‘Now, the master said I must not truss you unless strictly necessary.’ He shook his head as if in sorrow. ‘I did not want to do it, but…’ He stroked the leather apron and the bulge rose. ‘I could not take the risk that you might escape.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Grace truthfully, but she knew the binding made her more vulnerable and she felt the swirl in her belly which heralded her pleasure.
The servant took up the razor once more and held it at the widest part of her triangle of curls. Grace shuddered as she felt the coldness of the steel and the edge of the blade on her flesh.
‘Be still now,’ he warned again. ‘Very still.’
He placed a piece of white cloth on the bench and cut the first swath of curls. His movements were light and precise as he wiped the cut hair and white suds upon the cloth. Grace felt the chill of the air on her freshly bared skin.
‘Naked,’ he said, smoothing the last curl away. She heard him squeeze a cloth in water and felt a new coldness on her intimate parts as he wiped the last of the suds away. He patted her dry with another piece of cloth and bent over her, his fingertips caressing the smooth skin of her sex folds. ‘How does it feel?’ he asked, as a forefinger rubbed beneath the arch of her mound.
‘Very open,’ she told him, her eyes closed in her shame.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course. That is how it was meant to feel for the men who wish to use you. Very open and very wet.’ His fingers remained within her folds. ‘Are you wet?’
Grace said nothing. She knew she was very wet indeed. His fingers slid downwards, and hovered at the entrance newly opened by Lord Albert.
‘You are very wet,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Very welcoming and smooth, just as men like.’ Two fingers slipped in further and Grace felt her opening clutch the intrusion. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Let me feel you do that again.’
The movement had been quite involuntary and Grace was unsure whether she could repeat it. She arched up, knowing her silky smooth mound was close to his questing lips.
‘I think you are ready for a cock,’ he said roughly.
Grace, in her newly bare state, felt her pleasure very close, but this man was a servant at Lord Albert’s beck and call; surely it would be wrong to allow him her body? ‘No, please. It would be a wrong against the master.’
John twisted the square of leather to the side and allowed his cock to bob and spear freely to his waist. He laughed. ‘I do it on my master’s orders, and he instructs that I may use you whenever and wherever I care when he is away. This is to accustom you to your new life.’
With a thumping heart Grace resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do to resist the servant, but what did he mean; new life?
He climbed onto the bench, his knees pressing against her inner thighs, his cock waving over the swell of her belly. He grinned down at her and placed his hands flat on the ancient wood to steady himself. He pushed within her and she heard him grunt as he began to thrust in and out. He groaned louder and his body stiffened as he flooded her with his seed.
‘Did you deliver her?’ asked Charlotte, lying back on the pillows. She was drowsy, having just been roused from sleep.
The Black Rose shook his head. ‘I took her to the manor house on the Kent coast,’ he said, unfastening his caped coat. The crossing had been worse than usual and he was weary beyond all telling.
Charlotte, naked, her heavy breasts quivering with rage, sat up. Her handsome face was a mask of fury. ‘And could not resist her, I suppose! I knew this would happen! That is why I tried to save her from you when the Channel boat docked at Dover.’ She hissed with anger. ‘You took her, didn’t you? What kind of money do you think we can get on used goods, even a beauty like Grace?’
Lord Albert, naked apart from his breeches, shrugged. ‘She was so sweet, so innocent,’ he said, ‘in spite of all they did to her at Versailles, that I could not bear the thought of the Sheikh taking her maidenhead and then turning her over to his guests. She would never have survived the harem as she was.’
Charlotte, sitting very straight, her knees pressed by her own hands to fall outwards, threw back her head and laughed. ‘You are becoming soft, Albert!’ Her smile faded quickly. ‘You have lost the cause thousands of francs by your softness.’
Shrugging out of his breeches he threw himself on the bed between the inviting knees. ‘Perhaps I am, as you say, becoming soft,’ he admitted. ‘But I have vowed to wreak vengeance on that harridan and her consort who ruined the girl in the first place.’ He sucked first one of Charlotte’s sex lips into his mouth and then the other. What did he care for the cause? What Charlotte did not know was that he worked not for the cause of France but to increase his own fortune.
She groaned, leaning back once more upon the pillows. ‘Oui, Albert, mon cherie!’ His tongue drove into her wetness over and over again. It flicked upwards, caressing the taut bud of her nubbin. ‘Tell me it’s me that you love,’ she groaned. ‘Only me, and not that milk sop of a girl.’
The Black Rose lifted his head from the depths of his lover’s thighs and wiped the cream of her sap from his lips. His rugged features were a mask of fury and he grasped her thighs, driving into the flesh with iron-hard fingers. Charlotte murmured, begging for mercy. ‘She is no milk sop!’ He twisted her long limbs until she lay on her belly. ‘Remember that Charlotte, and if you cannot remember it then I must find ways to imprint it in your mind. Shall I do that?’
‘Oui! Do whatever you wish to me, Albert.’ She spoke with a tremor in her voice. ‘Only say you love me.’
‘I love all slaves,’ he said tightly, ‘you included.’ He jumped from the bed and, just as Charlotte was about to run towards him, he lashed out with his whip. It coiled about her thighs and tumbled her to the floor. She whimpered as he dragged her towards him. He rolled her over by uncoiling the whip. ‘Admit you are a slave, Charlotte!’ The whip cracked again and caught the creamy hillocks of her bottom. A weal rose up, a diagonal scarlet line across the twin peaks.
‘I am a thief!’ cried Charlotte, her lips compressed in a determined line. ‘A pickpocket!’
The whip cracked across the room again, the tip teasing the underswell of a breast. ‘Not good enough. Tell me you are a slave to my cock.’
‘I will admit to that!’ agreed Charlotte, turning over and kneeling in a provocative manner, her buttocks inviting him to whip them.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I’m afraid,’ said Madame de Genlis as they hurried down a narrow alley in the back streets of Paris. ‘Dreadfully afraid.’ Her heavy breasts were partially bared by her torn gown and her feet were naked, her shoes stolen while they slept in a narrow alley.
Was it only three days ago when she and Philipe took Grace to the theatre? Only three days! How her world had changed, and not for the better. Philipe was right. They should never have left the palace that night simply to show Grace to the world. It was then that their troubles started. But she was so beautiful, so glorious, and she should have fetched a tidy sum had all things been right with the world.
Madame shuddered and clutched her torn gown to her bare breasts.
‘There must be somewhere we can go,’ said Philipe. ‘Somewhere warm and away from these… creatures.’
‘Oh, stop whining, Philipe!’ She hurried ahead of him.
‘Well, I’m afraid too, and I have more right than you to be so.’
Madame sighed. He was whimpering now – whimpering like a child.
‘Don’t you realise I could be beheaded?’ he said, hiccoughing with fear.
Madame tried not to think about Philipe’s plight, but hurried on. Her hands itched at the thought of that gloriously sensuous creature in her arms. She closed her eyes as she thought of the girl coming to orgasm, the glow of her pale skin. So delicious! But now their only source of potent
ial income was lost to them.
She shook her head, remembering.
There was a little fuss, of course, when she ordered the jeweller to pierce the flushed nipples and the virgin flesh lips. It was necessary to discipline her. It was such a pity, because madame was quite certain he had trained her to be entirely submissive, and then the little wretch screamed!
As madame stumbled along the filthy cobbled streets she tutted in annoyance at the memory. It was necessary for Philipe to smack her bottom and thighs until they glowed, not that that made a deal of difference. The girl continued to scream until Philipe plugged her mouth with a wad of silk.
Madame did her best to explain that the bondage came within the training advised by Rousseau, but did it make any difference? It did not! The little wretch continued to squirm and mew behind her gag.
Her eyes! Madame would never forget her eyes over the white silk. Full of tears, shimmering with them, and pleading. It made madame want to spread the girl’s legs and suck her nubbin until she was again calm and entirely pliant.
She gave a grunt of disgust. That she should come to this – homeless and hungry. Her white muslin gown was stained and torn, and some thief of the night had stolen her shoes. Every step sent pain to which she was quite unused; her every pleasure was in giving rather than receiving pain.
‘And you have good reason to be afraid, too,’ said Philipe, interrupting her pleasant memories. ‘And why are you still wearing that ridiculous stone between your breasts?’
Madame de Genlis clutched her torn gown, trying to hide the pale mountains of her breasts, and touched the stone held by a leather thong about her neck. ‘It is part of the Bastille,’ she said, fingering the rough edges. ‘I hoped it would bring us luck. A young woman gave it to me and said as much.’
The Duc d’Orleans laughed bitterly. ‘Well, it has not, has it? And where is the famous Black Rose? Did you not say you had made arrangements for him to save us?’
‘Yes, when we slipped out of the palace. One of the footmen promised…’ She felt a strong arm wrap around her ample waist and squeeze the pliant flesh of her bared breast. She screamed. ‘Philipe! Save me—!’ A hand muffled her cry.
‘Let go of me!’ yelled Philipe, who had troubles of his own.
‘Be quiet, aristo!’ snarled a harsh voice.
‘Wh-where are you taking us?’ asked madame.
The man who had grabbed her so roughly ripped her gown open completely and hefted each heavy breast, one after the other, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Just what we need,’ he said, ignoring her question. He pinched each nipple until she moaned in pain. ‘Big and juicy,’ he added.
‘And we can have fun with this one,’ added another voice, a woman, ripping Philipe’s breeches open to bare his cock. ‘Not bad for an aristo,’ she said. ‘We can have fun with both of them.’
Madame was pushed and chivvied along one dark alley after another. Hands, rough and clumsy, slipped under what was left of her gown, feeling the soft wetness of her sex, opening the lips and driving deep into her passage, between the cleft of her bottom and the tightly pursed hole between the hillocks. She tried to cry out but a filthy rag was jammed between her lips.
After what seemed like an age she was pushed into a brightly lit room. She blinked in amazement at her luxurious surroundings.
The woman who still held Philipe pulled him down on a sofa. She held him face up and used a thumb and finger to slick up and down his cock. Madame was not surprised when the limp shaft became erect and the woman slipped the rim of skin down below the shining globe. Philipe lay back on the woman, writhing under her caresses.
‘Kneel!’ the woman ordered. ‘Suck him!’
‘That’s it, Charlotte,’ hissed a rough voice. ‘Let him die happy.’
Madame struggled. It was the end – the end for both of them. ‘Philipe!’ she cried to her lover. ‘Goodbye!’
A balmy evening, and the gypsies gathered round their camp fire waiting for the women to prepare their meal.
‘Listen!’
As one, the men turned in the direction in which Veranti pointed. ‘Someone approaches,’ he whispered. ‘A woman. I can hear the swish of her skirts.’ His head went up and he sniffed the still air. ‘Young,’ he murmured, ‘ripe. Very ripe.’
One of the younger men rose up from his seat by the fire and stood close to Veranti. The wise one cocked his ear again. ‘She wears jewellery. I hear a chain sway against flesh. She draws closer.’
‘She is beautiful,’ said the young fellow who was called Peli.
She had stepped into the clearing. The black servant’s gown she wore sat ill on her. The swell of her breasts strained the bodice and the waist was loose, hanging about its slenderness and drooping untidily over the curve of her hips.
‘Who are you?’ asked Peli, and he walked towards her. The blue-black hair was like his own; thick and lustrous, catching the cold light of the full moon which made it shimmer like jet and the flickering firelight which turned it to bronze.
‘Help me!’
She was foreign, by her voice, thought Peli.
‘Careful, lad,’ warned Veranti, plucking at his sleeve. ‘She could be a decoy for the Peelers, and we’ve got those kegs of brandy…’
Peli shrugged away from the older man and went towards the girl. Green eyes shimmered with tears and the full breasts heaved, almost bursting from the too tight bodice. The gown was not hers, Peli knew that, and he ached to have her beneath him, naked, her breasts free and her thighs outstretched. There was something about her. She was submissive, but courageous and sensual in the extreme. He sniffed the air, trying to catch the aroma of her ripeness noticed by Veranti; the female musk.
‘I have run away,’ she said haltingly.
Peli’s eyes flickered from the heaving breasts to the girl’s sweet face; so innocent. Veranti must be wrong, surely. This one must be a virgin.
‘From where?’ asked Peli. He stood close to her now, at the edge of the clearing. He took her hand and tried to draw her into the circle, by the fire, but she held back and he noticed there were faint scars at her wrists. She had been manacled; a slave.
‘The manor house,’ she murmured.
Peli’s breath caught in his throat. ‘One of Lord Albert’s girls?’
‘He is in danger!’ Her eyes darkened as they became wider.
Veranti stood beside Peli now, and he laughed. ‘In danger? Him? What danger could he be in? He cares only for himself and the fortune he has amassed.’
The girl bowed her head and Peli saw tears fall upon the pale slopes of her breasts, glittering like crystals in the moonlight. ‘They will kill him,’ she murmured, choking back her sobs.
‘Who?’ asked Peli. The girl’s beauty and her distress, as well as his own need, tore at his cock.
She raised her head. ‘The revolutionaries.’
Veranti laughed, throwing back his head. ‘The man is a smuggler, a spy for both sides in France, and a dealer in women…’
The girl’s face, already pale, became as white as the chalk on the cliffs below their camp. ‘A dealer in women?’ she asked, and her tongue tripped over the words.
‘For the harems in Morocco,’ explained Peli. All the fight seemed to go out of the girl and she collapsed in his arms.
Veranti’s hearty laughter followed them as they walked into the thick stand of trees.
She made no murmur as Peli lifted her skirt and trailed his dark fingers up her thighs. The full skirt impeded his hands and he growled his anger, his frustration. To his surprise the girl gathered her skirt and lifted it over her head, to stand before him naked. Had his cock not been fully turgid in his breeches it would have become so immediately he saw her body.
‘Will you scream if I touch you?’ he asked. His own eyes widened as he looked down at
her full flesh pot. Her sex was shaven smooth and added to her air of youth and innocence. She shook her head and the movement made the chain slung from one breast to the other quiver. The chain was looped through two gold hoops pierced into the flesh of nipples, which were permanently erect and flushed to a rose-pink.
Peli threw the discarded gown on the woodland floor and eased her down upon it. Without a word from him she opened her thighs and lifted her knees, giving him full freedom. He gazed in wonder at the sight revealed to him. With trembling hands he reached out to the delicious sight, but her eyes hardened and she cupped her fingers over the smooth mound.
‘If I let you do anything you wish to me, will you do me a great favour?’ she asked. Her voice pleaded with him and no matter what the favour, however impossible, he vowed he would oblige her.
‘Anything,’ he said.
‘On your father’s life?’ she asked, opening her fingers and revealing the inviting folds.
‘On my father’s life,’ swore Peli.
The girl lifted her arms and beckoned him. Clumsily, Peli shrugged out of his brightly coloured waistcoat, his shirt and breeches, and sank to his knees between her open thighs.
‘I need to go to France,’ she said. ‘Soon… on the tide.’
‘I will arrange it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Somehow I will arrange it.’
When he touched the silky smoothness of the outer flesh lips, Peli felt his cock jerk with the delicious innocence of it and yet, within, the hot flesh was slick with sap. This was no innocent! His thumb slid along the arch of her nubbin and back again, drawing the hood to form a little skirt at the root and leaving the tip a polished bead.
She turned her head and Peli followed her gaze. ‘Go away!’ he ordered huskily. ‘She is mine.’
Bride of the Revolution Page 21