Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories

 

Red Revenge

Frances LaGatta

All Rights Reserved

 

 

Valley of the Susquehanna ...

July moon when berries ripen--1777

 

Icy river water doused Katherine 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 glor.... 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.

 

 

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