Bride of the Revolution

by Bethany Amber

  ‘Lift your head, my darling. Look at me.’ Madame spoke softly as she ordered Grace to gaze upon her.

  Still crouched like a whipped puppy, hugging her slim arms about her breasts, Grace slowly raised her head and dried her tears with trembling fingers. She choked back her sobs, threw back the mane of jet-black hair and looked defiantly at her captor.

  Madame smiled. ‘That’s how I wish you to look, my darling. Brave, courageous…’

  ‘Oh, stop wasting time.’ Philipe was by Grace’s side, his fingers closing like a vice about her upper arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘I want to see her splayed upon the rack.’

  Eyes wide with fear, Grace was dragged from the cage-like cell. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and Philipe screamed with impatience.

  ‘It won’t help you, falling,’ he said, his voice harsh with anger, and his hand grasped a handful of the midnight hair, wrapping it around his fist to drag her over the uneven flagstones.

  ‘Don’t damage her, you fool,’ pleaded madame.

  ‘I am frustrated!’ Philipe’s voice sounded crazed. In her mind Grace felt again the thickness of his cock sliding down her throat, but glanced away, her flesh pot swollen with need and her head aching with pity for the man who could have been her lover given just a few moments longer.

  Through pain glazed eyes Grace saw the footman, his hands manacled high on a tall post, his feet scarcely touching the floor, his cock semi-turgid and arching from the base of his flat and muscular belly. Did fear do that to a man; fear and pain? Did it bring his cock to readiness for a woman?

  ‘Be brave,’ he mouthed silently to Grace.

  Before she could reply Philipe dragged her to a shadowy corner of the chamber. The roots of her hair darted pain to her scalp as she was heaved upon the crude bench, but this eased as Philipe released the black tresses and transferred his grip to her breasts. He worked the heavy flesh as if it was dough and tweaked her nipples until they were hard little points. His lips enclosed hers in a cruel and punishing kiss but Grace resisted. She held her body tense and when he attempted to splay her legs she clenched them hard together. He grabbed her wrists in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Gaoler! Come here! I need your help in fastening these manacles,’ he said crossly. He leaned over her, pressing her arms wide apart, flat upon the bench. Grace could feel her full breasts flatten upon her ribs as he made her arch backwards, her belly become concave and her mound proud and full between her thighs.

  ‘With pleasure, sire.’ The gaoler scurried across the shadowy chamber. ‘We simply click these manacles to her wrists and…’

  Grace felt the chill of the iron as it was fastened. Hard and resilient.

  ‘And we spread her thighs wide to fasten the anklets,’ continued the gaoler. It would have been foolish to resist such a strong man.

  ‘Oui, oui,’ chuckled Philipe excitedly, hopping around the cruel device.

  Grace lay helpless upon the rack, her arms stretched to the limit, her wrists inflamed from the earlier binding. She saw the gaoler stroke his leather pouch as he looked down at her, and she turned her head away from the vulgar creature.

  ‘So open and vulnerable,’ whispered madame. ‘So perfect and submissive – the perfect woman.’ She stood by Grace’s side, her ringed fingers hovering over the tautened breasts, seeming to wish, above all things, to twist the wine-dark nipples. ‘Tell me, Philipe,’ she said, and her voice trembled with excitement, ‘how does her cunt look?’

  Philipe groaned and Grace, despite the dimly lit and shadowy chamber, was sure that his legs buckled with desire as he walked to the end of the bench.

  Grace, unable to bear more humiliation, tried to close her eyes, but was stopped by a shrill order from madame. ‘You must watch, my darling. Watch how Philipe adores your little cunny with his eyes, feasts upon its juicy flesh.’ The woman’s eyes flickered to the gaoler, who stood over Grace, watching eagerly. ‘And the gaoler, too,’ she added with a chuckle.

  It was as if Grace could feel the intensity of the two pairs of eyes on her most private place in a physical manner. Within her belly she felt warmth and a swirling sensation as if the men touched her, very gently, within. Much as she tried, she could not stop the feeling of fullness in her sex pouch, the drool of silky liquid upon heated skin. She tried to twist her supple body to hide the object of their interest.

  ‘Stop that,’ ordered madame, rapping her arm with her fan. ‘Gaoler, turn the handle. Make her tauter upon the rack… just a little. Only a little, to take up the slack. Prevent her trying to hide that lovely part of her body.’

  A drool of spittle oozed from the gaoler’s grinning mouth and Grace saw him adjust the straining bulge between his thighs as his big hands grasped the handle which would stretch her even further open.

  A loud and threatening click echoed through the cavernous chamber and Grace gave a tiny mew, not of pain, but of discomfort as her limbs became tauter. She looked up at the gaoler, who stood at the end of the bench. His gaze was fixed on her fully open sex lips. She knew they were dreadfully inflamed with her wanting – her need. She knew her jet-black curls were moist with her juices and were spread outwards, making the full folds of her sex open and the finer, inner leaves part to bare the arch of her nubbin, making the whole more available, more visible. She felt her inner sex lips flutter and saw the gaoler’s fingers stray into the bulging leather pouch to rub up and down the thick stem which strained there.

  Philipe spoke, startling Grace. ‘Oh, madame… such a delightful sight!’ The aristocrat crouched at the end of the bench. ‘Her mound is thrust higher by the tension of the rack and the plump folds swell deliciously. It makes me want her more than ever.’

  Grace could not stop her lashes fluttering closed as she tried to shut out her shame. She knew she was disobeying orders and punishment would follow.

  ‘One more notch,’ said madame, instructing the gaoler. ‘Or perhaps she can stand two? She is such a supple and graceful creature.’ She smiled into Grace’s eyes.

  It was almost as if madame was bestowing a gift rather than a punishment, thought Grace.

  The slow tension made the tortured girl feel more vulnerable. It seemed to lift the fullness of her sex closer to Philipe’s eager eyes. Helpless, she could not move a muscle under the restrictions placed upon her ankles and wrists. Her breasts were stretched across her ribs and her nipples were tight buds, their darkness begging to be taken between caressing lips.

  ‘Tell me,’ breathed madame huskily, ‘how open is her cunny? How moist and dewy?’

  ‘The full lips are stretched wide open,’ sighed Philipe, ‘and the fine inner lips are flushed with desire. Creamy dew beads the scarlet folds…’ His voice was hoarse and his breath came in short, sharp gasps.

  ‘And her clitty?’ Madame bent over Grace’s breasts, one after the other, and took the urgent nipples between her lips. ‘How is that? Leave nothing out, I pray you.’

  ‘Proud,’ answered Philipe. ‘The hood is drawn back and the tip is bared.’ His voice was barely audible. ‘May I kiss it, madame?’

  Grace knew that her helplessness and the tension on her limbs had excited her, but to hear it described so boldly was doubly humiliating. Her shame knew no bounds.

  ‘I wish the gaoler to have that privilege,’ whispered madame. ‘As I am sure my girl does too, is that not true, my darling?’

  A violent shudder rippled through Grace’s body at the thought of the unshaven lips and broken teeth gnawing at her intimate flesh. The shiver caused her pain, but this seemed only to enhance the feelings in her belly, the flutter of longing.

  A sulky pout and a frown spoiled Philipe’s handsome features, but he fumbled about his breeches, easing his cock from the flap. ‘I suppose you won’t object to me pleasuring myself as I watch?’ he snapped sarcastically.

  ‘Indeed not,’ the woman gra
nted. ‘I intend to do the same.’ She lifted the yards of silk to expose her belly and the dark triangle beneath it. There was nowhere the girl could look and not see swollen, moist and inflamed genitals.

  Rough thumbs pressed open her outer lips, baring the flushed inner skin. She could feel the damp heat of his breath upon her and knew that her clitty, rearing up from its soft and silky bed, gave an anticipatory jerk. She mewed as a ripple of glorious feeling shot through her. For all that the gaoler was an ugly distasteful creature the sensation he created within the open folds if her sex were delicious. Looking down her body she could see her mound, sweetly decorated with blue-black curls. She could see the gaoler’s head busy between her splayed legs, his unkempt hair brushing the tender inner skin of her open thighs. Warm and wet, his tongue tip caressed the inner folds and his spittle merged with her creamy juices to bathe her pert clitty in a cascade of moisture.

  The cell was redolent with the scent of excitement; her own sweet musk, the heavier perfume of madame, the stale heat of the gaoler, and Philipe’s youthful masculine aroma.

  Grace was powerless to prevent the whirlpool of pleasurable sensations within her. She reached that peak of pleasure from which there is no return. A whimper of ecstasy began deep in her throat and ended as wave after wave of soft moans.

  ‘Oh, mistress,’ groaned the gaoler, bobbing up from between her thighs. ‘She pumps her fluids upon my tongue and I gladly drink them.’

  ‘Spurt your come upon her belly, her breasts, her mound!’ ordered madame huskily. Her fingers were busy working at her pleasure within her own sex flesh, flashing up and down, her pelvis thrust forward and her thighs open.

  Both Philipe and the gaoler had their cocks between flashing fingers and Grace, her eyes heavy lidded from her own sensual experience, watched the lengths bulge as they came closer and closer to their climaxes. The pulsing was strong in both men, as though they had stored their pleasure for a length of time. Grace felt the spurt of the warm and creamy juices splash upon her belly. More trickled down her breasts, droplets falling from her tautened nipples. Her shame was such that she could not hold back the tears and they streamed down her pale cheeks to slide like liquid crystal to her breasts, merging with the pearly spills of come.

  ‘Such a graceful and willing girl,’ murmured madame, her own orgasm ending with a pleasurable whisper.

  With a luxurious rustle of silk she put her gown to rights.

  A scarcely audible echo of pleasure whispered across the shadowy dungeons, and Grace turned her head in its direction and gasped. The naked footman, despite his pain and discomfort, writhed against the chain that suspended him. His body arched as his feet tried to gain purchase against the post that held him. With her womb still pulsing from the rigours of her orgasm Grace could almost imagine that he had impaled her. A stream arched from his cock, long creamy arcs that splashed the mossy flagstones.

  ‘Oh, let him go,’ murmured Grace, her voice choked by sobs and full of compassion. Her own discomfort was forgotten; the mounds of her breasts flattened by tension, her nipples gathered into painful buds, her belly so taut that it was almost concave, but this concavity enhancing the proud pad of female flesh.

  ‘Let him go?’ rasped Philipe. ‘Let him go? He must be punished, whipped until he learns…’ His eyes darted to the gaoler who was selecting whips from the array hung above the rack. ‘Until he learns not to make free with our property.’

  At last Grace felt her own limbs released. Her aching body was sponged with a square of clean flannel to wipe away the male spillage. Madame took great care to carry out the cleansing process in the most sensual way possible. Grace shuddered as the warm flannel was wiped about her breasts, over her belly and in and around her pussy. Only then was she gathered into madame’s arms as if she was a long lost and dear friend, or a daughter lost and finally found.

  ‘If I might suggest,’ said the gaoler, ‘the girl needs further disciplining.’

  Madame, her ringed hand cupped against the fullness of Grace’s breast, raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We were thinking of a light whipping,’ she said, ‘Philipe and I. Have you any other suggestions?’

  The gaoler shook his long greasy and tangled locks. ‘Whipping, no matter how light, can damage a property,’ he said. ‘I have some fine chains here which might suit your purpose better.’

  Grace heard the sound of fine metal upon metal.

  ‘Perhaps you might wish to suspend her as I lash the other prisoner.’ The gaoler had his eyes upon Grace’s body as he spoke, but he handed a tangle of fine chains to madame. ‘These hold the legs fully apart, while these stretch the wrists to a hook in the roof of the chamber.’

  Grace felt, in her mind, the renewed tension upon her thighs and wrists and shuddered as she imagined her breasts again pulled so taut that the skin might burst.

  Madame considered the matter, tapping her forefinger on her lower lip and eyeing Grace, who now stood, head bowed, awaiting madame’s decision.

  ‘Very well then,’ said madame. ‘Let us see how she looks in the chains. I am sure we shall not be disappointed.’ She lifted Grace’s chin and kissed the soft lips with her own full ones. ‘It is for your own good.’ Madame smiled. ‘It is to make these…’ she cupped the weight of Grace’s breasts, ‘firm and pert, and these…’ she thumbed the hardening nipples, ‘very sensitive.’ Grace felt her belly quiver. ‘And this flat and taut,’ added madame. With a sigh she handed her to the gaoler and indicated that the chains be wrapped about Grace’s limbs.

  The smooth-linked chains were wrapped about her wrists. They felt cool, almost soothing against her skin. A long loop dangled loosely over her belly and between her legs, brushing her mound like gentle fingers.

  ‘Stop,’ commanded madame.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Philipe, his eyes darting from Grace, whose head was bowed meekly, to madame. He was enjoying the sight of her full breasts pressed together by her bonds, and he could not keep the annoyance from his voice. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bring the chain between her flesh lips,’ said madame, lifting the loose end herself and allowing it to sway between Graces slightly parted thighs.

  ‘Of course, madame,’ agreed the gaoler. ‘Naturellement! Tight to part those pretty petals and stimulate the female bud.’

  Grace tried to ignore the coarse face of the gaoler close to hers as he slung the chain between her thighs, and to ignore the rough fingers as he spun her round. The links of the chain were chill against her sex flesh. They made her shudder and she winced as they were pulled tighter, abrading her nubbin and driving into the soft moistness of the folds.

  ‘Très jolie!’ murmured madame, testing the tightness of the chain at Grace’s belly and buttocks. ‘Very pretty. Don’t you think so, Philipe?’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the young man, his eyes shining with lust. ‘Absolument!’

  The gaoler knelt at her feet to coil more chains about her ankles and a bar to keep her legs stretched wide apart. Grace felt the heat of his breath against her bound pussy. She felt her face burn with shame as he nuzzled his nose into the chained valley of her flesh pot.

  ‘Up, up now,’ ordered madame. ‘Pull her up just a little from the floor, and let us see just how submissive we can make her.’

  The chains made frightening clanking noises and Grace felt her body stretched once more, her limbs pulled unnaturally and the smooth links pressed deeply into her moist heat.

  Bound once more, Grace found herself staring wistfully into the eyes of the footman. He seemed resigned to what was to come, even happy. His wide lips were curved in a smile, parted as if ready for a kiss. She could see the tension in the muscles of his arms, the heave of his broad chest. Her eyes were drawn to the arch of his cock, still turgid despite its release moments earlier. A pearl of semen still hovered at the swollen bulb, glinting in the flickering light of the sconces.<
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  ‘Turn him round, gaoler,’ ordered Philipe. ‘His grinning face is insolent.’

  Grace, in the fine but strong chains, her legs thrust wide apart and her arms shackled to the ceiling of the cave-like dungeon, felt bereft of the man’s companionship when she could no longer see his face. His broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular buttocks, were small compensation.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Philipe, as always, was impatient.

  ‘Yes, sire. I think you’ll find the lash I’ve chosen more than adequate for the task.’ The gaoler, sweating with his considerable duties that evening, held up a long and rigid leather handle, attached to which were several fine chains into which were slotted sharp pieces of metal.

  Grace could not help but let out a gasp of horror. She tugged on the chains that held her to the ceiling, making her bonds tinkle angrily and the links drive into her flesh. She felt her breasts move against her upper arms, brushing the nipples to hardness.

  ‘Be still!’ ordered madame. ‘Or the gaoler will be forced to use the implement upon you.’

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ begged the footman, his voice muffled by the post to which he was tied. ‘Flay my flesh from my bones, but don’t hurt her.’

  Madame chuckled. ‘It shall be as you say.’

  The dank air whistled as the awful implement was brought down upon the footman’s vulnerable back.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I think,’ said madame, stroking Grace’s naked body which lay, very still and languid, at the foot of her bed, ‘it is time to allow the rest of the court to view you.’

  The green eyes widened questioningly.

  ‘You are so very pretty and your training is coming along nicely.’

  Madame trailed her fingers across the dip of her charge’s waist and up to the underswell of each breast. Grace felt the need to part her legs.