A Patriots Tale

Shannon's freckled nose wrinkled in disgust as she faced for the first time the one with the "warts". Shannon's red hair was billowing wildly over her shoulders and hanging down between her full young breasts, lining her perfect skin with a layer of fiery protection. A nervous incessant flutter in her stomach told her she was in trouble but she was excited too to be confronting the man she hated most of all, Oliver Cromwell.

Her proud chest pushed forward and her chin up in defiance of his disdain would have been a proud and pretty picture for her beloved father back home waiting for his wayward daughter, yet it was a direct challenge to the English puritan who now stood before her. "Do you know girl what we do with traitors?" He drawled lazily, his rotting breath attacking her upturned nose.

Shannon had put bad mushrooms into a pot of the soldiers' stew creating a sickness mayhem that would have pushed back the invasion had all of Ireland tried it...She made herself even taller and tossed her forehead back to meet his gaze, "I am not a traitor to me country sir. It is not I that breached the walls at Drogheda with cannons and slaughtered the people like you would slaughter innocent lambs in a pen. Why only a coward would burn able bodied men in the steeple of a church." Her green eyes looked directly into his dead fish eyes and she smirked in cool bitterness.

Cromwell could not be bested by an Irish whelp and certainly not a female so he slapped her hard on her face. Her face spun to the right and then righted itself only sturdier back onto her neck and she spat on him with the force of a nor'easter. Cromwell grabbed her by the hair and back-handed her across the nose, making it bleed with a fury and then slapped her across the mouth several times. She spit at him again, this time the syrupy redness of her own blood mixed with her saliva and splattered on his face.

Her Irish blood across his pasty face was an improvement she mused as he collected himself, and she was still smiling when he knocked her across the side of the head, leaving her unconscious. Like a chamber pot his men through her out the back door into the afternoon rain still unconscious and safely out of Cromwell's attentions...

Tom clicked to his horse and ran him at a trot to find out what was stumbling down the muddy road. The driving rain made it difficult to see and from 100 paces it looked like a half drowned goat. As he grew closer he realized it was Shannon, a girl from his home town, half dead it seemed to Tom.

Dried blood made a fresco under her nose and chin. Her red hair darkened with rain was plastered and sticking to her neck and chest. Oh god that chest, Tom felt a stirring in his pants. "Jesus Shannon, what happened to ya?" He questioned as he hopped down from his rig and grabbed her elbow, lifting her out of the mud. Shannon fell into his arms, she heaved several more breaths and then grabbed Tom by his shirt and chest, his dark hair curled around her fingertips:

"Tom, Cromwell slapped me in the face and I spit in his fucking eye. He landed two or three good ones spinning me head in circles and I spit in his other fucking eye. He finally relented and threw me out the back door. What's crazy Tom is that I sort of liked it; you know being slapped around by that English prick bastard. Something inside of me quelled up, like never before, I could take his best and it made me wet." Her voice was raspy with exhaustion and lust.

She stopped and took in the beautiful square belt buckle that hung around Tom's waist and fingered the smooth fragrant leather causing him to jump a bit. "Would you be after doing me the biggest favor of me life and be giving me the best ten you can muster with that big leather belt of yours?"

"Did he hurt your head woman? Why are you talking so crazy?" He tried to pull her off his belt but she would not be moved.

"You fucking do it Tom! It's my right to claim me reward for takin' on the pock marked bastard!" She demanded and then fell against him again, her strength was completely draining out of her and her head hurt so bad she was seeing double. As she blanched against him she slowly fumbled with his buckle and slid his belt off for him. The rain fell faster and with a driving, beating rhythm.

God how long had he wanted to do this to her? Ever since they were children playing on the mead, she was so spunky, so fiery, so sure of herself...he just had to hold the reigns over her someday. He solemnly took the belt from her shaking hands; he hoisted her up over his shoulder and found a rock to sit on. The rain intensified its downpour egging him on to his task. It soaked her dress so that the material stuck to her rounded bottom and clung to the crack that separated each majestic mound of flesh.

He lowered her down over his lap and immediately went to work. He swung and sailed the leather down hard splashing the water on her rump with a crack and a slosh. Shannon moaned and pressed her pelvis deep into his thighs. Another crack brought both of her legs up behind her and her hard nipples brushed the rough material of his pants dragging out of her an amorous yelp. His hands holding her hip tightly he started whipping her with an aggressive agitation.

In the tumult of the lashing she was receiving Shannon licked her lips in between shouts, in between moans and rubbed herself against his hard muscular lap. Something in between her legs was completely engorged and she felt completely alive with each collision of his belt with her smoldering ass. Tom sucked in his breath. As the beating intensified so did the tightening in his pants; the friction of her pelvic motion was bringing him to an unbelievable pinnacle. He lifted the soggy hem of her dress and pulled it up over her back revealing the strawberries and cream of her hot behind.

He smacked her hard repeatedly and in an unbelievable moment when they seemed to be in exactly the same plane of exhilaration, the crashing of the belt against her sodden bottom and the crashing of the thunder and lightning was a great orchestra of bliss driving them both beyond rapture.

They shouted in unison as the hungry release inside of them flowed out from each of their exhausted bodies, hers against his legs, his soaked through his pants mixed with the stream of water from his forehead and flooded into the fabric of her dress. He had marked his territory deep in the folds of her linen. He slid his hand over her blistered backside and smiled, "a hero's welcome" he mused as the rain turned to a drizzle.