Like everyone I was drawn to the "Place de la Revolution" , once better known as the Plaçe Louis XIV, like a moth to a flame, the crowd, the smells, the sun or the rain, the hushed silence as the blade swept down, head rolling away, eyes wide shut, the roar from the smelly mob, bottles passed, a snitch of tobacco, roving eyes of the men, flirting smiles of the trollopes assembled, the whining children, crates of squacking chickens, acrobats, even fire eaters . Oh we had our fun whilst the fun was over for those that had lauded it over us, we were poor, piss poor but Paris was ours for now . We'd had liitle to amuse us these last years, fear was our constant companion, fear of disease, fear of hunger. I ate with fear, slept with fear , dreamed fearful dreams, made desperate love to drive it away, but once the fucking was over, fear was waiting like a cloak at the door to slip over my shoulders again! The Revolution had let it slip away at the beginning, heady crazy days when everything seemed possible since the King had been imprisoned with his Austrian harlot Marie Antoinette and their pampered brats, but those early days were gone, replaced by this daily business of cutting off heads.
I am a good looking girl, they say, at 25 I've had no kids to destroy my looks-as so many of my girlfriends have done, sunken breasts, ripped nipples n bloated stomachs seems to be the lot of the poor girls that were once my playful companions, but my body still turns many a male head, my breasts still firm, my waist slender, but it's my neck I think is my finest asset, longer a little than most with a beauty spot under my right ear that many have tried to kiss when my brown hair is pilled on top o my head !
We' ve a new bunch now that are "Cock o the Roost", raised from obscure backrooms to the lofty ranks of the "Heads of the Revolution" overnight as it were, they don't seem to me too different from them whose heads we're cutting off, though they speak French with the accents of the countryside, not the slang & swearing you hear every day on the streets here. Their clothes are clean, their shirts creamy and pressed, their trousers cut from fine cloth and their shoes don't have shit stains like ours from the open drains in the Marais we slug through on the way here. Always surrounded by the Revolutionary Guards who push & shove us with impunity,
"Make way for Doctor Danton" "Room for Robespierre" as they shove us this way and that.
It hadn't teken me long to find out they were men , just like all the rest, all they wanted was to get their hands under my skirts, inside my chemise, that thing between their legs hot & driving them to utter all kinds of promises they'll never keep ! Still there were some good looking ones amongst them that I do admit & I'd taken more than a few to my bed over the last months, most were too drunk to do anything memorable at all, but two of them had treated me like a lady, kissed and sucked me like I was their last meal on earth, I might well have been!
But I won't tell you their names, it doesn't really matter now. The afternoon was well advanced that day, the sun slipping away fast, the basket under the Guillotine was full of severed heads, mostly men but a few women too. Not all seemed accepting of their fate, the piss stains on their trousers, the stink that rose up over and above the crowd and the wagon covered in flies over the headless bodies that lay sprawled in grotesque imitations of life made a macabre sight,. I had gotten used to it I admit, and even admired the ones who lay down to aid the task at hand with many a "Vive le Roi " on their lips, but it fascinated me to watch those with terror on their faces.
I was standing on my bucket that I always brought along to recover any food I might find when I felt someone pressing close into my back, it was common enough in that crowd to be squashed , but the pressure was intense and constant, I tried to turn but couldn't, the crowd was too thick, but I felt arms go around my waist and saw a pair of hands that didn't seem to belong there, brown, clean nails, long fingers, male hands! Another Duke was being led to Madame la Guillotine and the crowd was jeering at him whilst the hands slipped under my blouse without so much as a please or thank you, sliding with the sweat under my breasts with a finger, quickly finding my nipples which responded without any permission on my part, becoming hard far too fast for my own good. I could feel his breath on my neck-which always makes me wet down there- but the Duke was being laid down on the bed of sorts and I strained to see better, which gave the roving hands an even better grip on my breasts, oh the dirty bugger, it felt good but I couldn't see him whichever way I turned. There's something exciting about being touched by hands you can't see, don't know, it might make you think badly of me but that's the truth, I could feel his prick pressing into my back as he stood so close, could smell him, oranges I remember , and I'm ashamed to admit that his hands had me going in the wrong direction, I was excited and wet, but still able to watch the deadly show somehow. A woman beside me looked in my face and made some remark about the poor bastard about to be deprived of his head, and didn't seem to notice that my face was flushed, my eyes seemed hot to me, and my loins were liquid. His fingers took my nipples and rolled them round and round, they must've got huge, or it felt that way, and it wasn't long before I felt his fingers slip into my skirt and onto the hair that grows like silk below. What impertinence, what a cheek, and to think that we might be seen seemed to make it all the more exciting, my legs are water, my cunt just longing to be filled, oh God in heaven-what am I up to!
Didn't take too long before his long fingers found the entrance to my vagina and two long fingers slipped into my very wet sex, round and round they go,in & out, up & down and still he has my breasts in the other hand, oh I've never done anything like this before, I feel ashamed, excited,dirty, impossible but oh now I want his prick inside me as quickly as possible, and when I try to turn my hand into his trousers I can see that his long black coat is hiding all the stuff going on between us-the roar of the crowd as the Duke's head rolls onto the bloodsplattered cobbles and somebody passes a bottle of red wine , his fingers seem to know what they're doing , he's found that little knob at the entrance and he's rubbing it round and round , I'm turning into jelly and I dont even know his face,oh Mother of God, what can a poor girl do? People are moving around us, it always takes a few minutes to get ready for the next slaughter , people talking at me, I nod and laugh to cover my desire, I hear his voice behind me, it's deep & full of laughter, I know it's him from the breath on my neck, and catch a glance of strong brown face, a long nose and eyes full of laughter, long brown hair covers the rest, his or mine, I don't know, I'm confused, hot , I'm horny as an alley cat, oh get on with it you bastard, but he's slowed down with his fingers between my legs whilst the crowd pushes & shoves, talks and chatters all around us, somehow I know nobody has realized what is going on, and even if they did what do they care, the priests are all hidden and God is dead! Oh what a woman I've become these last months, what a woman!
The next victim of Madame La Guillotine is being led up the stairs from the wagon, white as a sheet she is, golden hair uncombed, her dress torn and filthy, her breasts large and heavy pouring out of her dress, that seems to excite my unknown lover as his fingers push deep inside me again, bringing me up to the boil again, oh fuck me you bastard, fuck me. His hands now seperate my legs, pushing one off the bucket to the cobbles and I feel him unbuttoning himself and the heat of his prick on my ass, oh so hot, so hard! I'm like a ship in the wind, half straight, half twisted, half hussy and fully whore, Oh I don't care, just get on with it you bastard.
His thing knocks on that little hole behind, but I don't want it there, not now, not now. It takes a second and suddenly his prick is inside me, it's brushed the lips aside, its entered like a thief, oh merde it feels good, I'm so wet, so horny ! The Duchess is fighting the Guards who are trying to lay her down, the crowd jeers and shouts advice to the men who are having quite some struggle with this one, her skirts over her head exposing two very large ass-white cheeks and the blond hair between her legs,my lover seems to be excited, I swear his prick gets longer and pushes into me with some kind of cruelty, and his arms are around my waist, pushing all of me into him, oh it's a snake he has inside me, it's everywhere I've ever felt a man go and more, I'm reaching a point of explosion, he too, with very little movement, he's getting ready to shoot his seed inside me, and when they raise the triangle blade on the guillotine all the way to the top, in that hush before it sweeps down, I feel him tremble, tremble & then gushes his stuff inside me like a river, and I too explode, my eyes must've closed, my cunt feels so hot, it trembles and trembles, oh my God! Quelle plaisir, quelle petite mort!
The Duchesse's head rolls onto the cobbles and the crowd shouts their approval, my eyes see some hag raise it by the blond bloody hair and cackle before a Guard grabs it and throws it into the grisly basket .His prick has gone from my cunt, can feel his seed dripping down my legs, and I feel the heat of his body move away, in the seconds it takes to get down from my bucket, the crowd shifts, children cry, hawkers shout their wares and when I turn , all I can see is his long coat dissapearing into the crowd, what a bastard !
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