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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.

She was nude, spread obscenely on the floor of her cell before the Captain spoke again, "Maith thu', toice. The Gov'ner's gonna like you. Dress her, and tie her hands again." He laughed as he locked the cell and left with his men. She lay shivering on the stone floor, cold and hopeless.

Alone at last, she had just enough strength to roll to the wall, sit up, and pull her knees up to her chest bracing her back against the cold stones. A difficult move it was too with her hands roped behind her back, and the effort exhausted the last of her strength. She sat there breathing hard, hungry and cold, contemplating her fate. All that was left to her was the ancient faith of the Irish, and with no hope but the almighty, she quietly began an Our Father, Ár n-athair, atá ar neamh: go naofar d'ainm.... Her head fell to her knees and she was asleep.

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Her dream was warm and pleasant. She was 12 or so, running through the heather playing a game of pirates and captives. The playground was on the rocky cliffs high above the shore, but in their childish imaginations Kate and her friends were far away at sea aboard a mighty pirate ship. Kate always took the part of the lady of breeding captured by the cruel buccaneers and tied to the mast. The ropes her playmates used on her wrists never failed to excite her in a way she could not understand.

In her dream, the years skipped by to another time, another experience. She was now 16, and although the child's game had been put aside, her fantasy of being the captive of pirates had not. Her vision of the pirate Captain had grown over the years, and by now she knew him so well it was hard for her to remember that he was not real. She could see him quite clearly in her mind, a big man with a saber cut across his cheek, his shirt off to flout a broad hairy chest, and wearing tight britches tucked into black boots.

As she passed thru puberty, her Captain had become evermore sexually aggressive. No longer did he merely tie her to the mast. Now he would tear open her bodice and expose her budding breasts to the view of the crew before dragging her to his cabin below deck to 'have his way with her'.

More years dropped away in the stupor of her dream. Now she was 18 or 19, and at home under the bed covers, alone with her fantasy. Her Pirate Captain drifted across her imagination, so close she could smell his breath, and feel his hands between her legs and on her breasts. Under the blankets her hand drew down her stomach and found her soft mound wet and ready. She teased her sex, and her breathing grew quicker, stronger. She closed her eyes imagining her Pirate Captain atop her, and she would close her knees to squeeze him between her thighs as her orgasm sent its shock waves thru her body.

The dream changed abruptly as dreams sometimes do.

"A chuisle mo." it was a man's voice. She smelled heather and lavender. She opened her eyes and looked up into her sweet Daniel's eyes. Not the tired, beaten man that had died at the hands of the Yeomanry. This was her young Danny from the hills of heather.

"A ghra' mo chroi'," she whispered. As Daniel started to pump his hips, she churned her own, and moaned in response. He used to like her moaning. Then he stopped liking her; then he stopped loving her. She closed her eyes again. She tried to bring back her Captain.

"A chiste is a stór!" She opened her eyes. Her Pirate was there once more. He brought with him what she needed so badly...his strength and commanding ways...his bare hairy chest against her breasts..., his manhood between her legs. He grabbed her hands and held them with one hand above her head. She moaned anew. "Tá Tá, a Ghrá". Then she looked into her Pirate Captain's face. Why did it seem so unaccountably familiar...so much like someone real and known to her..., someone she had seen not so long ago?

And once again the dream shifted, now becoming a nightmare to match the one she was living, yet a nightmare full of sensual omen. This phantom of her mind spoke to her. "Scream for me, my Irish trollop."

A hand reached down to her nether region, she looked up into eyes she could not quite place. Who WAS this? Oh, No! God, No! This was not her pirate; these were the evil eyes of her sworn enemy. This was the King's Governor, Lord Groat!!! It was too late to resist, however. His penis was already deep inside her, setting her on fire. She woke up screaming in pleasure as the man she had tried to kill took her in a powerful climax.

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Her dreams were gone now to wherever it is that dreams disappear. Awake to the harsh reality of her captivity, yet her womb still throbbed with the very real orgasm she had just experienced. How could that be here in his hellhole of a prison? It was no wonder Danny had left her to run headlong into death at the hands of the English pigs. She was perverted and a sinner. A common slut, never able to quench her thirst for a penis deep inside her. But her salvation was soon at hand. Soon she would be dead.

An old hag was at the bars of her cell. Kate was so thirsty and the old woman was holding out a cup for her. She struggled to get to her feet; her hands still tied. It was far from easy, but finding new strength in the lure of that cup, she slowly, painfully, rose, and limped to the front of the cell.

"How kind. I am so thirsty. Tá tart mór orm." The old woman brought the cup to her lips.

"Caith siar é agus ná lig anair á," said the hag.

Kate took two deep swallows before she turned her head aside and yelled. "Bandraoi! Hag! That's whisky! Uisce beatha! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Where you be goin', its better whisky than water. The Lord Groat is a hard master and few leave these cold floors alive," the old hag explained.

"Another drink then, old woman." Kate's stomach had turned over, wrenching at its emptiness, as that first fiery swallow hit bottom, but now she welcomed the warmth that flowed thru her body, however false it actually was. She took two more deep draws on the cup, and then the old woman was gone as quietly and mysteriously as she had come. Revived by the whiskey, Kate hobbled back to her place on the floor by the wall.

Her head was beginning to spin. She hadn't eaten in a day or more. She closed her eyes. She smelled heather again. She opened her eyes. This time it was not the prison hag, but a kindly woman, gray haired with a lined but handsome face, who was inside her cell and handing her a wooden cup. Kate was so grateful, and she drank deeply of the coolest, sweetest water she had ever tasted. She drank and drank. Her head seemed to clear a bit. She handed the cup back to the woman.

"Tá mé buíoch díot as do chúnamh. Go raibh maith agat," Kate said and dropped her head back onto her knees.

"Tá fáilte romhat," said a kind voice. She did not need look up to know the woman was gone. She knew it was the Fay, the fairy folk who had come to her aid. She felt like she was floating. She thought of her Pirate Captain again. When the guards came to get her, she was singing.

"Ó lá go lá, mo thuras,
An bealach fada romham.
Ó oíche go hoíche, mo thuras,
Na scéalta nach mbeidh a choích'."

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"Such a sad song for a wench that will soon be the envy of all the whores in Ulster." She remembered sucking this man's dirty cock and was nearly sick to her stomach at the mere sound of his voice. The captain of the guard laughed as he yanked her to her feet, out of the cell, down the steep stairway, and all the way to the prison cart, by a hand entwined in the hair of her head.

A bumpy ride in that mobile cage over the cobblestone street ended at a massive white door flanked by red coated guards with muskets at 'present arms'. The Captain of the Guard snatched his prisoner from the cart and thru the doorway, dragging her by her hair along behind him. Stooped at the waist, and desperate to keep pace with the long strides of her guard, Kate was pulled down the elaborately decorated main hall of the Governor's mansion. A grand building it was too, but in her humiliating arrival, she had little opportunity to admire the architecture. Through one final door and she was inside the bed chambers of the man who that morning she had tried to kill.

A final yank on her hair sent her spinning to the floor at the feet of Lord Groat seated in his high back oak chair with the naked blade of a fencing sword in his hand. She looked up at her enemy through eyes bleary with tears, struggling to control her panic. Another officer stood by the Lord's side, also holding a drawn sword. Lord Groat and his aide de camp had been practicing their dueling skills, a favorite sport of the Lord, and one that he was very good at. Indeed, so confident was the Lord in his swordsmanship that on this occasion he had not even bothered to shed the bulky blood red coat of a British Army Officer.

Even as despised as he was to her, Kate was unable to resist an inventory of her hated enemy. Her eyes followed the gleaming sword blade up the arm of his red coat to a broad chest glistening with military medals. There also was the emblem of his current rank and authority, the Great Sash of the Governor of Ireland with its three silver chevrons. Her eyes moved lower down to his skin tight britches, hesitating for an instant or two at the impressive bulge at his crotch. Still lower were the black leather boots that showed the wear one would expect for the hard used equipment of an expert horseman. Despite their polish, these were not boots worn for effect by some toady fop. Evil he may be, Kate thought, but strong and commanding, a brandy in one hand and his rapier dangling from the other, Lord Groat was every bit the ideal English aristocrat.

He was also her sworn enemy, the oppressor of her people, the leader of those murdering pigs who had butchered her Daniel, and the man who on the morrow would have her executed. God willing, better that this instant he would run his rapier through her heart, and put a quick end to this miserable charade. Yet, for all of her hate and despair, she felt her breath quicken as she looked at him. How could that be?

"Shame upon you Katherine O'Riley," she thought. "He is nothing but English trash all puffed up like a peacock, same as they all are. Put him from your head."

Still the unthinkable haunted her, and a little voice from inside taunted her, "Surely woman, ye wouldn't be flirting with your own executioner now would ye? No? If ye not be a hussy slut, why then be ye admiring his broad chest and taking measure of his cock?"

It was shameful, unforgivable, that such ideas should wander thru her consciousness, but she couldn't help herself. For sure, he was a handsome man, so like the one of her fantasies. Her Pirate Captain had been made real.

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Only moments before Lord Groat had been told his would be assassin had arrived from the prison. "Bring the woman here to my chambers," he had commanded the captain of his guard.

"Yes me lord," came the quick reply as the uniformed officer saluted smartly and left the room.

Till now it had been a pleasant evening for His Majesty's Governor of Ireland. A delicious meal, and then the distraction of a mock sword fight with his aide de camp, followed by a glass of fine bandy..., all quite enjoyable and satisfying. Now the burdens of his office had returned, and he dropped unhappily into the big armchair by his desk. The seat and high back were heavily padded as was becoming the fashion of time, but the arms were of natural oak, ornately carved. Groat sat there pondering his problems governing Ireland at the very end of the 18th century. Symbolic of these was the woman he had just sent the guard to bring before him. Not ten hours ago the bitch had taken a shot at him, and had he not seen her raise her pistol, and dodged aside at just the critical instant, he would already be the late, lamented..., and deceased..., King's Governor.

"Damn the French anyway," was his first thought. "Only the French would have had a sovereign so stupid as to foster and support a revolution against Divine Right of Kings, as Louis XVI had done in the Americas. 'A Republic' the colonial rebels there called the rump government they had created with French help. 'A Republic' indeed! A den of thieves, traitors, smugglers, and malcontents is more like it."

Well, England had lost a colony, but that was good riddance to bad trash, and to a useless wilderness beset with wild Indians. Louis had paid a bigger price for his folly. The revolutionary seed he had planted in North America had born its fruit in France. The French King had lost his head in consequence.
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