Continue…

You don’t know how long you’re at it for; carefully but instantly rubbing the fabric against the corner of the latch. Your arms start to burn from contorting yourself into position and your heart misses a beat every time your accidently rattle the mechanism too loudly. Despite your frantic breaths, the vibrations of the wood and the occasional rattle, you hear the footsteps that signal his return. They echo in approach, booming in your mind, and you quickly halt your efforts as they draw near. Whatever had been pressed against the door suddenly makes a loud scraping noise as it’s pulled away. You pull franticly against the weakened material, but still it doesn’t budge. It’s not yet worn enough to tear and grant you freedom. Well, you’re not going to get **** again, not without a fight! You still have your head, your knees, your shoulders; all means to hurt him like he hurt you. You could... you could headbutt him and... and knock him to the floor, perhaps fall on his neck, press your knee into it? That could work. Right? You pull again at your arms. It’s been over an hour, or was it half an hour? Ten minutes? A day? Long enough. How could it not have worked yet?!

The door swings open and you propel yourself forward with your good leg, launching forward in a gallant hop. The light seems blinding, but you aim for something vaguely head shaped and at about the right height, your forehead striking something and loosing a pained grunt of surprise into the room. The rest of you follows suit, crashing into him with as much momentum as you could build. It’s not enough, causing him to stagger back, but he doesn’t fall. You ready to knee him, balancing on your good leg and aiming your hurt one. He shoves you back, toppling you thanks to the poor support of only a single leg, and your rear smacks into the cool stone again. You’re on your back again, and manage to avoid banging your head against the floor in the process.

You scrabble to get back up, eager not to be found in the same situation as before. The back of your legs still hurt from where he stretched them, hobbling you further, making you wobble as you move, and your hands are still tied behind your back and you’re a leg down. Terrible odds, but you manage to get to your knees. You prepare for one last attack. If you can get your good foot under you then you could propel yourself up, head butting his face again. You wince with pain as you move your leg enough to give the leverage you need.

He puts the lantern he carries on the shelf, in the same spot as last time, and approaches.

You push yourself up, aiming your skull for his nose. His arm swings. You’re on the floor, face down, stone pressing into your cheek.

‘That’s not right’, you think. You were standing, weren’t you? Attacking? Your face hurts. The man. You quickly kneel and turn to where he was. He’s still there. You catch a glimpse of him before his fist fills your left eye.

The stone hits you again, softer this time and in the stomach. No, not stone, but wood. The barrel. You feel yourself slumped over it, looking over its edge as its top rim presses into your belly. There are hands on your hips, on your legs. The too short shorts slide down to rest around your ankles.

Even dazed as you are, you feel him enter you. It hurts less than before, thanks to not being horribly stretched, but still drags a pitiful “Muuuhhh!” from behind your gag. So much for not being **** again.

A slapping noise starts to fill the room as he moves. It still hurts. You feel him callously bruising your soft flesh for his own gains. Adding to that, you head hurts too, and your eye. That knock he gave you should leave a tremendous black eye a few days from now, and your left half wincing as you feel the swelling begin.

You mind is wondering but you let it. It’s been knocked off course by the same **** that knocked you down and set your world spinning. Every other second seems to slip by unnoticed. The barrel rocks slightly with each of his impacts and you find yourself truly thankful for your inattention.

You try to encourage it. Try to ignore him completely. It’s almost midsummer now. It would be spring when his seed bears fruit. You shake the fuzz out of your head. ‘If’, your try to remind yourself, ‘if his seed bears fruit’. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Nine months to birth a child. Nine of the ten months in a year. They say that the gods spend the extra month to make the soul.

“Oh fuck! L-let me tell yus, ugh, cunts even better now it’s loosened up a bit!”

You try to work it out, try to focus on dates and days against his slow and steady thrusts, his deep breathing, his calloused caressing hands. There are 300 days in a year-

“Uh, huh, ughf, uh, uh, not, hrrr, not so lively now eh? Ughf, uh...”

-30 days a month –

“Oh yeah...oh...where’s your fight now bitch? Uh? Ughf! Right here! Uh, huh, uh, right he...”

-it will be about 270 days until the day of its birth, where the child will be one year old.

“Oooohhhhhh. Haahh…fuckin bitch…fuckin…”

At 25 years of age, or 26 when it happens, you’ll be younger than your mother when she had you. That shouldn’t be comforting, but working it out seems to bring some sense back into the world, some control. It’s a problem you can solve. 30 is a respectable age for a woman to get pregnant, and most preferably when she’s marred, but that’s not a problem you can solve. There’s a lot about this problem you can’t solve.

Having met the mental dead end that train of that leads to, you’re left with nothing to think about, save him, your attacker, your ****...the father. His hands feel big as they hold your small hips, his palms holding your cheeks wide. Everything down there feels big. His rhythm increases. You’re not sure how long he’s been **** you. Too long. You try to let your mind wonder again, first focusing on the way the barrels metal rim tugs at your belly flesh as you move back and forth, then on a twinkling light that dances on the floor, likely reflected off one of his ear hoops.

“Ohhhhh! Fuckin bit-...fuckin whore...bet your lovein this...Like it hard, right?” He brings you savagely back into the moment when his thick thumb enters your rear.

“Muuuhhhhhh!” He twists and contorts it, laughing again.

“Ahh ha ha ha! Like a cow!” Whatever satisfaction he gets from humiliating you sends him over the edge. He pulls out his thumb with a hard yank before gripping your hips with both hands, using you on his full length with deep piercing thrusts. Laughs quickly turn to cries of pleasure and grunts of **** satisfaction and, once again, his thrusts descend into random humping as he spills his load inside of you. It’s deeper than before, your presentation letting him press as far inside as his length will go, and he eventually stops, resting there, his twitching length reaching deep into your core. His hips press against yours, his thighs against your thighs. The heat of contact between your body’s builds until it burns, almost unbearable, yet he takes an age before he pulls away.

When he does, you feel an appreciative pat on the backside; like a dog that’s done well.

“Startin to learn yer trade whore. Hooo. Startin ta learn...”He takes a moment to admire the view and the mess he made of it, leaning on the barrel by way of you behind as he catches his breath. His hand strokes the flesh bent to firmness, and when ready, he offers you some parting words.

“Don’t you worry. It’s been a while for me. Recon I can give yus…one more lesson for tonight. Just…give me a while, eh, sweetheart?”

He blows out his cheeks before his footsteps start walking away, taking the light with him and closing the door as he leaves. The heavy scrape returns before his footfalls fade to nothing. It may just be your imagination, but they sound...lighter, as though he’s walking with a spring in his step. The sound is an insufferably smug one. Round two to the ****.

You take a moment, hunched in the dark, taking in the sore feeling that lines your abused opening. You feel like a castle, with its gates knocked down and its stores plundered. Crack cracked and leaking. You feel the steady decent of more seed rolling down your inner legs. Some of it came out during, pulled out while he made way for more, but most of it now comes after, finding you already full. Both legs now have one or more wet tracks that reach past your knees. You constrict yourself, almost involuntarily, and feel more rush out to join their fellows.

You need to...to get up. To get out of here. Return to the door. Your thoughts are still slippery but you know that this is true. You pull at the arm bindings weakly, not sure why or what you were expecting. The shorts are still around your ankle, stopped from falling all the way by your shoes, but you can’t pull them up, so... so they have to go. You try to slip your pumps off, toeing with the opposite foot. The pain, your grogginess and the way the shorts cover things makes for some slow going, but you eventually get one off. A shoe and the shorts remain on your good foot, but it’s enough to move about. You prepare to stand when you hear muffled voices coming through the wooden door.

No! It’s too soon! Not again. The scraping noise sounds and the voices suddenly become clear as the door opens.

“Daaaamn! Ok! Er, I mean, ok, maybe we can call off half your debt.” That’s a voice you’ve never heard before.

“We’re not just talking about some dock whore for a five minute fuck! By the time you’re done you’ll owe me!” That voice is all too familiar. He sounds very different when he’s talking to a friend and not grunting or out of breath.

“Humm. We’ll see.”

The lantern clunks on the shelf and the hands return to your hips. Different hands. So this is it; the man used you like a whore, now he... he pimps you to his friends? You feel the new comer enter you, completing your unwilling transformation into...into a body to be used by any man who wanted it. You don’t fight back. What’s the point? Just let it be over soon.

“Hey, uuh, you’re right, she’s pretty tight.” He starts to slide back and forth.

“Yeah, and that was after I loosened er up a couple times.”

His hips slap into yours as the wet grinding noise begins to fill the room once more. After the first man, this new comers movements seem almost pedestrian. He moves back and forth, pushing you into the barrel and clearly enjoying your feel. The first man was hard and brutal; he wanted his fun but he wanted you to feel it, to hurt you. This man doesn’t seem to care about anything but your hips and his entering them.

You, meanwhile, try not to think about your hips at all. The feel of him is like a constant knocking on your mind, and if he was the first tonight then that knocking would be inescapable, but compared to the hammering you received previously, his well lubricated humping is almost ignorable. You close your eyes, willing nonsense to come and steal your attention, but you have to open them again when your imagination shows only what he’s doing to you. You’re too tired to think otherwise. His hard hands-

“Uuuughfffffuuuck!”

Sudden wetness floods into you for the third time tonight. He sheaths his weapon fully in to your hilt, releasing more and more of his essence as he twitches and jolts against you. So soon? You suppose you should be grateful. He continues to moan as he floods your insides, depositing far more than his friend did in both his turns combined. Strange, you would consider him the smaller of the two, despite such a feat; evidently, size and volume is unrelated. As he stops, you feel it bubbling out around him, squeezed by the almost none existent space between you. More runs down your legs. Some of it drops straight to the floor, or dribbles down the side of the barrel.

“Good eh?”

He takes a solid minute of rest before responding. “Eeh” he manages breathlessly, sliding out of you and resting against the wall.

They start to talk, about how good you feel, about what you were wearing when he ‘found’ you, about how you can’t be a whore or couldn’t have been before. They discuss their shift change; apparently its late enough that they have been relieved and replaced for the night. The newcomer doesn’t sound bulky, and his hands didn’t swallow your petite hips when he held them; likely he’s the roof guard rather than the front door guard. They discuss the inn; apparently there’s a party going on and while they lament the lack of ale, they prefer the one they’ve made for themselves.

For your part, you just lie there, slumped over a barrel, your abused and dripping crotch on display like the catch of the day. You don’t know if they look at it when they talk. You don’t care; they’ve done far more than just look at it. You don’t lift your head, so your vision remains that of the floor around the shady side of the barrel. They’ve both seeded you. This presents a problem that you don’t know the answer for. Who’s child will grow inside you? The one who was first or the one who was last? Two loads, or one big one? Rather than give back some control, the questions thrashes and rages in your mind, denying you peace. You imagine a war in your womb; seeds forming battle lines, gooey armour clanking, crossbow strings creaking; the war for your future.

Perhaps they’ll all kill each other.

“So, you ready for round two?”

No.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Please, gods, no. Make them stop. You hear them draw closer. Rather than hands on your hips, they instead land on your top, and the thin and open material is pulled up, taking you with it off the barrel and manoeuvring your limp form to the floor. Before you know it, you’re staring up at them again. This time there are two shadow men, silhouetted by the light behind them. You lie on the floor, splayed with nothing hidden. Too weak to cover yourself. Modesty has no place with these two. They have taken the right to look at you by **** and in so doing, joined the group of men who have ever been...intimate with you. That group went from one to three in a single evening. You pray it doesn’t increase any further.

The newcomer leans down to look at you. “Hey, you didn’t tell me she was stuffed.” He fingers the rag wrapped tightly around your mouth before he moves to the side so the candle light can better illuminate your face.

“Does it make a difference?” asks the man who did it, standing behind him.

“Well, no, not really.” He straddles your stomach and pulls down rag with a little effort and removes the screwed up ball of cloth from mouth. You can’t see his face, but from his posture, he seems a little in awe. “She’s as pretty as she feels.”

You work moisture back in your mouth. Screaming and biting probably won’t serve you much now, even if you could summon the energy, but it feels good to get the disgusting material off your tongue.

“Yeah, I told ya-” He’s cut off by the shadow right above you.

“You didn’t tell me she was a looker. Not in the face. Don’t think I’ve fucked nothing prettier.”

Somehow, you don’t appreciate the compliment.

“Yeah, almost regret the shiner I ad to give er.”

You speak, weakly. “Plea...please stop. I beg-“ It’s all you get out before they pull the gag back up, thankfully minus the rag in your mouth, but it still acts as a foul tasting bit.

It’s a half second later before the newcomer pushes up into you. You didn’t even notice, it so fast. One moment he’s straddling you, looking down at your face with eager energy and standing to attention like a well trained dog, the next you’re bouncing up and down across the stones with his impacts. He’s so close, leaning on you hard and filling your vision. Fortunately, he’s taller than you; you only have to look at his neck most of the time, though he sometimes looks down at you to drink in your ‘pretty’ features.

You ready for another wet, sloppy humping and quick finish. It’s strangely easy to think about nothing this time. It’s as though your mind is giving up on this wretched one room world and its uncaring occupants. Only the last word you spoke echo in your head. You really did beg, in a way you never have before. You no longer beg though, or cry or whimper, you just...wait.

His thrusting between your spread legs lasts only for a moment, though not in the way you expected. He holds your hips as he rolls sideways, remaining inside you and taking your small form from the floor to resting on top of his body. Suddenly, it’s you that’s straddling him; your knees on the floor, your head resting on his hard flat chest and neck like the words worst bedspread. You hear his heart hammering beneath you. Its lightning pace quickens further when his hands start to move your hips, forcefully rocking them back and forth as he pushes up with your hips, grinding his rod inside of you. The apathetic wondering of your mind returns. Over a barrel or a man, the end is the same. You remain limp and continue to wait for him to finish once more.

You’re hot. Burning, in fact. The grinding of your hips builds a fierce heat that his previous pounding never approached. Hair tangles with hair, scraping and pulling unpleasantly as he seeks to make your crotches one. The unpleasant feeling is all relative you suppose; a drop in the ocean compared to being **** repeatedly. Strange how the small details seem to stand out, even as the world fades away. You feel a pair of hands spread you’re up turned cheeks, palming and squeezing and pulling them idly. The man below? No, his hands rock you at the thighs. The first man? Hadn’t he had enough?

“Wait till you see what she does when I do this!” He holds you wide, ending your brief mental reprieve with dreading shock. Not the thumb! Not again! He scratched you last time. You didn’t feel it in the moment but you felt it after. Nothing should enter there, especially if it has a dirty thumbnail attached.

A hacking retch is followed by a glob of spit landing just above your rear exit. It rolls down in two parts, the spit quickly, the thicker phlegmy middle more slowly. Its strangeness lifts your head up automatically as your body braces for further humiliation. What can you do? You don’t want the thumb but you don’t want any of this! If you could stop it then you would have done so by now. With an emptier mouth, you manage to form your words a little better around the strip of cloth.

“Mo, eease on’t. Eease! Mot va um. Mot va um!” You feel his thumb moving over your hole, spreading his lubrication.

“What that? In the bum?” You shake your head as you feel something press against your arsehole.

It’s not a thumb.

He thrusts forward.

Your silent, with eyes and mouth wide, red faced, hot and sweaty, struck dumb by a moment that can’t be real. His hips hit yours, slapping your behind slightly as he reaches his lengths limit.

“Oh fuck! She just clamped down somthin fiacre!” the man below cries.

A strangled scream escapes your open mouth, dying as you run out of breath, like a boiling kettle quickly taken off its fire.

“Ahhhh! You think that’s tight?! Fuck! I can barely get in here!” He starts to yank himself back, pulling you with him and breaking the spell of shocked silence. A shaky breath in leads to a shaking cry out, weak and feeble. The man behind holds you still for the first few times he moves back and forth. After that, he lets his movement carry you up and down the man beneath you, a movement he seems more than happy with, his hands slipping down to your thighs, holding them closer to him.

You cry in earnest as they work their new way of breaking you; both finding a warped rhythm in the movements they **** into you.

“Oh fuck! I am not lasting long in here! Oh fuck! She’s like a vice!”

You collapse back on to the man’s chest, your mind struggling to stay afloat against such bombardment. They both hump, moving inside you at the same time, filling you more than you can handle. One takes you like a whore, the other like a bitch. It’s too much! They’re too big! You try to relax but your body doesn’t listen. It tries to clamp down, to squeeze out and expel the intruders, but the intruders don’t listen. It’s not long before there grunts turn to gasps, turn to cries of pleasure. They hold on for dear life as they burn your hips to ash, turn your too tight holes to mush and transform your weak cry’s to pain filled squealing as they try to meet in your middle. An all too familiar wetness spills forth between your legs, followed a few seconds later by a less familiar one between your cheeks. Both hold themselves deep inside of you as they release, pinning you between each of them and sawing you with their final twitching jolts.

You descend back into sobbing as they hold you there, gasping and revelling in your body and the use they found for it. The seed filling your womanhood reaches deep, yet the pull of the ground works against it and you soon feel it sliding back down in a bid for freedom. The rod buried deep inside your burning rear is a different story; you almost feel a small lake forming inside your once private place. A feeling you had not imagined even once in your life.

You lie like that at their pleasure, feeling them soften as they remain inside. It’s over. You focus on breathing, though the hot and musky air makes it difficult. The man behind pulls out; a movement that drags an involuntary sigh form you. The other man pushes you off, rolling you limply onto your back, off his chest and manhood. As you stair up at the ceiling, unbelieving mind still struggling through shock, and watch as the candle light moves the shadows in a subtle ways, swaying and dancing to its own erratic tune. You try to focus on its movements over theirs as they rest against the wall and start to talk again. The light captivates your eye, buy your ears can’t help but hear. The words are all crude and insulting, relating to your ‘tightness’, your feel, the noises you made. Apparently, whatever the debt was, it’s paid by your pussy. You let yourself be distracted by the latest strange and disgusting feeling. You’ve never...leaked, from there before. The lake starts it steady drain into a puddle.

“And how about you? Bet you enjoyed yourself.” The question is directed at you but an answer isn’t expected.

You just want to go, for this to be over, to be somewhere else. Someone else. Tiredness seeps into your bones. You have barely done anything, save be used, yet fatigue settles over you like a suffocating storm, more mental than physical. As one of them leans down, you turn your head away from him. It’s the most protest you can give, so you give it freely. The wall stairs back, as unsympathetic as the two men who **** you.

You wheeze as a great weight presses down on your stomach; a seat for the man straddling you. The pressure briefly redoubles your leaking as your body is squeezed. You feel his hair tickle your torso, his emptied sack resting at ease, and soon rough hands start to fondle your breasts.

“Don’t worry sweetheart. Got plenty more for you.” The flickering flame on the wall rocks and wobbles, dancing with light reflected off metal ear loops. It looks calm compared to the sudden shaking fear you feel. “Got an idea of some favours you can make for me...” You feel his every grip and pull and twist bring new life between his legs. He leans down, close to your face, struggling to keep his tired laughter back. “But first, I want to set a new personal record...”

---

You wake up... if you can call it that. Lying unthinking on the floor with your eyes open isn’t really sleeping. You’re too sore to think; too bruised to be alert. Why have you woken? Not thinking was far easier.

Your side lying position gives you a good view of the door, or at least the crack at its base. You don’t know when, but the light shining under had gone from flickering candle to blinding sunlight. It cuts the dark now, somehow growing brighter at the sudden sound of scraping. Is that it? Someone’s coming? That’s what roused you? All the more reason not to be present.

The door swings open and two dark shapes stand in the middle of the blinding light that spills in. It’s the first two; the rooftop guard and the backdoor guard. Narnen and Zap, you think their names are. The shadow men, here for another few turns to satisfy their morning appetites. You start to return to the darkness of your own mind.

“Gods...”

That’s not right. Why is his voice so horrified? It takes a moment to think through the fog but you soon realise that the voice also belongs to a woman, not a man. You take a closer look, squinting against the light, holding up a hand to block it out. The shirt around your arms is long gone and has been for a while. It returned to its owner maybe halfway through. He had been very thorough in letting you know how displeased he was with the frayed rip your efforts had made in the back, and again for the middle button. It was one of the few bits of soreness that managed to stand out, presiding over the other memories that walked the same passage. Neither of these two were tall enough to be him though.

As you see them more clearly, you can tell that it’s a man and a woman. The man looks strangely familiar. He’s old, with creases around his eyes and tight, thin skin with white hair spilling out of his red bandanna. A short white stubbly beard coats his jaw and he wears what looks like a brown servant’s uniform and an expression mixed of both lust and disgust. Despite his age, the way he leans against the door seems strikingly youthful, or perhaps just arrogant. It’s the woman that draws your attention most though.

Despite a thick mask of black, blue, and yellow bruises coating her face, it’s clearly the maid from last night. Her dirty blond hair looks oddly neat against the battered mess. It looks mostly superficial, but probably doesn’t feel it. Her hand covers her mouth in a gesture of shock, and a wetness begins to creeps into her already cry worn eyes.

“I don’t-“ She tries. “I didn’t-“

You don’t know if you even have the energy to hate her. She is the cause of all this. The catalyst for the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to you in your life. But you have nothing left. It started as an ordeal to endure, then it just became an ordeal, and near the end, it was nothing; just another man, another release, another use. Turn by turn, over the space of a night, they had reduced you to nothing, and that’s all you can feel as you look at her.

They quickly cover their noses when the worst of the air reaches them, halting her attempts at further speech. The smell had gone from the hot and sweaty haze at the beginning into an unbearably musky smell that you could have never identified yesterday morning. You never really smelled seamen at all before today, and now you can identify it by taste. Some still rattles quietly in your nose. That musk had been almost heady, like ****, and they had had to open the door just to breathe after a while. It wasn’t the smell of seed and sweat that faced these two though, at least not just that. When the night had reached its early morning end, the last one had washed you down with his piss. The all-encompassing acidic smell had almost been forgotten by you, blended with the air you’ve been breathing for hours. For these two it was painfully new. It had merged with your sweat and the groups occasional misfires to leave a layer of dried, almost crystalline crust over much of your naked body. It cracks and flakes with any movement you make. You hardly notice.

You look up at them, getting a weak arm under you. What should you say? You’re as speechless as they seem to be. You open your mouth silently. A glob of cum slips off your tongue and over your lips as soon as you do. After a while, when you had truly stopped fighting and gone limp, they had done as they pleased with you. Lifting you head up makes it difficult to breath as everything in your nose starts to slide down, sending you into a fit of coughing, spraying stale white wetness out over the floor.

How many had there been? The first two. Then...then the second two. They had had you in the kitchen for a while, when the heat grew too strong. How many joined then? Four more? Five? You remember most of it, you think, but some moments stand out more than others, like beacons in the night throwing all else into shadow. The moment the gag came off and you begged, truly begged, for them to stop. You begged like a dog and they took you like a dog. You remember the first one in your mouth. They said if you bit then they would make it worse. You’re not sure how they could have but you gagged and swallowed rather than find out. The moment they used the bat...

Your coughing seems to break their stupor, or the girls at least. She braves the odour and rushes over to you, hesitant to touch you through the foulness on your skin. You look at her before she does, your long loose hair falling before your eyes and face; a ragged brown waterfall, turned black with damp and snarled with misuse. Clumps of it seem to stick together, holding the shape of the hands that last grabbed it. It proved useful leverage for the group; as rains, as a lead, as handles, or simply something to hold on to. Whatever she sees in your eyes, she backs away, bottom lip shaking.

“I...I’m so...SO sorry.” Her face is twisted with a pain that has nothing to do with its bruises. “I got carried away, I...” She struggles to find words, mouth opening and closing at random. “...They’re gone... The captain, and the men who...”

‘Violently gang **** you’, you finish in your own mind, ‘again and again and again and again...’

You stop coughing and struggle to kneel, managing to get on all fours. Your knees burn with scrapes and bruises. They had you on all fours a disproportionate amount. You suppose it gave them access to whatever they wanted. You feel what happed to your nose happen again between your legs as wetness rolls down your thighs, sometimes sliding, sometimes tumbling in small chunky amounts. Much of it inside you holds a sticky blockade, stubbornly refusing to leave, while the streaks on the outside were mostly already dry.

“We’re here to help...” That sounded weak even to you. “I...I understand if you want me to go...”

You look at her. She seems sincere. Do you care? After what she did, what her actions lead too, can you even stand to be near her? She can’t meet your eyes.