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X-Original-Subject: (rom fest) {ASSM} "Red Revenge" by Frances LaGatta   (Rom, BDSM, D/s, MF)
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] "Red Revenge" by Frances LaGatta   (Rom, BDSM, D/s, MF)
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(rom fest) {ASSM} "Red Revenge" by Frances LaGatta   (Rom, BDSM, D/s, MF)




Red Revenge
 
by Frances LaGatta
 


Summer Solstice 1777



Valley of the Susquehanna
 
Icy creek 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, 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.  
 
She 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.  She 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's 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 
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 she 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 Indian's before. . . . And suddenly the Delaware's rushed out of 
the wood and shot Matthew dead with their muskets!  She'd 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 die 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 pass 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 back there was all 
quiet now.  With no sound of the dogs, and dawn approaching, she lost 
all hope of ever being reunited with her family.  She remembered the 
site 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 through the woods. 
Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of never seeing her parents 
again. At least they were alive. The Indian's 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 Redwood. The formidable one who had scalped Matthew; she 
shivered as he knelt with his deerskin clad 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. . .  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 
newly sprouted breasts. Had he no shame?  He watched 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.  And he shook a stick that had long streamers of blue black 
hair on the end of it.  Was it is 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. She 
now knew and understood. . .  this scalp dangling before her nose 
belonged to his female. He 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 sayith 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 lose on a 
mare.  When he squeezed his fingers tightly over her small 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 shinning head descended, his wide mouth 
opened, he found one breast, and he suckled with a tantalizing tongue, 
drawing her sensitized 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 Indian's 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 lathing as if she had not an ounce of shame.  
Let them laugh!  At least she would live! She 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 skin, explore the muscles of 
his back and buttocks, taste and tease and suckle his nipples as he was 
thus doing to her.  His mouth released her breast and he moved 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 middle 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 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 silence the men. How 
could anything that felt this miraculous be a sin? 
 
Her limbs jerked as he continued to torment her overly sensitive 
nubbin, never letting up, until she was once more on the edge of 
this bliss, 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 his dredging fingers and she was oddly disappointed. And 
then her eyes widened like twin pools of blue appeal as she watched him 
strip away his deerskins, revealing a magnificent form and a 
penis reminiscent of the bull in the pastor's pasture. It swayed like 
the tree limbs high above her.  And she found that the sheer size of his 
manhood did not inspire fear, but instead made her pulse raced with an 
intense craving.  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 stealing herself bravely against each onslaught to her 
innards. Smiling 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. She 
bucked her hips into his, answering his thrusts with equal vigor, a 
willing slave to his every desire, her whole being began to quiver 
uncontrollably and she clenched.
 
"Lenni Lenape!" he 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. . .  Katharine knew, was a white man's word. 'Lenni Lenape'  
meant 'men that are true men.' 

And she discovered that she wanted, in every sense of the word, a true 
man.   .  .  . 
 
 

 
Red Revenge/Copyright/author Frances LaGatta
 
For comments and feedback e-mail:  <lori111c@worldnet.att.net> 


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