With palms flat along the length of his wavering shaft, madame pretended to mould the flesh as if it was clay. She paid attention to detail, slithering the tightness of the foreskin over the bulb and holding it fast beneath the swollen globe. She groomed the silky curls, the golden wisps of hair, which were scattered over the full sac. She sat back on her heels, her thighs splayed, allowing him to see the glory of her own genitals; glossy with creamy beads of dew, swollen and flushed with need. She smiled, licked her lips, snarled deep in her throat at which Philipe must pretend that he was paralysed with fear. Only then did she bend, crouching like a beast of prey over her quarry, her open mouth slavering over the particular part of her choice. Philipe could not help but thrust up, eager to feel his naked tip brush against her palate, but she placed her strong hands on his thighs, holding him down. This, too, was part of the game. ‘Behave!’ It was a command which must be obeyed. He must lie perfectly still while she dived under the pillows where she had earlier hidden silken ropes.
‘Mistress…’ he begged. He panted, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a trained dog, his hands limp like a puppy’s paws.
‘Be quiet!’ She gave him a light slap across the belly, which far from giving him pain brought him pleasure, shown by the sudden jerk of his turgid cock. ‘I shall make you be quiet with this!’ Another instrument assuring good behaviour was brought from a small cupboard at the side of the bed.
‘The scold’s bridle…’ Philipe said the words slowly, savouring each syllable. His eyes widened with pleasure. He held his hands high, his arms spread wide. His legs straddled eagerly across the bed, his toes pointed.
‘I shall bind you first, mon cheri!’
Philipe shivered as the magnificent woman slid from the bed and busied herself with the silken cords. He allowed his eyes to feast on her heavy breasts, so perfect in their roundness. In particular he found the lower swell, the pale smooth voluptuousness sweeping up to the wine-dark nipples enticing. He shifted his gaze to the swell of her belly sweeping down to the lush darkness of her nest, dewed with her love honey and his own copious flow. Delicious!
The feel of the soft silk against his wrists and ankles was a sensuous delight. It caressed his skin, petted the inner sides of his wrists and ankles, but that was only the beginning! The bed was huge, wide and long, while Philipe was slight and quite short. This meant, of course, that his bonds must stretch him to the fullest. His arms and legs must be fully spread. There had been times that he felt that he was on the torturer’s rack with his belly sucked in and his ribs placed under almost unbearable tension. His skin puckered in a shiver of apprehension. But madame was an expert with the cords. She knew just how tight to pull them to prevent dislocation of his shoulders and hips, and, naturally, this stretching had the most wonderful effect on his cockstem. It reared up, the veins full and clambering around the rigid organ. His balls were heavy with their renewed contents. His whole being was focussed upon that excited part of him between his straddled thighs. Just one thing was needed to make his enjoyment complete.
‘The bridle!’ he moaned.
Madame tutted. ‘Such impatience. I must kiss this little fellow before I apply the bridle, for I wish to hear your moan without any impediment from the beastly thing.’
Much as he tried, Philipe was quite unable to move. He wished, with all his might, to writhe under madame’s expert lips and tongue, but he was held fast. Oh, those lips! They were so soft. Her mouth was so wet and slippery. How it petted his length. How her long, agile tongue dipped into his pulsing eye. Only when she had sipped the dribble of pre-issue did she stop. Yes, she stopped for many long moments! This was the worst torture of all.
‘Only now the bridle, mon cher Philipe,’ she purred.
He aided her, of course, by lifting his head from the pillow. The bridle was a difficult implement to fit. There was only one correct way to fit the leather gag upon the tongue, holding it fast, down deep into the reach of his mouth. The bridle was fitted to an iron band about the head, and a nosepiece just barely allowed breathing.
‘Oh, Philipe, you look so pretty!’ said madame sitting back on her heels, her thighs spread, showing her open love lips, so swollen and shining with their coating of female honey. Philipe could see the erect bud of her clitoris throbbing with her own need, arching out of its drawn back hood.
‘I cannot wait to find a little companion for you; sweet and obedient in all things,’ madame continued huskily. ‘We shall all have such fun, my darling. I am going to train your little playmate according to the teachings of Rousseau. Do you know what that means, Philipe?’
He shook his head, his eyes fixed upon madame’s open flesh pot, unable to think beyond its beauty and the bonds which held him fast. The bridle about his head and tongue made him feel gloriously vulnerable. Unless the teachings of Rousseau included bondage and discipline he was not at all interested. What did he care if, as madame said, the girl would not be taught language or literature? What good were those things in bed anyway?
Madame pouted her glorious lips and circled them about his cock, her rich brown hair floating in shimmering cascade over Philipe’s tautly bound body.
It was torture! It was ecstasy!
Her tongue caressed his globe, expertly pressing the foreskin back below the ridge, making it all the more sensitive. In a moment she would begin another of her favourite tortures. He wanted to scream with joy in anticipation of this, but he could make no sound. None whatsoever.
‘I shall teach her to be graceful,’ said madame dreamily, bobbing up and drifting her fingers over the iron struts of the bridle, tracing the dreadful implement’s features. ‘Teach her about beautiful attitudes, but above all,’ she concluded, ‘I shall teach her sensuality! Can you imagine how beautiful she will look; splayed just as you are splayed, her head imprisoned in the bridle just as yours is now? Helpless, Philipe, quite helpless. Her sex lips spread and moist, her pert little clitty pouting upwards, but still a virgin as pure as an angel.’
Again Philipe tried to groan, but his tongue was held down by the strut of metal which reached deep into his mouth. All he managed was to writhe, and even this was nigh on impossible. The silken bonds were so skilfully tied that any movement was prohibited. His upright cock swayed and a drop of clear pre-issue oozed from the pore.
‘Oh, you naughty fellow! What wicked thoughts must be in your mind!’ Madame brought a short length of silken cord from the hiding place beneath the pillow and swayed it before Philipe’s eyes. ‘And you know what I do to naughty fellows!’
Philipe again tried to writhe but all he managed was a slight lift of his hips which made his cock spear high into the air.
‘How very obliging,’ murmured madame. ‘You always know exactly what I require.’ She allowed the cord to tickle the very tip of his cock, and he silently cursed the gag which he loved.
Madame sat back and allowed her fingers to drift lazily up and down her love lips. Teasingly, she pressed them together, pulled them down, made them swell. Only then did she again spread them open, allowing Philipe to feast his hungry eyes on the contents of her pouch.
‘Et maintenant… and now…’ she murmured. So swiftly and expertly did her fingers twist the cord about the base of his cock that Philipe scarcely had time to draw breath. Her lips closed about his globe, sucking very gently with her soft lips and then, with a smile, sat back and began to work at one of her nipples until it was hardened to a sharp point. Philipe’s eyes widened as she bent over him once more. She worked his globe very quickly with finger and thumb and pressed her teat into the pulsing pore. He felt her whip the silk cord from the base of his cock and remove her teat at the same moment. The desire to scream with joy was strong as a silvery thread of his come followed the dark teat.
As he calmed his tethered fingers itched to press into madame’s beckoning wetness. He longed to hear the sound of two of his fingers
driving into her depths, and then three, perhaps even four, filling her up until she cried out for mercy. These lewd thoughts and the predicament in which Philipe delighted were too much for any man to take for any length of time. He watched her slip one finger into the flushed and slippery flesh between her open thighs. A second followed and he heard the sucking sounds he so desired. He watched the ball of her thumb press the hardened tip of her nubbin, and such was his pleasure in the sight that his cock began to rise.
‘Must I again punish you?’ she said, wagging a warning finger that quickly joined the others in the open depths of her flesh pot. She bent over his cock, taking it fully into her gullet which squeezed his length just as her sex passage had done such a short time ago. Philipe was light-headed with pleasure and attempted to arch upwards from the bed. Madame gave him a warning slap on the belly and released his cock from her lips. Another pearly fountain jetted from the tip, splashing warmly on his taut belly and chest, while madame shook her head in pretended distaste and disgust. But this did not stop her bending over the young man’s body to sip and savour every last drop of her patron’s offering.
The minor court of Philipe, Duc d’Orleans, was as decadent as that of his brother, Louis XVI. The aristocracy at the palace of Versailles knew only a hint of the dreadful poverty, the hunger of the populace in the mean streets of Paris in the turbulent days of 1792.
Grace was one of the people. Poor, thin and insubstantial as a wraith, her ragged clothes hung about her willowy frame in tatters, but yet, despite her slenderness there was an eye-catching voluptuousness that spoke of a secret sensuality. Beneath the flimsy rags which scarcely clothed her, her tiny waist flared out to shapely hips and pouting buttocks. Often, when the winter winds blew, the pale swell of her breasts were bared to the biting cold and the piercing chill made the buds of her wine-dark nipples spring out sharply, jutting against the worn rags, fine and transparent as gossamer. Never, in all her young life, had Grace known a winter such as this in 1792. Winds of change, the winds of a changing world, blew through the dark, filthy alleys, fluttering Grace’s rags, moulding them to her tiny frame.
Had there been water to spare to wash her hair, soap to rinse away the grime, the tangled tresses would have been revealed as a raven black cascade, shot with blue lights. Her oval face was perfectly formed although its beauty was hidden beneath the grime. Her skin was unblemished beneath the filth; pale and smooth as moonstone. Round eyes were startling in her dirty face, and although dull from lack of nourishment, were a dark verdant green sometimes warming to hazel, flecked with shimmering gold. Despite the hardships she suffered her soft lips often curved in a beckoning smile or pouted deliciously in a perfectly round and inviting O.
The girl sat upon a low stool by her mother’s bed, cooling the older woman’s fevered brow with a scrap of rag dipped in a cup of rainwater.
‘Promise me!’ The woman’s cracked voice was barely audible above the sound of the rain on the roof of the makeshift hut which served them as their home.
‘Oh, mother,’ sighed Grace. ‘The aristos will not listen to one such as me.’ She smoothed a wisp of hair, white from suffering, not from age, from her mother’s forehead.
‘They will, ma cherie!’ cried the older woman, her claw-like hands clutching her daughter’s arm. ‘I heard a rumour before I became…’ A cough, debilitating, rattling in her throat cut off the words and left her breathless and weaker than ever. ‘A rumour that a girl, such as you, beautiful and young, was required at the palace,’ she went on, long moments later. Grace smiled, but the expression on the lovely face was disbelief despite the upward curve of the soft, tempting lips. The gentle eyes with thick lashes fringing them, glossy as ebony, looked sadly down at her mother. The sweet features were drawn momentarily tight with bitterness.
‘There are always rumours, maman! Rumours that the palace is giving away food, that there is wine by the barrel, a gift from the king!’ She shook her head and dipped the rag into the small bowl of rainwater and used it, once again, to try and cool her mother’s brow.
Unable to believe that any aristo, any blue blood, would look at her, Grace was entirely innocent of her own beauty. On the very brink of maturity she occasionally felt strange stirrings between her thighs; a swelling warmth between the silky raven fronds which protected the still closed gateway to her body.
An unbearable irritation began between the plump folds hidden betwixt her thighs. Intrigued by this, oft times when her mother slept, Grace opened her legs and, with trembling fingers, touched the quivering swell of her little belly and would allow her hands to drift down to the heated soft, silky pleats. These she parted, searching for the source of the irritation.
What she found was a bud of flesh, hard as a little nut, inflamed to a dark flush and jerking eagerly from a tiny veil of fine skin, smooth as silk and bathed in warm creamy fluid which seemed to come from nowhere. When her tentative fingertips touched this, Grace heard herself gasp with wonder. A feeling too glorious to describe surged through her body. Again she rubbed, harder this time and the feeling came again; a wave of glorious sensation which spread like ripples upon a pond, drifting over Grace until she felt that she would go mad if it was not appeased. The bud of flesh burned under her fingertips and she noticed the satin-smooth skin become slicker with the creamy exudation. Her whole body glowed, trembled, shuddered with an indescribable joy. Wave after wave of this pleasure surged through her, until she sank back, exhausted, on the thin pallet upon which she slept.
‘Always there are rumours,’ Grace repeated, her pleasant daydream fading.
With a sudden reserve of strength the claw-like hand grasped Grace’s wrist and dragged the girl closer. ‘Promise me!’ The wizened, sick face glared at the girl in the rainy gloom, the eyes suddenly bright, fervent. ‘You are exactly right for the aristos.’
Grace flung herself to her knees on the dirt floor, hugging her mother’s thin shoulders. ‘Do not excite yourself, maman! Please! You are very ill and you must save your strength.’
‘Pah!’ the older woman scoffed. ‘We both know this is the end for me… You have a…’ The light was fading in her mother’s eyes, Grace noticed, and she was struck with a dreadful feeling of panic. She would be all alone. No one to whom she could turn.
‘Mother…’
‘Promise me!’
‘I promise, maman!’
Her mother gave a sigh, a long sigh of satisfaction, and darkness veiled her eyes. It was as if a light had gone out, and Grace bowed her head over the shrunken body.
Two neighbours helped Grace to bury her mother. The priest said a few words over an unmarked grave and it was all over. Lost and terribly alone, the dark green eyes lustrous with tears, Grace turned to leave.
‘Ma petite!’ One of the neighbours ran after her, his eyes shining, his hand at his groin adjusting a heavy bulge in his filthy breeches.
Grace turned, her hair hanging in gleaming wet ebony tendrils over her shapely shoulders, cleaned and wetted by the still teeming rain. Her cheeks burned as she watched him rub something between his thighs. ‘Oui, monsieur?’ Her voice, sad though it was, clear and sweet. ‘Aidez-vous?’
‘It is I who can help you,’ said the man.
His companion joined him, his head bowed, shy but looking suspicious in Grace’s eyes. Bare feet shuffling backwards, huge eyes staring, frightened, framed by lashes dewed with rain, Grace began to stumble away and then to run, looking this way and that for the priest, but he was gone. She was alone, without help, in the rain-drenched cemetery. She was unsure why she was afraid. It was something, she was sure, to do with those strange feelings that came over her when she touched that place between her thighs in the darkness of the night.
‘Do not go!’ said the first man. His feet began to move quickly over the muddy ground, gaining on Grace. He was big, large framed, heavy, far taller than she was.
‘Do not be afraid!’ said the second man, his shy demeanour gone.
She could hear the slosh of their feet, bare like hers, as they ran after her. She could hear the urgency in their voices, the rasp of their breath above the steady sound of the rain.
‘We only want to offer you a home!’ cried the first man. ‘In return for…’
Grace closed her ears. Despite her innocence it was not difficult to imagine what she must do in return, and she could not. She had promised her mother, although the Lord only knew how she was to fulfil that promise.
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.
She could smell them; the odour of garlic and sour wine. Her captor laughed and used his free hand to cup the pouting mound of one of her breasts. His thumb and finger pulled upon the sensitive skin of her nipple and she felt it harden, become painful. Cold rain splattered the upper swell as he tugged down her gown. She felt his hand graze the tiny swell of her belly and felt an all too familiar warmth suffuse her body.
Again she tried to scream, to tug away, fearing her own eager desires. ‘Shut up, putain!’ he growled, transferring his caresses to muffle her cries.
She was pulled closer and she felt his male flesh lengthening beneath his breeches, stiff and swaying against his belly. It frightened her. Never in her life had she seen a man’s body. Her father died before she was born. Neither had she felt this strange thing in the man’s breeches.
Her thighs were forced open by the other man and a rough hand cupped the soft fullness between them. She felt her little pouch swell, the inner folds become hot and slick with moisture. The forbidden delight, that which she felt in the lonely darkness of her mother’s hovel, became unbearable. Sensual by nature, she bore down upon the cupping fingers, felt a growing heaviness, a filling of her labia which his fingers tugged down and open, a seepage of her hot fluid bathing her churning cunt.
Bride of the Revolution Page 2
