…steal the strapped penis, and hope you don’t have to use it!

You decide that, unfortunate as it is, being prepared is always best. Though you hope you don’t have to use it, you wait until no one is looking and pick it up, noting as you grab it that the wooden shaft is not as smooth as you thought, with several slight ridges and bumps up its length, the purpose of which are beyond you. Men don’t have though, you’re sure. Perhaps they are decorative? The image of the moaning woman writhing comes to mind. Perhaps not. While it feels dry and in no way sticky, you know that you’re going to thoroughly wash your hands at the next possible opportunity.

You wedge the device between your armour and your skin and shift your stance to try and pin it there. Seeing that the black haired woman will be coming to your side of the room soon, you quickly distance yourself from the cabinet and stand next to the man at the door, eager to leave.

You watch the woman work the room, walking up to people and whispering promises or giving kisses or grabbing crotches, all while the other is on her back and being worked uncaringly by the ruthless pounding of a single man. The occasional sound of lips on lips briefly vie with the continuous sound of man in lips as the two work their respective roles; though both are naked and both more feminine in figure than you, you can see the dark haired woman seems to attract the most attention. The eyes of the room following her relentlessly, a celebrity of the night. She briefly stops at the man and the woman, both still with hands down the front of each other trousers, whispering to each before and giving the woman the longest deepest kiss yet. The man doesn’t stop on her, her covered crotch bulging with his knuckles, and when the kiss ends she seems a little weak legged, biting the lip of the grin on her face.

The dark haired courtesan arrives at your guide and takes a moment to whisper something in his ear. You see her hand luridly grabbing a bulge in his trousers before she continues on, the next man getting much the same. Your hairy guide doesn’t see it. He turns to the door, sees you, and leads you out of the room, silently, escorting you to a room much further into the building. It’s a back room lit by several flickering candles, and the sights you saw melt away under the memory of what they expect of you. You struggle to see anyone, even though the gloom is not that bad. There are no other doors, so this ‘blacky’ must be here somewhere. The big drunk starts to walk over to the middle of the room when he is pulled back by your guide.

“’old on. Shorty gets the first ride.”

The big drunk sways in place silently, squinting at the shorter man, before he leans heavily against the wall in a near collapse. You shudder at how much **** it must take to bring such a bull figured man down. Convinced he isn’t going to move, your guide goes on, pointing towards a corner.

“I uhhh...godda go do somthin. So hurry the fuck up.”

He scratches at the large bulge he still sports and you surmise what he’s probably going to go and do. You look around the room again, stepping in to follow his pointing hand, and see a large set of wooden stocks. From left to right, it displays a hand, a head, and another hand to the room, each slumped and lifeless. Looking closer you see the similarly slumped body behind it.

You understand where the name ‘Blacky’ comes from; this woman’s skin is the darkest you have ever seen. She must have come from the very far south, deep in the heart of the heathen Empire, to have such a complexion. Her head is a mess of thick black wiry hair, and though her hands are dark, her palms are a regular colour, like your own.

As you walk around the back of the woman you almost pass out.

Her vagina and anus are agape. Her hairy lips (which, like her hands, are surprisingly pink), rear hole, cheeks, and legs, from inner thighs to toes, were coated in a thick layer of seed. Some of it was dried to a flaking white mess, frozen in fall on her skin, while her holes contained copious amounts of fresh pale slime, whiter for the contrast of her skin. How could someone still be alive after sustaining such punishment?

“I said hurry the fuck up! What are you? Some kind o muck fucker? You like boy holes then she got one as well!”

Cornered, with no way out and no way that you can think of to convince or overpower these bastards, you hope the poor woman can forgive you as you resign yourself to take part in this crime. Clearing your throat but unable to speak, you stand behind the woman and loosen your trousers. You make sure your hidden by the both the darkness and the woman’s own dark legs as you bend into a crouch to both lower your trousers and retrieve the artificial manhood. The damage looks worse from here as you see many small cuts and bruises as well as burns and other signs of ****. You quickly prep the latest element of your disguise in your hand as a man might before standing up and preparing to thrust. Still with your armour and helmet on, you stand on the precipice of no return, feeling the slight resistance of her flesh as you aim the tool and rub it on her. You don’t want to do this. You try not to sniff your suddenly runny nose or blink your suddenly wet eyes. ‘It’s nothing’, you tell yourself, ‘just another crime at the hands of Wendigo alone.’ That’s where this stupid vile order came from apparently.

You sense a slight movement from the men and worry they could step close and see you charade. Scared, and wondering how this situation happened, you thrust in.

The attack barely elicits a response from the woman. A slight groan and a move of the head is all the reaction to getting speared by your action. While hilted, you take the opportunity to quickly grab the straps, passing them about your back and pulling them tight in your fist. You keep it so by holding one hand on your own hips before pulling out, feeling near to no ‘tug’ from the woman, who you reluctantly hold with your other hand at a drier part of her hip.

You hear the bearded man mumble something, perhaps ‘fat ones probly still free,’ and watch as he walks out the room. Good, the less the merrier. Catching the eye of the rooms final male occupant, you thrust again and then again, and again and again. Wondering how long you would have to do this before you could say you’re finished. You look at what you’re doing and definitely start to feel light headed. You’re **** another human being, an innocent woman. For some reason you think of the black haired woman from the previous room but quickly try to shake the thought and re-focus.

“Come on boy, goin soft over hee-*hic*-eer” the big drunk slurres, still propped up against the wall.

Unsure how one responds in such a situation, you continue your unenthusiastic humping. The tragic form of the woman begins to make a groaning noise from your **** and her face suddenly gains all of the attention of the drunk. You move your hand further to her front, steadying her as you decide to ‘build up’ to a convincing finish; you increase the tempo and severity of your thrusting to match that of the men you have seen previously. She lifts her head up and begins to really moan. The sound is almost bestial, like a primal hunger. It makes your heart bleed to think of a woman so broken as might actually enjoy this. The drunk continues to look at the woman’s face and after a moment starts to walk over to you.

Your heart misses a beat, your thrusting falters, eyes going as wide as dinner plates as they watch him come towards you. In three steps total, he can see everything; the strap, the wet wood, your thin legs with the strapped stiletto, but his drunk eyes stare only at the face of the woman. You nervously keep up your thrusting as you watch him, ready to grab the dagger and kill him if necessary.

He reaches for the groaning woman’s open mouth and puts his finger on her tongue, sliding it in and out.

“Yoooou got a nice mouth.” You can smell his breath from where you stand.

He quickly stands and takes out his erect shaft, which you try not to look at. Even so, you can tell it’s the biggest you’ve seen so far, or perhaps simply the most erect, and it becomes the most worrying addition to this awful situation. He lines up with the woman’s open mouth and begins to violently thrust into it, grabbing the stocks with both hands while pressing forward hard, drawing gagging and coughing sounds from the delirious prisoner as her head is **** back. There was no steady build up, or warning, just a violent attack that shook the girl’s whole body, shocking you to the point your artificial member falls out of her gaping womanhood, clattering to the floor.

The man looks down at her head, then her body. He slows down his thrusting when he looks at her rear, and comes to a stop, hilted in her face, when he see the length of wood by her feet. He looks strait up at your face and your eyes meet. You reach for your dagger, knowing there is no time before his brows slam into each other in angry confusion. You hoped the ale would keep it at bay, but he’s not drunk enough to accept a wayward penis.

“Hey. You’re a –“

His eyes go suddenly wide with absolute horror. You watch the woman’s head twist, moving sharply to the side, and a heavy dripping pouring sound comes beading from the floor. He bends over, hand on the stock, eyes staring ahead, and you quickly guess what happened.

You pull out your dagger as he takes a deep breath, and in one fluid motion, step forward and ram it up under his chin, straight into his brain as you did with the last man.

He looks like he’s about to scream as he fall’s all the way back, driven up by your push and his own flinching tension, hitting the floor like a felled tree. You immediately pick up the faux member and throw it across the room, guilt beginning to bubble up and wash over you in waves. You pull up your trousers, cover your face with your hands, and take a step back from the scene.

The life you’ve taken doesn’t weigh much on your conscience, but what you did before it does. Why did this have to happen? They damn sure don’t tell this part in the bard’s tales!

You take several deep calming breaths and remember the wise words you one told someone several years ago: ‘there’s no greater wrong than continuing to do something you know is wrong.’ It’s calming, and a call to do better. You recall that the person you told that to swung from a gibbet three weeks later, so if one of you is going use it it may as well be you.

You walk back to the stocks and look at the lock. A simple bolt that was easy to undo but impossible for the one trapped to reach. Rather than fling them open, you take a moment to kneel before the face of the woman to console her, tell her everything will be alright and that you’ll get her off this island.

What you see are the cold, calm eyes of a woman only mildly inconvenienced by the situation.

She turns her head to face you and looks in your grey eyes with her deep brown ones, seeing something you can only guess at. She turns her head and spits out the bloody contents of her mouth onto the floor, instead of what could have easily been your face. You try not to look at it, but can’t help but see the bright red flow pour over her chin as she turns back to you.

A silent moment passes before you rise back up and unlatch the top of the stocks. You swing the hinged heavy wood up and to the left before taking a step back from now free woman, sensing that she doesn’t really want your help to stand. Her once limp legs find the floor and she begins to do so on her own, albeit unsteadily. When she has to grab the stocks to support herself, you step forward with arms out, but a look stops you quickly. As she straightens, you wince when you see the contents she carries pour out of her, sliding down both of her inner thighs or dropping straight down in long thin globs to splatter of the wooden floor. She stretches and moves her legs, her arms, cracking the joints of her spine, and one thing that you hadn’t appreciated was her size, matching the now dead drunk for height with ease. She has the musculature of a toned athlete, and while you know well she is a woman, her hips are narrow and her chest is flatter than your own.

You begin to talk, stammering out your words and finding it hard to stop.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but they wouldn’t stop talking and then they made me come in here and I took that thing to, er... well just in case, because I didn’t know what I would find in here, and then I saw you and I didn’t want too bu-“

She holds out her hand and you shut up. A few gingerly taken steps carry her in a circle around the stocks, going round and round and gaining more confidence in her legs with every step.

She doesn’t look at you when she talks.

“I promised I’d kill every one of you nordern barbarians dat put yourselves inside me da second I laid free eyes upon you.” Her voice is calm, with a rich south empire accent. “Swore it, in fact.”

You look to the stiletto still in the neck of the man on the floor. She looks at the discarded instrument you used to violate her and then back at you, straight in the eye. It’s a gaze that’s hard not to look away from.

She sneers through the blood. “As...dat, is not a part of you...I will not do anyting to you.”

She continues her pacing, walking with quick assured movements now. Surely she must still be in agony? You gulp, wondering what kind of creature you have unleashed on this island and its people, and even a little scared by her as you are, you wonder where you might find more of them.

She continues on “Dere is a list of tings I hate. On it are people who would lay with me widout my permission, and people who steal my kills. You did both of dese tings. Don’t expect my help and don’t think I owe you anyting.”

The door suddenly opens and your mutton chopped associate returns. You don’t know why he is back or what problems his quest to satiate his appetites ran afoul of, but it takes a full second for your dark skinned associate to close the distance, and less than that to ram her fist into his throat and completely crush his windpipe. With him still **** and gasping on the floor, she continues her monolog,

“I am getting off dis bad place. I have my mission,” she pauses, considering, “but I will keep my oath; I will go out da back and I will see as few people as possible.” She says it as though working around her own words, intent on sticking with them, yet not wishing to be hamstrung by them. With a nod to herself, she narrows her eyes at you. “Stay out of my way.”

Feeling like you have nothing to lose, you ask the mysterious woman the single stupid question you went through all this for.

“I don’t suppose you know where captain Wash-..er, Captain Wendigo is?”

She snorts, pausing by the door.

“Dey spoke of such tings. Why?”

You consider for a moment before realising that the truth isn’t likely to do you much harm. They can hardly be friends after all.

“So I can kill her.”

The woman, who you have just met under such strange and terrible circumstance, -who you are fairly certain is more qualified for your mission in every way- turns to you, saying,

“She is in the villa house. It is on a hill near the back of this village.”

Without another word and still completely naked, she steps out of the room and opens a nearby door within the corridor, stepping directly into to the night outside.

“Huh” you manage, after a second of silence. You extract your dagger from its third -but hopefully not final- victim and setoff out the same door as the woman. Looking down the dark street, you cannot see any sign of her and realise that even her nudity is strategic with such dark skin. You see where the road continues around to the back of the village and proceed to walk its dark path up to the mansion you so recently learned about.