The Colonel\'s Wife

1The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that). If you are prohibited from reading such material by the laws or standards of your community please depart immediately. Likewise, if you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy get the heck outta here.

       

The Colonel’s Wife

Part IV

    

The Indian women seemed in no hurry to begin whatever evil acts they planned. They merely returned to sit by the small fire, leaving Martha hanging. She was face down, wrists tied to a branch, legs tied on either side of the tree trunk.  Her back was arched painfully and her breasts and belly frighteningly exposed. Instinctively she tried to put her knees together but found the strain of holding them there too great.

After what seemed an eternity the Indian women rose from the fire. Martha’s heart began to race as they came towards her. One carried a stick as long as her forearm and several inches thick.

One of them grabbed Martha’s hair and pulled her head up. The other began beating on her dangling beasts, sending them flopping painfully back and forth. Martha screamed from pain, but also from anger and humiliation. She’d never dreamed that any human could do something so callous.

Mercifully the beating was brief, though it seemed to go on much longer to Martha. The women, through some unspoken agreement, decided they’d done enough for the moment and returned to the fire, utterly emotionless. It was as if they’d just performed some mundane chore that merited no particular notice.

Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps more. Martha’s arms and shoulders were becoming numb. The women arose and came towards her again. She hoped they were ready to release her, but those hopes vanished when, instead of untying her, one of the women slipped a loop of rawhide rope around Martha’s right breast. She inserted a small stick into the loop and began turning it, twisting the rope and making the loop smaller and smaller. The rope dug into Martha’s breast, constricting it and making it mushroom outwards. As agonizing as it was, worse was to come, as the other woman took a long, slender twig and began snapping it against the drumhead taut skin.  Martha screamed again and again as they moved to her left breast and repeated the procedure. When her screams began to taper off to low animal moaning the women seemed to decide they’d done enough for the moment and returned to the fire.

Martha, from exhaustion, had nearly dozed off. A spurt of adrenalin brought her fully awake again when she heard scattered gunshots. There were a handful, three or four, then a space and another sudden flurry of shots. She strained to listen, to determine how far away they were. Her sense of orientation had been disturbed by strain and her hanging position, but she slowly determined they were well down the canyon.

She suddenly realized what the purpose of the intermittent torment was. The women were making her scream. Those screams echoed down the canyon walls to torment the soldiers trying to rescue her, to goad them into rushing blindly up the canyon. They were using her to draw her husband and his men into an ambush.

More time passed. Martha slipped into a state that wasn’t quite wakefulness but wasn’t really sleep. Rousing occasionally she looked towards the fire, now burned down. The two savage women were huddled near it, shadowy heaps covered by blankets. She didn’t know if they were awake or asleep.

When it must have been three or four o’clock in the morning the Indian women came to her again. This time each one had a sharp cactus needle. They began to jab at Martha’s breasts. She resisted the urge to cry out at the sharp pain, knowing they wanted her to scream. The women seemed confused at their failure to illicit a response. They jabbed harder. One of the women grabbed Martha’s left breast and poked viciously at the nipple. Martha whimpered and moaned, but fought back the pain, swallowing her screams. The woman tried again, then switched to Martha’s other breast. Martha bit down hard, using every ounce of energy she had left to resist the natural urge to scream. She couldn’t allow them to use her to draw her husband and his men into a trap.

The Indian women seemed confused, then angry. They jabbered at her in their barbaric tongue. They slapped her breasts, grabbed them and dug their fingers, with their ragged nails, into the tender flesh. One of them seized Martha’s right nipple. She dug her nails into the brown numb viciously, then stretched and twisted it so hard Martha feared it would be ripped off.

They stood back, talking among themselves. Then one of them went to the fire. She picked up a good size stick and thrust it in the flames, waiting until the end of it was burning nicely. She pulled it out and held it up, making sure the wood was burning on its own. Martha’s heart nearly stopped when the woman approached her, holding the flaming stick like a torch.

Martha hung helplessly as the woman moved the flaming end of the branch under her breasts, not close enough to burn her but still close enough she could feel the heat and understand the threat. She paused beneath each breast, bringing the flame up until it just touched each nipple, first one, just briefly, then the other, then back again. Martha twisted and jerked, trying to get away from the flame, but the woman followed her motions easily.

Martha couldn’t hold out any longer. She screamed, over and over, the horrible sound echoing off the canyon walls. They toyed with her, applying the flame just long enough to make her scream, but not long enough to scorch the flesh.

The Indian women went back to the fire and huddled under their blankets, leaving Martha hanging, her nipples stinging. Maybe they were finished, Martha hoped. But after perhaps another hour they returned. One of them carried the flaming branch, or another much like the first.

She first waved the brand under Martha’s breasts. But then she changed her targets. Holding the brand over Martha’s shoulders she gradually lowered the brand until Martha feel the heat and the tiny hairs on her back began shriveling. She moved up and down, tracing the arc of Martha’s body. She paused particularly over the mounds of her buttocks, letting the flame linger and make Martha’s skin start to redden.

She took the flame away, then brought it under Martha’s belly. Martha jerked sharply upwards, feeling the heat. The woman played the brand back and forth, but always moving it further down Martha’s body. With horror Martha realized where the brand was headed.

The other woman grabbed Martha’s knees and spread them apart. The flame moved between her legs. The acrid smell of burning hair filled the air as the woman moved it up and down, back and forth. Martha screamed until she thought her lungs would burst. Then she fainted away.

Martha awoke when the sun was already over the rim of the canyon. She was near the small stream, on a blanket that had been folded over her. She had no memory of having been taken down. Her arms, shoulders and ankles hurt, but not as much as her breasts. She carefully lifted them. They were covered with black and yellow bruises. She spread her legs and inspected her vulva, fearing the worse. All but a few tufts of hair were gone and there were several small blisters. And it stung. Much of her body stung, as if she’d gotten a bad sunburn.

She looked at the stream.  There was a small pool. They’d fastened the leash around her neck again, but there seemed to be a considerable length of rope. She got up gingerly. The Indian women were occupying themselves in the shade. They glanced at Martha but made no move towards her. Slowly, painfully she made her way down to the water and was grateful the rope was long enough. She drank deeply, then eased herself into the coolness. It felt good, taking away some but not all the pain. She lay back and immersed herself up to her neck.

When she finally came out of the water and returned to her blanket one of the women brought over a handful of dried meat. She dropped it on the blanket next to Martha, giving her no more notice than she might a dog. She had no hunger, but slowly ate it, knowing she had to keep up her strength.

At mid-afternoon Anselmo and two warriors appeared. Again Martha was bound hand and foot and thrown over the back of a horse. Rope joined her ankles to her wrists under the horse’s belly. She was jostled about for an eternity as the warriors led the horse through the winding canyons.

Finally they emerged on a saddle between two canyons. The other warriors were waiting for them. Two scraggly, stunted pine trees stood in the saddle. They’d lashed a pale gray dead trunk of a sapling between the trees about eight feet off the ground. Two ropes had been thrown over this cross bar at either end.

Martha was untied, unloaded from the back of the horse and carried over to the trees. The dangling ropes were tied to her ankles and she was hoisted into the air, inverted, her legs forming a lewd V shape. Her wrists were untied, then fastened by rope to the base of either tree.

Anselmo came to stand beside Martha. He gazed down into the canyon, raised and fired his carbine in the air. He reloaded and fired a second time. He nodded to the two warriors.

They moved to either side of Martha. Each carried a short length of knotted rawhide rope. One gave her a vicious stroke across her already aching breasts. The other swung his overhand to strike squarely on Martha’s vulva. She screamed, and screamed again as he repeated the strokes.

Anselmo held up his hand. They stepped back.

“McKellen!” Anselmo shouted down the canyon. “Your woman still lives! We enjoyed her last night, all of us. We will enjoy her again many times before she dies!” 

He reached down and pulled his breechcloth aside, exposing his member.  Facing the canyon he waggled his hips crudely, then turned to Martha. He crouched so his organ, sadly limp, was in her face. He mashed it against Martha’s face as if forcing her to make it in her mouth. After a suitable performance he gave a shrill cry of victory and made a short dance.

His place was taken by one of the warriors. He had also pulled his breechcloth aside and unlike Anselmo he was uninjured. His organ stood erect, hard, the red glans protruding from the foreskin. Veins bulged down the length of it. Martha had never seen a male organ this close in full daylight, much less had one shove in front of her face. She gagged in disgust as it was rudely shoved in her mouth.

The Apache grasped Martha’s head with both hands. He thrusted back and forth vigorously. The assault was so barbaric that it didn’t register at first that there were sounds of gun fire in the distance. It was only when he spilled his seed in her mouth and quickly withdrew that Martha understood that the troops, at very long range, were firing at them. She spat out the loathsome substance in her mouth and thought, were they really trying to hit the Indians? Or merely trying to scatter them, drive them away, perhaps leaving her behind?

And what if they hit her instead? Killed her? The thought was very nearly a comfort.

A second warrior took the first one’s place. Her disgust had not lessened, but at least she thought she could bear it long enough for him to finish, and then maybe they’d be sated. His efforts were cut short when a bullet struck the slope below them, sending a scattering of stones in the air. He let out a savage “yip!” and backed off, withdrawing from her mouth. Instead of reentering he jerked himself several times and sent several spurts of sticky white cum on her face. Martha vomited what little was in her stomach.

Several more shots struck the ground near the little group. The Apaches quickly lowered Martha to the ground, bound her hand and wrist, and threw her over the back of the horse. The next several hours were spent winding around the endless maze of canyons. They finally stopped at a small hollow. The Apache women were there, setting up camp. Martha was unloaded, then leashed to a tree. She glanced around. It was not the same location as the previous night. From the look of the surrounding mountains they were at a considerably higher altitude. There was no stream, but a small spring trickled out from beneath a rock face.

One of the women dropped a blanket near the base of a large tree. Martha was brought to it, the leash fastened around her neck and tied to the tree. She was left there for the rest of the afternoon. There was enough slack in the leash for her to drink at the spring, but the women seemed to feel no need to feed her.

As dark approached two of the Apache men appeared, carrying two saplings. They laid these on the ground in V shape and lashed the two together with rope where they met. A third, shorter stripped branch was lashed in place, forming the figure A.

The Apaches, men and women, grabbed Martha and half carried, half dragged her to the frame.

They lashed her wrists at the apex of the A and her legs along the spreading arms. More rope bound her at the waist. Once she was fastened the men lifted the end of the frame, dragged it to a tree and propped it up leaving Martha suspended at a 45 degree angle, facing away from the trunk. They lashed the frame securely, then picked up their weapons and disappeared into the gathering dark.  The women returned to their small fire, paying no more attention to Martha. But she knew, and feared, it was only temporary.

Three shots rang out in succession, in the distance but echoing around the canyon. The women rose and came towards Martha. Again they attacked her breasts. They’d joined two short branches together at one end with a leather thong. They trapped abreast between the branches and squeezed them together, twisting them viciously. They went from one to the other, and then back again.

She knew what they wanted from her.  She had no more power to resist, though she knew her screams were tormenting the soldiers and drawing them into danger. Her screams again echoed off the canyon walls.

Repeating the previous night’s pattern they left returned to their fire and left her for a time. Martha waited for the next torment to begin. Periodically she heard scattered gunshots in the distance.

There came an extended lull in the shooting. This seemed to be a signal to the women. They rose and came towards Martha again. They carried pieces of rope and began lashing Martha even tighter to the frame. They tied her at the shoulder, at the knee and across the belly. When they were done Martha was almost totally restrained, unable to move anything but her head.

One of the women went back to the fire and returned carrying a knife. The end of the blade had been thrust into the fire and was glowing red. Martha screamed at the sight.

“No! No! No! No! No!” she screamed, frantic at the thought of what they planned.

They paid her pleading no heed. They first touched her low on the belly, above the slit of her sex. The touch was brief but agonizingly painful. Her scream was so loud, ragged and animal like that it surprised even her. 

Reaching to the side they touched her on one buttock, then the other. Then they touched her on the breasts, repeatedly. By now the blade had cooled. They returned to the fire to heat the blade again. Martha prayed that they were finished, at least for a time, but she knew it was unlikely.

With the knife glowing red again they returned. Martha struggled helplessly against her bonds as they randomly touched her vulnerable body. They seemed to particularly target the most sensitive places, inside her thighs, her nipples. One of the women even grasped each nipple in turn to lift her breasts and better expose the under sides.

The pattern continued for what seemed like hours. They paused long enough to reheat the knife, then returned to slowly continue Martha’s torture. By now exhaustion was setting in. Martha’s screams were becoming weaker and weaker. She hoped against hope that they would push her past endurance and that she might die from heart failure.

The women seemed to take note of Martha’s flagging energy and the decreasing strength of her screams. They again heated the knife. When it was glowing they returned. For a few moments they studied her. Then, wordlessly, one of the women reached between Martha’s thighs. She grasped Martha’s lower lips and spread them apart, exposing her most sensitive place.

The other woman extended the knife. She moved slowly, so that Martha could understand what was about to happen. Martha watched the glowing red tip move towards her with unbelieving eyes. This couldn’t be happening. She felt the heat , mere inches away.

“NO! NO ! Not there! Not THERE!” she screamed. Unendurable pain shot through her entire body and she lapsed into unconsciousness.

She awoke again at mid-morning. She was still tied to the frame, her body aching with pain. She noticed that the two women were watching her. She feared they were planning to continue her torments in the daylight, but though aware that she had returned to consciousness they made no move towards her. Bursts of gunfire sounded periodically. Now they seemed to be all around the hidden campsite, though with the surrounding cliffs and steep hillsides it was hard to tell where they originated.

The day dragged on, growing warm, insect noises filing the air between the smattering of gunshots. Gradually the sounds of firing drew distinctly closer. As they did, the two women paid less attention to Martha, instead scanning the brushy hillsides.

Suddenly Anselmo burst into the small clearing. He carried an army carbine in his right hand. The sleeve of his jacket on the other side was torn open. Martha could see a bloody rag tied around the biceps of that arm. He spoke to the two women, a short, urgent message. Silently they picked up their few possessions and slipped into the brush. Anselmo approached Martha.

"The McKellen has come for you," he said in a low, menacing voice.  "He is in our trap. Soon..." Anselmo pulled his knife out of its sheath and made a motion across his throat.  "Tonight the coyotes will feast on his cojones. We need you no more. So now I will gut you like a deer and leave you for the coyotes. They will dine well tonight."

He placed the point of the knife between her breasts, then drew it slowly downwards pressing just hard enough for her to feel the sharpness of the blade but not breaking the skin. He drew it the length of her abdomen, stopping briefly at her mound. Then he continued, drawing the tip into the slit of her sex, past her clitoris, reversing the blade and putting the end inside her vagina. "I will start here," he said.

Martha closed her eyes and prayed that it would be quick, though she had seen enough of Anselmo to know that he would draw her agony out as long as possible.

A shot rang out, nearby. Then a second. The knife jerked against her sensitive tissues and she screamed. Then it fell away. She heard the metallic clink as it hit the rocky ground and another, softer sound, like a sack of grain falling on the ground.

Martha opened her eyes and saw half a dozen blue clad figures rushing into the small hollow. They were negro soldiers, men from her husband’s cavalry regiment. They carried carbines and several paused to fire past her at the fleeing Indians. Another, wearing sergeant’s stripes, went to the prone figure of Anselmo and, keeping his weapon trained on the body, gave it several hard kicks, then stomped hard on its groin.

Satisfied that Anselmo was truly dead he turned his attention to Martha.

“Sweet mother of Jesus!” he muttered when he saw her state. He drew a knife and quickly cut her bonds. Two other soldiers helped her down to a sitting position. One of them took off his blue jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Numbly she watched her husband enter the camp. He was unshaven and looked haggard.

He looked at her, refusing to let his eyes meet hers.

“I must see to my men,” he said quietly, and followed his troopers in pursuit of the Apache.

The End

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