Bride of the Revolution (19 page)

She had known poverty and she had known slavery. But marriage? That was something else again. Now she was to be a chattel.

‘Don't be afraid,' he said, holding her close. ‘Perhaps it won't be as bad as you think – to be a wife.'

She frowned up at him, blinking into the sea spray. Why did he hesitate?

‘Come below,' he murmured. Once more he drove his fingers into the firm flesh of her buttocks, first prising them widely apart and then squeezing them together. ‘I have just the cure for
mal de mer
.' He smiled, a twisted smile which made Grace quiver against him.

He helped her down the steep and narrow companionway. Grace was unable to stop the shivering which wracked her body. Her muslin gown clung wetly to her sea-soaked body. True, she could feel the sensual warmth of his hands and it was in direct contrast to her own chill.

On the last step she stumbled and fell into his arms. Her gown ripped, baring the water-slicked heaviness of her breasts, with the trembling adornments of gold pierced through the flushed nipples surrounded by the creamy pale mounds. He laughed and brutally completed the tear in her gown, allowing the muslin to fall in tattered curtains on each side of her body. His eyes went immediately to the neat triangle of pubic curls, black as jet and glossed by the sea water. With a low growl he swept her up and walked steadily into his cabin.

Once there he set her down, but kept a close hold on her wrist and reached up with his other hand to the top of a locker.

A lantern swung from a low beam with every movement of the ship. The flickering light cast eerie shadows upon both of them, and Grace's dark eyes widened as she saw his hand close upon a shadowed item on top of the locker. Her lips parted, apprehensive and trembling, but no sound came from them.

‘No need to fear my little friend,' he said in a low voice.

Grace tried to tug away from him, but he held her fast. And if she did break free, where could she go? Into the sea?

‘Your little friend?' she said at last in a voice no more than a whisper. ‘The whip?'

In his free hand he held a beautifully fashioned length of leather. The handle was intricately plaited and tapered to a single length which was so supple that it moved on the cabin floor as though alive; a serpent, hungry for prey.

‘But why?' Grace could scarcely enunciate the words. Her tongue was stiff and her lips dry with the fear of the unknown.

‘Oh, come now,' he chided. ‘You took whippings gladly at the palace, and even took the paddle in Robespierre's cells. And here…' he stroked the whip between her legs, letting her pussy lips fold around the thickness of the handle ‘…here there were all the signs that you enjoyed every moment of it.'

Grace felt two patches of heat flare on her cheeks and she dipped her head in embarrassment. She could see the cylinder of leather disappearing between her thighs and she could not stop herself bearing down upon the plaited tube, encouraging him to saw it back and forth between her love lips. She felt the leather chafe against the sensitive folds, opening them out, baring her most secret place. She heard him laugh, a low chuckle deep in his throat, as if he was enjoying some secret joke.

Moisture, warm and creamy, dripped onto the leather. Grace could feel the tube becoming slippery and could feel her clitty tip butting against the slowly moving handle. She clutched her buttocks, urging him to move the leather faster. She mewed and flung back her head, tossing her sea-soaked hair back from her face and allowing it to sway heavily across her shoulders.

‘So sensual,' she heard him murmur, ‘so deliciously sensual. Come, my darling, come. Let your clitty throb upon the leather, soak it for me. Let your juices seep into it.'

Grace could smell her own musk as she became more and more excited. Her body writhed from side to side as he thrust the cylinder back and forth, but never once entered her.

‘I want… I want…' murmured Grace, her legs trembling with need.

‘What is it you want?' he asked, halting the sawing motion of the rod. ‘Tell me, my darling.'

‘I want…' Grace was breathless. Her breasts were thrust out, her back bowed and her long legs straddled widely apart. ‘To be rid of my maidenhead.' The last words tumbled from her lips.

He slid the plait of leather from her, even though she was still hovering on the brink of orgasm. He laughed, the same cruel, sardonic laugh. ‘Is that so, my darling girl?'

‘Oh, please!' She was so close to her peak of pleasure, but he drew her back. ‘Please, don't stop!'

He grasped her wrists, both in one of his strong hands, and pulled her across the narrow space of the cabin. He grasped so hard that he squeezed the gold manacles into the tender flesh of her wrists, squeezing and bruising. It was a relief when he released her, but the relief was short-lived as he pulled her upward by means of the chain between the manacles. Her body was stretched, her breasts flattened, her belly hollowed. Grace gave a soft scream as her feet left the floor of the cabin and the chain was looped over a hook in the bulkhead. She was suspended, swinging helplessly.

Her orgasm was so close. The movement of the ship caused her to chafe her breasts against the polished wood of the cabin wall and she moaned, pleaded, but he said nothing – did nothing. She knew his eyes were on her, watching her breasts flatten against the cabin wall, perhaps admiring the smallness of her waist, caressing the swell of her buttocks, the dark place between her legs.

Above the creaking of the timbers, above the whistle of the wind in the rigging, above the sound of the waves crashing against the hull, Grace heard another sound; a high-pitched scream. It was not her own. It was unearthly, inanimate. It was as though a knife cut the air itself.

In the very next moment a sharp knife sliced the plumpest part of her bottom flesh. At least, the pain was so intense that was how it seemed. Her body arched on its suspension as the whip stung her bottom. A branding iron could not have burned her skin less.

He stood close behind her and she could feel the thickness of his cock, hard and rigid, through his buckskin breeches. His breathing was loud in her ears, harsh and rapid.

‘And are you coming now, my darling?' he whispered hoarsely.

Grace could scarcely breathe for the smarting pain across her bottom. It felt as if her skin was flayed from her flesh and yet, strangely, her cunny was moist, dew mingled with the sea spray, and it trickled down her inner thighs. She tried to speak, but could only make a feeble whimpering sound.

‘Nothing to say?' he said, and the words were growled.

With her clitty greatly swollen, itching and more erect than she had ever known it, Grace's need was to place her fingers between her thighs, spread her cunny lips and ease the terrible ache, but she could not. Her hands were held fast by the manacles and the chain. She was helpless, swinging back and forth.

She did not hear him step back, but she felt the chill of his absence. Twisting her head, her cascade of shimmering wet hair whipped from her back to her captured breasts. She saw the pallor of his handsome face, the flush of his full lips and their thin smile. She saw him draw back the whip, heard it whistle through the air, and felt again the sting of its lash.

This time she managed a barely audible scream. She felt the first flush of supreme pleasure and hoped that her orgasm would consume her; would negate the burn of the whip, or even better, enhance it. She concentrated hard upon the itching tip of her nubbin. She focussed all of her thoughts upon that burning little bud. Such was the pleasure she drew from her thoughts that she managed a smile; managed to trail her tongue tip about her lips. In her mind's eye she saw her swollen bud throbbing in its inflamed bed of silky flesh.

‘And now, my darling,' he whispered, standing very close to her, ‘your climax is upon you, is it not?'

His deep voice startled her from her thoughts. Could he read them?

Another flush of pleasure flooded through her body, made all the greater by the touch of his finger on the swelling weals brought up by the whip. The waves of pleasure broke on her faster and faster and she mewed as each one consumed her. If only the thick rigidity of his cock would plunge into her pulsing cunny, but it seemed doomed to clutch upon the empty air.

‘You will appreciate my little friend all the more,' he said, rubbing the folded whip back and forth in the running valley of her cunt. ‘Your pleasure will continue until you can bear it no longer; until you beg me to stop.'

Wrists rubbed raw by the gold manacles, lower arms aching and upper arms almost wrenched from their sockets, Grace flung back her head in a gesture of weariness. Her bottom felt swollen. He was truly an expert with the finely tanned leather whip.

Again he stepped back and Grace heard soft rustlings. Once more she dared to look over her shoulder and blushed as she saw him fully naked. He was a magnificent man. Broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip, chest dark with hair, he was bigger in manhood than any man she had seen apart from Cava. As she looked, he smiled, and stroked the whip up and down his cock.

‘Soon, my darling,' he murmured, ‘very soon.'

Grace bowed her head again as she saw him draw back the whip. Try as she might she could not relax her buttocks to take the sting of the lash on spongy flesh. Instead her bottom was tight, the two hillocks drawn together as if to hide from the cut of the leather. She could not hold back her squeal of pain. The lash landed across the cuts he had already made.

‘Just a few more, my darling,' he said in honeyed tones. ‘Believe me, you will thank me for it when we lie together.'

Breathing was almost impossible and Grace attempted to take great gulps of air, but the small cabin seemed devoid of it. It felt stuffy, and she could only gasp like a fish out of water, her mouth open and her lips parted. Did he say ‘lie together', she asked herself. Did he mean that in the fullest sense of the word?

Once more her flesh pot prepared itself; became soft and open. Warm driblets of cream gathered on the flushed and puffy folds. The thick outer portals, covered in the crisp dark curls, were glossy with her juices. Grace moaned, not in pain but in need of the ecstatic mixture of the pain and pleasure he seemed to have promised.

Glancing over her shoulder she took another quick look at his naked magnificence. His trunk-like thighs were spread apart. From the dark mound of his pubis speared a cock that made her quiver with its splendour. It was fully turgid and she could see the dark shadows of its pulsing veins clambering like vines about its thickness. She licked her lips, hungry to feel its silkiness between her lips. At its pinnacle she could see the shimmer of its globe, polished and naked, its foreskin drawn back beyond the glans. It sprouted from balls that were full and perfectly round, hard and spherical, pressing against a taut sac.

With a narrow smile, no longer sardonic but lustful, he drew back the whip, allowing it to fall with a slap upon the bare boards of the deck. Grace tensed, ignoring the pain, although it was not easy to ignore the sting of cuts across her bottom. These brought the thrill of sensual pleasure to her sex, made them pout and wetted her nubbin. The shrill of the whip cutting the air behind her seemed endless and she heard her own voice, as if beyond the ship, far out on the sea, sobbing piteously, hiding the pleasure wave which soared through her body.

At last the fine leather touched her body, not on her tortured bottom, but at her waist, snaking around it, pulling at it vigorously, whittling it to unimaginable smallness. Grace felt the breath knocked from her as her lower body was lifted from the deck and further strain was placed on her wrenched arms.

Suddenly the sense of being stretched beyond endurance was over and she was in his arms, the whip still wrapped tightly about her waist, bonding her to him; skin upon skin, sex upon sex. They lay, very close together, on the bare boards of the deck.

‘My beauty, my gloriously innocent beauty,' he murmured. She felt his lips melt against hers and felt his hands take her breasts as if he would drag the flesh from her bones.

Between her thighs Grace could feel the smooth warmth of his cock, sawing back and forth in the same manner he used the handle of the whip. She felt it become slippery with her juices, slick with her cream. She felt its ridges, pulsing like her own flesh. It teased her, brushed against the tip of her clitty, made her shudder with unbelievable delight.

He still had not penetrated her and Grace shivered against his broad chest, needing fulfilment.

The two were so engrossed in each other that they didn't hear the commotion of docking; the dropping of the anchor and the lowering of the gangway. Neither did they hear muffled voices, growled angry words, the harsh blows of knuckles upon flesh.

Grace felt only the smooth moist head of his cock nestle between her love lips, soaking in her dew. As they kissed she could not help the moan which whispered from her lips.

The door crashed open and a chorus of cruel laughter filled the small cabin. Grace's murmur of pleasure became a scream of horror and she tried to pull away from the Englishman, but the tight coils of the whip locked them.

Once more Grace felt the sweet taunt of denial. The Englishman was so close to fucking her and now these ruffians had interrupted that potentially glorious moment.

‘What a precious sight!' murmured one. Grace could tell by his voice that he was young and she felt his eyes on her bruised and swollen bottom, on her slightly parted thighs and the moist nest between them.

Such was the depth of her training from madame that it was only natural to part her thighs, displaying the cleavage between her buttocks and the fullness of her love lips. There was an ache between her legs that refused to be ignored, and a continuous throbbing in her sex.

‘She's asking for it, lads,' said an older man. ‘We've been sent to the right ship, that's for certain.'