The Georgia Peach - Part 04 free porn video

Without warning Lieutenant Sampson kicked the crate out from under his captive.

Hanging full stretch, by the wrists, her footing lost, Catherine fell and the appropriately positioned sedile impaled her virgin orifice in a single thrust.

“Noooooooooooooo!” She wailed as the impact of the brutal penetration pierced her core.

There was no cheer from the crowd just a simple, dramatic awestruck silence.

Her scream was like that of a dying animal, the pain cut deep into her most private parts, all her childhood dreams of virgin marriage torn asunder.

Now she was used, sullied … spoiled. Catherine’s anguish was all consuming. Her mind was spinning, her body opened and entered with such violent intent.

For a moment or two she felt nothing, but then the tortured girl cried out in agony as she writhed and thrashed, tugging and twisting at the manacles trying to free herself ... but she soon gave up, leaving the skin of her back and shoulders stretched irrevocably tight … and her thighs opened … ready for the whip.

The bound girl’s finger nails dug deep into her palms, as tears of defeat shimmered in her eyes. Choking back a distraught sob, her breasts heaved in slow, quivering breaths,. From out of the corner of heavy-lidded eyes she saw the guards depart and the bare-chested brute who was to flog her, encroach.

Catherine could feel the sedile deep inside her body. It had hammered through her hymen without a pause and filled her so full of pain and torment. It felt huge, swollen … she was immovably hooked.

General Sherman turned his gaze away. He should put a stop to this … the Lieutenant seemed to be pushing things too far. But yet … He knew how important it was that they get to the bottom of Catherine’s nefarious activities, but that wasn’t what was focusing his attention, as the unwanted swelling in his army combat pants signified. He was finding the manhandling of his beautiful Goddaughter an extremely stimulating experience, and he was not minded to bring things to a halt … at least not yet.

“The Lord is with you chil’” A lone voice of support came from the onlookers, no doubt the words of loyal Mary.

Sherman looked up at the peachy rear of the chained girl, and let his gaze roam higher over her slender waist and then back down to her smooth thighs. He regretted the manner in which Catherine had lost her virginity, but collateral damage in times of war could not be avoided. His focus was on the bigger picture, it always was.

Catherine’s forehead fell against the post as she gripped at the chains with her flailing fingers … a useless attempt to haul herself upwards and away from the insidious wood carving. She was awash with unwanted sensations rocking instinctively against the invasive appendage, silently begging for blackness to descend, but that was not going to happen … not yet. For now, she was to perform for her audience, a pornographic doll chained to a wooden stage … this was what they had reduced her to.

"You fucking Reb whore," came a more dissenting shout from the crowd.

Catherine let out a long howl. Restrained as she was, all she could do was wriggle like a fish on a hook, a sexual marionette from one of those lewd French novels she had read about.

Then she felt her hair being heaped over her shoulder, freeing the entirety of her back ready to be properly beaten. Lieutenant Sampson shouted out the words almost everyone wanted to hear, words that she had been dreading.

“Begin!”

Chapter 29 – Whipped, 7:57am May 12th 1864

The small amount of sedile that was exposed and not embedded inside her body was stained red with her virgin blood. Catherine could not sense the flow squeezing out from the tight sheath her labia had created around the wooden phallus, but she could feel the pain between her thighs … the agonising cut of the sedile where the wood entered her body, spreading her, opening her for all to witness.

Her mind was numb, her body aching like never before … as she waited.

Just waited …

The silence was deafening. The chained girl could only hear the sounds of ordinary life, noises that came from nature; The swooping yellow and black bobolinks pecking at the crops, the rustling of the trees and the fields of corn. Only the occasional nervous cough from the viewing crowd broke the sounds of silence, every watching body now high beyond measure on anticipation.

Shepherd, the overseer, maintained the whips at White Orchard, and stiffening wax rendered this bullwhip taut as a rod. Moaning with distress at her appalling impalement, Catherine jumped as the lash was cracked against the dusty ground, soliciting an audible gasp from the onlooking gathering.

The warming sun poured down piercing the sparse cloud, burning into her pale, unprotected skin. Anticipatory tremors shook her, small beads of sweat forming on her forehead and upraised forearms. The more conscious she grew of the punishment she was about to take, the more difficult it would be to remain silent.

Distracted by a sudden breeze blowing specks of dust around the base of the platform, she glimpsed back, and saw that the man whose half-naked body already glistened with sweat, had taken up position behind her.

Panic induced terror infused her spine and stiffened her body. Why was he waiting? Was he was sizing up her tolerance for pain, how long she would last under the rigors of his lash?

As she twisted her head just a little more, his eyes met hers, bewildered, vulnerable and filled with tears. Time seemed to close in around them. As he put a leather glove onto his right hand, his gaze never wavered from her hanging body, that was still … just waiting.

“Pl… pl … please ...”

“You wish to tell me something?” the Lieutenant moved closer to the chained girl, a quiet inquisitiveness lingering in his tone.

“Y … you don’t ...h … have to do this ...” she begged, gazing back at him with doleful eyes, her face tight with a sudden, desperate, weak smile.

He waited for her to say more … she did not. It was time.

The blackest despair Catherine had ever known came upon her. To her rear a ready fist gathered round the gleaming handle of the shining lash, just waiting to be deployed ...

“Commence the first round.” It was Sampson’s clear instruction that issued the dreaded command.

“... Oh God, help me please ...” she wailed in horror, each breath more shallow than the previous one, as her bare back tensed in a futile attempt to limited the impending damage.

Too numb with fright, too shocked to even plead or beg, Catherine heaved her chest, breasts pushing against the post ...

The approach of footsteps made her heart race. The brute of a man unfurled the whip as he moved. The taut, wiry lash came alive in his hand, slithering as it sprang forth, bouncing lightly, lithely tapping the dusty floor.

The stiffened lash, whisked up with a quick, fluid whistle, and came down with a sharp, snapping slash, sending a cloud of dust into the air … an horrendous test of her nerve.

Catherine was frantic. Releasing a cry of terror in anticipation of the pain that never came, she sobbed, the deceptive stroke stirring a wild panic inside her mind. She pressed her smooth, bare thighs together, squeezing the sedile, her body twisting and squirming.

Once again, he lifted his fist, and the sound of the whip whistled with cutting clarity. This time she thrust her gaze forward, wincing, lips parting in disbelief, trembling, breathing fast. He let the whip fly through the air and she clenched her fists. With eyes closed tight, she prepared for the worst … and felt the whip curl around her body with a loud crack.

As if from a distance, Catherine heard herself draw a shuddering draught of air. Panting with loud, hysterical hoarseness, unable to draw breath, she lifted her cuffed wrists with desperate strength, raising herself a little from the rigours of the phallus inside her body.

Legs bent at the knees, feet lifted, unable to see the thin, scarlet stripe now adorning her flesh ...

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tip of the lash vanish and braced herself once more … then heard it whistle and repeat its crack. The jolt came just below her hips, above the relentless stiffening in her loins, leaving a deep, thin burn on her flesh.

Stoically Catherine confined her reaction to a gasp, her face twisting with the intensity of pain ...

The third stroke lashed the delicious curves of her buttocks, forcing a loud grunt. It sliced the skin clean through, leaving the red welted streak, raw.

With effort, and overwhelmed by the need to cry out, Catherine choked back the whimpering sobs now welling higher in her throat. She had heard the slaves say that once a victim of the lash started to scream the fight was lost.

Another whistle through the air, a resounding crack … the slashing sound of breaking skin and Catherine was slammed against the post.

She lost control then, consumed in a fit of convulsive shuddering, and she realised that by not screaming she was only encouraging him to whip her harder ... and he duly obliged!

Gazing briefly backwards, twisting hips around her impalement, she saw his muscular body rotate from side to side, twirling the long, stout coil over his head in a circular motion. Like a lasso rope, each swing emitted a portentous whooshing noise, gaining momentum ...

Then he plied the whip lengthwise across the middle of her back with an even louder and harsher slash, as it dug deeper into the skin below her shoulders, driving a shriek of agony from her lips.

She knew with dreaded certainty that she could not withstand this severe flogging for long. Two more strokes fell, fizzing and searing into her flesh …

Despite the unbearable pain, the invasive penetration and the degrading humiliation, she had to hold on for as long as she could.

The bullwhip pounded her slender body, cracked on more tender skin, this time deep inside the clenched curves of her buttocks ... soft flesh that burned in its fervour ...

Then she could fight no more, and at last Catherine threw her head back, her long hair flying wildly loose, and released a shrill, tortured scream.

Perverse cheers rose from the crowd, a smattering of depraved applause and an all-round stiffening of groins.

Once again, the whip sought to slake its desires, thirsting for her agony. Curling the leather around both thighs in a serpentine manner, the whipmaster released another wild, excruciating crash to slice at her bare skin...

Yet again Catherine thrashed and gritted her teeth, unwittingly driving the phallus deeper into her own body … her wooden assailant fucking her hard …

The man was clearly an artist with the whip, chosen for the task because of that very reason, and right now Catherine McCown was his nubile, human canvass. He hurled his arm backwards and then applied a burgeoning drag movement that drove the lash inexorably forward, this time landing diagonally upon her back ...

The penultimate strokes of this first round of whipping were hurled upon her with a hellish, unforgiving fury, the fiercest by far. She greeted each with a primal scream of hoarse, uninhibited abandon, her mind blurred by the burning hell of this endless beating ...

Then, when the final lash fell, shearing the backs of her thighs with a ripping crack, her scream reached a flaring, piercing crescendo ... then suddenly faded!

Chapter 30 – At the Whipping Post, 8:34am May 12th 1864

Mary, the House-Slave, could watch no longer. Her face buried in her hands as each cry extracted from her beloved Mistress brought about another wrench to her own body.

“Oh Lordy, deliver her from this evil I beg of you,” she beseeched. But a peeked glance from between her fingers told her that wasn’t going to be the case.

General Sherman, Catherine’s Uncle Billy, saw every curve of her body as his Goddaughter writhed and squirmed, her flesh welted and opened before his very eyes.

The first round was over. Had she had enough? Would she tell them what they wanted to know? Most of him hoped so … most, but not all.

With her consciousness barely returned, Catherine hung from the post gasping for breath, the weight from her stricken body shared between her wrists and the point of impalement between her legs. It was sheer agony.

Desperate not to move any more lest she increase the pain, Catherine felt her consciousness slipping away.

Then, through the miasma of twenty-five torment-gilded, scream-laden lashes, Lieutenant Sampson stood from his seat, moved to the post and grabbed her by the hair. Then, twisting her face towards him, he spoke.

“You endured well, Catherine,” he remarked softly, with amusement. “I knew you would, I saw strength in your eyes, the day we arrived.”

Lost in the shame of mortification and pain, she looked away. The Lieutenant continued.

“Tell me ... is the traitorous bushwhacker that you are hiding with your lack of disclosure worth all of this?”

Catherine said nothing … she couldn’t form a single word, even had she had something to say.

“This whipping that you take for his sake will become decidedly more unpleasant,” he continued, letting her head fall so that he could circle around in front of her.

“I cannot even begin to imagine the anguish you felt, being left here all alone while William Quantrill rode away, Catherine ... abandoning you, only to save himself ... leaving you behind, with no more than a bitter, broken promise ...”

She gasped, protesting timidly, “That’s nothing Lieutenant, but a lie! I have no one. There is nothing else …”

“Is it?” he countered. “It might not even matter now. With our Cavalry prowling about in these regions, he might already be dead.”

In sudden grief, she lost all control, weeping madly. “You bastard...”

“If so, you suffer needlessly, Catherine ... you lose nothing by telling me what you know ...”

Through the loose strands of hair hanging over face, she glared at him, scarcely containing the fierceness of her passion ...

“Go fetch your whip and finish me,” and as soon as she said it, Catherine felt her heart gallop wildly, she was convulsing again.

Sampson looked backwards to where the blood specked bullwhip lay on the table, considering it ... as if he might do just that ...

“Tempting,” came his polished reply.

“Are you likewise a coward, Lieutenant?” she seethed with a sneer, goading him. “Do it! Whip me for the disgrace I’ve brought upon your great and noble Union!”

“The measure of your punishment is fixed, Catherine … I will not accelerate it and bring about your oblivion before we are good and ready.”

Hearing Sampson’s smile deepen to a vile, scornful laughter, she writhed angrily, then tensed, gasping, hit by a surge of pain so severe that perspiration once again sprang from her pores ...

The next assault would most surely break her, perhaps even kill her. She hoped for the latter, for then at least she could die without having to tell these animals anything.

Her whipped, open thighs trembled, pressing hard against the timber to which she was secured, and also to that upon which she was speared.

He leaned closer once more and she felt his breath upon her ear as he whispered “I know you are guilty, Catherine McCown.”

Her mind tipped into a void where a welcome haze permeated around her head. The poor girl’s body was already beaten, welted and bleeding beyond what her mind could bear. Her shoulders slumped, her head fell forward, and then ... only blackness.

Chapter 31 – Break Point, The Whipping Post, 8:45am May 12th 1864

Silence reigned. With the whipping stopped and her interrogation becoming unbearable, Catherine let her conscious self simply fade away and with it the immediate memories of the brutal flogging.

Her back was welted, cut and bleeding ... Other parts of her body too. This thug of a soldier had lashed her buttocks and her thighs with as much measure, and pleasure, as he had Catherine’s back.

“Major, if you please …” The General, who despite abhorring the ferocity with which his Goddaughter’s body had been whipped, remained resolute in the need to do so, instructed the surgeon to attend to her.

“Begging your pardon Sir, but might we wake her first?” It was Lieutenant Sampson’s voice, and he clearly did not want to miss out on this treat.

Sherman sighed and nodded, “Yes, yes of course.”

A smile and a nod brought Private Hill forward with a full bucket, water slopping over the top.

“Is it salted soldier?” Sergeant Oak asked. The question raised an audible gasp from the watching crowd, and when the private answered, “Yes Sir,” the gasp turned to an excited babble.

“Then proceed to rouse her.”

Taking up position within a few feet of the unconscious girl, Private Hill threw the entire contents over Catherine’s limp, shackled and impaled body.

She woke with a start, arched away from the post and screamed at the shock. But the cry turned to a writhing groan when she felt the salt begin to bite.

“Was that really necessary Lieutenant?” The General questioned.

“It will help her heal General Sir,” Sampson added with smug intonation, once again putting his diabolical action into a rational context.

Catherine’s extreme reactions had stilled somewhat to a constant mewling as she writhed and squirmed her way through the hellish agony.

Moving to the post, Major Watson placed his fingers under the girl’s chin and lifted her head. He looked into her eyes and nodded. As soon as he took his fingers away, Catherine’s head fell once more onto her chest.

Remaining professional in his duty, he took out his stethoscope and listened to her breathing.

It took but a minute from him to stand clear of Catherine and announce. “She verges on the edge of exhaustion but the girl is fit and healthy enough for the whipping to continue.”

Upon hearing his sanction for the continuance of this horrific spectacle, the level of excited chatter rose again.

The Lieutenant approached the post. His eyes gleamed as he beheld her. In Catherine’s mind they were the eyes of a demon.

“I’m enthused by your tolerance, Miss McCown. You’ve shown an impressive degree of resilience. You withstood a punishment that would have driven the hardiest man to his knees,” he remarked, his features lost in the shadows as he approached her.

“Go. To. Hell.” The lashed girl was able to enunciate weakly, but clearly.

Sampson laughed, “You need to start addressing me with the proper respect girl.”

“You’re already having me whipped,” she snarled, trembling, glancing up at him. “Why should I bother with hollow tokens of respect?”

“Bold wench for a virgin … oops!” came Sergeant Oak’s words loud and clear, to which the soldiers all laughed their mocking mirth at his sarcasm. All except the General that is, for he took this opportunity to take his leave and embark on a walk to clear his head.

Sampson spoke again. “Catherine, you could make this so much easier for yourself.”

“By submitting to your games Lieutenant? By giving you this so-called valuable information.” Her muted laughter was filled with disdain. She paused before releasing yet more vitriol.

“How dare you and your kind inflict such horror on us! How dare you snatch us from our civilized world and submit us to your barbarous way of life!”

The Lieutenant’s face reddened, ablaze with renewed anger. “I grow weary of your insolence, girl, not to mention your plots, your deceptions, your sedition against the Union.” he said, circling to her left. “It is time for us to work on those pretty legs of yours.”

Terror surged in Catherine’s breast as the burly, stern-faced whipmaster reassumed position to her right. She was to be whipped again. In his hand was the next chosen instrument of her torment … a cat’s claw, and of nine tails. Unbeknown to the girl who had previously led such a sheltered life, ‘the cat’ was the worst whip of them all, and it was upon her nubile form that this evil appliance would wreak its havoc.

From its long-studded handle hung nine narrow straps of thick leather. Small knots graced the ends of each, they would quicken the whip’s flight and sharpen its sting.

“Where is he, Catherine?” Sampson’s question came as swiftly and sharply as a knife. She slowly twisted her head to face him, trembling, her head dizzy with the uprush of pounding blood. Pressing her knees tight together, she flexed the muscles of her exposed hips and legs, straining against wood with which she had been so violently raped.

Through heavy breath and parched fatigue, Catherine replied, “I. Do. Not. Know.”

Shaking of his head, The Lieutenant turned to the whipmaster and said, “Show this girl our cure for an ailing memory.”

As the General retook his seat, Sampson issued his next instruction. “Begin.”

Chapter 32 – The Cat, 9:05 am May 12th 1864

Shutting her eyes, the movement of her hips only succeeding in swapping one position of discomfort for another, she reached deep within herself for any hidden reserves of tolerance. The sedile was fully buried inside her body, not one inch was in view, but the physical pain point of her impalement had grown numb, and its mental anguish had been cast to the recesses of her mind by greater, more sentient, tortures from the lash itself.

Sleek and sinewy whistles cut the air as without any delay the soldier drew back the whip and let the instrument with many tails loose. Catherine’s head flung itself backwards, her neck twisting, long hair flailing, as the tips of the cat swung hard across her bare, sculpted thighs with a salacious crack,

“AAAARGGGHHHHH!” Her pitiful cry was loud and resounding.

The audience gasped as her body exploded with fresh pain, her skin screaming with agony.

Sampson wanted the information from her, of course he did, but in equal, if not greater measure, he needed to see her grovel, beg, plead and sob ... From his seated position the Lieutenant shouted out his words.

“You have harboured bushwhackers, passed on ciphers and been party to sedition Catherine McCown. Where can William Quantrill can be found … may his soul roast in the pits of Hell for his subversion.”

Hearing the whip come again, Catherine steeled herself against its angry deliverance and cried out once more as the cat struck at her thighs. Her spine arched and her body stiffened, shredding whatever remnants of composure she had left.

“You will now address me as Sir, Miss McCown. Otherwise the lash will not count towards the dozen. Do you understand?” Sampson instructed, standing to move once more to her front.

Silence.

“Catherine. Do. You, Understand?”

“Y … Yes …”

The cat lashed out again … harder, the stroke bringing her already reddened flesh to burning point, her jaws to clench, her lips to tremble.

“Yes ... ‘Sir’,” he smirked.

She lifted her eyes to him with fierce wretchedness.

“Yes, ‘Sir’...” she responded quietly.

The skin of her thighs was already raw and swollen, covered with vicious abrasions. “On your estate we found evidence of your collusion with these outlaws, do you acknowledge that?”

With a quiver in her voice, she answered, high and soft, “Yes … Sir...”

The Lieutenant nodded over her shoulder and the hissing leather was released to once more tug tenaciously at her skin as it laid more lines of fire across the backs of her legs.

“PLEASE NOOOOOOOOOO … ARGHHHH!”

Sampson waited for her to calm a little before speaking again.

“It was your spying that resulted in several of General Sherman’s Army being murdered. Is that true?”

“No, no, no … Sir,” There was even more power behind the next stroke, a flicking of the wrist that caused the lashes to splay and the slap of knotted leather to bite ever deeper. Bloody specks flew into the air.

“Like a common whore you sheltered Quantrill in your house, and gave him food and supplies that would have otherwise benefited our troops.”

“No, no I did not … Sir,”

Once more the long strands of the cat were launched in a sideways stroke so hard that they howled through the air, the vigorous sound immediately followed by an ear-splitting crash. Catherine clenched her teeth against its searing pain, she arched as salty sweat seeped from her pores to mingle with raw skin. But there was no sound left inside her to make.

In panic, she began tugging pointlessly at the shackles, sagging deeper in her bonds as her naked breasts thrust hard against the rough-hewn timber of the post.

“You took the silver regimental buttons from those murdered men as ghoulish souvenirs, didn’t you?”

“Please Sir, I have no … idea wh … where … th … they came from …”

Sherman stood up, his face blazing with a mix of concern, fear, and righteousness, “For the love of God Catherine, tell him what you know and end this shocking torment!”

Catherine turned and, through heavy-lidded eyes, she simply stared into her Godfather’s imploring face.

Another lash wrenched a piercing scream from her lips as the knotted strands stripped her skin. Catherine’s toned thighs began to bleed anew through the violent crisscross patchwork, some a dark pink, most a deep, livid red. A slick layer of sweat swathed her firm, round buttocks and the backs of her legs, her entire body shimmering as though smeared with oil.

“You kept records of coded messages. In short you have built a Rebel intelligence station here at White Orchard, admit to that Miss McCown, and I will end this now.”

In a barely audible whisper she responded, “No … Sir, I have ... not”

The penultimate lashes caused her to scream uncontrollably, the horror witnessed by the watchful crowd amplified as the platform beneath her was peppered with flecks of blood dripping from her feet.

There was little movement from her now. The compounding pain from the multiple floggings had taken their toll on Catherine’s beaten body.

The whipmaster grunted with fatigue each time he swung the menacing lash. So engrossed was he in this wretched task, watching her near-naked body writhe and squirm under his exertions, that his pants sported a huge bulge … what he wouldn’t give to satiate it in place of that wooden thing between her legs.

Smiling, Sampson reached out to brush his fingers against the point where the sedile disappeared into Catherine’s body. Unwittingly she writhed against his ministrations, his tactile fingers caressing her, moving around her hips to touch at the blood streaked whip marks and finally at the tender, lash-streaked skin of her thighs. The poor girl closed her eyes, her trembling body wincing at his touch.

As the Lieutenant nodded, a pleading whimper escaped the girl’s lips. The hard crack on her legs pushed another pathetic cry from her parched throat …

“Where ... is ... he ...?” Sampson asked again, his voice calm, his tone assertive.

Shaking with exhaustion, Catherine collapsed into a fit of deep, convulsive sobs. “I don’t know!” she cried through gritted teeth, before once again, she slipped away into the welcome darkness.

Chapter 33 – Waking Catherine, The Whipping Post, 9:25 am May 12th 1864

Catherine’s body dripped with blood. Her skin was welted and raked, whipped for a second time to the point of losing consciousness. But she had told them nothing, apart from admitting that they had found something that could be construed to resemble ‘evidence’, albeit very circumstantial.

“Lieutenant, should I wake her again?” It was Private Hill ready with another salted water filled bucket.

“Please Massa, please do not do that again, let me …”

The crowd turned to see who was speaking, as the seated officers looked up. Mary, the house-slave, was leaving the side lines and making her audacious way forward towards the whipping post.

“She need water Massa, let me give it to her.”

Sherman nodded “Very well give her the water and rouse her gently.” Did the General think that his concessionary approach did something to make up for the agonising torture he was sanctioning for his Goddaughter?

Mary stood by her Mistress’s head. “Oh, my poor chil’ what’ve they done to you.” She reached out and stroked Catherine’s hair. Slowly but surely the hung girl’s eyes flickered open, and she smiled a weak, heart-breaking smile.

Mary raised the small jug to parched lips and Catherine gasped as she stretched her neck to take water.

“Pl … please … M … Mary …” her words were quiet, weak as Mary leaned in closer.

“What is it chil’?” she asked.

“Get … a … a … a mess … age. To. Him. Pl … please M … Mary.”

The house slave nodded in a barely discernible manner, not wanting anyone to realise they were actually speaking.

“T … tell him to … go … Kentucky … like … w … we said … M … Mary.”

“I will Mistress,” Mary spoke in whisper tears filling her eyes.

“And. Tell. Him I … I am sorry.” Each word was tough going for poor Catherine, whose beaten body was as good as ruined.

Mary poured more water onto her Mistress’s thirsting lips and nodded. No one looked as the inconspicuous slave walked through the crowd without stopping and onward towards the house. As she made her way surreptitiously to the mansion so that she could carry out the instructions she had been given, the slave heard the voracious crowd cheer and she stopped to turn.

“Oh, my poor baby,” Mary whispered, seeing Catherine arch away from the post as another bucket of insidious brine was thrown over her carved flesh once again and her ‘poor baby’ let out an ear-splitting scream!

Chapter 34 – A Turn for the Worse, The Whipping Post, 9:37 am May 12th 1864

“I cannot sanction further punishment. The girl is exhausted and her flesh is so badly marked that her internal organs will begin to close down if she receives more of this onto the same parts of her body.”

Catherine hung lifelessly in the surrounding silence as the Major declared his findings.

General Sherman, in his everyday life, was a family man, neighbourly, pastoral and well liked. But Sherman the military leader was ruthless, single-minded and focused on outcomes. It was the latter that now came to the fore.

“Then we will turn the girl round Major. She can now face the whip, maybe then we will hear the truth.”

Even Lieutenant Sampson could not believe what he had just heard. Had the General really ordered them to turn the bitch’s position so that the front of her body would face the lash? Her breasts, nipples, cunt …

“Could you pass her fit for that, Major?”

Even the Surgeon was flummoxed. He hadn’t expected that from his commanding officer. “Well, yes, I suppose …”

“Then that is how we will proceed. Lieutenant see to it please. I will be at the house. You will come and find me when there is something more to report. Is that clear?”

“Yes General, Sir!” Sampson’s ardour had been refuelled. This was beyond anything he had dreamed. He, along with the attentive throng, watched as Sherman, puffing on a newly lit cigar, made his way back to the main house …

Catherine had heard the exchange, and, summoning her last vestiges of strength, she raised her head, twisted her neck, and yelled as loud as was possible from her gasping throat.

“That’s right Uncle Billy, you walk away. I dare you to stay and watch them whip me again! If my mama could see you now, she would slap your face General ...” Saying all of that took the strength from her, but her words and their vitriolic tone pierced Sherman’s heart. In his mind he saw Catherine as a younger girl, running wild and free, laughing and yelling with glee … He continued walking. He didn’t look back.

If the shackled girl had thought that her situation couldn’t become anymore grim, then she had been wrong. But the pervading thoughts that infiltrated her mind were about Mary. She was at the house preparing to leave and get a message to William. If she was found she would be summarily executed. ‘Oh God, oh no please do not let that happen’ … Catherine uttered these words under what little breath she had left.

“You heard the Gen’l, get her turned around … and you Private Hill, fetch animal fat from the food store, we’re gonna need it.”

The shackled girl could not see as two burly soldiers came up behind her and each took hold of a shapely, albeit cut and bleeding, thigh.

Catherine cried out as they manhandled her without care or thought, lifting her … dragging her poor body from the sedile, revealing its once clean and smooth surface to be covered with the blood of her maidenhead.

The crowd gasped and several of the female slaves stumbled as their knees weakened at the savage sight.

“Oh Lordy,” Mercy’s Mother declared quietly, having just arrived on the scene, leaving her beaten daughter laying on the lowly cot in their hut.

Catherine had no strength left and as the soldiers released their hold on her she simply hung lifeless from the shackles, powerless and unresponsive, an exhausted specimen of tarnished beauty.

But she was not left alone for long, for just a minute or two later, through glazed eyes, she watched the soldiers smearing the sedile with animal fat, and even in her miasmic state, she knew exactly why they were doing that.

These bastards had taken her mouth, and her sex and they now intended to impale her by the bottom. If she had any substance left inside her body, she would have been sick.

“Careful now, make sure she feels it deeply.” The Lieutenant was enjoying himself. When the girl had been turned, the front of her glorious body appeared virtually blemish free, save for the occasional extended welt where the whips had fastened themselves to her limbs and torso in a serpentine like manner. She looked stunning, naked in shackles, long hair wild and sweat soaked, head bowed low on her chest.

Then she howled like never before. A loud feral cry that signified the violation of the third entrance to her body.

Once more, a reverent silence reigned over the scene as Catherine was lowered and left freely to hang, making sure the final inch or two of the blood covered sedile disappeared into her anal passage.

Chapter 35 – All he ever wanted, The Whipping Post, 9:56 am May 12th 1864

The young Tom Shepherd’s mother had been taken from him, dying in her sick bed two years previous. At fifteen years old, his father was young Tom’s only parent, putting a minimal amount of food on the table, whenever he was sober that was. When he was drunk the only attention the boy received was from his father’s fist.

They existed in a rundown shack, and the neighbours spoke openly about the “White Trash” that lived nearby. He hated his father and missed his mama.

It was just one year later, in the year of our Lord 1852, that young Shepherd ran away and took up a stable boy’s job at White Orchard. He was either going to turn into a man like his father was, or one that was the benevolent antithesis of what that bastard had become. Unfortunately for the slaves it was the former. When Shepherd was appointed Overseer at White Orchard, he made their life a living hell!

Yet despite having the new found outlet for his anger and depravity, he remained envious. Resentful of the family life that the McCown’s had. The handsome father, a military stalwart, his pretty, attentive wife and, despite her fledgling beauty, the little bitch of a daughter.

So, when the whipmaster, the topless soldier that had wielded the lash thus far, declared his shoulder to be stiff following the administration of the second round of lashes, it was without hesitation that Shepherd made known to the Lieutenant his desire to take over the duties.

“You know how to wield this Mister Shepherd?” Sampson had asked.

“Mister Shepherd?” The Lieutenant had to repeat himself due the fact that the overseer was distracted by the stimulating sight of his so-called ‘little bitch’, naked, shackled and impaled. He could hardly believe that he now had the opportunity to add to her suffering. It made his groin stiffen. Would he get the chance to fuck her as well?

“What? Oh yeah, ‘course I do Lieutenant, me an’ the whip, we’re like hand ‘n’ glove if y’know what I mean.”

Nodding, Sampson made his way to the post while Shepherd stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves ready to do his duty.

Chapter 36 – The Flogging Continues, The Whipping Post, 10:10 am May 12th 1864

“Wait!” Wearily Catherine raised her head and looked forward at the point in front where the Lieutenant and the brute of an overseer stood. It was Sampson’s voice she had heard.

“Chain her ankles … behind the post …”

There was a gasp from the crowd. The implications of the new position ordered by the junior officer were only too obvious, and the poor girl who would be the recipient of this additional agony, groaned. With her legs pulled back behind the post her body weight would be thrust forward which would make her breasts and sex a more potent target for the whip, in addition to which she would be pulling away from her impalement on the wood causing more extreme discomfort.

“Our Father, thou who art in heaven …” as the soldiers approached the post they heard the beaten girl whispering the Lord’s Prayer.

“Thy name be hallowed … Nghhhhh!” Her ankles were gripped and pulled.

“… through all time … pl … please … no …”

“Oh God … on earth as in thy realms … ohhhhhh nooo that’s too … realms sublime …”

The words of her Christian imploration were interspersed with the audible manifestation of her agony as Catherine’s slender legs were secured as ordered, feet firmly pulled back behind the post.

“Good. Now Mister Shepherd she is all yours …”

The overseer smashed the bullwhip, his preferred whip of choice, on the rutted, dusty ground …

“… once I have spoken with Miss McCown.” The Lieutenant slowly approached the post where the poor girl hung in the chains and shackles. He couldn’t take his eyes from her body, pristine almost, from this view …

“Again Catherine, I ask you, I implore you. Do you have anything to say to me?”

Catherine paused and slowly looked up at Sampson through the matted covering of her long dark hair, and she nodded.

“Good girl, stand down Mister Shepherd, let the girl whisper her informative words to me.” The Lieutenant bent so that his face was near to hers.

No further words were forthcoming and as Sampson looked directly at her, from somewhere Catherine found the strength and spat once again into his face.

The calmness of Lieutenant Sampson’s reaction was perhaps the most concerning thing, because it was clear that the stupid girl had just signed her own death papers. Taking out his ‘kerchief to wipe the spittle from his cheek, he turned back to face the overseer.

“Begin Mister Shepherd and do not spare the whip one little bit!”

Inside her mind Catherine pleaded for this to stop. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to withstand the whip on the soft, yielding flesh of her breasts and between her thighs … the thought was too horrendous, and to have this evil man, her nemesis, dispense the lash …

But no words came from her mouth. Outwardly she simply hung in shackles hardly moving, awaiting the kiss of the bullwhip, which, through barely open eyes, she now saw Shepherd wielding.



The pathetic vision which she offered drew a combination of lust-fuelled smiles and sympathetic expressions from the audience, though mainly the former. Sampson nodded for the flogging to begin.

There were a few moments of silence save the plaintive sobbing of a young slave, during which the tension and anticipation grew to a new peak. Shepherd, to the front of Catherine, the whip in his right hand, drew back his arm.

She screamed even before the leather smacked hard into the middle of her right breast, crossing the nipple. The flesh distorted for a few moments, flattened by the blow before bouncing back to its original, firm roundness.

As the pain enveloped her, Catherine screamed, aching forwards pushing out her body even further.

Despite bearing witness to every lash thus far applied to the poor girl, the audience had not experienced a despairing reaction like this before.

Shepherd was fresh to the task and wasted no time. Before Catherine could even attempt to draw breath, he slashed the leather lash into the same place on Catherine's left breast and drew a similar response. Her initial scream continued uninterrupted as inconceivable pain shot through both her nipples and her breasts, radiating into her whole upper body. She had never imagined such agony!

The tremors and aftershock of the strokes made her cry out afresh, her squirming causing the wooden invader to stretch the small rose-like hole, pushing at her bowels, tearing her anus …

The audience stared, transfixed, at the barbarity playing out before them. Hands groped stiffening groins, saliva dripped from unshaven chins, while a young house-slave tried to hide her grimaces as she imagined the pain of her poor mistress, knowing that an open show of sympathy would most likely not be tolerated.

Shepherd warmed to his task, his undoubted skill with this insidious instrument of torture reaching new heights. The whip lashed into every sensitive part of Catherine’s pert, upright flesh, still full with the firmness of youth.

She screamed loudly as each new lash fell. Twelve hard strokes had been given thus far. Shepherd was salivating, drool dripping from his unshaven chin as he gasped for breath. His victim’s breasts were red, swollen and welted, small cuts mingled with long, red welts , causing small red rivulets to drip from the undersides.

Sampson ordered him to stop.

Catherine sagged when she realised the lashing had ceased. Her chest heaved as she took in great gasps of air. Sweat soaked her upper body. Was it over? Please God, she prayed, let them stop.

Her hopes were soon to be dashed.

"I want all parts of her Reb bitch tits lashed", said the Lieutenant, "… but they will need to be lifted to expose the undersides. Get me lengths of spun twine ..."

Any of the onlookers who had doubts about the commitment of the junior officer to see this appalling torture carried out to the full, now understood in no uncertain terms that he intended to deliver on his promised.

They watched fascinated as the soldiers fondled Catherine’s breasts to enlarge and stiffen the nipples, before securing a length of the twine via a knotted loop, around each erect teat. A groan from the girl signified the additional agony that had just been introduced as the thread was pulled upwards, fastening tightly around her engorged buds, to be secured to the chain at her wrists. Now every part of each breast was exposed for Shepherd’s attention, flesh raised, nipples pointing upwards, until there was no crease and the pale untouched skin of the undersides was revealed as Catherine’s abused breasts took some of her weight, pulling the flesh agonisingly away from her body.

She groaned and let her head fall, her chin brushing the top of her chest.

The overseer once more took up his position. There would be no more questions. This was no longer an interrogation; it had become a show. Entertainment for the troops …

"The next twelve strokes are to be laid upon flesh not yet harmed", came the command from Sampson.

The flogging recommenced and the screams loudened as the leather struck unblemished skin, the movement of her breasts causing the twine to bite and pull at her molested nipples.

Blood now oozed from sliced skin, and trickled slowly downwards as the lash continued to descend ruthlessly upon its targets. In amongst slicing the whip into her unprotected chest, Shepherd could not resist the alluring sight of her taut abdomen. With a glint in his eye and a smirk on his lips he whistled several strokes across her flattened belly, taking the breath completely from her body.

The twelve strokes ordered were completed and Catherine slumped in her bonds, head hanging forward, breathless and moaning from the pain.

She had received sixty-one strokes in total, all over her body, well almost all over … there was one other place …

Chapter 37 – A Confession, The Whipping Post, 10:35 am May 12th 1864

Shepherd looked across at the Lieutenant who held up his hand. Sampson moved to the post to gaze upon his young, nubile victim.

He stood on the small platform to her side, and took his sweet time contemplating her, admiring the way she hung, naked and shackled for all to see …

Catherine closed her eyes and tried not to think about the additional sensation of humiliation growing inside her as it became a painful addition to the agonising flagellation of her body.

Finally, after long minutes of stillness, she felt his inevitable touch. Sampson’s fingers slipped over her taught abdomen to brush her hairless mound.

“Please … no …” she uttered for no one else to hear but him. Using only the tip of his longest digit, he traced the outer regions of her sex, lazily drawing intricate patterns on her skin flicking away the remnants of dried virgin blood. She gasped and writhed as much as the bondage allowed, trying to manoeuvre herself away from him, but succeeding in making it appear as though she was attempting to leverage his touch even more. Like a whore trying to make him pleasure her … but the Lieutenant was content to tease Catherine for his own gratification, for he was seeking a particular outcome from his ministrations. One that would maximise the agony of what he was about to order.

But for now, he relished the way her soft lips swelled before his eyes, and how her clitoris poked its engorged head out from under its hooded cover. The junior officer’s cock was straining against the fabric of his uniform, his need to have her overwhelming his rational thought.

She furiously shook her head “No!” but he was oblivious to her pleas. Sampson placed his hands on her inner thighs caressing her soft skin. Slowly he worked upward to the flesh that joined her legs to her body, running his fingers along the sensitive creases. Up first … then down … down and under to touch the entry point of the sedile between her cheeks … then back up, this time along the right side of her labia, circling her clitoris, and then back down the left side. Catherine had never felt anything like this before and she moaned, squirming as far as her bound limbs would countenance.

Suddenly his fingers were gone.

… And there was silence. Everywhere was quiet except for the rasping from Catherine’s wheezing chest, and then … she heard his words.

“You will strike the next twelve between her legs Mister Shepherd.”

The overseer raised his arm and swung with a flourish!

The poor girl screamed as, without any moments to ponder, the unbearable sting of the bullwhip made her plunge, the leather biting into the front of both tender legs, and her uncontrolled screams echoed around the entire estate.

Catherine’s body was glistening with sweat … Then a new whistle sounded in the air.

“AAAARGGHHHHHHH!”

“Eeeeeooooo oh noo … please not anymore, not like this … nooooooo, Mercy I beg …!” Catherine was whipped hard, the leather splitting her soft flesh and biting into her swollen clitoris.

She was shackled in a way that pushed her mound and breasts forward, held up as an easy target for the violence now being meted out. Legs were pulled back and drawn as far apart as the fastenings allowed, her wrists chained high, stretching her beautiful shape into an exquisite bow.

The Lieutenant’s touch had moistened her and opened her up to display Catherine’s genitals in the most crude manner, as well as exposing her to the torments of the whip. The lips of her sex were swollen, crossed now by a raised red welt and the clitoris exposed, hard and shining …

Shepherd’s arm moved again and the single leather thong slashed down and caught Catherine at the very core of her being, biting into the tender folds.

“ARRRAGGHHHHH! … noooooo more, no more!” The pain had restored her voice and now she yelled.

The shock of the biting whiplash along the slit of her sex rushed through her body, made her breasts quiver with an unwitting enticement.

“Whore !” shouted one voice … it was the voice of a slave … he had called his mistress a whore!

Catherine had suffered ten strokes to her mound and the sensitive, open flesh below it. Her tear-filled eyes did not see the next one coming, but she most definitely felt the extreme cutting pain once the tip of the leather thong lashed into her clitoris …

The slave’s word had been right. Catherine had been whipped like a whore … like a slave-whore … it was what she had become.

Another lash broke her self-pitying trance … and then … again, the beating stopped.

She hardly had the strength to breathe as Sampson approached her.

The information they meant to whip out of her was quivering on the edge of her lips. Catherine deduced that she must be going mad with the pain because now she was hearing voices inside her head ...

‘Tell them and you can end this now ...’ one voice said.

‘... yet, if you do, his capture will mean his death, and the deaths of many more ...’ said another.

‘... trust me, he’s safe ... he will have the message from Mary … he will be far away …’ the conversation continued in her plagued mind.

‘… but I just cannot …’ she pleaded with herself.

‘… then lie!’ …

“North Carolina ...” she gasped out loud, mindlessly obeying the silent order in her brain. Her voice deepened to a ghost of a whisper.

“... he went to North Carolina ...” Sampson slowly took his gaze away from her and let it rest on the heavily perspiring overseer.

“You see, Mister Shepherd, she can be reasonable. One needs only to frame the question properly to elicit the desired response.”

The overseer let out a slow sigh of satisfaction, his face a smile of triumph, his groin a bulging volcano of lust.

“I defer to your wisdom and experience, Lieutenant,” he grinned.

Catherine had almost slipped into numbing darkness again. The pain of the fire laid across her thighs and between her legs had left her too terrified, too exhausted to even tremble …

Suddenly Sampson grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. Her dazed, fluttering eyes focused as best they could on his chilling visage.

“And still, it’s a most strange place for William Quantrill to flee, isn’t it, Catherine?” he remarked suspiciously. “North Carolina is not the Rebel stronghold he ordinarily likes to dispense his cowardly justice in, now is it huh?”

The Lieutenant paused, gripping her hair a little tighter making her grimace, before adding, “He has too little support there, much too far away to mount an effective attack on anyone, wouldn’t you say?”

“They are cowards, Sir,” Sergeant Oak ventured. “All of them. They most likely couldn’t face the inevitable if they had stayed around here …”

Sampson forestalled him, releasing his grip. “Do you honestly expect me to take that chance Sergeant, the bitch is lying, South Carolina would be the place to go if he had headed in that direction?”

A looming figure appeared on the scene. Eyes piercing, hands clasped behind his back.

“But now we have our answer Lieutenant, do we not? And so, we must send out Kilpatrick to see if there are the beginnings of a North Carolina trail for Quantrill and his damnable Raiders.”

It was General Sherman’s voice, he had made his way back to the scene, pre-empting its completion, and was trying hard to balance the emotional havoc inside his head. They had their intelligence; Catherine was linked to the notorious Quantrill. They now knew that the note book referenced William Quantrill’s movements, and that he had been responsible for the murders of his soldiers a few days earlier.

But his own beautiful Goddaughter, hanging, beaten and battered barely alive, from a whipping post … she had admitted to being a Rebel spy. How he wished that was not the case, even at the expense of not having the knowledge that they now enjoyed. He knew that she ought to be executed, usually that would take place on the spot, especially if he himself was around to sanction it. But he could not do it. Not here, not like this, not without having the opportunity to talk with her some more.

“We must get back to the camp or Johnston’s Army will be upon us. Lieutenant have your men gather up what they have readied for confiscation. Sergeant Oak take the girl down from the post … carefully, then wrap her in a blanket and put her into my carriage. Major Watson, when we arrive back you will take her to the infirmary and personally tend to her wounds.

Sherman turned to address the negros, who were all watching wide eyed.

“You are all freemen and women. It is no longer legal to hold slaves, and so you may choose what you now do. Stay here and do what you have always done, or head North and find sanctuary. If you are an able-bodied male without the encumbrance of a child or sweetheart you may join us and serve in my Pioneer Force …”

He paused letting his declaration of their emancipation sink in.

“What I am saying is that you now have a choice. What you do is up to you …”

There was an excited babble then cries of joy, until one voice attempted to sour the mood.

“You can leave them with me General, I’ll make sure that these darkies choose the right option.”

Sherman looked into the eyes of Tom Shepherd and slowly shook his head. “No sir, you are a Georgia native who has avoided fighting for his State and his land. Happy to let everyone else do that. You are now my prisoner of war. Shackle him …”

And with those words, despite his obvious consternation, the overseer was seized.

Within the hour the convoy of men, horses, and foraged provisions along with livestock, made its way back towards Resaca. Sherman’s carriage was at the front. He sat inside the cabin looking down on the exhausted, battered body of his beautiful Goddaughter.

“God please forgive me for what I have done to this delicate human soul …”

As he wiped a tear from his eye, the General was unaware of the silhouetted figure on horseback watching from the peak of the bluff above.

William Quantrill would head to Kentucky, but he would not be going without the girl he loved.

THE GEORGIA PEACH

THE END

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