Red Revenge
by Frances LaGatta
Valley of the Susquehanna ... July moon when berries ripen-1777
Icy river water doused Kathryn Deshler's face and she roused from her
faint. She was at once aware that she was buck naked, raw hide bound at the
wrists and ankles, and spread between birch saplings with her private parts
shamefully exposed to watchful eyes. Her face flamed and she squeezed her eyes
tight; her mortification at this dreadful degradation knew no bounds. And her
mouth. . . it was full of something she could not swallow. She tried to cry out
for the Lord to save her, but all her pleas came out as muffled, futile noises.
In confusion and fear she thrashed her russet tresses against the mossy dirt,
and suddenly it all came back to her; the Indians had shot and scalped her
cousin Matthew and had carried her away from her home.
Kathryn forced herself to calm. To think. But the only thing that came
to mind was Matthew. The only thing she felt was incredible anger at how he had
somehow brought this all upon her. Even before he had shunned their Quaker
beliefs, she remembered well Matt's cruel steak from childhood and beyond. When
Matthew shot his first deer, he had watched the poor animal suffer, as if he
enjoyed it. She had grabbed the musket from his hands and had quickly put it
out of its misery. And then a much older Matt. . . sneaking up behind her
while she had been fishing. He forced a brutal kiss upon her person and he had
torn her bodice to fondle her bared breasts. She had managed to wrestle free
from his vicious embrace, running for the safety of the church yard.
While their small community had prayed for the redemption of his wayward
soul, she silently asked for forgiveness at having such uncharitable thoughts
for a lost sheep. Kathryn was glad Matt had left their Society of Friends after
the incident. She had never, ever wanted him to come back into the fold! And
then he did. . . and dressed in his un-prodigal soldier uniform; an even more
sinful state to the peaceable ways of the Friends. Her mother had been in the
cabin baking and her father off to town. She had chastised Matthew while he
helped himself to unasked for provisions from their lean-to. He bragged about
"them red skinned devils he kilt" while he filled his saddle bags. She reminded
him that when their families had first settled in the valley, her father had
told her; "The Friends were liked by all men, including the Indians." And they
came often as peaceful visitors thereafter. Matt had countered drunkenly with;
"Stupid bitch! Yer an Injun lover!"
Although Kathryn had watched from afar whenever the Delaware traded goods
with her folks, she secretly found the males curiously compelling. In tune with
the elements and nature, they seemed primeval spirits whenever they crept out of
the forest in their feathers and deerskins decorated with colorful beads and
copper and silver amulets. They laughed as all men did, but they were also
boldly assertive compared to the passive, dutiful Quaker men like her father, or
the mild and mannerly boys she grew up with. And they were not at all cruel as
was Matthew, who shot deer, and not even for sustenance! The Indians had
offerings of thanks and strange rituals for whatever nature provided that might
fill their bellies. No. There had never been cause to fear the Indians before.
. . . And suddenly the Delaware rushed out of the woods and shot Matthew dead
with their muskets! She had ducked down behind the lilac bush beside the
outhouse, and when the tallest Indian scalped Matt with his very own knife, she
had wet herself in terror. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. .
. .
Last night there had been the sounds of men and baying dogs and the
Delaware had gagged her with the torn hem of her dress. They had ridden the
horses so hard through the creeks and over the mountain passes that she ached
all over. Although she knew the Quakers would never take up weapons against a
living soul, she remembered thinking that her father was following, and that he
might catch-up to these Indians. Did he actually think he could make them give
her back with soft words and scripture. . . ? But it no longer mattered. The
night was all quiet now. With no sound of the dogs, and dawn approaching, she
lost all hope of ever being reunited with her family. Kathryn remembered the
sight of her mother, standing hopeless and screaming after her, farther and
farther behind with her baby brother in arms, until her voice dwindled off, and
then stopped calling altogether. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of
never seeing her parents again. At least they were alive. The Indians had
murdered only Matt. It had to be because he was a soldier. But why-oh-why did
they take her? She had done nothing to deserve this shameful treatment.
The Indian who had roused her with the water cast a shadow over her like a
looming oak tree... the formidable one who had scalped Matthew. She shivered as
he knelt, clad in nothing but a deerskin breechclout, with his knees flanking
her hips. His sliver nose ring glinted in the morning sun, and he was as bald
as a shiny egg with fierce green stripes of paint streaking his sculpted
cheekbones. Despite her fear, she noticed he was unusually beautiful in his
fierceness, proudly masculine. Surely he was a chief or a scout. Last night
he had issued orders, bird-calls that had sounded amazingly real while he
gripped her tightly on horseback.
She gave a start when he plucked up two hanks of hair that cloaked her
ample breasts. Had he no shame? He watched as her nipples hardened, mortifying
her further. He dropped one hank and rubbed the other between his thumb and
forefinger, testing the strands as if fascinated by the soft texture and autumn
leaf color. No one in these parts had such a blazing crown of glory . . . or
so her mother often told her while brushing it out by the fire each night. When
he planted his hands beside her neck to scrutinize her face, she chanced a
glance, looking directly into his obsidian eyes. They were filled with terrible
hatred and revenge that was as bewildering to her as the angry words he barked.
He shook a stick that had long streamers of blue black hair on the end of
it. Was it his own sheared locks? No. . . she saw that the hair was attached
to a recently bloodied scalp-not Matt's buttercup curls that had run red with
his blood. With sickening clarity she remembered hiding beside the outhouse
again while Matthew lay butchered like the pig he was in front of the lean-to.
This Indian had withdrawn this very stick from Matt's saddle bag and, he had let
out a sob of such utter anguish, that even through her tremendous terror of
losing her own life, the sound had twisted her heart in two. She must have made
a noise, because he had swung around. At the sight of sympathy pooling in her
frightened eyes, his face lost all grief, replaced with terrible rage as he
hauled her from her hiding place. Kathryn now knew and understood. . . this
scalp dangling before her nose belonged to his female. The Indian had taken her
away from her loved ones because Matt had brutally taken his beloved away from
him. An eye for and eye. . . .
He removed his knife from his sheath and he traced the sharp tip of the
blade over her hairline with unmistakable intent glittering in his vengeful
eyes. Her heart hammered in her chest like a snared rabbit and she strained,
panic pulling her wrists and ankles tighter against her bounds. Dear Lord.
They shot Matt dead before this man had sliced his scalp from his skull. Was
she to suffer through this hideous agony while still alive? She nearly fainted
with fright again and he slapped her awake.
"Tukihela!" He made a point of tossing the knife away, and she exhaled
enormous relief through her nose; her mouth and throat hurt from the gag of
lindsey woolsey from her shorn dress, and the tight strip of hide that tied it
in. His next mystifying words were gentler, soothing, low whispers in her ear,
and she could see the change in his eyes, as if he were remembering her reaction
to his grief. He had compassion. He had a soul. He would not torture her or
take her life! Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. . . .
His eyes locked with hers and his nostrils flared as would a stallion with
a potent virility that oozed from every pore and was let loose on a mare. When
he squeezed his fingers tightly over her breasts in a bruising act of
possession, all traces of compassion gone from his expressive face, she realized
with a sinking spirit that Matt had also raped his beloved.
"Ehh. Ehh." He nodded, and his fingers relaxed their grip. His touch
became reassuring, rubbing the circulation back into her flesh. He then stroked
her tenderized pink pebbles, circling, circling with the raspy pads of his
thumbs, the friction maddening and making her mew with a different trepidation.
His shining head descended, his wide mouth opened, he found one breast, and he
suckled with a warm, tantalizing tongue, drawing her nipple between his even
white teeth. He bit it slightly, making her wince and arch her lower back with
some nameless need that made the other Indians laugh raucously around them. The
realization that they watched was confusing, upsetting, and her odd excitement
was utterly unlike her. Her mother had taught her the virtue of modesty. She
was not a wanton, yet she found herself responding to his tongue's laving as if
she had not an ounce of shame.
Let them laugh! At least she would live! Kathryn was grateful that this
man would spare her life. And even though it was contrary to her upbringing and
all she knew and held dear, if he had massacred her mother, father, baby
bother-she would want to shoot him dead too. Surely the taking of her virginity
was a small price to pay. Surely it would not be as painful as being scalped
alive as Matt had done to his loved one.
And what he was doing to her breasts. . . her body betrayed her with a
curious, thrilling pull to her warming core. And she no longer wanted to be rid
of her restraints in hopes of defending herself or of escaping. She suddenly
longed to touch his sleek skin, explore the rippling muscles of his back and
buttocks, taste and tease and suckle his brown nipples as he was thus doing to
her. He groaned and his greedy mouth reluctantly released her breast with a
puckering sound; the sudden rush of air cooled her heated, saliva shiny peaks
with a singing sensation to her every nerve ending. He maneuvered lower, his
knees betwixt her spread thighs, and her whole body flushed with a blazing heat
as the emboldened masculine hand at her torso traveled lightly to the russet
curls between her exposed and now glistening privates. When he roughly thrust a
long index finger into her moist womanhood, he grinned at her pleading
expression with eyes that seemed satisfied to discover the barrier of her
virginity. As if it were an annoying encumbrance, she gasped into the gag as he
broke it thus. She told herself to be brave as blood trickled down her inner
thighs and mingled with her copious juices. He then smeared her virginal blood
over her face, streaking it in the same manner as his war paint.
His calloused thumb found the pulsating nubbin at the apex of her cunny,
the place she touched secretly while she forewent her prayers and her
unsuspecting family lay asleep. He strummed it relentlessly, up and down and
around like the wildly wavering rope to the chiming church bell. Her torso
arched to heaven and she muffled out the Lord's name, her inner muscles
contracting, her toes curling in an epiphany of tremendous, tremulous relief and
release that silenced the men. How could anything that felt so miraculous be a
sin?
Her limbs jerked wildly as he continued to torment her throbbing nubbin,
never letting up, until she tumbled again and again over the edge of this bliss,
and was bathed in a sweet sweat that had her straining against the tethers, not
in fear, but for a strange freedom, an overwhelming need to be filled by
something other than his probing fingers. Eventually, he withdrew from her
silken crevices and she was oddly disappointed.
He brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled, savoring her scent before
he noisily licked each clean, staring spellbound at her sodden slit all the
while, eliciting a brazen hankering to suffer his lips and tongue and teeth
there as well. As if he read her thoughts, in one lightning motion, his bald
head descended, and he burrowed between her spread thighs. Kathryn did not
think it was possible to more exposed down there. . . until he pinched her
nether lips and peeled her apart, opening her farther. The Indians circled in
closer, loudly yipping encouragement, while his hot breath fanned the flames of
her arousal. The tip of his tongue a teasing feather, his torturous teeth
alternately nipping, hard, his leisurely lips lapped a blazing trial of
exquisite agony from her puckering bottom hole, over every crease and velvet
hollow, to her swollen nubbin. And on the verge of boiling over into Hades-the
warrior ruthlessly vanished.
Her eyes widened into twin pools of blue appeal as she watched him strip
away his bulging breechclout, revealing a penis reminiscent of the bull in the
pastor's pasture. And she found that the sheer size of his manhood did not
inspire fear, but instead made her pulse race with an intense craving. It
swayed like the thick tree limbs high above her and the tip oozed a single
droplet of sap that she longed to taste. He nudged the cloaked, mushroom tip of
his proud staff between her slippery folds, and slowly, he inched half of his
weapon into her warm tight sheath, accustoming her to his girth. He began to
rock gently to and fro, increasing her simmering pitch with shallow, short
stabs, building her feverish tempo until the hysteria of delight bubbled in her
throat and made her drool into the gag.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he drove his entire length into her with a force
that hurt like hellfire and made her scream behind the frustrating fabric.
Yet, he answered not with gentle slow thrusts. He deliberately increased the
rhythm of his hips with a demanding strength that had her steeling herself
bravely against each onslaught to her innards. As he smiled down at her
courageous show with a touch of surprise and admiration, she fully understood
her body would never again be her own. She belonged to him now. And under the
savage supremacy of his heated gaze, she surrendered her all and felt her
indulgence rise up, mingling with his punishing pain in a perfect blending of
the two. Kathryn bucked her hips into his, crisp curls converging, answering
his steady thrusts with equal vigor, a willing slave to his every desire. Her
whole being began to quiver uncontrollably and she clenched.
"Lenni Lenape!" The warrior cried out, and his surging cock erupted, an
arrow set free from a tightly strung bow, his seed flooding her, deep.
"Lenni Lenape;" his tribe reverently returned his incantation.
Delaware, she knew, was a white man's word. Lenni Lenape meant 'men that
are true men.'
And Kathryn discovered that she wanted, in every sense of the word. . . a
true man.
To read more, please visit Wicked Velvet.
Red Revenge Chapter Two by Frances LaGatta In the aftermath of the warrior's powerfully exertive passions, exhaustion overcame Kathryn. Gagged and bound between birch saplings, her eyes grew heavy and her lids fluttered shut. Distant yipping roused her and then sheer black fright brought her fully awake. The warrior was gone. His braves were lined up between her spread thighs, all staring at her privates while they clutched or pumped at their manhood's. The first brave's face contorted as if in pain and his seed spewed forth to splatter her belly. Revulsion lurched there as the pearly globule trailed a path down her hip. A muscular arm flung out across the culprit's throat, hurling him back into the others. The warrior was upon her again, slicing at the hide strips at her wrists and ankles. He yanked to her feet, tossed her over his shoulder, and spun. His knife whooshed beneath a blur of snorting noses. The sharp blade-tip snaked out; a flash of silver before arched torsos and cocks. Heaved up and onto the horse's withers, the warrior's breechclout soon settle against her naked buttocks. Sinewy thighs gripped the stallion's flanks and flexed against her own. Heaving male chest pressed into her back, she felt his rapid heartbeat slow while she prayed for the power to reclaim her serenity. He twisted about for a moment, and then he wrapped her in a dull red blanket; shielding her nakedness from lust-filled stares. She buried her face into the scratchy wool folds, inhaling the comforting smell of bear oil and horse, wood smoke and man. The warrior barked a furious command and the braves turned from their preoccupation with her and began to bustle about, kicking charred embers and horse manure into the river, brushing away tracks with pine boughs. Relief rushed through her like the Susquehanna after a violent storm. If not for the awful gag in her mouth, she would thank him for saving her, even if he did not understand her. . . . The warrior fumbled with the raw hide knots to the gag as if he meant to untie it. But then something made him change his mind, and he tugged the strips tighter, stretching her smarting cheeks and mouth in a more strained grimace. Her heart soared with renewed hope. Perhaps her father and the men and dogs were still following? The warrior left the gag in place because he still feared she would cry out! The horses climbed out of the valley in the early daylight, and her hope diminished with each mile they traveled that took her farther from her home. Their single file path all through the day had been along a high ridge where the river below became a winding white rope. Kathryn squirmed, needing desperately to pee, afraid she would wet herself. At last, the warrior stopped, and helped her to dismount. Far behind, the bands of savages were engaged in a disgusting diversion of whose pee stream reached the farthest downhill. Kathryn turned from the vulgar spectacle and made a quick move toward the nearest bush that would afford her some privacy. An iron grip seized her shoulder. "Eh. Eh. Wapsi" She heard the warrior say. Confronted once again with fierce green war paint, a lockless head, and sliver nose ring, all of it served to remind her that he was a True Man who took what he wanted and without mercy. He stabbed a finger to the ground and motioned with the other hand, indicating that he wanted her blanket. Kathryn clasped it tighter to her neck. How could he possibly mean for her to relieve herself in his presence? It was humiliating to even consider such a thing! He answered her incredulous look with a reserved half smile that seemed to say the rest might follow when earned. . . much as the small measure of modest dignity he afforded her that he now wanted her to remove. A mixture of savage might, towering self containment, and intimidating sexual power such as she had seldom seen in the Quaker men she was accustomed to, she had also been a recipient of his compassion. The warrior grieved greatly for his murdered beloved. He had killed her cousin for those atrocious crimes. Had been willing to die for the love of a women. But most importantly, he had spared her life despite his consuming hatred and rage. And she had willingly surrendered her innocence and sacrificed her body during his vengeful act of sexual possession. This had meant. . . something. . . to him. Why did he save her from his braves? Did he desire her only unto himself? Or had he merely prevented them from adding their male issue to his own because he wanted to wait, to know if his seed had taken root within her womb? Would her belly grow large with his child? And if it did not grow large, would he then let his tribe of lust-hungry savages loose upon her body? Even if she did not know the answers, the knowledge that he did desire her enough to save her was empowering. Kathryn gathered her strength and dignity closer about her. She would tamp down her terrible fear of him and remain true to herself! Jutting a defiant chin, she extended her elbows, whipped the blanket out and around her in a wide circle, and she squatted. The only thing that might feel better than releasing her painfully full bladder would be to pull out the hateful gag! Cool air assaulted her backside. Why, he stared at her bottom while he held the blanket aloft! Indignant anger rose in her chest and she knocked the fabric back down. When she stood to face him, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. His gaze roamed down the blanket as if he could see beneath the material. As if he had memorized and could see every curving detail of her body in his minds eye. Her cheeks bloomed with color. The possessive look in his eyes that met her incensed her more. Kathryn hooked her fingers under the tight raw hide strips at the corners of her mouth and yanked them down her cheeks and over her chin. The beast ripped the blanket down from her body and enjoyed the view. A sodden wad of Lindsey woolsey landed on his beaded moccasin. Rubbing her aching jaw, she lolled her swollen tongue and ran it over her gums and teeth. Never did she put anything so delicious into her mouth that equaled the pleasure of her spitting out that horrid gag! Undaunted, he reached out and cruelly pinched and then pulled on both of her nipple, watching the buds swell. Kathryn shoved his hands down and made her naked way back to the horse. Before she could blink, she was hoisted belly-over the back of his great beast. Her tresses hung in a tangled curtain over one side while her bare bottom and cunny were disgracefully displayed. Suddenly his open palm stuck her like a blast of buckshot and gave the horse a start. She yelped and it both wonderful and awful to use her voice again! The brute mounted the stallion, gripped her around her hip, brought her over his lap, and began a rigorous tirade of harsh smacks on her bottom cheeks. Her eyes flew wide and her kicking feet had the horse dancing. He easily controlled it with his clenched thighs and continued to burn white hot palm prints over her curvy mounds. Her breasts bounced unbearably through this misery and she ground her pelvis into his lap, seeking escape from the pain to no avail. Woefully reduced to a child taken by the ear to her father's woodshed, she soon realized her father had never walloped her this hard. Hornets seemed to attack her behind with his onslaught of cracks. Shrill shrieks echoed across the mountainous terrain. Fervent prayers that her father would hear and come bounding up the high ridge to save her quickly changed into a wicked wish that Papa would deliver a swift bullet to his shiny head. Her eyes welled at the unrealistic thought. If Papa ever did find her, he would try and make the Delaware give her back with the scriptural words of The Friends. And be shot dead in his tracks. Her hand bushed against the warrior's musket while he beat her. Defeat consumed her, for her Quaker upbringing would never allow her to take up arms against a living soul; not even in defense of herself. Suddenly she became conscious only of power, his masterful power. A sharp knife of savage reality sliced through her, making the blood pound through her heart and chest and head. Fight drained from her body and she ceased wiggling like a disturbed water moccasin. Her buttocks were scorched with a red retribution that quelled any and all notions she had of ever defying or testing him again. Her entire backside was as hot as the embers the Delaware had kicked into the river. How she longed to sink her rear into that icy water. Masculine hands began massaging her mounds, assuaging some of the sting and burn there, eliciting strange but not unpleasant tingles deep inside her cunny. Nails lightly scratching her skin made her valley swamp with need. When he ran the tip of his teasing finger between the cleft of her buttocks, and then to the under pouch of her pouting nether lips, she mewed like a kitten. His answering finger sank into melted butter, churning in and out of her warm, tight sheath. He held his finger fast and deep. Her hips bucked up, impaling herself with growing speed, as if they had a will of their own, as if begging him for more of this astonishing pleasure. He then peeled her nether lips apart, and she gasped when flicked at her pulsating nubbin. Callused fingers spread her hot cheeks apart, and he watched her exposed bottom hole and cunny quake in culmination. Her whole body tensed and she cried out, and then collapsed, feeling his iron rod of arousal beneath the velvety breechclout. "Thou art an evil beast ," she murmured lamely, emotionally, and physically depleted. A chuckle resonated through her tummy and his shiny head descended. He inhaled deeply, savoring her female scent. Warm breath fanned her flesh and then. . . he pressed his sensual lips to her chastised orbs. The warrior's head came up on a long exhaled sigh. Swatting her bottom as if for good measure, he brusquely shoved her limp body off his lap. Still dazed, she felt him dismount. The blanket was tossed over her twitching bottom. She didn't dare move as she watched him untie the horse's tethers. He then tuned his back on her, walking up ahead on the path. Through the mountainous tree tops, Kathryn could barely make out the winding white string of Susquehanna River. The moment she lost site of it, home and hearth, all that she had come to love that was good and decent about her life would vanish too. She would never lay eyes on her mother, father, and baby brother again. All the wonderful memories with the Friends would be forever lost. She would become a slave in a Sodom and Gomorrah that was surely filled with even more sinful savages like the warrior. Bringing her leg over the horse, she winced as she gingerly settled her sore bottom into the crudely fashioned saddle. She tied the blanket under her neck and carefully gathered up the reins. The band of braves were still far enough behind. . . engrossed in a game that involved long sticks. The stallion's rump skidded down the steep slope, stirring up puffs of dust. At the base, Kathryn kicked the horse's flanks for all she was worth, sending it in a wild gallop across the open field. She would never look back! She would never let the warrior take her to what would surely be a life that amounted to little more than her being his pleasure whore! No matter the mastery he held over her body, stirring such shameless cravings that left her hungry for more! The red blanket whipped out behind her, giving her all appearances of a demented demon chase by the hounds of hell. Her exposed breasts bounced almost as painfully as her abused bottom . . . but she no longer cared. She would find the river. She would somehow find her way back to her Quaker home. Or die trying. . . . High upon the ridge, the warrior watched the horse thief tear across the field. His dead wife, Good Sunset. . .her spirit helper . . . the brown hawk. . . it soared above the wapsi; the white women. The Quaker's hair of flames burned as brightly as her passionate body and spirit. Would this wapsini end his grief for Good Sunset? Would she deliver the unborn son he lost when his wife's laughing soul left his world? Fire Hair ducked under tree branches. . . and then the Green Wood Spirits swallowed the enchanting vision whole. XXX Hope you enjoyed LaGatta's free contributions! All ten completed chapters of RED REVENGE are now available at the Best of Wicked Velvet. www.bestofwicked.com
Review This Story || Email Author: Frances LaGatta