Bride of the Revolution Read online

  ‘She can do it!’ gasped Philipe. ‘She enjoys my whole length in her throat!’

  His thickness was such that it stretched her mouth to the full and Grace, being a very caring girl, made sure that her teeth did not graze the tender skin. She managed a gentle, sucking rhythm which was in tune with the powerful throb she could feel in his cockstem.

  ‘I can feel my tip at her gullet,’ murmured Philipe, overcome with joy. ‘Oh, Madame! It is delightful. I do not think I can hold back.’

  He thrust and Grace could feel a powerful pulsing in the length trapped between her lips; could taste the salty cream jetting at the back of her tongue.

  Philipe juddered with pleasure and the soft curls of his pubis tickled Grace’s face as he moved against her. She wished she could hold him close, caress his slender body with her hands, but she was helpless. She could only receive his offering, drink the warm creamy juices. Jet after jet spilled into her mouth, coating it, smearing her throat.

  The ache and heat between her own thighs, if it was unbearable in its intensity before, was greater now. The spillage from her folds was a constant stream and she was sure that her bud was clearly visible, scarlet and hugely erect, peeping from the raven curls which fluffed so prettily on the plump outer lips of her sex pouch.

  ‘Oh, Philipe!’ murmured madame wistfully, her voice husky with need, her breasts vastly swollen and flushed, the nipples like ripe plums, rounded and richly purple. ‘I wish you to come and lie in my arms.’

  A groan, part exhaustion and part satiation, reached Grace’s ears. The young man lay, his cock still between her lips, unable to move for the delicious trembling of his slender body.

  ‘She is so delightful, madame,’ he groaned. ‘Her mouth is like oiled silk and it sucks like quicksand, draining me dry.’

  Grace felt her cheeks suffuse with heat at his praise and felt a flutter in her sex folds, the needful jerk of her clitty and the slow trickle of her juices.

  ‘Come here, Philipe!’ The command was rapped out.

  Green eyes darkened by both the pain of the tight bindings about her wrists and ankles, the strain of supporting herself on her hands, and the unrelenting sensual sensations which racked her tortured body, Grace turned her gaze to madame.

  The voluptuous woman lay upon the satin ribboned linen, her shapely legs spread to their utmost. Immediately the innocent captive closed her eyes, not because what she saw disgusted her or was abhorrent, but because it heightened her own feelings.

  ‘Come here, Philipe.’ The command was softer, throatier.

  ‘Must I unfasten the girl?’ came the petulant reply.

  ‘You may look upon me, my precious girl.’ Madame’s eyes were hooded with lust and her voice was husky. Philipe’s query was ignored. ‘Look upon my beautiful mound with its silky lush curls. Look between my love lips, at my clitty, which is burning for stimulation; to be kissed by loving lips.’

  Grace felt compelled to obey and saw the lustrous forest on the plump mons with its curls tickling the tops of the spread and statuesque thighs.

  ‘I know how it stimulates you,’ continued madame. ‘And see here…’ The ringed fingers peeled back swollen outer folds baring the slick inner leaves. ‘No, don’t you dare close your eyes! Look at my clitty, isn’t it a fine nubbin with its hood drawn back? There are some men at court who would give their right hands to have a cock so fine, I can tell you!’

  A fingertip grazed the scarlet glossy tip in question and Grace longed to touch herself in the same manner. If only her hands were free.

  The skin surrounding madame’s clitty was slick with her juices. It was pearled with creamy droplets on each fine leaf, and the droplets merged to drool slowly down the plump hillocks which were the path to the woman’s bottom.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Philipe.

  Madame continued to caress her splayed sex, petting her clitty with slow, circular strokes and dipping the same finger into her pulsing entrance. ‘Hm?’ she managed at last.

  ‘Shall I release her?’ he snapped. ‘The girl?’

  Slowly, madame came to her senses. ‘Non, non! I wish to gaze at her in her delicious torment before I sleep.’ She beckoned her lover. ‘With you in my arms, my sweet.’

  His slender limbs trembling with both weariness and satiation, Philipe crawled over the tumbled linen to lie in the crook of his mistress’s arms, his head pillowed upon her bounteous breast. In a moment he turned his head to take the swollen and purple nipple between his lips.

  Grace, her face smeared with Philipe’s copious issue, tried to console herself that she had pleased her royal captors and, although racked with the most terrible pain, she would be warm and well fed for a little while at least.

  Chapter Three

  In the depths of sleep Grace felt a gentle tug at her sex lips until they were splayed open. A chill drifted across the heated and moist flesh within. She shifted sleepily into a ball, her rounded buttocks pouting outwards and her sex pouch tucked away at the apex of her thighs. She mewed soft words. She licked her lips and felt her cheeks flush at the salty taste. Her raven black hair, shimmering with blue lights in the ill-lit room, coiled over her breasts and tumbled like a midnight cascade in the valley between them.

  ‘So submissive, so sweet and pliant. The perfect girl.’

  The words caressed Grace’s ears, but she did not know whether she was truly awake or asleep. Was she dreaming?

  Tentatively, she allowed her lashes to flutter open, but almost immediately she closed them again. She was no longer in the comfort of madame’s chamber. Her new surroundings were dark, cavernous, unwelcoming.

  She was shocked fully awake; fearful, terrified of the rusty iron bars at the edge of her vision, the walls slicked with trickles of water and streaked green with lichen.

  ‘Where am I?’ she murmured, shuffling on her bare buttocks across a floor which was cold and uneven, strewn with filthy straw and the rotting remains spilled from discarded bowls of food.

  Lighted sconces were fixed into rusty iron brackets in the rough hewn wall, shedding flickering light and petrifying shadows which danced like ghosts around her. A rustling noise made her look down into the straw strewn about the stone floor. She screamed as she saw the long, grey and sinuous shape of a rat scurrying there.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Strong arms gathered her to a broad chest, but Grace fought this new captor, hurting her small fists as she pummelled muscles as hard as the iron bars that held them prisoner.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked again, straining against the almost naked man who held her. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘We’re in the dungeons below the palace,’ he said. His voice was deep, soft, like spoken velvet. He wore only a scrap of filthy cloth held about his waist by rough string. The cloth was lifted, Grace noticed, by the massive thickness, his cockstem, beneath it. ‘And you don’t remember me. I am being punished for holding you too close.’

  ‘The servant in satin,’ she murmured, remembering.

  He laughed mirthlessly, touching the scrap of rag. ‘Satin no more.’

  Grace felt his fingers stray to the swell of a breast, the deep dip of her waist and the splendid rise of her buttocks. She lowered her head, allowing her midnight hair to fall forward, curtaining her full breasts and hiding the flush that came unbidden once more to her pale face. The fingers trembled as they petted the swell of her belly and strayed downwards to the darkness of her bush.

  ‘No,’ cried Grace, managing to push him away. Despite her sleep, her sex pouch was still swollen, still creamily wet and hot as fire. If the servant touched her she would be lost, she knew.

  ‘You’re a virgin,’ he murmured in awe.

  ‘And must remain so,’ she said, ‘or be punished severely by Madame de Genlis.’ She paused, her eyes raised to his, round and fearful. ‘Perhaps even executed.


  A sound rang out in the dank and sprawling cave-like rooms. A crack that could have been a pistol shot echoed over and over again. Grace screamed.

  ‘No talking!’ A huge shadow emerged, solid and fearsome, from all the other shadows which flickered against the ancient walls. It held a whip, long and snakelike, darkened by years of body fluids. It flicked between the bars, its tip touching the wine-dark nipples of Grace’s breasts. A gasp of pain was drawn from her. ‘No talking,’ repeated the rough voice.

  The green eyes widened at the sight of their gaoler. Tall and broad, dressed only in a scrap of worn leather drawn roughly into a pouch about his heavy genitals, he grinned at Grace through the bars before fading back into the shadows.

  Her companion drew his finger across his lips indicating that they must be silent and mouth their words. Grace, fighting back tears, nodded, doubting that she could speak for the painful lump in her throat. Perhaps she would have been better to take the offer given to her by the men at the cemetery than suffer the tortures offered, one after the other, by her new captors.

  The palace seemed nothing more than a torture chamber. Wearily, she lay her head upon her companion’s shoulder.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered and grasped her arms, shaking her, forcing her to watch his lips. ‘You have been in their chambers all night and it is well known that they are the most rabid sensualists in the palace.’

  His breathing was rapid and harsh, Grace noticed, and the square of rag was pushed to the side displaying a cock that speared straight up and was fully turgid.

  Grace shrugged, her wrists were inflamed where the leather bindings scored them and every muscle in her slender body felt strained. Strained or not, the feel of her companion’s arms about her, the warmth of his muscular body and his excitement, increased the yearning between her thighs.

  ‘They did not try to despoil you?’

  She shook her head, her warm eyes seeking his, which were onyx and glittering with need. He was a handsome man, with sharply honed features. How easy it would be to allow him her body, allow him to break the precious barrier that made her so valuable. Perhaps then madame and her master would leave her alone.

  But she shook her head, thinking more carefully. ‘It would be more than my life was worth,’ she said.

  ‘We are to be lashed, you and I,’ he told her.

  Grace did not resist this time when the man cupped her sex pouch, his rough fingers caressing the deep valleys where her pouting sex lips met her thighs, held it gently, not trying to invade it further. She felt a warmth there, a pleasure she could not resist and, involuntarily, she bore down upon the touch. But then the full import of the servant’s statement made her shiver.

  ‘By that… that… creature?’ she murmured. ‘The gaoler?’ She shuddered, seeing in her mind’s eye the leather pouch that scarcely covered his huge cock. And seeing the whip he wielded so enthusiastically. What did it matter, in that case? What did anything matter?

  She felt him place the flat of his palm against the heat of her sex, spreading her silky moisture across the fine raven curls. The caress made her feel pleasantly lethargic, heavy in her limbs, and a heat swirled about her belly. A further bubble of her juices oozed from her cunt and she lifted her head, her lips parted, moist, ready to be kissed.

  ‘Do you want me to fuck you?’ he breathed.

  The coarse words shocked Grace but excited her at the same time. She felt her clitty jerk under the protective outer folds and a slow trickle of juices wet her curls. Her sex felt hugely swollen, open and more than ready. She glanced warily into the shadows of their prison, looking for the gaoler, and nodded.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ the man groaned. ‘What an honour you bestow on me. I shall not care if I am executed if my cock has known the beauty of your silken funnel.’

  The man, whose name she did not know, slipped the square of rag to the side and Grace felt the smooth heat of his cock tip nudge between her thighs. She held his broad shoulders, arching back to give his full access to her sex. She parted her shapely thighs yet further and allowed him to saw his thickness back and forth against the silky blackness of her moistened bush. It throbbed against the wet heat of her swollen sex lips. It touched the very tip of her clitty, petting it as it jerked up his length.

  Grace, becoming bolder, insinuated her slender fingers between their embracing bodies. She cupped the heaviness of his sperm sac, feeling the firmness of his balls beneath the skin. He groaned, and Grace thought the gaoler would appear at any moment, stopping their forbidden pleasure. Although fearful and terrified of the pain she might feel she urged the man to penetrate her. At last she felt it! The dewy moistness of his grossly swollen tip stroked against her entrance.

  ‘Now,’ she whispered, and she felt a slick of her own juices bathe him in readiness.

  His lips sought hers, hard and punishing, full of passion and, so engrossed were they in the joy of their bodies that they did not hear the sound of footsteps upon the mossy stone steps.

  ‘Stop that!’ It was madame’s voice, shrill with fury. ‘Philipe! You must stop them, this instant!’

  The sound flung the lovers apart like a shot from a cannon. Grace threw herself to the rough wall, shrinking to the floor, hugging her trembling breasts with fear. She felt the heat and moisture of her sex purse cooled by the dank stone of the floor and felt the stilling of her need within her belly.

  ‘Gaoler!’ Madame, the silk of her gown rustling as she bustled across the dungeon, her face a mask of fury, peered into the shadows of the gaoler’s cubby-hole. ‘I shall have you beheaded! How dare you sleep when I have given you such a valuable prisoner? How dare you risk her virginity by placing her with this servant?’

  It was such a temptation to Grace to reach out to the footman. She longed to feel his hard nakedness against her own; the promise of his cock within her moist and willing, but still shuttered, depths. Shuddering, she remembered how it nudged gently between her love lips and against the very tip of her clitoris, drawing juices from her depths.

  Philipe strode angrily up and down, swiping the rusty bars of her prison with a wooden rod. Grace, her heels tucked tightly into the cushion of her sex, crouched, her glossy black hair sweeping across her breasts, titillating the hardened teats.

  ‘I cannot wait to punish you,’ Philipe hissed, his pale eyes glaring at her, glistening with pent up cruelty. But although his lips said these words he meant something else entirely. Grace knew! Oh yes, she knew that the very moment he had the opportunity and had her alone he would do far worse than punish her. Grace could not still the quiver which ran through her naked body. The very thought of what the Duc d’Orleans planned sent a forbidden quiver of excitement through her. His words and what they might mean thrilled her with wantonness.

  His eyes sought hers, his lips pursed and curved in a wicked smile. She remembered the silky feel of his cock in her mouth, the wetness of his come slipping down her throat.

  The gaoler appeared, scratching the leather pouch that scarcely held is genitals. ‘Madame,’ he said with an obsequious bow, ‘sire. I had scarcely dozed when…’ He paused, seeing the black fury in Philipe’s eyes as they turned upon him. ‘I am sure they had no chance to fuck.’ He shook his long greasy locks. His filthy hand strayed to the pouch and his fingers stroked the growing bulge as he looked down at Grace. She saw his tongue lap lasciviously about his parted lips and he stroked the dewy tip of his cock as it peeped upwards beyond the pouch.

  ‘Never mind that.’ Madame joined Philipe and stared with narrowed eyes into the filthy cage. ‘Put her on the rack!’ The order was hissed with some glee.

  ‘But I thought you did not wish her to be harmed,’ objected Philipe, giving his mistress a sideways glance. But the thought of Grace’s lovely form splayed helpless upon the rack made the discomfort about his groin all too plain.

  Grace b
owed her head, hiding the tears, clutching to herself the misery of what her life had become. The only light on the very distant horizon was the pleasure she was promised when her virginity was, at last, spent.

  ‘The rack!’ repeated madame.

  Between the dark fronds of her long hair Grace could see the gaoler, could see how he rhythmically thrust out his massive bulge and put strain upon the leather pouch. She saw how the holding strands cut into his hips as the thin leather truss became fuller.

  ‘She will not be harmed,’ consoled madame. ‘Her delicate frame, her limbs, her breasts, will just be a little stretched. All part of her training for sensuality. I am sure Rousseau would have approved of my methods.’ Her eyes gazed lustfully at Grace’s huddled figure. ‘It will, after all, make her more graceful, more supple, more mysterious, I am sure. We shall have every man in the palace lusting after her.’

  ‘No!’ The rusty bars were rattled by angry hands. ‘You cannot! You cannot treat this lovely creature so cruelly.’

  Grace raised her head, her eyes dark with misery, and looked at the imprisoned footman. She tossed the fall of black hair from her pale face and beseeched him with a whisper, her hands raised. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘don’t put yourself in danger. I am not worth it.’

  Her fellow prisoner crouched down and Grace found her eyes drawn to the heaviness of his cockstem, still thick from his desire of her. ‘Your beauty is such that I would gladly die for you…’

  He was dragged to his feet by the huge gaoler and the dank rooms of the dungeons rang with the sound of cruel laughter. ‘Aye, young fellow,’ he growled between his coarse chuckles. ‘Your wish will no doubt be granted.’

  ‘Indeed,’ added madame. ‘Bind him to the whipping post and choose a lash which will flay him alive.’

  Grace bowed her head and tried to hide the tears that fell so heavily down her cheeks, but the tears were not for herself. Her throat was full for the young footman, who came so close to being her first lover. Behind her moist lids she saw the beauty, the splendour, the thickness of his cock with the foreskin drawn back to bare the glossy globe.