poor girl’s ankles,’ snapped Charlotte, pulling down her skirts.

  Cava knelt at Grace’s feet and opened the jar of salve. His touch was gentle for such a huge man and Grace closed her eyes, enjoying the cool of the cream on her burning ankles.

  ‘She is a virgin, Cava,’ Charlotte reminded the giant. ‘You would split her asunder.’

  Cava’s big head jerked up. His eyes filled with tears. The heavy bulge in his breeches became fuller and more prominent. He bowed his head once more and rubbed more salve into Grace’s feet.

  ‘But I am sure I could take you, Cava,’ said Grace softly.

  A warmth swirled in her belly and between her love lips there was a feeling of liquidity. Her clitty was bathed with creamy lubrication and she could feel a pulsing in the pit of her womanhood.

  ‘Let me try, mistress,’ begged Grace. ‘Let me take him into my body.’

  ‘Perhaps if I greased my cock with the salve…’ suggested Cava, pushing the ragged waistband of his breeches down over the muscular flatness of his belly. His cock was iron-hard and standing upright to above his waist. The globe shone with pre-issue, as if it was polished. In the centre of the naked sphere the eye pulsed and drooled. The thickness was such that Grace was sure she would be unable to put her fingers around its circumference, or stretch her mouth to caress it with her lips.

  ‘Well, my dear?’ queried Charlotte, her lips twisted in an ironical smile. ‘Do you still think you could take this monster?’

  The wanting made Grace spread her legs to their full extent, offering her freshly freed cunny to the giant. She let her knees fall open and loose and she could feel her love lips swell and become deliciously soft.

  ‘With the salve, mistress,’ she murmured. ‘I am sure I could with the salve.’

  With a sigh Charlotte de Levis sat back upon a low damask covered chair. The ragged gown looked incongruous in such an elegant setting. She pulled her skirts over her knees and spread them, giving Grace a hint of her fiery pussy bush. ‘It shall be as you wish, my darling,’ she said, reaching forward to stroke Grace’s flushed cheek. ‘Kneel before Cava and smear his cock with a generous layer of salve.’

  Grace slid from the sofa and knelt at the big man’s feet, taking the jar of cream from him. He had released his breeches and stepped out of them. His muscular legs were spread wide and his magnificent balls were taut in their smooth sac. His cock speared up, away from his big body, swaying and eager, the skin shiny as it stretched over its fullness.

  Within her belly Grace felt a warm melting as if her sex turned to molten liquid. Seepage drooled down her inner thighs, lying on the pale skin like shimmering pearls. Her outer love lips felt soft and swollen, and within was the flushed moist bed on which stood her clitty, arching and throbbing.

  The salve felt cool as she dipped her fingers into the pot. It was silky smooth to the touch. She looked up at Cava, who smiled down at her and stroked her mane of black hair, the soft curve of her parted her lips. She was afraid, but she had been forced to wait for the feel of a man’s cock, had yearned for it since madame had taught her the delights of sex.

  ‘Lie upon the carpet, my darling,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘It is soft and will not chafe your lovely body.’

  Grace could hear Charlotte’s excited breathing and Cava’s rasping grunts as she spread herself gracefully on the richly coloured Persian rug. She placed her hands above her head, which thrust her taut breasts high. The ringed nipples were flushed and erect and the fine gold chains quivered on her narrow ribs with each breath she took. Finally, she spread her thighs to their fullest extent. Her belly was hollowed and her sex mound, black as jet, was raised and a stark contrast to her pale skin.

  ‘A pillow for her buttocks,’ whispered Charlotte, her eyes never leaving Grace’s body.

  Grace could not help but moan as she felt the cool silk of the cushion against the heat of her bottom. The pillow was plump and forced her legs further apart and her sex mound upwards.

  ‘On your knees, Cava,’ ordered Charlotte, ‘and be gentle with her, or it will be the worse for you. You are not so big that I can’t punish you.’ Her voice had an edge to it that made Grace shudder, and she saw Cava’s eyes glitter with fear as he sank to his knees between Grace’s straddled thighs. The big man shrugged out of his ragged shirt and she saw the reason for his fear; a network of healed scars criss-crossed his broad back.

  ‘Open yourself up, my darling,’ said Charlotte, her voice soft and purring once more. ‘Show Cava your full delights.’

  Grace heard the giant groan as she opened her love lips to show him she was ready and to make his entry that much easier. As she did so her forefinger grazed the tip of her clitty and she sighed with the sudden shiver of pleasure that spun through her body. She dipped her finger into the creamy pit of her entrance and rubbed it over the whole surface of her sex. Cava made and animal-like roar and pressed forward until his globe touched her sex. She shuddered, not with horror, but with joy.

  With a slight movement of her hips she arched her sex above the pillow, offering it to him. She felt the pressure of his thickness but her maidenhead did not give. He thrust again, but no matter that she wanted him inside her, there was still a resistance. She began to whimper in her frustration and Cava sweated with effort.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Charlotte, her voice sharp with exasperation. ‘Why is she not screaming in agony?’

  The sound of loud voices intruded upon the scene. Grace, with anxious eyes, looked towards the door and cupped her chained hands about her plump sex. Cava had moved away from her and was reaching for his breeches. The door was flung open and a man stood staring at the tableau before him. He began to laugh, throwing back his head and slinging his broad-brimmed hat across the room.

  ‘So you found her, Charlotte!’ he said. It was the Englishman. Grace recognised his halting French. ‘And I see you have unlocked the gate to earthly paradise.’

  He strode across the room and crouched down between Grace’s thighs. She turned her face away and closed her eyes as if this would hide her embarrassment.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the Englishman. He grasped her wrists, pulling them away from her sex.

  Reluctantly, Grace let her lashes flutter open and met his mocking gaze. It was as if he could see into her most intimate places. She could not resist when he bent down and stroked the places where the gold rings had kept her love lips tightly closed. His touch was slow and sensual and promised delights yet unknown to Grace. Very slowly, he opened the plump lips, using the thumb and forefinger of one hand.

  She knew her flesh was still sleek from her copious issue and knew, too, that her clitty was hugely erect, its tip bared with the hood drawn back. Once more her cheeks burned with humiliation at his close inspection.

  ‘But the gate is still not open?’ He chuckled and grazed the pad of his other thumb over her
clitty. Grace could not help but whisper a pleasurable sigh and she felt her hardened pippin judder under his touch. He chuckled again and rubbed the heel of his hand into the wetness of the pit Cava could not enter. ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘I was afraid of hurting her, monsieur,’ murmured Cava, miserably.

  ‘And I suppose the idea of opening up those rings of hers was yours, Charlotte,’ said the Englishman.

  Charlotte de Levis stood and faced him, her rags looking as refined and elegant as the most fashionable of gowns. She placed her hands firmly on her hips and held her head high. ‘And why not?’ she said. ‘Some wretch left her in an alley, naked and chained.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Englishman. ‘I rescued her from Robespierre’s clutches, but I was called away. I knew you were not far behind me and I knew you would see her value.’

  His aristocratic fingers continued to caress Grace’s cunny, slicking the sensitive flesh, the puffy folds, the pert and flushed bud, and she could do nothing but writhe under his touch. She remembered some shouting, some screams at the end of the narrow alley, but it was as if they were in a dream world and not real at all. She remembered how the Englishman, the Black Rose, slipped from her and into the shadows of the night.

  ‘Well, now,’ he purred. ‘Since you have been spared the fate of being torn to pieces by this monstrous pet of Charlotte’s, I think you will fetch a pretty price for me, and I know exactly who will purchase you.’

  ‘For you?’ Charlotte questioned crossly. ‘Whatever she fetches should be given to the cause, surely?’

  The Englishman grinned and swept Charlotte into his arms. ‘Of course, my dear. That is what I meant.’

  But Grace saw the grin fade and a hardness take its place as he released Charlotte and turned his gaze to her.

  Chapter Nine

  The small ship dipped and plunged perilously into the grey waters of the English Channel. Grace clung to the rail, the spray soaking the fluttering muslin of her gown.

  ‘You will catch a chill.’ The Englishman placed his hands upon her shoulders and tried to guide her below.

  ‘I don’t care,’ murmured Grace. ‘I feel so ill I don’t care if I die.’

  He pressed her to him and she could feel the chains and rings which adorned her nipples pressing painfully into his chest. His hands gripped the cheeks of her bottom, the fingers digging into her flesh. Her buttocks were wrenched apart and his fingers slid up and down the tight cleft. The pain of his cruel grip at least made her forget the misery of her seasickness.

  His lips pressed against hers. His tongue ravaged her mouth as his fingers sought her intimate places. Her muslin gown was so wet and transparent, moulding to the rich curves of her slender body that she might as well have been naked against him.

  ‘What is he like?’ she murmured when he at last freed her. ‘This man to whom you will sell me?’

  ‘Dark, very handsome, and foreign,’ he said, with a strange smile.

  ‘Foreign?’ Grace forgot, for the moment, her nausea. ‘You mean French?’ It would be so wonderful if she was to be sold to a Frenchman.

  ‘He speaks French among other languages,’ he said enigmatically. ‘And you will not be alone.’

  ‘No,’ she said happily. ‘I shall be with him.’

  ‘And other girls.’

  Suddenly the deck pitched as the small ship was flung high on a huge wave and then plunged into a dip so deep that Grace screamed, thinking they would be thrust down into the depths of Hell itself.

  But he held her tight and she felt safe, even in this terrible sea. Breath caught in her throat as her cunny, under his less than tender probing, became moist. She wished with all her heart that he would touch her on its most sensitive peak, but he deliberately skirted around the silky root.

  ‘Is he kind?’ she asked above the scream of the wind in the rigging and the noisy flap of the billowing sails.

  He chuckled and shrugged. ‘As kind as any husband is to his wife,’ he answered.

  Grace’s eyes fluttered open and she tried to see him clearly through the mist of streaming rain. ‘Husband? I am not to be his slave, but his wife?’ She could not believe what she heard.

  ‘Does that distress you?’ His mouth quirked in a strange sardonic smile.

  ‘No,’ she murmured, but she laid her head wearily on his chest, unable to believe that her slavery was at last over. Despite her denial a frisson of fear niggled at the back of her mind. It was the fear of the unknown.

  She had known poverty and she had known slavery. But marriage? That was something else again. Now she was to be a chattel.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, holding her close. ‘Perhaps it won’t be as bad as you think – to be a wife.’

  She frowned up at him, blinking into the sea spray. Why did he hesitate?

  ‘Come below,’ he murmured. Once more he drove his fingers into the firm flesh of her buttocks, first prising them widely apart and then squeezing them together. ‘I have just the cure for mal de mer.’ He smiled, a twisted smile which made Grace quiver against him.

  He helped her down the steep and narrow companionway. Grace was unable to stop the shivering which wracked her body. Her muslin gown clung wetly to her sea-soaked body. True, she could feel the sensual warmth of his hands and it was in direct contrast to her own chill.

  On the last step she stumbled and fell into his arms. Her gown ripped, baring the water-slicked heaviness of her breasts, with the trembling adornments of gold pierced through the flushed nipples surrounded by the creamy pale mounds. He laughed and brutally completed the tear in her gown, allowing the muslin to fall in tattered curtains on each side of her body. His eyes went immediately to the neat triangle of pubic curls, black as jet and glossed by the sea water. With a low growl he swept her up and walked steadily into his cabin.

  Once there he set her down, but kept a close hold on her wrist and reached up with his other hand to the top of a locker.

  A lantern swung from a low beam with every movement of the ship. The flickering light cast eerie shadows upon both of them, and Grace’s dark eyes widened as she saw his hand close upon a shadowed item on top of the locker. Her lips parted, apprehensive and trembling, but no sound came from them.

  ‘No need to fear my little friend,’ he said in a low voice.

  Grace tried to tug away from him, but he held her fast. And if she did break free, where could she go? Into the sea?

  ‘Your little friend?’ she said at last in a voice no more than a whisper. ‘The whip?’

  In his free hand he held a beautifully fashioned length of leather. The handle was intricately plaited and tapered to a single length which was so supple that it moved on the cabin floor as though alive; a serpent, hungry for prey.

  ‘But why?’ Grace could scarcely enunciate the words. Her tongue was stiff and her lips dry with the fear of the unknown.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ he chided. ‘You took whippings gladly at the palace, and even took the paddle in Robespierre’s cells. And here…’ he stroked the whip between her legs, letting her pussy lips fold around the thickness of the handle ‘…here there were all the signs that you enjoyed every moment of it.’

  Grace felt two patches of heat flare on her cheeks and she dipped her head in embarrassment. She could see the cylinder of leather disappearing between her thighs and she could not stop herself bearing down upon the plaited tube, encouraging him to saw it back and forth between her love lips. She felt the leather chafe against the sensitive folds, opening them out, baring her most secret place. She heard him laugh, a low chuckle deep in his throat, as if he was enjoying some secret joke.

  Moisture, warm and creamy, dripped onto the leather. Grace could feel the tube becoming slippery and could feel her clitty tip butting against the slowly moving handle. She clutched her buttocks, urging him to move the le
ather faster. She mewed and flung back her head, tossing her sea-soaked hair back from her face and allowing it to sway heavily across her shoulders.

  ‘So sensual,’ she heard him murmur, ‘so deliciously sensual. Come, my darling, come. Let your clitty throb upon the leather, soak it for me. Let your juices seep into it.’

  Grace could smell her own musk as she became more and more excited. Her body writhed from side to side as he thrust the cylinder back and forth, but never once entered her.

  ‘I want… I want…’ murmured Grace, her legs trembling with need.

  ‘What is it you want?’ he asked, halting the sawing motion of the rod. ‘Tell me, my darling.’

  ‘I want…’ Grace was breathless. Her breasts were thrust out, her back bowed and her long legs straddled widely apart. ‘To be rid of my maidenhead.’ The last words tumbled from her lips.

  He slid the plait of leather from her, even though she was still hovering on the brink of orgasm. He laughed, the same cruel, sardonic laugh. ‘Is that so, my darling girl?’

  ‘Oh, please!’ She was so close to her peak of pleasure, but he drew her back. ‘Please, don’t stop!’

  He grasped her wrists, both in one of his strong hands, and pulled her across the narrow space of the cabin. He grasped so hard that he squeezed the gold manacles into the tender flesh of her wrists, squeezing and bruising. It was a relief when he released her, but the relief was short-lived as he pulled her upward by means of the chain between the manacles. Her body was stretched, her breasts flattened, her belly hollowed. Grace gave a soft scream as her feet left the floor of the cabin and the chain was looped over a hook in the bulkhead. She was suspended, swinging helplessly.

  Her orgasm was so close. The movement of the ship caused her to chafe her breasts against the polished wood of the cabin wall and she moaned, pleaded, but he said nothing – did nothing. She knew his eyes were on her, watching her breasts flatten against the cabin wall, perhaps admiring the smallness of her waist, caressing the swell of her buttocks, the dark place between her legs.