Bride of the Revolution

by Bethany Amber

  No one spoke, and what soft sounds there were – the crackle of burning coals in the grate, the tinkle of glass as someone poured wine into a glass – were muffled by the hood.

  Her tongue was dry and compressed down behind her teeth by the plug. A terrible thirst made her throat contract and she would dearly have liked to cough, but even this was denied her.

  ‘On the bed,’ ordered a voice.

  That was surely the master, but didn’t Arlane and Carla already occupy the bed? Grace struggled weakly in the vice-like grip of the hands which held her, but the struggle was in vain. Was she to be laid against the other girls? Her taunted sex became full at the thought, her clitty pouted, a drool of juice trickled from her. The thought of the women caressing her, kissing her most intimate places, brought on a naughty lewdness she found both delightful and shameful.

  Suddenly she was free, flung high in the air, suspended in nothingness. Grace longed to scream at the frightening disorientation, but it lasted only a moment and she sank into the enveloping softness of the feather bed.

  The feeling of comfort lasted only briefly, and once more her arms were wrenched high to be bound to the bedposts. Likewise her legs were spread and tied in that position.

  The bed dipped as another person crawled across the feather-filled expanse. Tears filled her eyes and were spread across her cheeks by the tightness of the hood as her nipple chains were pulled and tension was put upon her sensitive teats. A resounding slap reached her ears and a soft whimper followed it. Grace knew that one of the girls was at the receiving end of the reprimand.

  She strained her ears, for the room seemed full of whispering. ‘You know what is required,’ said one voice. ‘Open her, kiss her until she is ready for me. Until she begs for me.’

  Grace shuddered. Begs for who, she asked herself, the master or John?

  Feminine fingers spread her sex lips and she tensed, waiting some other spiteful act from Carla, for she was sure it was she who twisted her nipple chain until she wanted to cry out at the exquisite pain.

  A tongue tip stroked each side of the slippery valley in which lay her nubbin. It slithered down until it circled the still-closed entrance to her sex. A small hand cupped her mound and little fingers spread her swollen sex lips. Other fingers, strong and masculine, cupped the weighted heaviness of her breasts, gathered them up until the valley between them was a tight ravine. A different tongue lapped at her paps and fingertips slapped the fullness beneath and at the sides. Grace could feel her breasts wobble, and she was unsure whether this was from the smacking or from the many sensations that came from all parts of her body.

  She knew above all things that her sex gaped, exposing the brightly flushed flesh.

  ‘I think she is ready, master.’ That was John, thought Grace.

  ‘Yes.’ The word from the master was no more than a whisper. ‘I believe she is.’

  Grace tugged on her bonds in eagerness. She wanted to welcome him, to smear back the jet curls so that nothing impeded his entrance. At last his cockhead, swollen and smooth, wet with his spunk, was coaxed about her entrance. Grace wanted to arch up in offer, but her bonds were too tight. He pushed, expecting resistance, but she was so well prepared, so excited by the long years of waiting and the night’s games, that she drew his length deep into her body. Her own copious juices soaked his balls, smearing them with the blood of her virginity. Her tight sex contracted about him, sucking him in until his globe pressed against the wall of her womb.

  His middle finger probed her bottom hole, replacing the candle, and Grace arched her neck, wishing she could scream her joy, but the gag caused her to remain silent.

  He began to thrust into her very fast and hard, and she knew that soon she would be flooded with his sex milk. But as Grace thought her pleasure would be completed he withdrew his cockstem and the finger that plugged her bottom. The hood was removed and she opened her eyes, expecting to see John slide from her, sweating, his cock thick and smeared with her blood and juices. She cried out and tears spilled down her hot face.

  ‘Master,’ she murmured, pleading, joyful.

  The Black Rose knelt between her spread thighs, his cock still spearing from its dark bush of hair, but slick with juices. He cupped her sex and let his middle finger slither into her.

  ‘Beautifully open, silkily wet,’ he said. ‘You are ready for him now, but I should not have taken you. You were so valuable.’

  ‘Valuable?’ He spoke of her as if she was a precious jewel.

  ‘But you are so very beautiful, that I could not resist my own urges.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I had no right! You were not mine to use.’

  ‘No,’ she cried, and wished she could hold him close, soothe him. If his words puzzled her he put the questions at the back of her mind. ‘It’s all right. I wanted it. Needed you. I think I have needed you all of my life.’

  Grace could not stem her tears, but they were not tears of pain or unhappiness. They were tears of joy. If only he knew how long she had waited, how many years of frustration had been spent caressing her own sex.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘My name is Lord Albert Fitzpatrick.’

  The identity of the Black Rose was revealed! And to her! Grace was honoured.

  And a lord, thought Grace, and she bowed her head, not in shame but in reverence. Even so, her manacled fingers tried, in vain, to hide her pussy bush. Her virginity was taken by an English lord, she reminded herself. She must be especially respectful.

  He lay back on the pillows, and she noticed that he held and twisted a thin but short leather whip, split into several tongues.

  ‘I am going to take away those fetters,’ he said, and smiled as Grace’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. She felt a flutter of joy in her heart. He was going to free her!

  She was overcome that he should trust her. These past months she had been trained, disciplined and punished to a measure of severity she could not have imagined in her old life. It was an act of kindness she did not expect, and she allowed her lips to curve into a gentle smile.

  He beckoned to John, who waited to attend his master’s wishes. The servant was again liveried, but Grace could not prevent her eyes from darting to his crotch, and she shivered, remembering the previous day. She thought of the other girls who delighted in her humiliation as they murmured their own pleasure. But most of all she thought of that moment; the moment of such perfect release when her pleasure consumed her and her master took her purity.

  John’s fingers brushed her breasts as he manipulated the key in the manacles.

  ‘Come here,’ said the master.

  With head held high and hands free at last, Grace walked with effortless beauty to the bedside.

  ‘Turn round, hands behind you.’

  Grace felt thin binding being wrapped around the base of her thumbs, and felt cool aristocratic fingers touch her in the tight valley between her bottom cheeks. Again she was bound, and all she had gained was freedom from the gold manacles.

  ‘On the bed.’ Lord Albert’s voice was flat and impassive.

  The bed was high. Grace was forced to lift each leg, one after the other, to lever herself up. She blushed, knowing she was displaying the gap between her flesh lips, the nubbin as hard as a pea and burnished to scarlet, and the newly opened doorway to her body, which was dewed with her meltings.

  She knelt before him, thighs slightly parted and head erect, looking directly at him.

  The long fingers brushed her downy pubis. ‘Open wider,’ he said, in that same impassive tone.

  Grace shuffled her knees apart.

  ‘Wider.’ His voice was terse and he slapped the inner sides of her thighs until she could feel the heat making her glow.

  The smacking stopped and his touch became more tender. Fingertips grazed across the taut swell of her belly before he k
issed it lightly. Grace parted her lips, a moan trapped in her throat, tantalised at his gentleness.

  Lord Albert again lay back on the pillows, no longer touching her, but Grace felt his eyes upon the open darkness between her thighs. It was as if he touched her there, kissed the protruding tip of her nubbin, sucked at her wetness. Her legs trembled at his intimate gaze.

  ‘I do not require you again, John,’ said Lord Albert. ‘You may leave us.’

  ‘But…’ The servant spluttered his protest and Grace glanced over her shoulder. She gasped, noticing that his breeches were open and his cock was erect. The look he gave her was venomous and promised tortures at any opportunity.

  ‘Leave us!’ Lord Albert hissed the command.

  Grace could not help but whisper a sigh of relief as the servant left the room. But why did his lordship require her alone? Was he going to merely gaze between her open legs for the whole night? Her thighs trembled at the forced position.

  ‘Sit upon your heels,’ he said as if he read her thoughts. ‘Let them cosset your bottom and your open quim.’

  He wore nothing but breeches that bulged lewdly at his groin, and he stroked the bulge slowly and lovingly with one hand while the other slipped under the piled feather pillows upon which his head rested. His broad chest had a line of dark hair that disappeared into the waist of his breeches as if pointing the way to his cock.

  ‘I have a gift for you,’ he said.

  ‘A gift?’ whispered Grace, and a tear spilled on one heavy breast. No one had ever given her a gift before.

  ‘Hm,’ he murmured, and the sound was a caress that seeped between her thighs like a physical thing.

  ‘Knowing how you love pain…’ He paused and let his lips curve into the familiar sardonic smile. ‘Oh, don’t be coy,’ he continued, and flicked the many-stranded lash from one hand to the other. She listened to the soft slap of it on his skin and shuddered as she imagined it whispering over her bottom, grazing her belly or tickling her breasts.

  As the English lord inched towards her clutching the whip lightly, first in one hand and then the other, she tried to shimmy away from him. She did not fear the soft strands of leather – it looked too delicate to cause severe pain – but she feared her own reactions to it.

  He swiped it back and forth in the softly lit air and she watched the muscles ripple in his powerful arms and broad chest. She did not dare look down to his crotch from which speared his freshly turgid cock for she knew it would affect her deeply, for all that he still wore his breeches.

  ‘Where shall I slap you?’ he asked. But the query was pretence, Grace knew, for she heard the beginnings of a chuckle in his voice.

  ‘Wherever you wish, milord,’ said Grace, surprising herself at her boldness.

  ‘Oh, you wonderful creature,’ he whispered, and knelt before her, his bulge brushing her cunny curls. He slid the leather straps across the upper swells of her breasts. They felt cool, almost soothing, and Grace threw back her head in ecstasy, letting her hair spill like a river of jet down her back.

  ‘May I smack your belly like this?’ he purred.

  ‘If it pleases you,’ murmured Grace. Her belly quivered from the smack, and she felt the heel of his hand between her thighs rubbing back and forth, irritating the heated flesh.

  ‘Oh, it pleases me very much.’ His voice was a husky growl coming from the very depths of his chest. ‘Or perhaps here?’ He stroked the edge of the straps under the weighty heaviness of her breasts. ‘Could you take that?’ His free hand, the one not holding the straps, twirled the ring that still adorned her nipple. When Grace showed no reaction he pinched the flushed bud of flesh, delighting in the immediate erection his fingering caused, the opening of her lips and the widening of her eyes.

  ‘I only wish to please you, milord,’ said Grace.

  ‘Just as a slave should,’ he said with a nod, ‘but I shall not smack these.’ He hefted each breast and squeezed the pliant flesh.

  Grace allowed herself a small sigh of relief as he threw the straps to the floor and jumped lithely after it.

  ‘I am hungry,’ he said, and he padded lightly across the room to a table on which there was a covered silver platter. ‘As I am sure you are.’ He lifted the cover and Grace could smell the delicious savoury aroma of vegetables and meat of some kind cooked in wine. She licked her lips at the thought of food.

  Her hunger became greater as he approached the bed with the platter and the delicious smell of hot cooked food became stronger. She shuddered as his weight made the feather mattress sink. Unconcerned, he settled himself comfortably on the pillows with the silver platter beside him.

  ‘Some food?’ he asked, and stabbed the point of his knife into a piece of succulent meat.

  Grace tugged at the bindings about her thumbs and let the very tip of her tongue peep between her lips. She felt her heels nestle into the moistness of her cunt and felt shame as her own flesh excited her nubbin.

  As he chewed he unfastened his breeches and allowed his cock to spring out, stiff and throbbing. ‘Which would you rather enjoy, my darling?’ he asked, stabbing another morsel of meat and holding it above Grace’s head. It dripped warm gravy on her trembling breasts.

  She stretched up, her lips open like a hungry bird, her nostrils flared. Her tongue probed out in an attempt to catch the savoury drips.

  ‘Oh, you disappoint me,’ he said in mock dismay. A strong hand pressed the back of her neck and she smelled his maleness as she was forced to bow over his upright cock. ‘Drink your fill of my meltings, my darling,’ he said as her lips brushed his tip, ‘and then perhaps I shall allow you to share my plate.’

  As Grace’s lips slid down his shaft she was conscious of another hunger, perhaps even greater than in her belly, and she felt shame at her own wantonness.

  His male milk oozed onto her tongue and slithered down her throat. She tasted his salt, the bitterness of his juices, and began to suck more greedily, rolling her lips about the taut skin, feeling the veins which throbbed in tortured tension along the shaft. She heard him groan and this increased her inner hunger. Her thighs parted until her spread labia brushed the tumbled bed linen.

  At last his fountain burst, spurting warm cream into her throat, and Grace swallowed it all to appease her own hunger as much as his. She held his shaft, still thick and throbbing with aftershocks of his come, between her lips, not wishing to relinquish the dribbling length. He pushed her away and lay back on the pillows, eyes closed, enjoying his restitution. So copious was his come that Grace’s lips were coated with it, and no matter how she lapped she could not reach the full measure.

  In time his eyes opened and he stabbed another morsel with his sharp blade. He grinned and licked the succulent piece of meat, sipping the seasoned gravy. Grace stretched her neck, reaching hungrily for the piece of food, tasting his spunk and wishing to add to the flavours. She heard him chuckle and felt something very warm and soft enter her flesh lips, felt it being smoothed around. Looking down she saw the morsel of meat touching the inner lips of her flesh pot and her eyes fluttered up, pleading that he should end the shame. She could see driblets of her own juices against the darkness of the meat, felt the touch of its warmth against her sensitive flesh and felt her nubbin twitch as the meat brushed its tip.

  In the flickering candlelight she saw the flash of the knife blade as he drew it from her. ‘Head up,’ he ordered, ‘and mouth open.’

  Grace, her cunny still fluttering from the stroke of the meat, stared at him.

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘Come now, did you not say you were hungry? You wanted food?’ Head lowered, Grace gave a tentative nod. ‘Then stretch up your neck and take this meat.’ He wiped the morsel back and forth against Grace’s lips. She could smell her own musk along with the spices and wine absorbed by the meat. She opened her mouth fully and felt the food on her tongue
, and her hunger was such that she could not help herself but chew it.

  He fed her in this manner many times more, sometimes allowing the juices to dribble on her breasts, and sometimes sipping them before gently inserting the morsels of meat between her flesh lips to absorb her silky sap.

  ‘And now wine,’ he said, pushing the platter beneath the bed.

  Grace shuddered, knowing and dreading what he might do. She heard the trickle of wine poured into a glass from a crystal decanter on a bedside table. He held the glass to his lips, looking at her over the rim with twinkling eyes. She heard the faint sound of his swallow and licked her lips. It made her thirst all the greater to hear him slake his own.

  He swirled the wine in the deep crystal goblet. It was a rich ruby red and, as the candlelight caught it, Grace shuddered. Like blood, she thought, the blood that spilled from her at that glorious moment when he took her hated virginity.

  ‘Come, drink,’ he said, and held the goblet to her lips. It spilled from the corners of her mouth – so quickly did he tilt the glass – onto her breasts, trailing like tiny rivers over the pale mounds, gathering in the pit of her navel and swilling down into the lushness of her bush.

  Grace gasped for breath as he finally released her. Her head spun from the deep draft of wine.

  ‘Lie back,’ he said, setting aside the glass.

  The bindings on her thumbs seemed tighter and she struggled against them. She heard him chuckle as he pushed her shoulders and was helpless to resist. She felt herself falling back into the tumbled, wine-stained linen, her bound thumbs and her long legs folded beneath her.

  ‘Glorious woman,’ he murmured. He stroked her sex, made open by her spread thighs and thrust upward by her own feet trapped beneath her buttocks. She sighed, a plea for the completion of her pleasure. She fixed her eyes on his cock, again fully erect. He spread her cunny lips open. Again she moaned. She had an urge to writhe beneath his hands, but he held her still as if he knew her need and had no intention of allowing it.