Bride of the Revolution

by Bethany Amber

  With the ball of his thumb he pressed against her jutting bud. The pressure was gently released and he rolled it from side to side, stroking back its hood and dribbling more wine on its sensitive rawness. Her bud was hot and throbbing, but the wine was cool, as were his fingers. The mixture of sensations was unbearably exquisite in their torture.

  ‘Let go,’ he murmured. ‘Let me see you come.’

  Her pleasure was so great there was no room in her for shame. Boldly, she looked into his eyes, just as her belly quivered. She was pleased to submit to this latest humiliation and she felt her nubbin pulse with glorious release, and felt liquid seep from her core.

  As the glow faded so did Grace feel her boldness fade, and she closed her eyes, letting tears spill from them.

  Helpless in her bound state she did not protest when he lifted her up, held her head to his chest for a moment, and flipped her face down on the bed. She felt him spread her legs and scoop her juices onto his fingers.

  ‘Now I have two openings,’ he said and his tone, chill and flat, made Grace quiver with fear. ‘And I shall take them.’

  A pillow was pushed beneath her quaking belly and her juices were rubbed between her buttocks. She felt him working the creamy liquid into the tightly wrinkled pit until he was satisfied it would give pleasurably about his cock.

  His fingers slid down to the uplifted and pouting entrance to her sex. He used a finger and thumb to stretch her open and then allowed the tight opening to snap shut. The movement caused a greater trickle of liquid from her honey pot and he worked this deeply into both openings until he was satisfied that both would give him pleasure.

  His hand touched Grace’s tethered thumbs, squeezing her numb fingers. ‘Use these to pleasure my cock as I thrust,’ he commanded.

  No protest passed her lips, although she was unsure whether her fingers, with the prolonged binding, were capable of movement.

  ‘If you do not please me…’

  Grace, with questioning eyes, twisted her head to peep at him over her shoulder.

  ‘This little beauty will work upon you until you do.’

  In one hand he held the black leather straps and Grace’s buttocks, still bruised from the previous night, felt the playful caress of the supple implement.

  His turgid globe butted against her open wetness. Grace fumbled for his shaft, thick and unyielding, but her fingertips merely brushed the stiffness and she heard him growl in anger.

  ‘Is this how you show your gratitude for taking you in?’ He drew back and she heard the harshness of his breathing as the straps were drawn back in readiness for thrashing her vulnerable bottom.

  Grace cried out in a most piteous manner, throwing back her head and arching her neck.

  ‘Cosset my shaft!’ he rasped. ‘Don’t fumble!’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she murmured, fighting back tears, and as he thrust into the velvet wetness she tried with all her might to stroke the entering cock in a graceful and sensual manner.

  ‘Better,’ he grunted. ‘Much better.’

  His shaft opened her fully, sliding into her on her own slickness, in to the very limits of her womb. She bit her lower lip to stifle the moan of pleasure which welled up inside her, but almost at the peak of her ecstasy he withdrew, leaving her bereft, her fingers fluttering emptily. She waited, wondering if she had displeased him.

  ‘You have done well,’ he whispered, and she felt the dark line of chest hair brushing her shoulders. She felt the gold rings tauten as her nipples came to full erection against the bed linen. ‘You are so wonderfully submissive. You excite me beyond all bearing.’

  Grace felt his thick shaft caress her backbone and slide down to her bottom crease. The numbness in her fingers brought about by the tight binding of her thumbs and the ache in her shoulders from the long bondage no longer mattered.

  His cock globe butted at the tiny pore of her bottom and she bore up towards it, mewing with gratitude. She felt his fingertips press into the pouted entrance of her sex, scooping up her liquid. He drew back and worked the juices into the tightness, spreading the tiny wrinkles and pressing the ball of his thumb into the easing orifice. The weight and length of his cock spread her bottom cheeks, opening them out until his smooth globe again spread the tight entrance wetted with her honey.

  Grace sighed with pleasure as she felt him enter, opening her rear passage as his fingers massaged her sex. She felt a thumb pet the tip of her clitty and a long finger slide into her female passage. The soft walls clutched at the invading digit and she felt the web between his fingers brush her sex lips, swollen with her need.

  The room was full of liquid sound as he drove into her; the sound of his cock being sucked into her welcoming bottom hole and the sound of his fingers petting her sex. She smelled the scent of their combined musk, heavy and hot, becoming stronger as their excitement grew. She moaned into the pillows, wondering how much longer this pleasure would continue.

  She could not hold back a scream as he slid from her, leaving her empty once more, but almost immediately his thickness filled her female passage and his thrusting became faster, frantic. She heard his rapid breathing, which echoed her own. The throb in her clitty grew until she could not hold back the scream that welled up in her throat. His grunting was loud in her ears and the solid four-poster shook with their passion.

  At last she felt the first flood of his come. It swilled into her, overflowing, soaking her pussy curls and trickling down her thighs. Grace was consumed with her own orgasm, which made her helpless body shudder from head to toe.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Grace awoke next morning she was alone in the huge bed. Sunlight streamed through the leaded windows, dappling her naked body with golden light and sensual warmth. Her breasts felt full and tender, her flesh pot sore and much used by a large cockstem. A smile curved her lips as she remembered the previous night.

  Far beyond her dreaming she heard a soft knock on the oak door. She allowed the linen sheets to remain down the bed and spread her thighs invitingly as she waited for her lord to return to her.

  ‘Come in,’ she said haltingly. The English language was coarse and came with difficulty to her tongue.

  The door opened and a maid hurried in with a laden breakfast tray. The girl was plump and plainly dressed, not at all like the pretty girls who romped with his lordship the previous night.

  The crimson stain of shame flushed Grace’s cheeks as she dragged the sheets to cover her nakedness. But the girl showed no such embarrassment.

  ‘Will my lord be joining me for petit dejeuner?’ asked Grace, attempting at some normality. She looked with some dismay at the mountain of ham, hot rolls, eggs and mushrooms.

  ‘I doubt it, miss,’ said the maid, setting down the tray. ‘He set sail for France early this morning.’

  It was as if a heavy weight settled within Grace’s belly. All the pleasant feelings she experienced as she awoke were dispelled. ‘Non!’ she cried. ‘Quelle dangereuse! Oh, he cannot have done so!’

  The sheet fell and her breasts were bared again. ‘Bring me my clothes and… and… a horse!’

  ‘No, miss.’ The plump maid looked stern. ‘Master left orders that you must not leave the manor house.’

  ‘But I must!’ Grace threw back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Such was her panic that she didn’t notice the maid staring between her thighs.

  ‘I’ve got my orders, miss. You stay here and eat your breakfast or I’ve been told to bring John to teach you how to behave.’ The plump maid ran to the door and Grace heard the click as the key was turned in the lock.

  ‘John,’ murmured Grace. John with the cruel eyes and pinching hands. She ran to the door and pounded on it until her fists hurt. ‘Let me out!’ she sobbed. ‘Please! I wish to go to my lord.’ She sobbed so hard she did not hear footsteps in t
he passage beyond the door and scarcely heard the heavy key turn in the lock.

  ‘Now, miss,’ said a rasping voice, ‘what’s all this, eh?’

  Grace fell away from the door. To her shame she knew her jet curls hid nothing of the fleshy portals. Fear made her limbs stiff and she made no attempt to hide herself as she looked up into glinting eyes, staring from a leather hood favoured by the executioners on the steps of the guillotine. Despite the hood she knew it was John; she recognised the cruelty in the voice.

  ‘A pretty sight,’ he murmured. ‘A pretty sight indeed, and I am ordered to make it prettier yet.’

  He wore only a short leather apron, held in place by a thong between his buttocks. One of his hands strayed beneath the square of leather and Grace knew his fingers rubbed at his thickening cock.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Surely after last night the master would not send John to harm her. She tried to hide herself by curling her arms around her breasts and drawing her knees up to her chin. But bony hands dragged her to her feet and took the opportunity to feel the yielding flesh of her breasts. She shuddered as fingers combed through the dark silkiness of her pussy hair. ‘No,’ she murmured. A fingertip rolled the tip of her bud until she felt every nerve stretched to breaking point, but she did not quite reach the peak of orgasm. She moaned softly, arching her body against his caresses, hating herself for doing so. She wanted her master to touch her intimately, not this fiend he ordered to replace him.

  ‘Do I give you nice feelings?’ said John huskily. ‘Tell me. Let your liquid flow over my fingers.’ First one finger was thrust into Grace’s freshly opened passage and then a second and a third, stretching her, driving into her wetness. She bore down upon the feeling of fullness, for to her shame it brought back the sensations of the previous night.

  ‘Don’t hold back,’ hissed John. ‘This is why you are here; to give pleasure.’

  Without wishing to Grace arched against the thrusting fingers. She could feel his thickened cockstem beneath the leather apron. She bore against it, wanting it, but hating him at the same time.

  With her breasts full and tender, pouting upward from her bowed body, Grace suddenly shuddered through an exquisite orgasm.

  ‘My master said you were sensual,’ whispered John, slipping his fingers from Grace and examining them, admiring the gathered pearls which slithered down to his palm. He grinned and thrust the fingers deep into her open mouth. ‘Suck,’ he ordered hoarsely. ‘Suck as you would suck a cock.’

  Grace, tasting her own musk, felt her cheeks redden, but she obediently sucked every drop of her own juices.

  ‘Good,’ said John. ‘Walk ahead of me.’ He pushed her trembling form forward, sending her stumbling into the passage outside the room. ‘Hands on your head and no hiding your face. Head up.’

  There were servants polishing silver and dark oak furniture in the shadowy passage. Grace heard sniggers as she walked ahead of John. She felt her cheeks burn with shame. She cried out as her bottom felt the caress of a leather strap. She felt heat as the welt left by the leather swelled proud from her pale buttocks.

  ‘Don’t cry out,’ ordered John. ‘I’m well aware how you enjoy chastisement.’

  Grace felt his cruel fingers on her shoulders, whipping her round, arching her over the polished oak of a trestle table. Trying to save herself she let her hands fall from her head, but was rewarded by light slaps of leather on her breasts.

  ‘Up! Up and legs open,’ he said, in a tone that would take nothing but obedience.

  The ancient polished oak felt cool and smooth under Grace’s bottom. It soothed the strapped and heated flesh. She slid slowly forward, her legs high and spread. Pinching fingers coaxed her ever-willing nipples to perfect points. The leather apron swayed back and forth across the open cup of her sex, and she could feel his erection beneath it.

  The fingers slid down over her belly and hovered about her sex. ‘This hair must go,’ said John, and she felt the fingers comb the silky darkness of her nest.

  ‘No…’

  ‘By order of the master,’ he insisted, spreading her sex lips with finger and thumb. ‘It must all go. It will increase your sensitivity and your appearance of innocence.’

  ‘Does he truly wish it?’ She bore down upon the probing fingers as if her English lover stood between her legs, and not this servant who seemed to delight in humiliating her before the other servants of the house.

  ‘Of course.’ John sounded very certain. ‘And it will be my task to keep you sleek every day.’ With one last caress John helped her to her feet and guided her on down the passage.

  The air became more chilled as they descended into the cellars of the old house. But they were nothing like the dungeons beneath the palace of Versailles, nor were they like those beneath Robespierre’s headquarters. There was one cell, noticed Grace, with a studded iron door several inches thick. The floor was bare earth and it was furnished only with a rough wooden bench.

  ‘You wonder why I have brought you here?’ John unfastened the leather apron and let it fall to the floor. ‘Does this explain?’ He stroked his erect cock. ‘Does it?’

  Glad of the flickering single candle, glad of the dim light, Grace bowed her head and tried to hide her blushes. ‘What do you want of me?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘Be free with me,’ said John. ‘As you are with the master. Be voluptuous. You are a slave, after all.’

  Madame’s training had been such that in the presence of a needful man Grace could be nought else. She sank to her knees and let her tongue slip between her lips. It lapped and coiled around the tip of his thickness, dipped into its pulsing pore and sipped the ooze of sap that beaded from it.

  ‘Yes,’ groaned the servant. ‘Be free.’

  Grace slipped her fingers into the depths of her sex and worked them deep until they were coated. She eased them under the servant’s ball sac, stroking them gently. She heard him moan, felt him thrust towards her, felt the slime of his tip brush against her lips. She sucked and drew the fine skin back over the bulb. She stroked his inner thighs, making them tremble. With fingers taught by madame she pressed the cock a little behind the bulb and dipped her tongue tip into the pulsing opening. She felt him thrust rhythmically until most of his length was within her throat and she could taste his salt. He could not hold back. She heard him grunt and felt the creamy spurt of his come slide down her throat.

  Gently, her lifted her to her feet. ‘You are a slave,’ he mumbled thickly, ‘a slave to give pleasure to men. My master has found someone who will…’ He paused, his fingers smoothing her breasts and his thumbs rolling the hard pips of her nipples.

  Grace shook her head. ‘No.’ She was something more than that now, surely. Hadn’t Lord Albert taken her for his own? Made her his? ‘No, I am no longer a slave.’

  The servant chuckled. ‘Did my master tell you this?’ He drew off the leather hood and grinned at her. He stroked the garment between her thighs and she could smell the leather blended with her own musk. It made her bear down.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted.

  ‘But that is what you are. A slave, to be used by men for pleasure. And my master has instructed me to continue your training. You will obey me now?’

  Grace bowed her head, and meekly yielded. ‘Whatever he wishes, I shall do.’

  John nodded with satisfaction and led her to the bench. He eased her down upon it, and Grace remained stoic and compliant. It was a trick, a lie, she was sure. Lord Albert was a gentleman. Why did he wish to shame her further by denuding her sex? Why? John was taking advantage of his absence, she was sure.

  ‘Spread your thighs.’

  It was as if she was back in madame’s clutches, to be shamed and humiliated.

  She felt a light smack on her belly when she hesitated a moment too long, and she opened her thighs the
width of the bench.

  ‘No! No! Not like that!’

  The smacks became harder and slid down to her inner thighs, making her spread her legs so they hung down loosely at the sides of the bench. Her feeling of vulnerability was increased with the knowledge of her lost maidenhead. The tears flowed. What did Lord Albert have in mind?

  Fingertips brushed her curls and strayed down to her sex lips.

  ‘Too thick,’ murmured John. ‘This hair is far too thick and lush for a girl such as you.’ He smoothed his palm over the curls, making her tremble with a delicious, although unbidden, wantonness. ‘Women are always more desirable if smooth. It makes them more open, more available, you see.’

  He left her and she heard him moving about in some corner of the small chamber. She heard sloshing sounds and lifted her head, straining her eyes in the gloom.

  In a moment he was back at her side, the leather apron lifted lewdly by the stiffness of his cock beneath it. In his hands he held a cup and a soft brush.

  ‘Remain very still,’ he ordered, ‘or you will find your pleasure rising more than is good for you. But keep these thighs spread.’

  A slippery coolness was slopped between her legs and spread upon her sex. The brush wiped upon the very tip of her nubbin, making her buck with the wanton pleasure of it. A new awareness of the rings still pierced in her nipples and the chain that slid about her ribs and weighted the fullness of her breasts came upon her. Looking down her body she saw the creamy mound of suds which hid the dark lushness of her pussy curls, and fresh tears spilled upon her the upper swells of her breasts, shimmering like crystal on the pale flesh.

  He left her again and she heard a new sound; the sound of leather being stroked back and forth. When he approached she saw the glint of polished steel in the flickering candlelight. She whimpered and tensed, and made a hesitant attempt to roll from the bench.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, my pretty missy!’ He laid the razor down and took two lengths of rope from a hook on the bare wall. Before she could complete her roll from the bench he was beneath it, grasping her wrists and ankles. She felt the roughness of the rope as he bound all four limbs together so that she was bowed, her breasts and sex mound lifted by the tightness of the binding.