Bride of the Revolution by Bethany Amber Page A

touched it so lightly that it was as soft as swansdown.
    â€˜You see,’ crowed madame, ‘I knew you would delight in it, you darling sensualist!’
    The touch came again, harder this time, and wetter, and Grace realised it was madame’s tongue. It was such a contrast to the hard slaps administered moments earlier, that Grace found her body becoming deliciously heavy, melting into the linen and the feather mattress beneath her.
    â€˜Can you feel your bottom becoming open and ready?’ murmured madame, between the laps of her tongue.
    A ripple of pleasure tore through Grace. She felt the sensation begin in the pit of her stomach. It ripped through the swollen bud of her clitoris and surged in a great whirlpool of pleasure through her whole body.
    â€˜Oh, my darling girl.’ Madame breathed her ecstasy over Grace’s beaten, hot buttocks. ‘Such an orgasm and I scarcely titillated your little bottom hole. Just a lap of the tongue, and certainly no penetration. Delicious! I knew you were a naturally sensual girl. I knew it! You delight in everything I do to you. Perfection! Sheer perfection!’
    Grace continued to hide her face in shame, her cheeks burning as hotly as her bottom. But despite her shame she could not help but be proud of the achievement described by madame.
    â€˜Now I wonder what will happen when…’ Grace’s mistress paused and the girl felt her buttocks being stroked in a wonderfully loving manner, but she could not push away the apprehension, the thought of what might happen next. Her flesh pot and bottom hole were still pulsing from the last orgasm, and trickles of creamy issue spilled from her.
    The long wet tongue snaked out and lapped at Grace, sipping the spillage and smearing it liberally about the sucking bottom hole. Only seconds later Grace began to feel an even more erotic sensation. The tiny opening was caressed by the stiffened tongue tip until it slipped inside the tight, dark tunnel. She gasped but did not try to pull away. It was a gentle, pleasant sensation and she bore back upon it, urging the tongue to penetrate deep inside her.
    â€˜And still there is more pleasure to come, my lovely,’ whispered madame, relinquishing the pulsing little opening just for a moment.
    Unable to help herself, Grace butted back and forth into the linen, arching her buttocks into the air and spreading her thighs to their fullest extent.
    Fingers stroked the soft wet folds of her sex purse and pulled them first wide apart and then close together while the tongue tip probed open the tightly wrinkled orifice. Grace felt the fingers rub back and forth across the creamy peak of her raw and exposed nubbin. She felt the first ripple of pleasure she had come to know was called an orgasm. It was far more intense than any she felt at her own hands in the dark lonely hours of night in her mother’s hovel.
    The pleasure swirled in her belly and she was not sure whether its source was her bottom hole, so fully and deeply penetrated by the tongue that slipped back and forth, or the fingers that danced over the sensitive tip of her nubbin. She knew her sex folds were creamily lubricated, and there was a need within them that she desperately needed to be fulfilled.
    Grace raised her head, gasping for breath, a light film of perspiration giving her pale body a glowing sheen. Lips parted, she mewed with delight, and the mew grew to a long drawn out moan as each wave of pleasure hit her more strongly.
    â€˜My lovely, sensual beauty!’ Madame wrapped her arms about Grace’s shuddering body, caressing the delicious breasts that seemed to pulse in the woman’s kneading hands with a rhythm similar to the pulse of orgasm.
    â€˜I have never known a girl who is so passive and so pliant,’ whispered madame, ‘and yet so sensual.’
    Sleep claimed Grace, the languid doze of restitution. The long jet lashes fluttered to brush the pale cheeks and she lay