…tell them the truth, to buy some favour.

There is nothing you can say, no truth, no lie, that will get you out of this. What is coming is like a storm; you can’t trick it or surrender to it, only weather it.

“Well? Answer me!” You keep your mouth closed and your eyes on the floor. You let the storm wash over you. He pulls your head back and slaps you again, hard enough to throw you to the floor. “Well!? Speak up! Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here!?” There is a moments silence before he grabs the front of you top and hauls you to your feet, popping several of its shoddy stitches in the process. He punches you in the stomach again, making it difficult to breathe once more and doubling you over. It’s only his grip that keeps you up. A handful more of the tops stitches break, while a handful too many remain in Captain Roland’s gripped fist. It tears. You fall back, hitting the floor hard and throwing the material wide, baring your breasts to the room. Through your jittery fear and growing embarrassment, you sense he’s getting more agitated. “SAY SOMETHING!” he screams, causing you to jump at the noise. Is that a hint of desperation? What could make him-

Of course, it’s Captain Washkin!

With her watching and Roland taking the lead, he is **** to prove himself! To assert some kind of dominance. You may have made a terrible mistake.

Looking up and checking his face to be sure, your eyes meet his you immediately regret it. Bully’s don’t like it when you look them in their eyes, it’s like standing up to them: a threat to their power. It’s the same for the nobility, and the same for the mad. The wide eyed look he gives you is almost disbelieving, screaming ‘so you are actually going to make me do this?’ with an anger that could not be contained in mere words. At its height, the irate expression seems to crack as he glances ever so quickly to Captain Wendigo before it breaks completely into a deranged, shaking calm.

“Fine!” he shouts, walking over to a nearby table. Its small compared to the one in the room outside; round with several chairs under it. The surface only holds a single drink, which you briefly think he is going for before he pulls the whole table out into the centre of the room, swinging it into place with a reckless anger that topples the chairs and throws the pewter mug some distance. “Fine!” he says again.

He snatches your wrist with his vice like grip and pulls you up before swinging you into the table, throwing your hips into its edge with enough **** to slam your body across its surface. Your arms break your fall but your bony hips bruise with the impact as the table scrapes the floor. As you try to pull your hands back across the table, palms down to right yourself, he draws one of his daggers and impales it, pinning one to the tables surface.

You scream at the pain, worse than anything you have ever felt before. Your screech is almost inhuman to your ears.

“Yeah! Yeh, talking now aren’t you!”

You look in disbelief at your hand, his thick stubby blade sitting between the middle bones of your palm, the blood slowly crawling outwards, hindered only by the blade itself. It freezes and burns at the same time with a pain so white hot that it’s cold. You reach for the blade with your other shaking hand, but it’s intercepted by his, dragged out and held across from your broken hand, gripped close to the table. You feel faint.

“N-no no NO!” is all you manage to get out before his second knife finds its mark. Again you scream as hand and wood are nailed both, the worst pain you ever felt doubled not ten seconds after the previous record was set.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?”

You can’t speak. You’re in shock. Is what you’re seeing real? Is this happening? Your bent over a table, feet scrabbling against the floor with arms outstretched to either side of your head as if in mock surrender, pinned in place by the knives of a madman. Will they ever even work again? Gods, the infection alone could kill you!

The shock shatters as he steps behind you and you feel him tear at your shorts, half pulling, half ripping them down. You cry out in horror, words barely forming before they fall out of your babbling mouth, stopping only as your whole body stiffens, feeling something press against your rectum. The conical tip of his manhood.

“NO! Nono please! I don’t- I-I-I-” you hear yourself plead. Your eyes are wide with fear, roving wildly about the room, yet they see nothing. You **** a shuddering gasp, **** to calm yourself.

“LAST CHANCE!” he screams, grabbing your narrow hips with both hands.

You try to talk, you really try, but you manage only an, “I-I-I-AHHHHHH!” as he rams forward, burying himself into your rear with an overwhelming, crushing ****. You feel yourself break, tender flesh tearing under a pressure it should never be subjected to, and you scream. Scream for the third time as the pain you feel doubles once more. He feels massive, and only the feel of both his hands against you assures that it’s not his whole arm in there.

He tries to pull back, having to hold you in place to stop from pulling you with him. “NO! NO-NO-NO!” He gets barely half way before he rams himself back in. “AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The first tear runs down your cheek.

The first drop of blood runs down your thigh.

He grunts as he rapes you, his hate and anger spilling through gritted teeth. His every thrust forward and pull back forcefully loosens you, stretches you, or tears you in new ways, and you scream into the table again. It seems like the thing to do. His palms hold open your brutal sodomy, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Hands grab you face, lifting it up and resting your chin against the wood. They’re not Rolands. His are still on your hips, holding you still as he pushes in further than ever and drags fresh screams from you, bloodying your behind. The hands are slender, rough but fair, and gentle in their insistence. The face of Captain Washkin forms before you, swimming in your vision. Spider web cracks line her eyes, too close for the makeup to hide them, and blood red lips move like dancing worms. It takes you a moment to realise what they said.

“Tell us who you work for sweetheart and this will all be over.”

You try to talk, try to think, your every thought shattering with his every devastatingly deep thrusts.

“Gov- AHA! Agent of the prin- pri-“, you feel his dick almost leave you, it flared end puling on the torn ring of your burning anus before slamming back into its depths, “AHHHHHHH! Oh Gods! NO! Please STOP! PLEASE!” You smell the blood, and not just pooling from your hands.

Her thumb rubs across your cheekbone, resting in place but moving with the back and forward motion that the man inside you controls. She talks again, the only soft thing in a world of pain.

“Were you here to kill him or me?” You look into her eyes as you feel him palm your cheeks wider, pulling them apart to further aid his relentless attack. Her eyes carry an uncaring kindness, and a wisdom that can read into the depths of your breaking heart. They’re more sky blue than sea blue.

You take a shaking breath before answering. “Y-yo-“

“DOES IT FUCKING MATTER!” he screams in a voice that carries none of the strain of his activity, “I Hate bitches like this! Bitches that don’t know there place! Aah! Well ya gonna learn! Umf! Ya gonna fuckin learn!” His pace triples, a wild, hard, frenzied violation that punches your insides and tries to pull them rags. Only your own blood, acting as a poor and inconsistent lubricant, stops him from tearing you much further.

You scream again, a hoarse and **** scream, primitive and unthinking even to your own ears, and shaking with his speed. Your world narrows as the feeling behind becomes all encompassing, filling your body and soul with nothing but its pulsating pain. Your legs scrabble against the floor, kicking against him, but they are like lead weights moving through water. Your nipples stay in one place on the table, even as your chest moves up and down, pulling your small breasts to and fro against the grain with twisting ache. You feel a sudden sharp sting on your face, and the eyes you had closed against the pain reopen to see the one woman audience of your humiliating violation. Another wrenching, sobbing breath drags through your lungs: fuel to scream again.

“What’s your name?” she asks almost conversationally. She has to lean against the table to stop it being pushed across the room with his ****. Her eyes never leave yours, and you drink them in as a source of strength, like a falling woman grasping for anything to stop her descent.

“AH-AN-AH-HAH-AH-AHHHHH!” It’s all you can get out amid the constant battery of thrusts that reach so deeply inside of you.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Are you alone?”

High powered thrusting slows down to long deep dives amid the wave of panting breathlessness that comes from both of you. You cry openly, long sobs coming from your throat and endless tears running down your face. You want to die. You want this **** to end.

Despite his exertions and obvious fatigue, he keeps thrusting. You tell yourself you don’t feel it anymore; don’t feel the sandpaper like scratch against your rectums inner wall, or the feel of your anal ring turned almost inside out whenever a thrust turns to a pull, or the feel of the head pushing against the furthest point inside, demanding to go further with bruising insistence, or the feel of his hands and hips pinning you to the table, his sack slapping against your blood soaked womanhood. It doesn’t work. You feel it all, and he just keeps thrusting and thrusting until, still panting, he leaves himself inside you. You quiet as you ready for his release, which by now would be welcome, but instead he forces his hands under your chest and grabs you by the breasts, using them as handles to lift you up towards him. Captain Washkin keeps a hold of your head, holding it up, looking into your eyes with understanding impatience.

“Well? Are you alone?” Your too tied to reply and can only manage a pitiful scream when he pulls you too far and pulls at the knives in your hands. ‘Just let this be over’ you think, ‘just let me die’. He pinches and squeezes your breasts before he starts thrusting again, half grind, half pound; you don’t know if it’s being held up or just stopping and starting again, but it feels so much worse and you immediately start to cry again as his dick moves through you. A noise reverberates from your rear in your mind, like an old nail squealing as it’s pulled out of wet wood, distinct even as a similar noise comes out of your mouth. His hands crush your breasts with each rough thrust, sending their meagre size bulging between his coarse, grasping fingers, and his breath breaks hard against your neck, growing as he builds up speed again, taking pleasure from your pain. Your cry’s become breathless, his plunging motions regaining their old pace, and he grunts more and more as he fucks you harder and harder. You feel lightheaded. Your toes slip against the blood on the floor. Captain Washkin puts her head against yours and presses her mouth to your ear, spilling a whisper into your brain.

“Answer me and I’ll get him to stop.” She moves away and talks normally. “Are. You. Alone?”

You look into her eyes for a second. A single second. Enough time for the other captain to grunt, to bury himself in again, to squeeze your breasts hard, to pull himself out again, all ready to do it again and again and again and again. It’s the cycle of pain he enforces. Let this end. Gods let this end.

Utterly defeated, you nod your head slowly and deliberately. She smiles.

“Good girl.” She turns to Roland and doesn’t stop looking at him, and Roland doesn’t stop thrusting. If anything, he gets faster and harder again, picking up his frenzied pace and burning through your ring of fire with even greater ferocity. What she does do is walk around the table to its side, to your side, where the sight of naked hip pressing upon naked hip, of stripped and pinned pale held up against tanned hardness, would be all too visible, and there she grab your chin and uses it to turn your open, gasping, crying, drooling mouth to face her.

Her grip fights the constant, hateful jolts that travel from your rear up your spine. With your head to the side, you can almost see him, a humping blur in the corner of your eye. She smiles at him before slowly leaning in and planting her mouth over yours.

Bright red painted lips tangle against your own, opening the way for her eel like tongue to enter with the same uncaring insistence of the burning hot rod that enters your rear. She carries on looking at him as she probes your tongue with her own, twisting and sliding in ways you have never felt before. The soft breath of her nose caresses your cheek as the kiss intensifies; her passionate action probing deeper, harder, and with more vigour. Meanwhile, the rapid in, out, in, out motion of the dick ramming into your rear ceases with one deep final thrust and the clap of his hips on your cheeks. He grips your breasts hard and softly cry’s out as he releases great squirts of hot warmth inside you, coating your inner walls with his unwanted decoration. He moans with pleasure even as you squirm with disgust, buried as far in as he can go, crushing your hips against the table. He releases load after load after load; you feel each one, inside and out as each spill of warmth is matched by a jolt of ecstasy that runs through the body of your ****, jerking him with shivers as he revels in the bliss your body is given him.

Captain Washkin withdraws from your mouth leaving only a parting peck on the lips and a bitter taste on your tongue. Her hand lowers your head onto the table, his still chest gripped hands no longer keeping you upright, and you feel the hot and heavy weight of Captain Roland lie on your back after, his wiry chest hairs scratching your skin as he catches his breath. His weight forces him further inside you, causing the tip of him to slide on the cream that coats your deepest spot. You’re silent, in voice and in mind. Once this started, there was no other way this was going to end. Even the foulest part of your body feels irreparably soiled with him inside it. His hands are still on your breasts, crushed between them and the table, and he slowly squeezes them, drinking in there softness even as his hardness lessens. You head is still turned and you hear him panting into your ear.

“Did you enjoy that as much as I did?” he whispers with a chuckle before standing up and pulling his slimy, spent rod out of your rear hole with far more ease than when he first put it in there.

Everything hurts; body, mind and soul. You hear fractured words as they converse, muffled by the words still ringing in your ear. He enjoyed that? You feel a warm liquid slide out of your burning anus. You can’t tell if its blood, semen or both. Past the knife buried in the back of your hand, you watch as she offers him a handkerchief, to cleans you off his soft snake, still nauseatingly long, as though your blood and faeces are somehow worse than he is. He accepts it gladly, even politely.

They exchange words, him looking pleased, her all smiles; it looks like a pleasant conversation. He tucks the instrument of your **** back into his trousers as he walks over to you, and the knife in your hand suddenly disappears with the sharp sound of mettle scraping against bone and wood, made casual by the indifferent speed with which he does it. A similar sound comes snatched from your other hand. Each time, the pain only draws a weak grunt from you, still feeling like a razor of its own cutting your raw, scream shredded throat.

“You can take her with you if you want; I have no use for her.”

You don’t mentally register Captain Washkins suggestion, but a shiver of dread sends your hairs standing on end regardless. A hand slaps the left cheek of your sorry posterior, gripping hard the limited flesh your narrow hips provide.

“Nah. Some whores, like you, can keep going. Some whores, like this one, break after the first use. She’s worthless now.” He’s right. “I will take this though.”

He puts a hand on the back of your neck, his other grabbing the torn jacket top, and like stripping a carcass, he pulls his colours off you, leaving you fully naked.

His footsteps walk through the threshold of the doorway, leaving you bent over the table, and you draw your broken hands towards you as though it will stop there bleeding. The sound of the double doors to the landing, swinging wide and clattering shut, come through the fog in your brain, but no thoughts of **** enter your mind, nor of anger or hatred aimed his way. Just relief at him leaving. ‘Good’ you think bitterly.

Tears blur your vision. You still feel him. Not like before; it’s more an absence of him. As though he made a hole, rather than used one, and made himself a permanent part of you in the process. You wonder if you will ever feel whole again. You’re worthless? Why not? Brutally sodomised, can’t walk, can’t use your hands, fucked senseless and before that? When you were fighting fit? You couldn’t even stop screaming. You hate yourself. He used your body to vent his hate and now that hate sits inside you, pointed inward like the blade of a dagger. You thought it would be better when it was over, but the more time passes, the more real the whole ordeal becomes. It wasn’t just a nightmare. You’re expected to go on like this. You wish you were dead.

Chair legs scrape across the wooden floor as one righted. It’s dragged to the spot in front of your face and followed by the fall of Captain Washkin’s heavy derriere. She slowly rips some fabric into long strips of frayed cloth, before grabbing your nearby wrist and idly pulling it towards her.

“You’ll have to forgive Roland. He doesn’t like it when a woman outsmarts him and it’s been happening all evening.” She wraps the material around your hands and tightens it. As she leans over to your other hand, you see that the faded fabric was from the shorts that Roland tore off you. “Don’t take this the wrong way; I just don’t want someone bleeding all over my room.” A tight pain signals that your other hand is bandaged as well. She sits back down before leaning back and looking under the table at the floor between your legs. In the silence, you hear a steady dripping on wood. Should your mind focus, you know you could feel the red droplets misting your ankles. “Though I always knew he would make a mess anyway.” She looks into your eye; the woman who watched as you were ****, who interrogated you, who kissed you.

“So...another agent of the high prince’s law here to kill me. That makes you number five you know.” She leans in closer, careful to keep her blond hair out of the puddles of blood where your hands were. “Still...you took a hit for me; all that anger was going to come out sooner or later. That didn’t look very pleasant.” Her fingers drum a beat on the table’s surface as she considers what to do with you. You couldn’t care less, as long as it’s not more of the same.

“I usually kill your kind, as a warning to others you know? But agents tend to have ‘honour’...” She says it as though it’s a joke. “Albeit the kind of honour were you’d suck a nobles cock if the law says so, or kill a sweet and inno-, well, a sweet little pirate just because her name was put on a piece of paper by some merchant who’s ten times worse.” She considers you further, blue eyes half closed, a cat toying with an ant. She’s beautiful, you can admit that. You’ve never envied the looks of other women due to the male attention it brings down on them, but that seems irrelevant now. “Are you even still an agent?” she asks with a wry smile and a tilt of her head. “They’re not allowed to break the law, unless to stop a crime, I hear, and every whore knows that sodomy laws are quite clear.” She’s right, and wrong. The law says that sodomy is illegal and while it is meant for men engaging in unclean practices, it makes no exception for women or victims. If a high councilman saw your backside right now he would have to pass sentence, no matter his sympathies. It would be tempered if you could prove the act was against your will, but still handed down in some form or another. You’ve never hated the law so much. Still, if it was in pursuit of your duties...

She sniffs, managing to lace even that small gesture with a superior noble woman’s air. “Plus your hands don’t work. Gods only know if they ever will again. Tell you what; I’ll give you a choice.” She gives you a smile with her red painted lips, smeared slightly due to her recent kiss. You wonder if any of it lingers on your own face. She starts to play with your hair as she goes on, unpicking it from your bun strand by strand.

“If you want, you can leave right now. One of my men will take you out back and throw you into the sea so you can swim back toooo…” she waves her fingers, “where ever you came from.” You doubt you can walk, let alone swim, not to mention the salt in your open wounds. Still, it would get you out of here. “Alternatively, you can stay here the night, under lock and key of course. We’ll be gone by morning, and you can swim then or take a boat or I don’t care, just as long as you’re not here when we get back.” Resting sounds good as long as it really is rest. You can’t be...you can’t afford...you can’t...not again.

You close your eyes to it all, squeezing out the last of your tears, a lifetimes supply run out. Why bother. Both options lead to the same end, the end he gave you. To bare his mark and his shame, honourless, now and forever. There’s nowhere you can go that will undo what he did. You can’t face it...can you?

”Either way, if I see you again... well, it won’t end so well for you.” She pauses, letting the promise of worse compare itself with what already happened. Your imagination fails you; ‘worse’ is beyond its grasp.

“Well? What’s it going to be?”

Your mouth opens and closes silently, like a fish drowning in air.