The following story is a joint effort in pretty much equal parts between myself and Vermillion. No, that is not entirely true..., the authentic Gaelic phrases are entirely the contribution of that sexy colleen of the ole sod, Vermillion. For those of you not fortunate enough to be Irish, and for the sons and daughters of the Emerald Isle who have let their Gaelic slip away, the translations are at the end of the story. Vermillion and I hope you enjoy our little tale, and desperately plead with you to be sure and Vote, Chicago style (early and often). --Jigs--
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Katherine O'Riley was sure she would not see the sunrise. Was that so bad? She'd already seen more suffering and pain than she could bear. She was ready and willing to die for the Cause. Ireland must be free. Her own mission to put a bullet in the Governor's heart had failed, but she was consoled that the English soldiers had been distracted by her go at political murder. While Ireland's oppressors were hunting her down, cursing her, swearing vengeance, Wolfe Tone was on his way to France!
E'ireanngo Bra'ch!
She too would have escaped were it not for the cursed Yeomanry here in Ulster. She had heard of the cruel atrocities the new Laws of Disarmament had wrought. Now she would suffer those tortures of hell, and at the hand of the very man she had tried to kill. The penalty for swearing an oath to the United Irishmen was death. If that weren't enough to assure her execution, she had been caught in the act trying to kill the King's own Governor. She would be tried as a revolutionary, for treason, and for attempted political murder. She was guilty on all counts. The trial would be a brief one at dawn, and before sundown on the morrow she would either be hung or shot. Only the manner of her execution remained in doubt. Her death was certain.
It was certain too that before her death, these cruel foreigners who held Ireland by the throat would inflict pain and humiliation upon her for no reason but the sadistic pleasure of watching her suffer. She had heard stories of the brutality in the Governor's prison and she had seen the scars of those that lived to tell the tale. Gratefully she had been knocked unconscious when captured, but she had not been favored by the quick death she had every reason to wish for.
She had regained consciousness in a start as a bucket of icy cold water was poured over her. She found herself lying face down on the cold stone floor of a prison cell. Her groggy reaction was to groan and roll onto her side, the best she could manage with her hands tied behind her back. Her peasant blouse clung to her breasts and her drenched thin skirt did nothing to hide the seductive curves of her thighs. Once awake her misery came in a wave to overwhelm her. She shivered from the cold and the shame of exposing her feminine charms to the three English dogs staring down at her.
She glared hatred upward at the English soldiers. They were big brutes in red coats. No, they were more than merely big. From where she was sprawled on the floor they looked absolutely huge, a trio of eyes filled with in hungry lust and frozen on her body. She understood perfectly what was on their minds. What a vulnerable and tasty feminine morsel she must be..., her hands tied behind her, thrusting her tempting breasts forward, so full and firm and scarcely hidden under her wet cotton blouse. She also saw, however, that these men looked incredibly stupid..., probably Scottish brutes she thought. There might be a light of hope there. Perhaps they would execute her here and now, and save her from the fate that was otherwise sure to follow.
"Ledo thoil! Na dean sin!"
The captain was indeed Scottish and he could understand her Gaelic. This Irish trash spoke badly, but he could make it out. He still remembered some from his Grandfather.
"Bi Samhach, Irish 'ore! An' speak English!"
"Ledo thoil! Marie Shannon is aimn dom."
He reached down and by her hair roughly pulled her upright. "No, bitch. We know ye be Katherine O'Riley. Wolfe Tone's skit, a sworn revolutionary and probably whore to 'alf a' Ulster. I be the Cap'n 'ere, and ye'll service me cock or I'll turn ye over to me boys."
"Po'g mo tho'in!"
She could see in his eyes that she had gone too far, but this was not the first time that her brash mouth had caused trouble for her. No matter! She knew these heathens would humiliate and beat her, even rape her more likely than not, but she wasn't going to die without fighting back in the only way she could. Curses are important to the Irish, and she meant to get hers in. To be sure her Grandmother had taught her how to curse a soul all the way to hell, along with the special brimstone reserved for the English heathen to be added in where applicable.
The captain yanked her hair with renewed cruelty and snatched her onto her knees. With his other hand he freed an ugly uncircumcised penis from his fly. He was already semi-hard. The deep cleavage of her blouse, and those long nipples rigid from the cold, outlined in the wet fabric, had been more than enough to swell his manhood. It was an ugly weapon and it smelled. She struggled against his grip, and turned her face away.
"Ye'll pay for that, harlot! Ye'll pleasure me like a whore, ye will or I'll cut ye throat right 'ere!"
The Captain knew it was an empty threat. The Governor had said to bring her to him unharmed. But he also knew from experience, that women prisoners were much more manageable after they had been forced to suck his cock. In their deep shame from that ugly act, some before, and many afterwards, had begged to be killed. He had obliged more than a few, but always only after he enjoyed all their mouths and tongues had to offer.
With one hand behind her head and his cock bobbing free right below her nose, he used his other hand to pull his dagger out of his sheath and held it in front of her eyes. "Put it in ye mouth, whore. And suckle 'til I fill ye mouth or I'll remove your scalp and leave ye to die without a Priest!"
Kate knew she had no choice. She gagged doing so, but she opened wide and took his foul penis onto her tongue, and then into her throat. Her mouth was no virgin, but to suck an English cock shamed her, as the Captain knew it would. She hated to even breathe the same air this dirty barbarian, and to be made to fellate him was a disgusting humiliation beyond tolerance. In her head she began to chant her Grandmother's prayer for healing, and in the ancient way of the Irish, she retreated from her pain into the world of leprechauns and fairies. By the time he filled her mouth, she was far away.
The Captain grunted as he released, and with no alternative, Kate swallowed his discharge. When he was empty, he pulled her off and pushed her to the floor of her cell. He was not finished, however. "Strip and search her!" He ordered his men. "Make sure she has no more weapons and can do no harm to his Excellency." With cold hands wandering a good deal more than necessary, the two guards set to their task with a will. Her blouse and skirt were preserved after a fashion, but in their zeal to 'search' her naked body, her tormentors shredded her under garments into useless tatters.
