Above the creaking of the timbers, above the whistle of the wind in the rigging, above the sound of the waves crashing against the hull, Grace heard another sound; a high-pitched scream. It was not her own. It was unearthly, inanimate. It was as though a knife cut the air itself.
In the very next moment a sharp knife sliced the plumpest part of her bottom flesh. At least, the pain was so intense that was how it seemed. Her body arched on its suspension as the whip stung her bottom. A branding iron could not have burned her skin less.
He stood close behind her and she could feel the thickness of his cock, hard and rigid, through his buckskin breeches. His breathing was loud in her ears, harsh and rapid.
‘And are you coming now, my darling?’ he whispered hoarsely.
Grace could scarcely breathe for the smarting pain across her bottom. It felt as if her skin was flayed from her flesh and yet, strangely, her cunny was moist, dew mingled with the sea spray, and it trickled down her inner thighs. She tried to speak, but could only make a feeble whimpering sound.
‘Nothing to say?’ he said, and the words were growled.
With her clitty greatly swollen, itching and more erect than she had ever known it, Grace’s need was to place her fingers between her thighs, spread her cunny lips and ease the terrible ache, but she could not. Her hands were held fast by the manacles and the chain. She was helpless, swinging back and forth.
She did not hear him step back, but she felt the chill of his absence. Twisting her head, her cascade of shimmering wet hair whipped from her back to her captured breasts. She saw the pallor of his handsome face, the flush of his full lips and their thin smile. She saw him draw back the whip, heard it whistle through the air, and felt again the sting of its lash.
This time she managed a barely audible scream. She felt the first flush of supreme pleasure and hoped that her orgasm would consume her; would negate the burn of the whip, or even better, enhance it. She concentrated hard upon the itching tip of her nubbin. She focussed all of her thoughts upon that burning little bud. Such was the pleasure she drew from her thoughts that she managed a smile; managed to trail her tongue tip about her lips. In her mind’s eye she saw her swollen bud throbbing in its inflamed bed of silky flesh.
‘And now, my darling,’ he whispered, standing very close to her, ‘your climax is upon you, is it not?’
His deep voice startled her from her thoughts. Could he read them?
Another flush of pleasure flooded through her body, made all the greater by the touch of his finger on the swelling weals brought up by the whip. The waves of pleasure broke on her faster and faster and she mewed as each one consumed her. If only the thick rigidity of his cock would plunge into her pulsing cunny, but it seemed doomed to clutch upon the empty air.
‘You will appreciate my little friend all the more,’ he said, rubbing the folded whip back and forth in the running valley of her cunt. ‘Your pleasure will continue until you can bear it no longer; until you beg me to stop.’
Wrists rubbed raw by the gold manacles, lower arms aching and upper arms almost wrenched from their sockets, Grace flung back her head in a gesture of weariness. Her bottom felt swollen. He was truly an expert with the finely tanned leather whip.
Again he stepped back and Grace heard soft rustlings. Once more she dared to look over her shoulder and blushed as she saw him fully naked. He was a magnificent man. Broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip, chest dark with hair, he was bigger in manhood than any man she had seen apart from Cava. As she looked, he smiled, and stroked the whip up and down his cock.
‘Soon, my darling,’ he murmured, ‘very soon.’
Grace bowed her head again as she saw him draw back the whip. Try as she might she could not relax her buttocks to take the sting of the lash on spongy flesh. Instead her bottom was tight, the two hillocks drawn together as if to hide from the cut of the leather. She could not hold back her squeal of pain. The lash landed across the cuts he had already made.
‘Just a few more, my darling,’ he said in honeyed tones. ‘Believe me, you will thank me for it when we lie together.’
Breathing was almost impossible and Grace attempted to take great gulps of air, but the small cabin seemed devoid of it. It felt stuffy, and she could only gasp like a fish out of water, her mouth open and her lips parted. Did he say ‘lie together’, she asked herself. Did he mean that in the fullest sense of the word?
Once more her flesh pot prepared itself; became soft and open. Warm driblets of cream gathered on the flushed and puffy folds. The thick outer portals, covered in the crisp dark curls, were glossy with her juices. Grace moaned, not in pain but in need of the ecstatic mixture of the pain and pleasure he seemed to have promised.
Glancing over her shoulder she took another quick look at his naked magnificence. His trunk-like thighs were spread apart. From the dark mound of his pubis speared a cock that made her quiver with its splendour. It was fully turgid and she could see the dark shadows of its pulsing veins clambering like vines about its thickness. She licked her lips, hungry to feel its silkiness between her lips. At its pinnacle she could see the shimmer of its globe, polished and naked, its foreskin drawn back beyond the glans. It sprouted from balls that were full and perfectly round, hard and spherical, pressing against a taut sac.
With a narrow smile, no longer sardonic but lustful, he drew back the whip, allowing it to fall with a slap upon the bare boards of the deck. Grace tensed, ignoring the pain, although it was not easy to ignore the sting of cuts across her bottom. These brought the thrill of sensual pleasure to her sex, made them pout and wetted her nubbin. The shrill of the whip cutting the air behind her seemed endless and she heard her own voice, as if beyond the ship, far out on the sea, sobbing piteously, hiding the pleasure wave which soared through her body.
At last the fine leather touched her body, not on her tortured bottom, but at her waist, snaking around it, pulling at it vigorously, whittling it to unimaginable smallness. Grace felt the breath knocked from her as her lower body was lifted from the deck and further strain was placed on her wrenched arms.
Suddenly the sense of being stretched beyond endurance was over and she was in his arms, the whip still wrapped tightly about her waist, bonding her to him; skin upon skin, sex upon sex. They lay, very close together, on the bare boards of the deck.
‘My beauty, my gloriously innocent beauty,’ he murmured. She felt his lips melt against hers and felt his hands take her breasts as if he would drag the flesh from her bones.
Between her thighs Grace could feel the smooth warmth of his cock, sawing back and forth in the same manner he used the handle of the whip. She felt it become slippery with her juices, slick with her cream. She felt its ridges, pulsing like her own flesh. It teased her, brushed against the tip of her clitty, made her shudder with unbelievable delight.
He still had not penetrated her and Grace shivered against his broad chest, needing fulfilment.
The two were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t hear the commotion of docking; the dropping of the anchor and the lowering of the gangway. Neither did they hear muffled voices, growled angry words, the harsh blows of knuckles upon flesh.
Grace felt only the smooth moist head of his cock nestle between her love lips, soaking in her dew. As they kissed she could not help the moan which whispered from her lips.
The door crashed open and a chorus of cruel laughter filled the small cabin. Grace’s murmur of pleasure became a scream of horror and she tried to pull away from the Englishman, but the tight coils of the whip locked them.
Once more Grace felt the sweet taunt of denial. The Englishman was so close to fucking her and now these ruffians had interrupted that potentially glorious moment.
‘What a precious sight!’ murmured one. Grace could tell by his voice that he was young and she felt his eyes on her bruised and swollen bottom, on h
er slightly parted thighs and the moist nest between them.
Such was the depth of her training from madame that it was only natural to part her thighs, displaying the cleavage between her buttocks and the fullness of her love lips. There was an ache between her legs that refused to be ignored, and a continuous throbbing in her sex.
‘She’s asking for it, lads,’ said an older man. ‘We’ve been sent to the right ship, that’s for certain.’
The Englishman was suddenly on his feet and Grace felt herself flung from him as he uncoiled the whip from her waist. Her thighs fell fully apart, her whipped bottom faced the open door and her cunt was evidently in a full state of sexual tension.
‘Who are you?’ he snarled. The Englishman held the whip at his side, ready to let it rip on his would be attackers when the moment was right.
The intruders scarcely paid him attention. Their eyes were fixed on Grace’s vulnerable body, the raised weals on her pale buttocks, her cunny, the manacles on her wrists and the chains that swayed from her breasts. She closed her eyes, shutting out their leering faces.
The whip slashed the air and its fine tip caught the older man about the cheek, laying it open. Grace screamed and rolled away, but she was trapped against the bulkhead, vulnerable to the men who shuffled forward ready to fall upon her.
‘I asked who you are,’ hissed the Englishman, ignoring the man who tried to staunch the flow of blood from his cheek, and totally oblivious to his own nakedness.
‘We were paid…’ said the younger man haltingly, ‘by a French woman.’
The Englishman snarled. ‘Charlotte de Levis?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the young man, shamefaced. ‘I think that was her name.’
Grace hugged her knees close to her breasts, making herself small. The pain of the beating seemed a hundred times worse as the heat of her passion faded and she began to shiver. The cabin was cold and bare and she felt dreadfully vulnerable with the inquisitive eyes staring down at her.
Two other men pushed into the narrow doorway, straining their necks to look at Grace and not hiding the fact that their cocks were fully erect in their breeches.
The young man, the one who had spoken first, pushed the rest behind him. ‘Our orders are to take the doxy’s maidenhead.’ He spoke firmly, his eyes steady, focussed on Grace’s huddled figure.
She moaned softly and tried to hide her sex with her hands.
The Englishman laughed. ‘Had you been a few minutes later that deed would have been done.’ He reached down and pulled Grace upright and forced her hands to the back of her head, indicating that she should link her fingers together. He tapped her inner thighs with the whip he still held in his hand, indicating that she should straddle her legs. ‘She’s ripe for it, lads.’ He pointed to the chains that linked her wrists and those that were attached to the fine rings through nipples that were erect and pointed. ‘She was trained by an expert at the royal court; an expert who required her to be both sensual and intact when she was sold to a husband.’
Tears came quickly to Grace’s eyes. What was he doing, displaying her like this? He was tempting the men, almost offering her to them.
‘You?’ asked the young man.
The Englishman gave a wry smile and shrugged noncommittally. ‘Look at her large and heavy breasts,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘Open those legs wider!’ he snapped at Grace. Tears spilled down cheeks made hot with embarrassment but she did as she was told, sweetly pliant and obedient as always. ‘And arch yourself so I may demonstrate your qualities to these gentlemen,’ he continued.
Through her tears Grace saw his cock thicken at his own words. The shock of the ruffians’ intrusion was forgotten.
She arched her slender body so that her pussy was thrust towards the men. She knew they could see her nubbin, fully extended and peeping from her dark curls. She knew those curls would be shining with dew and somehow this knowledge increased the feeling of wantonness growing in her belly; the feeling of delicious shame.
With the folded whip he peeled her sex lips open and tapped her clitty. ‘Notice how prominent this is. The training, of course, is the root cause.’
Grace could hear the ruffians’ breathing change; become faster and more ragged. She dared to open her eyes and saw their rising excitement; the glittering eyes, the parted lips and the thickening bulges in their breeches.
‘Could you not get her to lie down?’ asked the young man. ‘So we could see her qualities more clearly and get on with what we were paid to do?’
The Englishman nodded, smiling, and pressed Grace’s shoulder, forcing her to her knees and then to lie prone. ‘Keep your hands on your head and your head thrown back,’ he ordered, ‘but spread your legs, knees bent and loose so they fall outwards.’
The position was not new to Grace. It was madame’s favourite, and Charlotte’s too. She positioned herself as he demanded.
The men sighed. The Englishman let the whip move lightly over her belly. Grace shuddered.
‘I assure you, gentlemen,’ said the Englishman, ‘that this girl wants nothing more than to be fucked.’
Her wantonness was uncontainable. Grace, keeping her knees bent and open, could not help but arch her body upwards. She heard the whisper of lust that hissed from the men.
‘You see, gentlemen. Quite delightful.’
There was something in his tone that gave Grace an inkling that he was encouraging them. She willingly lifted her beaten and bruised bottom from the cold hardness of the deck and spread her thighs further. Their breathing was harsh, animal-like, rapid.
‘But perhaps it would be only fair for one of you to explore her with your tongue,’ the Englishman continued, gently probing between her sex lips with the whip. ‘And fingers would not go amiss.’
Grace felt her sex quiver at the sensual stroking and felt her clitty ease further from its hood, felt it throb intolerably. The slow stroking brought her juices bubbling from the pit of her belly and, at the same moment, the Englishman slapped her inner thighs with the fold of the whip, reminding her to keep them fully open.
The rabble grunted their approval and the young man threw himself to the deck. Grace could smell his masculine need, feel his breath, warm and damp on her bruised buttocks, and then a tongue pushing against her bottom mouth, licking the tight and wrinkled opening until she moaned with delicious shame. The tongue tip slithered up and down the tight cleft.
‘No one else?’ asked the Englishman, his eyebrow quirked in mockery.
The older man, the pain of his slashed cheek forgotten, knelt between Grace’s thighs, his tongue flicking about his slack lips. She moaned again as her sex lips were taken one by one into his slobbering mouth and gnawed as if they were delicious morsels. She shuddered as a fingertip grazed back and forth over her quivering nubbin.
‘And surely, you men,’ queried the Englishman, ‘will not deny these glorious breasts the pleasure of your hands and mouths? You see how they beckon you? Would you not like to suckle these hardened paps as if you were drawing milk?’ The other two needed no second bidding and Grace gasped as hands kneaded her breasts and mouths clamped upon her teats. She felt her belly tighten as all these sensations combined and a warm swirling drew her up into a vortex. It was impossible to resist moving with her tormentors, contorting herself to feel each suck and touch more intensely.
‘I am sure you will feel each pulse of her orgasm,’ said the Englishman, and Grace raised her eyes to meet his. He was smiling, his arms folded across his chest and his cock turgid, spearing from the base of his belly, but unheeded.
Grace’s clitty palpitated unmercifully. Her bottom convulsed upon the tongue that drove softly in and out. She felt a warm creamy wetness spill on her belly and drool down to the crisp curls of her pussy nest. Looking up she saw the men who had sucked her teats standing over her, their cocks in their hand
s, spilling their seed all over her.
She heard muffled groans and the men who had been so busy between her thighs were rubbing their cocks to the same effect.
A boot, soft from years of wear, was pressed into the cushion of her belly and Grace felt a deeper shame, a defilement greater than anything she had felt before. The sole of the boot spread the viscous spillage over her breasts and belly, showing their contempt for the use of her.
Laughter, loud and triumphant, filled the cramped cabin. ‘I think you’ll agree, gentlemen,’ said the Englishman, ‘that my turn has come.’
Grace, her body trembling from the many orgasms and wet with sweat and slick with come, looked up at him. Her eyes were heavy with weariness and her arms ached from the forced position on her head.
‘But we…’
‘It isn’t fair!’
‘You cunning wretch!’
The angry cries were somewhat distorted by the rasping breaths and the groans of pleasure.
‘But be assured, gentlemen,’ said the Englishman, calmly and coldly, ‘I shall carry out your appointed task to the letter.’
Suddenly he whirled the whip about his head, his face dark with fury. The lash cracked about the younger man’s head and, almost immediately, thrashed the other three in, what appeared to Grace, one movement.
‘Get out,’ he ordered in a voice as cold as ice. ‘Get out of my sight, and you…’ he turned to Grace, his expression still cruel and tight-lipped, ‘get up. Clean yourself… over there!’
They were left alone in the cabin and Grace walked, unsteadily, to a jug and bowl set in a hollow in a wooden washstand.
‘And when you’ve finished dress in these clothes.’ He began to dress himself, grunting with discomfort as he tucked his still turgid cock away in his tight breeches.
Grace shivered as she sponged the drying spunk from her breasts. The water was cold and her skin puckered in tiny goosebumps. The come was thickest at her pussy bush and she soaked the curls many times with the water until they were, once more, glossy black.
Bride of the Revolution Page 16