Bride of the Revolution Read Online Free Page B

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.
    The other man remained behind her, his hands locked about her tiny waist, his fingers tracing the swell of her hips. Grace could feel his male flesh, hard, bare, wetted by the relentless rain, probing the tight ravine between the rounded hillocks of her bottom.
    It would have been so easy to allow them their lust. Something told her, some animal need within her, how she could fulfil herself and them. Her breasts were swollen with her own desire; painful with her needs. The buds of her nipples burned as they sprang tightly against the flimsy cloth of her wet and tattered gown.
    But she had made a promise.
    Flinging back her head, her eyes huge with both desire and fear, she came to her senses and screamed. ‘ Maman !’
    The bigger man, the one who stood before her, gave a rough growl and again thrust his filthy, stinking hand over her mouth.
    â€˜ Merde ! Shut up, you little fool!’ His lust fevered eyes shone into hers. He tore at the tatters which served her poorly as clothing. The never-ending rain struck her bare skin. The chill was such that it turned the porcelain paleness to a delicate transparent blue. Pain, cold, fear filled her world and she became pliant, accepting the inevitable. The smaller man bared her taut buttocks. He sank to his knees behind her, caring nothing for the muddy ground. Grace shuddered, but not entirely with loathing as his thin, bony fingers drove into her bottom flesh, parting the firm hillocks.
    â€˜She does not scream,’ he murmured.
    Grace quivered with shame. He could see her most private parts; her tight bottom hole, the lush black curls of her cunny lips, perhaps even that strange little bud of flesh which gave her so much pleasure when she rubbed it back and forth.
    â€˜A whore, like all women,’ grunted his companion, his voice muffled in Grace’s shivering breasts.
    The rough tip of a thick thumb stroked across the tight pleats of her anus. Grace felt a renewed unbidden surge of pleasure bring a warmth to her belly. It took all her strength not to bear back upon the caress. The naked softness of her sex folds seemed to swell unbearably and pout between her thighs. A flood of heated honey trickled, joining the chill slick of rain, down the inner sides of her thighs.
    â€˜Lift your hands,’ growled the bigger man, raising his head from her flushed and swollen breasts. ‘Place them behind your head.’
    Mind spinning with the sensations that were growing within her, Grace hesitated for the smallest instant.
    â€˜Your hands!’ he hissed again.
    Fingers trembling, Grace did as she was bid and linked her hands behind the sodden raven mane of her hair. The position rendered her more vulnerable; at their mercy. A flutter rippled through the pouting and heated folds of her sex. She felt the burning bud of her clitoris jut hard from its silky bed, thrusting from its tiny hood. Unprotected and grossly engorged.
    He grinned through the rain as if he knew what she felt, and, in a swift and vicious movement, he tore the rags of her gown from neck to hem.
    Grace gasped, but whether this was from fear or her deep, sensual need, she scarcely knew.
    The tip of a wet tongue flicked over the clutching little pleats of her rear entrance and she knew that her breathing was quick, harsh; a certain clue of her feelings.
    â€˜Are you a virgin?’ grunted the bigger man.
    His