The Georgia Peach Pt. 03

Listening to the sound of heavy breathing coming from these two brutes, Catherine closed her eyes. She shuddered when she felt a hand on her abdomen and then again when Oak ran his touch over her skin, just above her private area. She felt his fingers on her soft folds, softly gasped and inadvertently lifted her hips, resulting in chuckles of laughter from the soldiers.

Humiliated ... Degraded ... Terrified. She was all of these things.

Oak was having a ball, taking his time to touch her, open her and expose her. Catherine squirmed in agony, both real and psychological, as the Sergeant provided a stealth like touch ... making the abused girl gasp.

"Sergeant, quit playing with the bitch and just shave the fucking hair off ... please. And you, you Reb cunt, open your eyes wide and watch him."

Reluctantly Catherine looked down past her heaving breasts, her nipples having become unwittingly and regrettably erect, to the now sparse hair above her slit.

The prostrate girl saw both men peering down at her, smirking. From her position on top of the cage, she had at her eye level, the sick, burgeoning erections in each pair of dust covered pants.

She lay helpless, legs spread, and watched Oak soak a cloth in a bucket of water, wring it out and then place it over her mound to wet the skin. She yelped ... it was freezing cold!

"Oops, sorry about that Miss McCown, the water should be heated, but hell, we ain't got none of that warm water round here right now." Sampson mocked her.

With a lascivious grin playing on his lips, Sergeant Oak removed the soaked cloth and grinned down at the hapless girl. "We ain't got none of that cream either, too much of a luxury in these here times."

His grin spread into a laugh as he let a long thick drip of tobacco imbued saliva drop slowly from his thick lips onto her abdomen. And then, with clear delight, he smeared the spit over her mons, extracting every ounce of pleasure for himself and ensuring maximum humiliation for poor Catherine.

"Pl ... please ..." Catherine's breath was ragged as she squirmed under his ministration. She had hardly ever touched herself down there before, and now this brute was pawing at her without thought or care!

Catherine groaned, her anguish coming to the fore.

Oak picked up the cut-throat razor and touched it to her sensitive flesh.

"Now bitch, do not move one inch or else you will be cut." The Sergeant released more of his thick spittle onto her body and spoke with undisguised glee as the poor girl watched in horror. She held still, hardly daring to breathe as the blade scraped over her skin, removing the last vestiges of hair, completely exposing the pink folds of her sensitive flesh along with her unfortunately engorged clitoris.

The rasping of the razor was sheer torture as it ran over the same areas of her mons time after time, scraping and biting, scratching and grating.

"Please, owwwwwwwwwch! Stop this madness, pleeeeease!" The rough treatment meted out by the brutish Sergeant was appalling, yet she couldn't help but crane her neck to watch as her pubic hair disappeared, no doubt leaving her lower abdomen, mons and labia totally bare ...

After demonstrating a surprising ability with the cut-throat, Oak finally finished, wiped the hair away from Catherine's body with the wet cloth and smiled at his Lieutenant.

"Excellent work Sergeant," the surprised intonation could not be kept from his voice.

"You don't get whiskers like these without knowing how to wield a cut-throat Lieutenant," he grinned in response.

Sampson and Oak looked down at the bound, naked girl. Her hairless mound was red-raw, but not one droplet of blood spoiled the effect of her denuded flesh.

"Like it, Catherine?" As she strained to see what they had done to her, the Lieutenant ridiculed her once more.

"N ... n ... no ..."

"Well, we do and the Sergeant here has thoroughly enjoyed himself, is that not correct Sergeant Oak?"

Oak chuckled, "Yeah, I've never done that before, it was ... stimulating, Sir."

Catherine grimaced but the iron shackles around her ankles stopped her from closing her legs. She had been naked in front of these thugs for what seemed like an age, most of it with her thighs wide open. Was now the time for them to rape her? She wanted to cry out for Uncle Billy, but he had proven himself also to be a rogue by turning his back on her. She was all alone, and she was very frightened.

"Catherine, I think you should thank the Sergeant for the wonderful job he did shaving you. Why don't you suck his manhood for him to demonstrate your gratitude?"

Her eyes opened wide. What was the lieutenant asking? Surely not ... surely ... not ...

"Noooooooo!" Her shackled body was pushed and pulled towards the edge of the cage so that her view on life became inverted as her head spilled over the end, releasing a waterfall of long, dark hair that brushed against the dusty ground.

A sharp twist of her neck towards the entrance showed that the soldier guarding her was looking out towards the fields, not witnessing any of this dreadful deed. There was to be no help at hand.

Sporting a huge grin and a matching erection, Oak moved from her feet to her head, as Sampson stepped out of the way to swap positions.

"I want you to take it in your mouth Catherine," the Lieutenant was still offering his guidance.

"You can't do this, it's against the ... mmmuuummpphhh!" Any further words were cut off as simultaneously her nose was pinched, her mouth fell open and the sergeant's penis pushed inside her warm, oral embrace.

"If he as much as feels your teeth bitch, I will slit you open." She felt the point of a blade pushing at her labia. She doubted very much whether they would 'slit her open', but it was a chance that she wasn't willing to take.

The poor girl was entirely uneducated about matters such as the task that was now being performed, but that mattered not one jot because with his hand pressing down on her throat to tighten the sheath effect, Oak fucked her mouth. The capability required from the captive girl was nought as Catherine's sweet lips were stretched around his inflamed shaft.

He took her hard. He was more than ready ... stimulated, engorged, turned-on, juices rising. It did not take long. She felt the first spurt and gagged, bringing a groan from her assailant. Oak tightened his grip on her throat as Catherine struggled to pull her mouth off of him. The burley sergeant's hips thrust once, twice and then several times after that. Each plunge reflecting a release of thick white seed into the poor girl's mouth and throat. Oak held her tightly until his climax had subsided and then he let go of her. Catherine jerked her head to the side and gagged once more, before puking back the entire contents of his discharge.

"You filthy fucking Rebel bitch," Sampson laughed at her predicament, "I hope you enjoyed that. Would you like me to release one of your hands so that you can masturbate for us?"

They were still mocking her. Her mind was a confused myriad of emotions and feelings. She felt sick and dirty. A line had been crossed in their treatment of her. They hadn't visited her with any intention of conducting an interrogation, they had come here purely to gratify their own perversions. Thoughts about just how far they might go beyond that line terrified her.

Catherine turned her head away from them, and as tears rolled down her face to drip through the bars of the cage, she could muster no words of reply.

Laughing, the Lieutenant gave instruction to the soldier on guard to 'get her back into the pen', while he and his Sergeant left the building.

Chapter 22 -- Movement around White Orchard, Around Midnight, As May 11th Becomes May 12th 1864

Sitting sharply up from the commandeered bed in which he attempted to rest, General Sherman let out a gasp. The night was turning out to be a very long one. Reaching to his neck he loosened another button on his grubby, creased linen shirt, freeing the perspiration that was pooling there.

He had been entrusted with bringing this damnable war to an end, and all the grave aspects that go along with such designation, but he was now finding sleep elusive because of the fate of one young girl!

"Damnation Catherine, how could you do this!" His mind slipped to thoughts of days gone by, when the wide porches at the front of White Orchard Mansions were bathed in sunlight, and young Catherine ran around squealing and laughing while he and his wife sipped tea with the McCowns.

Yet here they were. Catherine was no longer a young adolescent but a grown woman, and one standing accused of spying against the Federal Union. How he hoped that she admitted her alleged, but undoubted, offences early in tomorrow's proceedings, otherwise he feared for her life.

Momentarily he pondered what more he could do. But there was nothing, not without appearing to favour the girl, and with over sixty thousand men to command, to do that was inconceivable.

******

When Sampson arrived back at his bed feeling satisfied with his work, and that of Sergeant Oak as well of course, he was ready to snatch a few more hours sleep before the anticipation of the morning unfolded in lust-fuelled reality for him.

In the gloom he saw that a wooden object had been placed on the blanket of his makeshift bed. As he knelt, once more readying himself to lie down, he took the object into his hands and ran his thumb and forefinger along the considerable extent of the smoothed wood.

"Good work," he whispered to himself as the route of his touch took his digits into an upwards trajectory following the curve of the thick, wooden length. "This will do just fine."

The little vignette at the slave pens with the cutthroat was not the only movement around White Orchard that night.

"Please Massa Shepherd, not again, she sick, my chil', let her rest, I beg you. Take me ..."

But Tom Shepherd was on a mission. His lust had been fuelled by the sight of his bitch Mistress being beaten earlier this evening. The fact that he had raped young Mercy whilst watching the enthralling scene had simply heightened his desire to further degrade the poor slave girl.

"I don't know why they let your little pup stay with you. Slave bitches that look like she does should be sold off, that's what they're good for, well that and one other thing ..." His words were vicious but not as vicious as his actions when he pulled Mercy from her cot and threw her outside the crude hut in which she and her mother lived.

"And you too bitch ... you get to watch."

Mercy's mother leapt from her own bed and stumbled outside into the warm night, lit only by the light of the moon. The rains had stopped but the darkness still aired an ominous presence.

The slave huts were a distance from both the pens and the main house, and so, other than a few prying eyes that briefly looked out through other cabins, only to quickly disappear when they saw the overseer, this scene was played out in relative isolation.

"Move to it," Shepherd herded the two female slaves from their hut to the secondary whipping post, a smaller affair than the one by the block.

"No Massa please," it was Mercy's mother who spoke once again, as the girl herself simply looked forlorn through wide, scared eyes.

Mercy's lustrous, thick black hair tumbled over her face as she moved toward the dreaded post, her pace slow, faltering.

"Stop." She stopped.

"Strip." She paused.

"I said ... Strip!" Shepherd repeated in a more angry tone. Mercy's hands, fingers stiff, like claws, reached for her shoulders ... but the shock, the humiliation of standing in the nude, knowing that she was about to be whipped for no reason at all, proved too much for her. Her weakened fingers shook so badly she was unable to grasp the sleeves of her torn shift to pull it off ...

After a few moments of panic-filled struggling, Mercy's hands fell away, and she simply stood, engulfed in a deep, sobbing fit of frustration.

"You ..." He gestured to her mother with a slight lift of his chin. She stepped forward, distraught at the awful duty of helping her daughter out of her skimpy covering. With both hands, she drew the brief shift down.

Mercy's pert breasts, high still with the fresh firmness of youth, tipped with dark areola, bounced free. The girl trembled and teetered as her mother tugged the taut garment down over her daughter's quivering hips. The dirty, white apparel fluttered to the ground.

"Now fix her to the wood." Shepherd growled his instruction.

The Mother gently grasped her daughter's hands, and pulled towards the vertical beam. Naked, the dark-skinned slave girl of Imabangala origin, wrapped her arms obediently around the post, and allowed her mother to fasten the shackles that would hold her in place. Mercy's smooth face was tear-stained and tight with horror, her breasts, abdomen and thighs pressed against the rough timber.

Sobbing, distraught beyond comprehension, her mother backed away, watching Shepherd advance upon her pitiable daughter. Grasping the handle of his bullwhip in one hand the overseer experimentally ran fingers across the leather with the other, showing as much disregard as he could towards the bound girl now stripped of the last vestiges of decency.

The overseer took position to Mercy's left, and tested the weight of the lash in his right hand. He regarded the strength of the thick coiled leather length, and, with a smirk, released its serpentine length.

He raised his arm and thrust it downwards ... A practice swing. The bullwhip emitted a portentous swish through the hot, humid air. Mercy tensed at the sound, twisting her head back at him with a maniacal, almost feral look in her eyes.

The slave girl then threw her gaze forward, waiting fitfully ... trembling, licking frantically around her dry lips. By the time Shepherd drew back the whip for real, her mother's heart was pounding. As she watched her already abused daughter about to be beaten, blood coursed through all her extremities, against the tips of her fingers, the tips of her toes, her body seeming to spring away, out of itself ...

The overseer swung his arm forward in a wide, horizontal arc. The leather cracked with shocking volume on tender flesh. Mercy threw her head back, tossing her loose mane of hair into further disarray. Her body vibrated, the force of the blow driving breath from her lungs in a toneless shriek.

Her Mother's body leapt in time with her daughter's and she looked down to the dust beneath her feet in alarm and fear. The lash painted a lengthwise streak of scarlet across the bound slave girl's dusky hips. Shepherd drew back his arm to strike again, wrapping the strand of leather just above the crease between her clenched buttocks and tightened thighs, and then jerked the lash back towards himself ... its harsh crack like a thick cord of wood snapped into two.

"Please Massa Shepherd, do not do this ...' but these words were whispered by the mother in fear of angering the overseer even more should he hear them.

Mercy's body jerked rigid with pain once more, gasping frantically. The third stroke came down with undiminished force.

"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

The bound slave girl let loose another breathless but less intense screech. The fourth drew a high-pitched, scarcely stifled, scream from her lips. At the fifth, Mercy was yelling out ear-piercing, harrowing sounds.

She gripped the post in a desperate effort to remain standing, grasping the wood so fiercely her knuckles turned white, her nails digging and scratching into the grain like hooks.

Her mother should have turned away, but, emotionally compelled, she kept her gaze fixed forward, watching the next strokes rain down at a relentless pace of snaps and cracks.

Mercy flung her head from side to side, her plaintive cries growing from shuddering whimpers to agonized shrieks. After a while, Shepherd paused to catch his breath and observed the bright red welts that had begun to emerge on the lashed flesh. He was taking care to spread the strokes evenly so as not cross over too much and slice the skin too badly.

It was then that Mercy's mother saw in Shepherd's eyes a look of wanton cruelty. He was revelling in his dominance, relishing how terrified her young daughter was, offered up so easily as a target for his brutality, bound at the post, taking the full force of his release. With head tilted, his eyes narrowing to slits, the overseer jerked back the thin strand of leather even higher into the air and slammed it once more against the back of Mercy's thighs.

The young girl lurched in spasm, twisting her hips at this unexpected assault on previously unmarked flesh, and began screaming, as if her very soul was being torn from her body. Struggling to regain her balance, she stood with feet far apart, her bare legs stretched straight, bent slightly back, almost on her toes, arching her back so that her pubis leaned forward and pressed against the wooden beam.

All the while the lash mercilessly struck the backs and sides of each thigh, bringing a fresh series of pitiful wails. Her mother flinched at each blow, tears spilled down her cheeks, but she continued to watch, sharing her daughter's torment as much as she could. Imagining Mercy's stricken cries to be her own, she choked back a sob as her daughter was whipped into complete submission by this monster's masterful strokes, each one swifter and sharper than the one before.

Then, gasping, his own chest heaving, Shepherd stopped.

Exhausted, Mercy's knees gave way, and she fell forward still clutching the post with legs sprawled far apart, her lashed buttocks shiny, striped with the colour of raw meat. She whimpered in pain as the skin of her scalded haunches burned with the flames of agony.

"Get her back inside," was all he said, as refastening the whip to his breeches, he headed for the comfort of his own bed.

Never during all of the horrors that this war had delivered in its three long, awful years, not even upon the untimely and tragic deaths of both her mama and papa, had Catherine felt as numb as she felt now. Dazed through fitful sleep, she had been truly forsaken.

Brought up as a young lady, a 'belle', Catherine had come to expect masculine assertion from the menfolk hereabouts, and with a good helping of chivalry and respect to go along with it. But these louts, these rogues in blue had stripped her, beaten her and now violated her body in the most brutal manner imaginable.

They might as well have raped her; she may even have preferred that rather than suffer the feel and taste of his ... his ... and when he released ... Catherine felt the bile rise once more from deep in her gut.

Her mind was a myriad of confusion while her body ached in more ways than she had ever thought possible. Resting her head on the crook of her arm Catherine squirmed as she shifted across the rough dusty base of the pen, trying her best to avoid putting the battered soles of her feet into contact with anything.

She knew what was ahead of her, and although she was afraid, if this thing had to be done then Catherine wanted it done. The anticipation was interminable. She wondered how many of White Orchard's slaves had lain here before her, bound for the whip, scared out of their minds like she was now. She felt sympathy for those poor creatures.

Her entire body heaved as once more she dry retched. No ... of course they would stop it. Uncle Billy could not let this happen. Not to her. Surely it was a trick to frighten her. Or he would realise that she could not endure such punishment ...

Naive though these hopes were, they helped to stay the enormous strain of waiting. Lingering was the hardest part, a severe punishment in itself, serving its malicious purpose to remind her that no appeal of emotion or reason would turn the Lieutenant's intent, and persuade him to release her.