Bride of the Revolution (12 page)

‘How has he spoiled anything?' asked Philipe, rubbing at the folds of cloth around his loins. ‘I cannot wait to kneel before Grace and slip my tongue into her.'

Grace felt the heat of his eyes as he focussed upon the flushed wetness and she bowed her head in shame. Her nubbin was already pulsing from the stimulation of the cock upon which she was impaled, and she felt her juices oozing from her.

‘You men always stick together,' snapped madame.

Grace, her rear passage chilled by the marble cock while her flesh pot was hot with need of more fulfilment, waited tensely for the outcome of the argument.

Philipe sank to his knees and kissed the fullness of her mound, tugging at the tight curls with his teeth. His tongue slipped into the upper crease of her sex, caressing the sweet flesh and making Grace wriggle upon the hardness within her bottom. He began to tongue-tickle the fine inner flesh leaves, coaxing them fully open before petting her nubbin, making her breathing fast and shallow.

‘I could watch the two of you all night,' said madame, ‘but you excite me so greatly I must have Philipe to myself.'

Grace felt the chill of his absence as he was pulled to his feet.

‘But madame…' protested Philipe. ‘My cock yearns for her.' He licked his lips, tasting her musk. His brother was right. It was sweet and fresh.

‘And I yearn for your cock! Come with me.'

‘But, Grace…' She saw him look over his shoulder, his face full of need.

‘She will not be alone for long.'

Their voices and footsteps faded and Grace was alone, impaled upon Zeus, her sex open to all comers. She was alone for the first time since she entered the palace, but not alone for the giggling crowd of courtiers still hovered around her.

A young man stepped forward from the crowd. Grace had seen his eyes fixed upon her open thighs for some time. His age was no more than her own, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. A bulge was evident in his satin breeches and he rubbed it hungrily.

‘Go on, Jean-Pierre!' A woman, her eyes glassy with lust, encouraged the young man. ‘They have gone. You said you always wondered what it was like to fuck a virgin.'

‘No…' whispered Grace.

Jean-Pierre stood before her, his hands cupping the soft heaviness of her breasts, his fingers rolling back and forth about her erect nipples. ‘No?' he whispered in her ear. ‘But you delight in the sensations of sex. You are ripe for me.'

‘You must not…' Grace's dark eyes filled with tears. She felt his fingers slide down the swell of her breasts, cupping them, lingering at the hard nubs of her nipples before drifting down to the delicate dip of her waist and the shallow hillock of her belly.

‘But if I cannot fuck you,' said Jean-Pierre, ‘what can I do? My cock aches for relief. How could you be so cruel?'

Sex cleft quivering with her own needs, slippery with the juices which oozed from her hot depths, her body shaking with the orgasms which emanated, one after the other, from the cock so deeply impaled in her bottom, Grace wept.

‘Poor girl,' Jean-Pierre murmured softly.

And she realised these were the first kind words spoken to her since she was taken by madame. Oh, the mistress called her by endearments, but she did not mean them.

‘I love to see tears in a girl,' murmured Jean-Pierre. ‘It makes her look so sweet, so very vulnerable, so ready for a man's cock.'

Grace gave a soft mew of fear and gasped back her tears. Jean-Pierre bent over her, kissing her breasts, her quivering belly and her open sex. She had never felt so open, so wet, and when the young man's tongue flicked back and forth over the slickness of her sex folds she could not hold back the deep-throated moans. She had been on the verge of an orgasm when Philipe was dragged away. The tongue lingered wetly against the hardness of her clitty, rolling back the tiny hood to bare the sensitive tip. She felt her juices combine with his spittle and her body swirled with her mind with forbidden joy.

‘Break her, Jean-Pierre!' rasped the woman. ‘Thrust your tongue through the precious barrier and then we'll be rid of the little whore!'

Through the mists of pleasure Grace knew she must somehow prevent this final intrusion. ‘No,' she managed. ‘No… Madame will have me guillotined. I must be pure in all things.'

The chill of Zeus's cock seemed to grow; the size increase filling her bottom hole, spearing upwards and into her soft tissues.

‘You must go,' whispered Grace.

Jean-Pierre stood, his face smeared with the slime of her passion and his cock held in his hands, turgid and threatening. ‘Very well,' he sneered. ‘I shall go, but not before I leave you a little something to remember me by.'

By turning her head Grace received the force of his offering upon her cheek; a pearly droplet which slithered hotly over her pale skin. A second gush spilled over her open lips and more over her breasts and belly.

Laughing and sneering, other men joined in the game and she was surrounded by a semi-circle of men who bared their cocks, holding them like weapons and pointing them at her. Soon she was covered in their spillage. It matted the dark silk of her hair. It coated her breasts like a snail's smear. It dribbled copiously into her pussy bush.

Later that night the last of them trailed away, leaving her helpless, vulnerable and totally humiliated by the way she was used.

The woman who had taunted her so cruelly was the last to leave. Before she left she slapped Grace's bottom and the girl felt the skin sting, redden with the weighty blow. Her flesh quivered about the rod of Zeus's cock, which in turn put pressure upon her female parts. The woman licked a trickle of cock fluid from Grace's trembling nipple and looked the girl full in her dark, tear-brimmed eyes. ‘A virgin?' she sneered, before pressing her tongue, with its bitter and salty taste, deep into Grace's mouth. ‘Perhaps physically, but a used one!'

Lord Albert Fitzpatrick watched a plume of smoke rise from his cheroot. He lay, one hand behind his dark, dishevelled head, his athletic body naked on his mistress's bed.

‘You delight me over and over again,
citizen
,' said Charlotte de Levis. ‘Whether you chastise me with hands or cane or cosset me with your lips you make me run with juices.' She smiled and opened her thighs, dipping a finger deep into herself and drawing it out slick with her fluids.

She trailed the same finger down his finely honed jaw, traced the muscular width of his shoulders and both hard pads of his pectorals. The tumbled thickness of her auburn hair cascaded over his taut belly as she lightly kissed the pit of his navel. The kisses trailed down to the lush darkness of his pubis, from which speared the semi-turgid thickness of his cock.

He snaked out a hand and grasped her wrist so hard that she was flung backwards, her arm thrown behind her as her lithe body was forced flat upon the linen of their love bed, her breasts thrust taut and upwards.

‘Don't do that, Charlotte,' he hissed between sparkling white and even teeth. He gave her a thin-lipped smile, still holding her in that painful grip.

‘
Mais cher
Albert,' she whispered. ‘I thought…'

‘That I liked it?' he finished.

She nodded, trying not to flinch as her arm was wrenched painfully in its socket. The position forced her breasts higher, the mounds wonderfully pert. He took another mouthful of fragrant cigar smoke and bent to kiss each rosy nipple in turn, sheathing them in a warm fog. He heard her groan softly.

‘I do, Charlotte,' he said at last. ‘I love you to pet my cock… but only when I invite you to do so. I cannot abide forward women. Women should be slavish, obedient, pliant.'

His gaze drifted downwards along her contorted body, to where her thighs were splayed open and her calves were forced beneath her firm buttocks, arching the swollen pouch of her sex upwards, displaying the flushed folds and the pert nubbin which nestled in the midst of them.

Drawing on the cheroot once more he blew a plume of smoke between the puffy folds powdered with rich auburn curls. He watched the flushed leaves of the inner part of her sex flutter with renewed need and the peak of her clitty pout up, twitching and moist.

‘Are you going to fuck me again,
mon cher
?' Charlotte smiled, despite the pain of his iron grip.

The glowing cheroot waved over her body. It spiralled down to the auburn curls, so close that she could feel the heat of the tip. He laughed as she tried to flinch away.

‘I shall never harm you,
citoyenne
,' he promised. He puffed again on the cheroot and smiled through the haze of blue smoke.

‘Because you love me?' Her voice sounded hopeful.

‘Perhaps,' he agreed, ‘but also because you are too useful to me. Useful in my business.' He flung her from him, concentrating upon the enjoyment of his cigar more than her. ‘Too useful in aiding me to achieve my ambitions,' he corrected softly.

Charlotte huddled away from him, her slender arms wrapped about her knees, her large green eyes pensive, questioning.

‘Useful in what way, Albert?' she asked, her voice husky, almost fearful. ‘What is it that you do? Do you help the revolution or the aristos?'

Fitzpatrick swung his legs over the edge of the high iron bedstead and reached to the chair at the bedside where he had hastily thrown his clothes. Not bothering with undergarments he tugged on his buckskin breeches and adjusted his full manhood to his liking. Still saying nothing to Charlotte he pulled on his hessian top boots, for Lord Albert was nothing if not a man of the Ton.

‘Why is an Englishman like you in Paris?' continued Charlotte. ‘It is not a healthy place to be. There are so many thieves and vagabonds taking advantage of the lawlessness.'

He laughed and bent down, clutching the point of her chin in strong fingers. ‘Including you,
ma chere
Charlotte?' He claimed her lips in a hard and punishing manner, his other hand twisting the softness of a breast until she murmured for mercy. Again he thrust her away, his lips twisted in a cynical manner.

‘You ask too many questions,
ma petite
. It could be the undoing of you.'

‘But I adore you, Albert! Truly adore you. I am concerned when I do not see you for days.'

‘Are you?' His eyebrows rose in cynical query as he shrugged into a full sleeved lawn shirt with a high pointed collar. He took great pains to fold his muslin cravat in the twelve pleats as decreed by his friend Beau Brummel.

Charlotte eased herself on the bed. ‘Where are you going,
citizen
?' She stretched until she lay full length, her bottom wonderfully pale and smooth below the long sweep of her elegant back. She rested her chin on her hands, looking up at him with large questioning eyes.

Whirling round, his handsome features dark with anger, Lord Albert pulled from beneath a coat of blue superfine a coiled whip that cracked as he lashed it in the air above Charlotte's body.

‘Didn't I warn you,
ma petite
, that you ask too many questions? Why do you not stick to your own business? Do you think I do not know that you are a thief, a footpad, pickpocket?' The very tip of the whip flicked the peak of her buttocks, making the flesh quiver and ripple for several seconds before it finally settled again to quiescence.

Charlotte whimpered, perhaps in pain and perhaps more in surprise. ‘I did not mean to be curious,' she told him, and she rubbed the place where the whip had landed.

‘Remove your hand.' His sharp tone was like another crack of the lash.

She did so only slowly, revealing the rising weal, the scarlet ridge of beaten flesh surrounded by skin as pale as cream silk.

‘Place your hands behind your head, Charlotte.'

‘Will you beat me again?' She sounded excited more than afraid, and he saw that she wriggled her sex mound deeper into the linen, and parted her thighs, revealing the moist vale of flushed folds.

‘Do as you're told!' He knew how powerful he looked standing over her, fully dressed in his broad-shouldered coat and top boots, and he knew she enjoyed her own vulnerability as she obediently linked her fingers behind her head.

The whip was fine and long. He took slow backward steps until he was far across the room. The sun was going down over the roofs of Paris and the room was all but in darkness. He could see Charlotte's eyes glittering and the hillocks of her pale bottom like twin moons. He drew back his arm, letting the whip trail on the bare boards of the bedroom floor. Drawing his arm forward he lashed Charlotte, flicking the dark ravine between the silky mounds.

A low moan reached his ears, almost a soft purr of pleasure, and he felt his cock thicken in his tight breeches. Again he drew back his arm, moving closer to allow a longer length of the fine leather to snake across the twitching buttocks, which he saw darken.

‘
Mon cher
!' Charlotte whispered the endearment and pushed herself up, allowing him to see her full breasts with their erect centres.

The lash whipped across the room and snaked around her arched body, binding her arms to her sides and trapping the soft breast flesh. He strode to the bed and held her helpless form, kissing her long and hard on the yielding flesh of her lips. He groped between her thighs, which she willingly opened for him. He felt the velvet wetness, the hard nub of her clitty and the open silkiness of her slit.

‘Take me with you,' she pleaded.

‘No!' He thrust one finger deeply into the warm wetness, drawing it back and forth, loving the way she bore down upon his intrusion. ‘The theatre pit is no place for a woman these days. It's no safer than a bear pit. When the time comes when I need you, you will know soon enough.' He added another finger and then another, filling her entrance.

Charlotte mewed her appreciation and huddled her helpless and bound body closer to him. She shuddered through a long drawn-out orgasm and he held her until it had faded, letting her fluids spill over his fingers.