Bride of the Revolution Read online

  The other man remained behind her, his hands locked about her tiny waist, his fingers tracing the swell of her hips. Grace could feel his male flesh, hard, bare, wetted by the relentless rain, probing the tight ravine between the rounded hillocks of her bottom.

  It would have been so easy to allow them their lust. Something told her, some animal need within her, how she could fulfil herself and them. Her breasts were swollen with her own desire; painful with her needs. The buds of her nipples burned as they sprang tightly against the flimsy cloth of her wet and tattered gown.

  But she had made a promise.

  Flinging back her head, her eyes huge with both desire and fear, she came to her senses and screamed. ‘Maman!’

  The bigger man, the one who stood before her, gave a rough growl and again thrust his filthy, stinking hand over her mouth.

  ‘Merde! Shut up, you little fool!’ His lust fevered eyes shone into hers. He tore at the tatters which served her poorly as clothing. The never-ending rain struck her bare skin. The chill was such that it turned the porcelain paleness to a delicate transparent blue. Pain, cold, fear filled her world and she became pliant, accepting the inevitable. The smaller man bared her taut buttocks. He sank to his knees behind her, caring nothing for the muddy ground. Grace shuddered, but not entirely with loathing as his thin, bony fingers drove into her bottom flesh, parting the firm hillocks.

  ‘She does not scream,’ he murmured.

  Grace quivered with shame. He could see her most private parts; her tight bottom hole, the lush black curls of her cunny lips, perhaps even that strange little bud of flesh which gave her so much pleasure when she rubbed it back and forth.

  ‘A whore, like all women,’ grunted his companion, his voice muffled in Grace’s shivering breasts.

  The rough tip of a thick thumb stroked across the tight pleats of her anus. Grace felt a renewed unbidden surge of pleasure bring a warmth to her belly. It took all her strength not to bear back upon the caress. The naked softness of her sex folds seemed to swell unbearably and pout between her thighs. A flood of heated honey trickled, joining the chill slick of rain, down the inner sides of her thighs.

  ‘Lift your hands,’ growled the bigger man, raising his head from her flushed and swollen breasts. ‘Place them behind your head.’

  Mind spinning with the sensations that were growing within her, Grace hesitated for the smallest instant.

  ‘Your hands!’ he hissed again.

  Fingers trembling, Grace did as she was bid and linked her hands behind the sodden raven mane of her hair. The position rendered her more vulnerable; at their mercy. A flutter rippled through the pouting and heated folds of her sex. She felt the burning bud of her clitoris jut hard from its silky bed, thrusting from its tiny hood. Unprotected and grossly engorged.

  He grinned through the rain as if he knew what she felt, and, in a swift and vicious movement, he tore the rags of her gown from neck to hem.

  Grace gasped, but whether this was from fear or her deep, sensual need, she scarcely knew.

  The tip of a wet tongue flicked over the clutching little pleats of her rear entrance and she knew that her breathing was quick, harsh; a certain clue of her feelings.

  ‘Are you a virgin?’ grunted the bigger man.

  His own breathing was ragged and his spearing thickness, dark male flesh, probed out of his ragged breeches. His thick fingers grazed up and down the rain-wetted flesh, pausing only for a moment to smooth the slick of his pre-issue over the engorged and swollen tip.

  Grace, her head lowered demurely, her hands clasped obediently behind the sleek raven fall of hair, said nothing. Naked, humiliated, her plump bottom abused and all but invaded by the smaller of the two men, her mind was a confused whirl of emotions. Her need for satisfaction was becoming unbearable.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she murmured at last, her voice low and without hope. ‘Do you spare virgins?’

  The big man laughed. Allowing one hand to remain upon his turgid flesh, he reached out with the other to cup the heaviness of one of her breasts and thumbed the tender hardness of a nipple.

  ‘We spare no whore, virgin or not,’ he rasped, and his fingers closed like a vice upon the pliant paleness of the bared breast.

  The pain of his grip brought tears to Grace’s eyes. Her legs buckled and she felt the sharpness of broken teeth biting into the soft cushion of her sex lips, pulling them open, and a tongue lapped at the very tip of her nubbin.

  ‘I submit,’ she sighed weakly, as she sank to the muddy ground. ‘Use me in whatever way you wish.’

  Beyond the pain, beyond the surging of pleasure, beyond the biting cold and the sough of the wind, Grace heard the urgent gallop of several horses and the clatter of carriage wheels on the cobbled road beyond the cemetery. Voices reached her ears, angry voices, and she felt herself clasped by many hands. She heard the crack of a whip on flesh, cries of pain, and yet she felt nothing. Could she, she wondered, be on the threshold of death? She sank into darkness and knew no more.

  Chapter Two

  A terrible lethargy stole over her. A warmth centred upon the pit of her soft belly and beneath it in the delicate folds nestling between her thighs, a seeping wetness.

  She heard voices, not harsh like the men who tried so hard to violate her, but soft, caressing tones which came and went, whispering over her like gentle waves upon the banks of the Seine. They did not threaten her, these voices, but Grace kept her eyes closed, fearing what she might see, and allowed the ebony lashes to remain closed, although fluttering upon the pale moonstone cheeks. But, obedient in all things, Grace kept her slender fingers fast behind her head, just as the man had ordered her to do on the muddy ground of the cemetery.

  ‘The poppet!’ said a woman’s voice admiringly.

  ‘A poppet? She is filthy,’ said a man’s voice. He was young, Grace knew that and, perhaps, his youth made him a little afraid. ‘And heaven only knows what those disgusting fellows did to her.’ Beyond the jolting of the carriage Grace felt him shudder against her. ‘Mon Dieu! She is probably riddled with disease. Don’t touch her, madame, I beg of you!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Philipe!’ The woman sounded older, impatient. ‘I am sure we found her before they…’ She paused and gave a soft laugh, and Grace felt her slender thighs prised apart. ‘Watch, I shall prove to you…’

  Grace gasped. A soft palm was cupped about her pouting mound, the skin as soft as silk, cool and clean as spring water. She bore down, only slightly, just brushing the damp raven curls of her pussy upon the caress. No matter how hard she tried she could not prevent her sex lips from swelling upon the woman’s palm.

  ‘She is not a virgin. She is a whore, did I not tell you? Not an innocent at all.’ The carriage yawed from side to side as the young man flung himself into the corner, as far away from Grace as the space would allow.

  ‘Nonsense. She is sensual, just as I required. Naturally sensual by nature. We shall have such fun with her.’ Behind closed lashes Grace watched the hooded eyes become heavier, the smouldering smile become broader, and tried not to shudder in apprehension. A gentle finger and thumb parted her plump sex lips, baring the inner folds. ‘Do you see the delicate pinkness, Philipe? A virgin if ever I saw one!’ The woman pinched her nubbin, held it in soft fingers, rubbed the sides of its little shaft, drew back the tiny hood.

  Grace could not help but let out a sigh of pleasure. The seat upon which she lay was padded in velvet, cool and plush beneath her buttocks. She felt her breasts swell and her belly quiver under the woman’s touch. She could not help the growing heat within her. It was as if her innards were melting.

  ‘Virgins do not know how to be sensual,’ grumbled the young man, who Grace now knew was called Philipe.

  ‘Some women are born with that gift,’ retorted madame, and Grace felt the butterfly brush of a fingertip upon
the bud between her pouting love lips. She moved under the touch. She could not help herself. She wanted more; so much more. ‘Just as I was,’ whispered madame.

  ‘Open your eyes, my darling,’ Grace heard, the words as caressing as the fingers.

  For a moment she hesitated. The raven lashes remained tightly closed and she felt the warmth of a fat tear trickle down her pale cheek.

  ‘Oh, how sweet,’ purred Madame. ‘Isn’t it delicious to see tears in a young girl’s eyes? Doesn’t it show her innocence? She is innocent as I said, Philipe. Didn’t I tell you she was the one for whom we have searched all these weeks? Come now, sweet one, open those lovely eyes.’

  Grace, at last, managed to allow her eyes, round and glittering with tears, to flutter open. With the very tip of her pink tongue she moistened her parted lips and gazed up at the woman who held her across her broad lap.

  As madame let her hands flutter away from Grace’s body she found herself falling, quite naturally, into a sensuous pose. Her slender legs, marred by streaks of grime and the drying dew of rain, fell gracefully apart. Her breasts, firm and tip-tilted, were peaked by hard and dark little buds. The tatters of her rags, draped beneath her breasts across the slight swell of her belly, parted above her mons, enhanced rather than spoilt the beauty of her body.

  Her gaze flew nervously from one to the other of her two captors. A young man, handsome as a Greek god, looked at her across the narrow space between the luxurious carriage seats where they sat. He frowned, but touched the sudden bulge in his breeches, stroking its length hungrily.

  Grace averted her eyes, focussing them, once more, upon the woman, pleading for gentleness and mercy.

  ‘Are we going to bind her?’ asked Philipe. ‘Truss her wrists and ankles, make her helpless as a kitten?’ Grace heard him groan and, from the corner of her huge hazel eyes, saw him release his cock from his straining breeches. It was so clean and darkly pink, the fine skin stretched by its fullness, its bulb bursting out at the broad tip. It was not at all like those of the men in the cemetery. It made a hunger grow, a strange hunger in the very pit of her belly. Her lips parted at the sight of it. Her tongue tip trembled as her mouth formed a perfect O and a sound, soft as a kitten’s mew, sighed from her lips.

  ‘She wants my cock,’ said Philipe thickly.

  Madame frowned at him and wagged a warning finger.

  ‘Is it not beautiful?’ she asked of Grace, her voice husky with lust as she looked at the spearing cock.

  Grace said nothing. She felt the flesh of her thighs flinch, her plump mound pout higher and the warmth of seepage between her love lips.

  ‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ said madame, answering her own question. ‘And, one day, when I have trained you to perfection, I shall allow you to take it in your mouth.’

  Grace could not help but gasp at such a suggestion. Her dear mama, poor though she was, had been very strict in her upbringing and a lewd suggestion such as this shocked the sheltered girl.

  ‘To feel the delicate smoothness of the skin, taste the purity of its fountain, the warm creaminess… to delve that lovely little tongue tip into its depths.’

  Again Grace heard the young man groan and she ventured a look at his cock. It looked so thick and long, almost angry, with its head moist and the pinkness darkening to purple.

  At this point madame bent her elegantly coiffured and powdered head and brushed her lips across Grace’s sex. The moist tip of the older woman’s tongue probed the trembling lips apart and the feeling which quivered through her body was wrong, she knew, but she could not help but delight in her own shame. The girl shuddered, but her natural feelings could not prevent a new spread of heat across her lower belly. Madame stiffened her tongue, curled it into a silky cylinder.

  Again Philipe groaned. Eyes open to their fullest, Grace glanced towards him over madame’s shoulder. His graceful hands slicked up and down the spear of flesh at his groin. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted as he panted his pleasure.

  Madame, her eyes gleaming, raised her head. ‘Pout your lips, my precious, cosset my tongue,’ she said in a low and seductive voice.

  Bewildered, Grace creased her smooth brow. Her narrow shoulders lifted in a scarcely perceptible shrug. ‘I do not understand,’ she whispered.

  ‘Ah, so deliciously prim,’ sighed madame, and stuck out her tongue, a smooth and dripping scarlet rod of tissue looking, Grace realised, like Philipe’s cock.

  ‘Comme ma bouche?’ she said softly, tracing the perfection of her soft lips with the tip of a slender, but grubby, finger.

  ‘Oui,’ sighed madame. ‘La bouche.’

  The thought of her task caused Grace’s breasts to swell, become tender and the brown tips become hard as little stones. The place between her legs became hotter and more liquid. Her hand parted the tatters of her gown and eased down over the swell of her belly. Her fingers trembled and her dark eyes darted to madame, asking a nervous and silent permission to ease the delicious tension as she did in the darkness of the night in her mother’s hovel.

  A smile wreathed madame’s plump cheeks but, Grace noticed, the smile did not reach her eyes. A chill struck deep into the girl’s heart and, fearful, she replaced her hands on her head.

  ‘Splendid!’ The word was like a whiplash. ‘Maintenant… now… la bouche!’ The long pink tongue, stiff and gleaming with spittle, protruded from the lips once more.

  Grace formed her lips into that soft and perfect O and raised herself until her face was exactly opposite madame’s painted and powdered visage. She felt warm arms encircle her slender, almost naked, body. An exotic perfume enveloped her, making her head reel. Slowly, she engulfed the tube and began to suck.

  More than aware that Philipe was watching the scene with feverish eyes, Grace felt her face and breasts suffuse with heat. The kiss was so intimate with her lips sliding rhythmically back and forth along the silky, throbbing length that she could almost imagine that she was indeed petting Philipe’s cock. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to her task and the woman who held her and caressed the throbbing swell of her breasts, the vulnerable pouch of her sex and the firm mounds of her buttocks until Grace was lost in a mist of delightful desire.

  Her eyes were heavy as she gave the woman a look which pleaded for more; much more. She turned the look to Philipe and the cock he still petted with aristocratic fingers. It looked so much more inviting than those of the horrible men who attacked her in the cemetery. Yes! She should caress that cock with her mouth; could worship it with her body.

  The carriage came to a halt and the girl heard subdued voices. ‘Later, ma petite,’ whispered madame, gently pushing her away. ‘We shall play more games later.’

  Grace felt her face suffuse with heat. The woman knew what she was thinking.

  The door opened and she saw liveried servants waiting to attend them. She shrank into the corner of the carriage, aware that her breasts were exposed between the tatters of her gown, but worse, they were flushed and swollen, the burgundy nipples erect. Huddling her knees close to her chest she tried to hide their heavy fullness.

  A laugh, mocking and cruel, preceded their descent from the carriage. ‘She tries to hide her titties,’ chuckled Philipe, ‘but exposes this!’

  Grace felt the smooth tip of a finger probe softly between the moist plumpness of her love lips. It slicked up and down the deep ravines between her inner sex lips and the flushed bed where her nubbin stood hard and erect. Her eyes darted to madame, pleading for her to end this new intimacy. Her inner self admitted that she wanted it, but she feared it.

  ‘Does he not touch you gently?’ murmured the woman, leaning forward eagerly to look at Grace’s unwitting exposure. ‘Do your silky fluids not flow? Does your bud not arch sweetly from its hiding place?’

  All these things were true, Grace realised, but her body burned with humiliati
on that the several servants waiting to attend them were watching every detail of this newest degradation.

  Madame de Genlis sighed. ‘Perhaps it is time that we got her settled in her quarters.’ Grace saw Philipe pout and, very reluctantly, remove his fingers from the warm slipperiness of her cunt.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she managed, her voice hoarse with fear and apprehension.

  ‘To a life of luxury, my precious,’ murmured madame, ‘such as you have never known.’

  ‘If you behave yourself and do as you’re told,’ added Philipe, as he adjusted his breeches.

  A warning look was passed from madame to Philipe and that look, somehow, struck a chill in Grace’s heart. She was swung easily into the arms of a footman who was dressed in the finest blue satin.

  ‘What is this place?’ she murmured as he strode easily across the cobbled courtyard, carrying his burden as if he carried a sack full of feathers.

  The satin felt deliciously luxurious and silky against Grace’s near nakedness.

  ‘The palace of Versailles,’ he whispered. The strong arms which cradled her rounded buttocks and her slim upper back, caressed the slender curves. His voice was soft and his eyes kindly.

  ‘Why am I here?’ Grace fought back the tears. It had already been a long and trying day, and who knew what was before her.

  The footman shrugged and she felt his hand brush the side swell of her breast. ‘Some whim of her ladyship’s, no doubt.’ He brushed her cheek with his lips and his sorrowful eyes sought hers. ‘She will tire of you, and when she does…’ He shrugged again.

  Grace let out a small scream as she and the man were sent flying across the wet and muddied cobbles by a hefty shove from another servant. Philipe stood behind their attacker, his face thunderous.