Talk to the maid.

The maid it is. If you were to take the dumbwaiter then you’d be at the mercy of whoever is or isn’t at the top. At least this way you have some control. You take a moment to consider the upcoming conversation; what do you know? There is a person called Benji who is ‘up-upstairs’; the same floor as Captain Washkin. That must mean up the stairs from the cellar and then up the stairs in the main hall to the floor above. That much is obvious. He’s with a girl called ‘Maxaine’ who the man described as ‘prolly sucking rudder right now’. You feel that it’s safe to assume that this means some kind of sexual conduct, so it’s best not to disturb them. You also know that there are two maids, Samia and Misty, who may know a secret way up. Such a thing is quiet likely as these kind of grand houses tend to have secret passages so its servants can serve while being seen as little as possible. The fact that a secret way up would be needed rules out simply walking up the stairs. With all that in mind, what can you say that will get her to take you upstairs, or better yet just show the way?

You mull it over for a minute before reasoning that she would never sneak you up to see the Captain; such would be the request of an assassin and would likely raze an alarm. Benji and Maxaine are your only option as they’re the only other people you know are up there. You’ll just have to ask to see them, say you’ve been sent to fetch them or deliver a message. You stand up and set a deliberate stride towards her, crossing the well lit foyer in the process.

Five heads turn and watch you pass, their discussion halted temporarily. You try to stay confident as their eyes pick apart your disguise.

“Oh my...Roland sure knows how to pick em.” Not so much picking apart your disguise as stripping it bare. The commenter is a heavy set man restrained by stretched cream silks and a heavy yellow gold coat. He looks as sweaty and blotchy as his dress looks gaudy. Another man in a nobles green jacket responds to him.

“Wouldn’t mind one of them for the journey back, that’s for sure. The things I’d do to her...”

The others simply look. Your clothes leave little work for the imagination, but knowing theirs are contemplating your body with such diligence quickly starts to erode your confidence, gleefully replacing it with embarrassment.

“Never mind Roland, come work for me!” Your shoulders slump as you quicken your pace, passing them and transferring their eyes from your front to your rear.

“I’ve got two of those-“ A sudden sneeze cuts his words before continuing. “-at home, both finer and fatter.” Only their words pursue you as you leave them behind. Fat, disgusting men in ill gotten finery.

“Some of us like em lean; they’re the bitches with most to prove...” The idea of ‘proving’ anything to any of them leaves you feeling sick.

As you walk through the wide arch and into the new room, you approach the young woman, who is currently looking very glum as she half-heartedly dusts a shelf. Her attire is definitely that of a maid; short brown dress and white pinny. The dress shows too much leg, stopping just above the knee, not unlike some other maids you have seen on the mainland. Not that you have any moral high ground to complain, wearing the ridiculously short shorts that you are. She looks a touch plump, likely in the way that men find attractive, and her dull blond hair is up in two neat plaits that join at the back. She hasn’t seen you yet.

“Hello?”

She turns at the sound. “Hum? Oh, er, hello.” Her eyes make a brief journey down your form, taking in the short top and shorter shorts in a way that the merchants never did. Her face immediately adopts a flat expression. “Is there something I can do for you?”

It’s now or never.

“Er, yes. I’m here to see Benji.” She looks surprised and not a little confused at your request. “...and Maxaine” you add, hoping the name lends you a little extra credibility.

Her mouth opens and closes several times before she breathlessly asks “And what make you think I can take you to him?” Hmm, can’t exactly tell her about an overhead conversation in the cellar...

“He told me you could. Er, that’s Benji... who told me.” You finish rather lamely, drawn to a close by the expression she takes on. It looks like she’s been slapped in the face. You don’t like the expression. Perhaps you’ve misjudged the situation?

“Benji told you that I would...” Her hands start to shake; balled up into fists, one down by her side, the other with a **** grip on her dusting cloth, still resting on the shelf. She almost smiles despairingly, looking about the room as if to see some joke being played on her. “Fine.” She throws her hands up in the air in a particularly violent show of flippancy. The dust cloth sails away. “Fine...Fine. He wants you, then... let’s go.”

The mad glint in her eye sets you on edge. Perhaps this was a bad idea. She grabs your wrist and pulls you to the door, throwing it open and storming through. You get the feeling that something bad is on the way, not just for Benji but for you as well. Still, as the empty hallways and closed doors fly by, you find yourself being guided towards what you hope is your goal. Her grip is strong, built by years of manual labour, and tugs your arm hard as she pulls you. She almost dislocates it when you lag behind and despite her being about the same age as you, her added height and weight over your short statures almost gives the air of a mother dragging her disobedient child.

Corridors suddenly give way to stairs as another small door is violently opened. You almost fall several times as she drags you up, earning a “Come on! You want to see him don’t you!?” Her angry words seem to break the dam between her mind and her mouth, causing a flood of muttered half-thoughts to leave her. “...wants this? Well I’ll give him this! Using me for...Bah! ...only so much I can take!”

As quickly as you joined the stairs, you find yourself pulled out into another corridor. You trip. She doesn’t notice. As you scrabble back to your feet, she makes a hard left and begins to march down the long hallway. You’re upstairs, as you wanted, but now you’re flying towards a place you don’t want to go.

“I... No, listen... You’ve got it all wrong...” She marches on.

“...just cruel. I won’t let him... teach him respect!” The darkness of the corridor gives way to light and you realise she’s taken you to the foyers landing in a roundabout way. The five heads of five merchants below watch you once more as you pass in the opposite direction, this time with a generous helping of confusion and incredulity mixed in with their lust. You pass the stairs on your right and the double doors on your left. The sounds of conversation briefly drift through their wooden frame.

“...No you’re not, because...”

The moment is gone and the voice returns to muffled hums as your dragged away. That was the sound of a woman’s voice, speaking with the unmistakable sound of authority. At least you know where Captain Washkin is now.

Darkness returns as you enter the other half of the long corridor, away from the landing light. Indeed, looking back you see that the corridor must run from one end of the mansion to the other, with the foyer and landing sitting squarely in the middle. If you can get away from this woman then Captain Washkin will be in your grasp, barring the landing doors and whoever she’s currently talking to that is.

A sudden tug pulls you left, taking you through a door and into a plain looking room. After a few steps, the vicelike grip on your wrist lets go, throwing you a few steps further. You didn’t see any other doors between this room and Captain Washkins, did you? You may be mistaken as you were going quite fast at the time, but this room should be right next to the room Captain Washkin is in. That means-

“Benji! You bastard! First her and now her! Is one not enough?! You got to go bringin whores up now?!”

The whole house turns utterly silent.

The room, like the moment, is quite long. It stretches onwards to what looks like a balcony at its end. The wall to your left holds many narrow windows, all painting an equal number of moonlight stripes across the middle of the room that both dispel and define much of the darkness. On the right wall, as well as the door you came through, is an array of cots, cupboards, draws and dressers lined up to separate sections of the room. It all points to this being the sleeping quarters of several people, likely the servants. The wall behind you, the captains wall, contains its own share of tables and cabinets, though they look less used.

Right in the middle of the room, a woman stumbles forward wide eyed, directly into a beam of moonlight. Her skin is quite tanned and sheened with sweat, and her face seems to be somewhere between flushed bright red and drained pale with horror. She’s also completely naked. For a moment, the moonlight catches on her skin, reflecting off her body’s wetness. It reflects more between her legs. She looks athletic; toned from a life at sea and standing ready for a fight, or possibly to run, an attidude you can sympathise with right now. She’s also older than you by a few years and has a head of wiry black hair pulled back into a loose tuft. Another head suddenly pops up over a nearby cabinet to her left; a younger man with a mess of tussled hair and a face full of freckles. He looks at you and your irate guide with a considerable amount of confusion, which he voices with an equally considerable lack of eloquence.

“Wha?”

It’s the wrong response.

“Why you up here with her an now er and I got to bring er up an it’s just cruel Benji its jus fuckin cruel!” She starts screaming with increasing incomprehensibility. “I jus wanna wi you but your all up eer in er an jus got to smile? No!”

You start edging around the room, towards the balcony, as the tirade continues. Captain Washkin will have heard this, unless she’s completely deaf, and will no doubt investigate. All element of surprised is gone unless you ambush her as soon as she comes in. All you’d have to do then is take out these three right after, and any guards that hear the noise, oh, and who ever she was talking to before.

“Wha?” the young man tries again. Unlike him, you know when it’s time to escape.

“Damn you Benji! Fuckin damn you! You better ap-apologise r-right now!” She’s full on sobbing now, her words still loud, but much harder to understand. A few more steps take you past the woman, who you give a flat mouthed conciliatory smile to, and a few more, taken a little faster, take you through the open double doors and into the night air at the far end of the room.

“Wha?” Benji actually looked quite handsome from what you saw of him, in a boyish kind of way. Evidently he isn’t so good in a crisis. At least Maxain has started to desperately shush the insane maid’s wails.

Too little, too late.

You throw a leg over the balcony’s stone railing. It’s a long way down, but if you climb over and hang before dropping-

“You should be fuckin me! Not her!”

BANG! The door slams open. Your foot slips. Wendigo walks in. You fall.

“What, in-the-name-of-the-black-in-between, is going on here!”

You land.

The crunching, mushy, tearing sound that comes from your left ankle is audible only to you. Thankfully, so is your scream as you shut your eyes tight and muffle you mouth with your hand. The grass feels thin under you, the ground hard and dry. You hear the voices above.

“Capin-they-they-got-in-a-whore-an-I-gotta-“ The captain cuts her off tersely.

“Shut up Samia.”

Surprisingly she does, instantly. You try to stand up but you ankle explodes with fresh pain and has no chance of supporting you. You start to crawl. Benji chips in,

“It’s not what it loo-“ She cuts him off as well.

“Shut up Benji! I can see what it fucking looks like!”

You manage to up your escape from a crawl to a limping hopping motion. Your ankle blazes like fire with even the slightest pressure. Tears of pain quickly spring from your eyes and roll down over your bitten lip and all the curses it contains.

The temporary silence is split by the Captains voice.

“Samia; go to Garran and ask him to beat some sense into you!”

You’ve gained ground, frantically limping towards the tree line; almost half way there. You can only just make out the maids meek “Yes mistress.” Again the silence stretches. You make it past the half way point.

“Benji, Maxaine; if you two like being naked so much then you can stay that way! Go serve drinks at the inn and only dress when I tell you too. If you cover yourselves with so much as a hand, I’ll flog you both raw!”

You don’t hear their response. Two thirds the distance. The pain makes you dizzy and you feel the prickly of sweat on your brow. If you can just-

“You! Whore!” Captain Wendigo’s voice cuts through the night air. Different in sound; shouted from the balcony you’d guess. You stop and hesitate before turning on one foot, braced for the worst.

You were correct; she does stand on the balcony. She looks down at you with an unreadable expression that’s partially masked by shadow. A shape moves on the roof; a guard, drawn by the shouting, cut in half by moonlight. He’s looking right at you. Another guard appears from around the corner of the building. It’s the back door guard, unless you miss your guess. You feel very exposed as you stand in the middle of the mansions open lawn.

Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin looks down at you, your fate in her hands, like a high judge looking over the accused. She looks about to say something, but changes her mind as another figure you cannot really see shifts behind her.

“Just fuck off.”

You sigh with relief and almost fall to your knees. You manage a bowed head (a curtsy is just beyond you right now) and almost continue for the woods before you catch yourself and set off in the direction of the main path away from the mansion.

“You want me to escort her captain?”

You freeze at the backdoor guards words. Please say no. If you could just walk slowly away then you could slip into the woods when no-one’s watching, get to the back of the island and swim for it. You look at him and the captain, who seems distracted by the shape she shares the room with. Her words still carry, despite their idle tone.

“Do whatever you want with her.”

She disappears from view. The guards face lights up. Your hopes come crashing down.

He strides towards you, crossing the distance with an eager speed your limping leg can only dream of. He’s carrying some kind of bat; a long piece of wood that’s been rounded, thinner at the leather strapped grip he holds and thicker at the clubbing end. He slows down as he nears you.

“My lucky night! Come on bitch, I got an itch!” He chuckles to himself at the dreadful rhyme. A shiver runs down you. He’s older than you, but not by much. His grinning face holds an easy confidence, one that’s likely supplied by his weapon and the toned muscles that run the length of his body. His form retains a wiry quality despite them, all muscles and no fat, and it’s decorated with loose red trousers and a white top, cut in a low and loose v-neck that shows a mix of scars and tattoos across bronzed skin. Several small metal ear loops quiver with each step he takes, easily visible thanks to his short brown hair. He stands a full head and a half taller than you.

You couldn’t take him, even in a fair fight with a fully working ankle that didn’t blaze with pain every time you even think of it. Gods it hurts! You mask the pain. Lucky for you, you have no intention of fighting fair, so you turn slightly to hide the side that holds your almost visible stiletto. He gives you a smile that you think is meant to be comforting.

“Come on. Come with me. Couple rounds with that puss an you can get back to the docks.” It’s far too eager, too predatory, too hungry to ever be considered comforting. He sees the way you favour one leg and quickly grabs your arm, pulling it over his shoulder and slipping his own across your back and under your other arm. You let him, glad that he chose your left side over your right, leaving your stabbing arm free. The guard you saw on the roof is still there. Your helper and all too eager lover nods at him, causing the silhouette to shake his head and continue his patrol.

You limp as he starts to move you both to the back door of the mansion, taking you around the corner he appeared from. He seems almost giddy with anticipation, smiling at the prospect of your violation. You on the other hand are too sick to feel giddy; sick with fear, sick with pain, and above all, sick with disgust. That this man thinks he’s going to take you so easily. You don’t need to look at the moon to know the effect it will have on you. At this point in your cycle, should he get his way, pregnancy is almost assured. Such an argument would not concern him of course, but you have no intention of raising the bastard child of a bastard ****.

The door is in sight, a few dwindling lengths away. It’s open and spills light from inside across the path and grass, warring with the moonlight for supremacy. You ease the dagger out of your shorts.

“To think I was gonna miss out. Them boys at the inn-“

You strike. The pointed blade swings around as you pirouette on your working leg, aiming for his guts and grabbing the back of his loose top to stay upright and give yourself as much leverage as possible. He’s prepared, not for you to strike but for you to run, and the hand under your right arm try’s to pull you back to him, spinning you back around and drawing your knife away. His top is too loose and gives you a false purchase, causing it and your hand to slide across him when you fight to pull yourself back in. It’s enough time for him to see the blade, his smile dropping as he pounces.

It’s like being hit by an avalanche. He grabs your wrist with his free hand and lets go of you with the other before slamming his side into you. You’re thrown back, letting go of the knife as his grip shifts to hold it rather than you. Fortunately, his grip is no better than yours, and your grasping fingers knock it free fumbling through his fingers and falling to the floor at the same speed you are. Your rear hits the grass and the hard dry soil with the slightest bounce; the meanest spring for you to jump for the knife before he can. He’s between you and it already, but if you can-

He turns and swings a vicious backhanded slap at your face. You feel grass on your forehead as you lie on the ground. There was no in-between.

You run your hands through the grass. Where’s the dagger? The bat? Something? It’s only been a second, you think. Feet thud on the ground, coming for you fast. You look towards the source, just in time to see the foot flying towards your gut and put up a shielding hand. You just miss, the foot flicking your fingers. The foot doesn’t. It slams into your stomach, making you gasp hard as the air is knocked out of you, collapsing you back into the ground and undoing whatever progress made towards your recovery in one violent motion. Hands grab your wrists, moving them harshly into the small of your back. Something heavy pins them; a knee from the feel of it. He’s breathing hard, while you’re not breathing at all, your shocked stomach still reeling from the impact and the press. It takes a few horrid seconds before you can drag even the smallest gulp of air though the blades of grass in your face.

The knee lifts and the hands return. Something wraps around your wrists, binding them together, and by the time you start to struggle, it all over. The experienced knots of a seaman do their job well and all your frantic pulling and tugging and twisting of your arms don’t even loosen them.

When he stands and takes his weight away, you flip to face him. He stands over you, breathing hard, saying nothing, and you stay that way for a few odd seconds, both of you trying to catch your respective breaths with varying degrees of success. He walks over to your blade and picks it up. You’re sure it was closer when you reached for it; the impact must have thrown you further than you thought. He slots it into a loose rope belt around his trousers. His shirt is off; it must have come loose in the fight. You tug at your wrists. Scratch that, you think you know exactly where his shirt is. The ink and scars he bears are fully revealed and make for an intimidating display. They’re hard to see in the dim light, but it looks like a series of winged creatures, brought to life by the rising and falling of his chest, framed by either odd scars or poorly inked lightning bolts.

Your gasps for air start to normalise slightly as your lungs remember their proper rhythm. He walks towards you with a flat, determined expression on his face, the sickness returning to you, this time limited to fear and raw panic. You throw a kick at him with your good leg, grunting as it hits him in the shin. You ready another but it’s deflected as he strides past and drops to straddle your stomach.

“No! I’m not a whore! Please-“

SLAP! His right palm catches you across your face, turning it with the impact and cutting off your words. You take a drag of air before turning back. “Ple-“

SLAP! It’s harder this time and leaves you seeing stars; not the gods above, but the ones behind your eyes, wild and shaken by the impact.

“If I hear anything out of you what isn’t ‘Zap, let me suck your cock’ then I ram this spike where the gods don’t look and make a spit roast out of you.” You flinch at the quiet menace in his voice and keep your head turned to avoid looking at him and being struck again. You taste blood on your lip.

He climbs off you in short order, before lifting your head and wrapping his arm around your neck. You struggle for a moment, thinking that he’s going to kill you, but instead of outright strangling you he just drags you by the neck the last few paces to the door. As you pass the threshold, barely keeping your good leg off the ground, you hear him mutter to himself.

“Some whores you gotta teach, that’s all. Zap’ll teach you.”

The door way leads to a large open kitchen, its many surfaces empty save for a few scattered lanterns. He drops you by a counter, leaving you dragging in raw breaths through your bruised throat. There’s no one else about, at least that you can see, and you immediately start looking for an escape while frantically tugging on the knots that bind your arms. He starts rummaging through some nearby draws, giving you the time you need.

Several doors line the room. If you ankle wasn’t so badly sprained (at least you hope it’s just a sprain) then you could run for one of them. If he hadn’t bound your arms and taken your weapon, you could fight. If you weren’t so terrified, you could speak. Gods, don’t let him **** you! Tears start to blur your vision. Damn this disguise, damn Captain Washkin, damn him, and damn yourself for being so stupid. You slump on to your stomach and lift your blazing leg, bending it as far up your back as possible while reaching down with your bound hands. You probe you ankle as lightly as you can, with two fingers that barely reach. It feels like it’s getting swollen. Is that good? It hurts just on its own and stings fiercely to touch, but you doubt it’s fully broken.

He knocks your leg down as he returns, and flips you onto your back to loom over you. He has something in his hand. A rag. Last chance. With a shaking voice, you look him in the eye and speak.

“I am not a whorgff-“ You’re cut off as he stuffs the rag into your mouth. Doubly so when he put a longer one over it and starts to tie it around your head. It tastes foul; like old wet dust. He’s taken your voice away. Your last weapon.

“Yeah? Well I’m gonna use you like one anyway.”

You start to thrash, frantic. Maybe if you knee him he’ll go away? You try with gusto, screaming through the rags. He simply steps aside and grabs your neck again, cutting you off and dragging you towards one of the doors.

He throws it open behind you before he spins you around and stands you up. It looks like a dark hole, though you only see if for a moment before he throws you forwards. An accidental step sending agony through your ankle and you go down hard, the cold stone floor smacking into your side, sending a hard stinging shock throughout your body. You roll onto your back and start to kick away from him with your good foot, sliding across the dirty stone as fast as you can into the darkness of the room.

Unfortunately, that’s not very fast at all.

He stands in the doorway, a stark silhouette against the light of the kitchen lanterns; an unseen monster of shadow that looks almost inhuman. He disappears for a moment before returning, a single rocking step that brings a lantern into his hand, and follows you in. The door closes behind him, the latch catching with a loud snap.

He puts the lantern on a nearby shelf, its murky light more than enough to illuminate the small stone room. It’s a pantry of some kind, limited in size and long since looted, with only a dry looking barrel and a few empty shelves for decoration. Before you know it, he’s on you: a disturbing faceless form once more rendered to silhouette by the light above him. He sits on your belly while his hands grab at your top, clamping over material and soft flesh both. A tug sends its single button clattering across the floor. Your breasts, ill hidden already by the small top, are now bared to him in the half light, and he grabs them, gathering them up from their flattened state and squeezing as he pleases.

No! Please No! You scream through the gag again. Your legs kick and buck. Even your hurt leg try’s to knee his back. A few painful seconds of fondling is all he gets before he has to let go. He slaps you again, harder than the last two times. You’re too afraid to even feel it. He leans in close, menace in his eyes. It the wrong move. You try your best to deliver the most powerful head-butt you can to his nose, and while it comes out as more of a glace across his cheek, it’s enough to get him off you. He stands and you both look at each other, panting hard as though you had just run a mile. You try to give him a dangerous look, a growl, but the hardness you see stirring in his loose trousers widens your eyes with fear.

He steps forward. You kick. He catches. He holds your working ankle, pinning it, and before you can do anything else, he reaches down and grabs your other.

“MUUUUUHHHHHH!” You scream through the gag as his calloused finger grip your swollen flesh, digging in and sending previously unimagined levels of pain up your leg.

“Yeah, don’t like that do you?” It’s all consuming. He twists and pulls and drives his fingers in, grinding the torn inside and pulling at the cracked bone. It’s truly the worst pain you have ever felt in your life. You scream again, tears streaming out of your eyes, obscuring everything. “Are you gonna behave?”

You can’t nod your head fast enough.

He shifts his grip so he’s holding both your calves instead, and stands there, looking down at you, holding your legs apart in each hand, staring at your uncovered breasts and the thin strip of the short red shorts that covers your lower lips. You still can’t see much of anything; he swims in your vision behind a haze of tears as you try to catch your gasping breath and calm your hammering heart.

You feel his grip shift. First, he holds both your legs in one hand, then after a moment, its back to two. He starts to push your legs down towards you, stretching your knees and calves and thighs as he steers your feet towards down your head. You feel your leg muscles stretch under his direction, giving them the bouncy spring of resistance. Your rear lifts up to compensate, bending your lower back as if you were hunched over, and the strain in your legs increases until they can go no further. Your knees hover a hand span and a half above your shoulders.

He falls forward.

Your legs, hips and back all scream at the sudden contortion. You scream with them, another muffled yell at a type of stretching pain that you’ve never felt before. Your knees are pushed right down, almost to the sides of your head, your ankles jutting out somewhere above. The man responsible fills your vision as he leans on you, pressing you down and holding your legs pinned as his breath and presence fills your senses. The lantern behind him still gives the illusion of a man made of shadow, but as your eyes adjust, you can just about make out the look of hunger on his face. His weight is on your legs and on your back, but you feel him press against your shorts as well: a thick rod that rests between your legs and points at the empty space between you both. He looks you in the eyes, drinking in your gagged face and the pain on its terrified expression.

“You know, you’re pretty fuckin cute.” He pins both your legs up with one of his forearms and reaches down with the other. This is it. Last chance. What did he say before? He pulls aside the thin strip of cloth provided by your shorts, exposing you to him. What is it he wanted? You’ll do anything for this to not happen!

“Ease! A’ll uck ore ock! Ust, ease ount-“ Your words are muffled by the gag, but he understands.

“Later.”

You feel him line himself up before pushing down into you, parting you, violating you.

“MUUUUUHHHHH!”

You shake your head from side to side as though you can deny what’s happening. His hips come to a rest on yours, hilting himself inside you, and his hands return to your legs, holding your calves up and pressing your knees into the stones either side of your head. He takes a second to hold you there, inside and out, as your scream runs out of air and dwindles into a mewling whimper. Scrunched into ball as you are, you look up to see his bare chest over your head, the dim shapes of the painted flying monsters hardly visible as they rest on the very real monster inside of you. His hands squeeze the soft muscles of your calves, and when you look up at his face, it holds pleased quality of a man savouring what he’s done, and what he’s about to do. He starts to move.

He moves his hips up and down, pistoning his manhood in and out of you, slowly and carefully at first but with a gradually increasing speed. Raw sounds of helpless horror **** their way through the foul tasting gag and fill the room, muffled and contained enough that only he can hear you. Not that anyone on this cursed island would answer such despairing cries, at least with help.

His dry, bouncing thrusts push your hips down further, increasing the stretching burn in your thigh muscles and spine. You pull at the shirt crushed under you, more than ever, yet it still holds your wrists tight, and your loud wails turn into defeated sobs as he finds his rhythm. Their noise fights with his grunts and his heavy breathing, and even his occasional breathy chuckle as he pounds and pounds with his hips as you pull and pull with your arms, **** to escape, to be anywhere else. You haven’t been with a man since that day six years ago. While you no longer have your maiden head, the feeling of hard, unwelcome warmth forcing its way inside, punching and scratching and pulling and stretching you, remains as vile as ever. Despite it all, you struggle to accept it. Struggle to quantify what he’s doing to you. It doesn’t add up, doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t he know you’ll get pregnant? Doesn’t he know he’s hurting you? Doesn’t he know you don’t want this? The cold part of your mind, separate and free from the friction heat of your colliding genders, tells you he doesn’t care, that he’s doing this for his own pleasure, that he’s a man and that you’re nothing but a hole to him. It doesn’t make sense. How can someone not care?

You shut your eyes, wanting it to all be over, yet the moment forces itself onto your senses as brutally as he forces himself onto your body. You try to think of something else, but there’s nothing else to think about. You look to your sides; knees bouncing up and down. You look above; the light twinkles on his small swaying ear loops. You look down and see it hammer into you; a brutal invasion, rising and falling in the furred cleft of your valley. Punching through your defences. Carrying a dangerous payload to an uncertain future. It feels so much longer and thicker than it looks, and makes no noise as it moves in and out, other than the sound that reverberates through your body and throughout your mind. Soft weeping now shakes your shoulders, causing them to tap lightly against your knees. You mewl quietly, begging to him, to the gods, to whoever is listening for all this to stop.

“uh, uh, uh, eease uh. Ayk ie op, eease op!”

All you get in answer is his constant grunting as he works your twisted hips to feeds his own carnality.

You feel his sack rest on you every time he pushes in fully, its contents ready to march on his orders, to **** your womb and plant his flag. Why did this have to happen now? Why did this have to happen at all? You don’t want this. You don’t want what he’s doing. You don’t want what he’s going to give you. Is this because he still thinks you’re a whore?

“Ahm ot an ore! Ahm ot an ore!” The words come out weakly between crying whimpers, repeated like some mantra that can ward off evil. He was right; he is using you like one anyway.

He falls forward suddenly, leaning on you and putting his full weight on your hips. You scream again with despair, thinking this the moment of his release, but instead he takes on a grinding motion, sliding his member back and forth deep inside you. The movement is slight, yet you feel every push and tug fully and completely, your hairs meeting and rubbing, building the fire of friction to roaring levels. His breathing also builds, gasping and moaning with pleasure, too lost in the moment to feel anything but your inner softness. You feel his hands squeeze your calves; the pain in your ankle pushed aside as his movement smothers your attention. You see his chest rise and fall, see the sheen of sweat on his body and feel him twitch inside you. He’s close, you know it, and no sooner than you think it, it happens. The dam brakes and his essence rushes to put out the fire.

Two moans fill the room; one orgasmic and one of muffled hopeless despair. He squeezes your legs hard as he fills you, yet he doesn’t let up. His thrusting rhythm dissolves slightly into slower jerking thrusts and you feel each spray of wet heat coat your passage at different points. He works you meticulously, turning your hard earth to mud neath his plough and the fresh rains it brings. A disgusting, wet, sloppy sound starts to fill the room, warring with your voices at first, but lingering long after you both turn to panting silence. He finally comes to a rest inside you, spent in energy and seed. He holds himself there, as though hoping to seal his essence in, but it’s hardly needed; the way he holds you contorted, it can only slide deeper into your core anyway.

After about a minute of him catching his breath, he finally pulls himself out of your depths. He feels smaller when he does, and slick like an eel. The grip on your legs shifts, moving from calves to the back of your knees as he starts easing his weight off to lean back. You feel your back and thighs groan like rusty hinges as they straighten, and before long your rear greats the stone floor like a long lost friend. Several clicks sound from your stretched spine as it goes from being bent up to being bent back around the tied arms beneath you. A second later, your feet touch the floor, and pain radiates outward from the pressure on your ankle; a reminder that there is no escape from this place... or what just happened.

He kneels between your legs, looking down at his handiwork. You feel it inside of you; a warm, wet reminder of what is to come, both in the short term and long.

“Did you have as much fun as I did?”

He smiles. He actually smiles. He’s still a living shadow thanks to the light behind him, but you hear it; the wet twisting of lips, just like in those last moment of his attack. The cruel joke in his voice. You can’t look at him; shying away at the darkness of his face and words. You turn your head to face the wall. His hand slides down your inner thigh. “If it helps, I know you’re not a real whore.” He sniffs, squeezing the meat of your leg, savouring its texture. “From the moment you fought back. Just made it even sweeter, you know?”

He gives you one last squeeze before standing up and walking away, taking the lantern as he closes the door, leaving you in utter darkness. Soon after, the latch clicks shut, and the sound of something being dragged towards the door before being pressed against it echo’s throughout the small room. After that, only the sound of fading footsteps and your own shallow breathing can be heard. Alone in the dark, ****, seeded, exposed and hurting, you start to softly cry.

You can’t help it; it just comes upon you like a gentle breeze. You stay quiet -the room seems to demand silence- but the tears come hard and fast, falling down the sides of your cheeks harder than they ever did while he was inside.

Your legs drop fully, exhausted, resting their lengths against the stone. You feel the fabric of your cursed shorts slip back over your womanhood, moving back as easily as it was pushed aside. His essence oozes out to cover the material, soaking into the red fabric as it rests against you. It offers no comfort and you feel no less exposed for its weak protection. Indeed, as you lie in the dark, you feel completely naked.

You’re not actually wearing anything less than what you started with; your top is on, through thrown open, and your shorts are still present if obviously soiled. Even your pumps are still on. Wearing this Gods damned outfit was a mistake. Anything that you can be... you feel your bottom lip twitching uncontrollably as you think it... be **** in, without it being ripped or removed, is ****. You remember your first time. You stopped wearing skirts for that very reason.

As you stare at the ceiling, so dark it cannot even be blurred by tears, you despair. You’ve been stripped of something more important than clothes. You dressed like a whore and were used like a whore. Now his seed burns inside your passage, scraping its way into your walls. A vision of a child blooms in the dark, like him; a thing of shadow, grunting with his voice, squeezing with his hands and laughing with that hateful chuckle, growing inside you. Gods send it isn’t so, but they will be working against the moon and your cycle, and from the fact that you’re still here, trapped in the dark pantry like some stored cured meat, perhaps repeated visits.

That thought sobers you up. He’ll be back. Maybe in an hour or two; you don’t know what...virility men are really capable of. From the overheard conversations of the whores in the city lockup, it can vary wildly. While he was certainly not...quick, hopefully he’ll remain satisfied with what he has already taken. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

You squeeze the remaining wetness from your eyes and try to sit-up. It’s not easy with your arms tied. That will have to be one of the first problems you solve. The room is pitch black, save for a thin sliver of flickering light that tells you where the bottom of the door is, and so you shuffle to the nearest wall, pushing with your good leg and sliding over the dusty stone on your backside. You hit the wall almost instantly and start feeling your way around the room.

The room certainly is dusty but otherwise empty. Only the old barrel sits in company with you. It’s heavy; so heavy you cannot move it. That must mean its full, but of what you don’t know. Something solid from the sound it makes when struck. Sand perhaps? Or salt? You try to stand, pushing yourself up a wall with your working foot. It takes several attempts but you soon find yourself standing in the dark. Gingerly, you test your ankle. It hurts, but not as bad as before. Whether that’s from whatever healing had occoured or just compared to the time he grabbed it, you don’t know. There is no way you can run on it, but limping perhaps-

A shiver runs up your spine, interrupting all thoughts, its cause demanding your attention. A single drop, warm and somehow...thick, runs a steady track down the inside of your leg, pushing across dry skin and leaving a snail’s trail of wetness in its wake. You stand transfixed by the feeling, charting its progress in your mind. It leaves the plains of your thigh, struggles across the hill of your knee and slows in the forest of your calves fine hairs, all the while leaving a path back to its valley home. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Would that all its many brethren would be so intrepid.

With that moment of unpleasantness almost subsided, you return to the task of the room. Limping over to the door, you find that it is shut tight. The latch lifts, but whatever has been pressed against the other side doesn’t budge. You don’t want to bang on it, lest you invite unwanted attention, so you limp over to where you saw the shelves.

BANG!

You moan in place of the stream of curses the foul rag in your mouth contains. Right on the forehead! You rest against it for a moment; no permanent damage, it just hurt. It’s too high up to use for anything any way; your arms sit in the small of your back so you need something sharp to rub against that is around that height or lower. The barrel is rough wood with a metal rim at the top and bottom, but no real sharp points. The latch it is then.

You limp back to the door and turn your back on it, feeling the metal latch with your free fingers. It’s seen little use on this side, likely due to the door being left open when used in its past life, and lacks the worn smooth quality of most latches. With a little trial and error, you find a section that is both sharp edged and wont rattle the latch too much when rubbed against.