Bride of the Revolution

Title Page

BRIDE OF THE REVOLUTION

by

BETHANY AMBER

Publisher Information

Bride of the Revolution published by

Chimera Publishing Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

PO Box 152

Waterlooville

Hants

PO8 9FS

Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Bethany Amber

The right of Bethany Amber to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Advisory Note

BRIDE OF THE REVOLUTION

Bethany Amber

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

Introduction

She took a fearful glance over her shoulder. They were gaining on her. The slap of their feet on the muddy ground made Grace sob; a sound that caught in her tortured throat. Grace's chest hurt. She could scarcely draw breath. They were gaining on her, would catch her.

A huge hand fastened like a vice about her tiny wrist. With a breath she felt must surely be her last she managed a scream of fear. Her flimsy rags, sodden with rain, clung and caressed the length of her creamy body as the man whirled her round.

Chapter One

‘Philipe,
mon cheri
?'

Madame de Genlis lay on the tumbled linen of her love bed, her breasts thrust high, stomach sucked in and her shapely legs thrust asunder, the rounded treasure of her sex mound thrust high. In an attitude of complete abandon her hands were clasped firmly behind her shining and abundant black locks while her violet eyes, misty with unknown dreams, were focused upon the silk draped canopy above the lovers.

A murmur came from her lover, Philipe, Duc d'Orleans, who lay between her statuesque thighs. His long, graceful fingers grasped the smooth flesh of madame's buttocks, the better to raise the altar of his desire. His lips were otherwise engaged than in conversation.

‘Philipe!' Madame de Genlis tangled her ringed fingers into the tumbled hair of her patron. She admired the sparkle of the jewels bestowed upon her by her master as the flickering candlelight caught the shimmer of their well-cut facets. ‘
Ecoute moi, s'il vous plais
!'

Madame, in truth, was not in the first flush of youth, but her expertise in matters of pleasure more than made up for this. She was richly voluptuous with breasts and belly in which a man could bury himself and sex pot which was ever willing to take a cock or tongue, be it man or maid.

The object of her anger opened dark and heavily lidded eyes. Reluctantly, he lifted his head from the bountiful nest. His head reeled from the sensuality he found between his mistress's thighs. He licked his lips, savouring the droplets of her musk which ran so copiously from the flushed and open lips of her swollen cunt. ‘
Oui, ma petite
?'

‘I have a most wonderful idea!'

Madame de Genlis did not close her thighs, nor lower her dimpled knees. The position was lewd, wanton, but oh, so inviting!

With his aristocratic fingers he caressed the generous and pouting outer labia which framed the scarlet bud of her clitoris. He watched her shiver pleasurably as he stroked the pads of his fore and second finger along the flanking valleys to collect the pearls of sex dew. With warm and tender lips he kissed the lower swells of her breasts and watched them shudder at his caress. He saw the thud of her heart within her chest; the beat of excitement. Her wide violet eyes were luminous in the soft flicker of the candles and her parted lips shone as she allowed her tongue tip to flicker lightly about them.

‘Tell me later,
ma petite
!' he begged. His needs were urgent. They were always urgent these days. One never knew how long the old order could continue, how long the court would survive. The murmurings one heard were frightening and Philipe, once more, buried his head between his lover's thighs, closing his ears, shutting out the discontented mutterings of the populace, the frightening cries which grew in volume on the streets of Paris. Some said that the Bastille, that impregnable fortress, had been stormed; that many of his friends had lost their heads in public on the guillotine. He shuddered and probed his tongue deep into the liquid warmth of his lover's cunt.

Madame de Genlis rapped her closed fan on Philipe's slender shoulder. ‘I insist,
mon cheri
!'

‘Oh,
mon amour
!' he grumbled. ‘I wish to love you as you deserve to be loved.' His words were somewhat muffled, spoken as they were from the dark depths of his lover's flesh. However, he knew that he would not receive any peace until he listened to what she had to say. He sighed and fumbled between his own thighs to feel the comforting throb of his engorged penis, the silky globe which was slippery with spunk, and to caress the heaviness of his balls. Perhaps his own body would give him the comfort he sought.

Again the fan rapped his shoulder. ‘Philipe,
mon cheri
.
Ecoute moi
! Listen to me.'

With a heartfelt sigh he eased himself up her body, feeling the warmth, the liquidity between her thighs moisten his skin with silky offerings. His slim chest lay upon the cushion of her belly and he nuzzled his musky lips into the hollow of her navel.

‘Come, come, Philipe! I wish you to lie beside me,
ecoute moi
!'

Philipe did not wish to talk, neither did he wish to listen. He wished to play with his mistress; he wished to sip the offering of her musk, feel her delicious release and finally drive his penis into the willing softness of her body. That was what a mistress was for, after all, he grumbled to himself. If he wished to talk, to discuss, to listen, he could do so with his tutors or the court officials. No, a mistress was not for talking.

The violet eyes beckoned him as did an index finger, drawing him up the length of her voluptuous body.

‘I promise you, Philipe,' she said in her sultry voice, ‘you will enjoy my idea.' She paused and her nostrils flared, she allowed the very tip of her tongue to trace the perfection of her parted lips. ‘We shall both enjoy my idea.'

There was a something in madame's words that hinted at delightful decadence, and Philipe dragged himself a little more willingly up her body. Not that decadence was anything new in the court of Louis XVI. It was redolent with it. The richly decked passages, the halls, the reception rooms reeked of the pungent perfume, the musk of every kind of degeneracy, depravity and wantonness. Could madame truly have found something new?

Holding up her shapely arms, so pale, the colour of finest alabaster even in the rosy glow of the firelight and the flickering flames of the candles, Madame de Genlis welcomed her lover. She held his head to the comforting cushion of her breasts, persuaded his lips to take each erect nipple in turn as she related her idea.

‘We shall find a girl, Philipe!' The sultry voice became softer, more caressing, but this did not lessen Philipe's sense of vague disappointment. However, his lips sucked diligently upon each nipple in turn and he massaged the flesh with his long fingers as if he wished to encourage the milk to flow. He missed that comfort which he was given by his wet nurse until he was seven. Eyes closed, he lapped his tongue about the hardened bud, sucking with all his might, hoping even yet to feel the warm, sweet trickle of milk on his tongue.

A girl! What was new about yet another little whore in the court? He gave a grunt of disappointment into the yielding flesh. He quickly became tired of the little harlots who were brought regularly to Versailles. They were so coarse; spreading their thighs for all to see and pinching their sex lips open to display their jutting little clitties. He gave another grunt, this time of disgust.

‘She will be innocent, Philipe, so innocent!' Madame de Genlis gave a sigh of longing which was husky with lust. ‘A virgin!'

Nuzzling into the pliant flesh, smelling the delicious scent of mature woman, Philipe could not think of anything he desired less than an innocent girl. How boring, how utterly boring! A virgin, no less. One could not play naughty games with innocents, tease every orifice, prod and please for hours on end. Oh,
mais non
, thought Philipe, allowing his delicately long fingers to slide down madame's belly and to rest in the dark, luxuriant forest which sprouted so lushly on her pouting mons.

‘We shall train her,' continued madame, arching her buttocks and circling the plump nest against Philipe's questing fingers. ‘It must be the right girl, of course, Philipe. She must look the part, act the part, no matter what is done to her.'

Now, thought Philipe, driving a slender digit into the liquid softness of the woman's flesh, this sounded a little more interesting. With his thumb he, again, prised the swollen petals of madame's sex open, sliding it down to tantalise the upthrust nub of her clitoris. He could feel it hot and hard, probing out of the fine flesh, searching and flushed, ready for excitement. Philipe lifted his head from the delights of the breast. ‘And will you allow me to do anything I like to this innocent?' he said.

‘Do not stop,
mon cheri
!' begged madame, arching her body, her splayed legs stiff with desire, her splendid body arched and her heels driving into the tumbled bed linen, trembling, yearning.

‘Yes, I shall allow you to play with this girl!' she said, her voice trembling as much as her urgent flesh. The perfect skin, the satin smooth alabaster skin, glowed with the sheen of exertion. He saw the flushes of her orgasm darken her body for the merest instant and he felt the fluttering of madame's sex flesh about his intruding finger. He thrust the digit hard into her womanhood, felt the barrier of the lower limits of her womb, felt the flood of her satisfaction flow about his finger and found it almost as satisfying as the taste of a wet nurse's milk.

‘You may do anything,' she purred, easing him over her and looking into his tortoiseshell eyes, ‘when she is fully trained in my ways.'

Philipe gasped with disappointed dismay, but Madame de Genlis had him firmly inserted into her clutching cunt and his penis was painfully turgid. He could do nothing but thrust into the willing flesh, pump and butt until he at last gave up his come. But he could hardly credit the bitch was going to make him wait while she, the wanton harridan, played with the young innocent maid, whoever she might be. It made Philipe angry and he probed his organ cruelly into the pulsing wetness. He drove his fingers into the yielding flesh of madame's softly rounded shoulders, cutting the pale skin with his sharp fingernails, kept specially long for this very purpose.

‘Ah,
oui
!' sighed la de Genlis. ‘Pain, sweet pain!' She arched her body higher, supporting his slight frame with her splendid and voluptuous one.

He knew he had broken the skin, that her blood was beading in slow scarlet rivulets to spill upon the linen of their love nest, and this very knowledge made him thrust harder into her wanton body.

‘We shall teach this innocent girl all the wonders of pain,' she murmured, ‘how it can bring her to the peak of ecstasy.' Her sultry voice rose a pitch and her breathing became harsh, quick. He could feel her heart beating faster and faster, could see the pulse beneath the voluptuous flesh.

Philipe groaned, arched back his slender neck as his passion grew. His slim, boyish body became tense, putting his whole effort into the thrust of his stiff organ into madame's silky funnel. Why could not this pleasure last forever? Why did it have to end? It grew, he reached his peak. His seed spilled copiously into her. What a magnificent receptacle this woman was, even if she was not as young as she might be.

Hardly, had he sunk from the summit of his passion than Madame de Genlis was talking again.
Merde
! Beautiful as the woman was, he wished that she would use her lovely pouting lips to better purpose than to spill such nonsense.

‘Philipe,
mon cher
,' she murmured, and she pushed him from the comfort of her enveloping breasts and belly, ‘bring the water to bathe my wounds.' She lay on her side, her breasts not flopping as many would with such mountainous flesh, but staying firm and pert. For all she was a chattering parrot, he was truly a most fortunate fellow.

Jumping from the high and ornate four-poster, not stopping to cover himself with his satin robe, Philipe ran naked to the gilt and marble washstand to pick up the china ewer. He was well-endowed. His prick, although flaccid from the spend of his passion, was still thick, heavy, against his thigh. Warm. It comforted him in this strange frightening world. Only the previous night a courtier was found dead and mutilated in the palace forecourt. He turned his attention once more to his cock. It throbbed, almost ready to spear upwards yet again to taunt him and madame and this new little whore which she promised him. Perhaps he could have fun while madame was elsewhere. The thought made him smile as he poured water into a bowl and picked up a square of soft linen before returning to madame.

‘Oh, Philipe,
mon cher
!' she murmured. ‘Stay as you are. Allow me to admire your young beauty.'

He held the bowl in front of him, partially hiding his still thick but lowered staff.

‘
Non, non
!' chided madame. ‘Put the bowl to the side, rest it on your hip. Do not hide your beauty from me. Let me see it all!'

Philipe did as she asked. He, happily, did not suffer from false modesty and, as an extra bonus, delighted in posing his boyish body. He had modeled for a statue of Achilles, the god with wings on his heels, and the marble edifice stood in the palace grounds, in the beautiful gardens at Versailles.

‘Do you know what I shall enjoy most, Philipe?'

Legs astride, his slender hips thrust forward, the bowl resting lightly upon one, he shook his head. The movement caused his manhood to swing back and forth against his spread thighs. Narcissistic above all things, Philipe enjoyed the feeling of his flesh swinging from side to side.

‘I shall enjoy seeing the two of you, my chosen girl and you, doing naughty things on this very bed!'

This was more like it, thought Philipe! What a delicious thought. He watched madame throw her body face down, wriggle the gloriously full buttocks upwards and burrow her mons into the tangle of linen which was their tumbled bed, spread her thighs, being careful to pose her sex so that it was tilted to display the dark curls, the flushed folds and the seepage of his own fluids to best advantage.

‘You hurt me tonight,' said madame, lifting her shapely arm to tap the weeping little cuts with a fingertip. ‘You wicked young man! You passionate, wicked young man!'

Philipe, soaking the linen in the warm water brought by a servant when the two lovers were at their most passionate, chuckled, revelling in his own wickedness. ‘Will you allow me to do the same to the girl?' Madame sighed as he smoothed the cloth very gently over the tiny cuts. He watched the blood spread like scarlet inkblots across the soft cloth. The sigh was of pleasure, not of pain; the pleasure of the afterglow of wounding.

‘After a while,' she said in her sulky, sultry, husky voice, ‘but you must promise never to mar the girl in any permanent way.'