The late afternoon sun, heavy and blood-orange, cast long shadows across the burned village. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, roasted meat, and a darker, coppier scent. Victory.
Young Barlon, already had the broad shoulders of his father and the wild mane of chestnut hair, though his beard was still patchy. He stood amidst the chaos of his father’s warriors, their laughter raw and booming as they divided the spoils. Chests of silver and silk were piled high. The other rewards, the living ones, were being lined up against a half-crumbled wall: women and children, their faces smudged with soot and terror, hands bound.
Lord Barlon the Elder, a mountain of a man with a beard streaked white, clapped his son on the back, the blow nearly staggering the youth.
“Your first real sack, boy! You fought well. Now, go claim your your other prize.” He gestured with his tankard toward the trembling line of captives. “Pick one. Any one you like. Take her behind a hut and fuck the fear right out of her. It’s your right.”
Barlon’s gut tightened with a confusing mix of hot anticipation and a strange, cold hesitation. He nodded. He turned from the line of despairing eyes, his own gaze sweeping the shattered cottages. He didn’t want an audience. He needed… privacy. And to piss. The ale from the victory toast was a pressing urgency in his bladder.
He stalked away from the cheers, toward a less damaged hut at the village's edge. The door hung askew. He pushed inside. It was dark, the only light from chinks in the wattle walls. The main room was a shambles, but a small, curtained alcove… a privy closet… stood intact in the corner. Perfect.
He fumbled with the lacings of his leather breeches, his fingers clumsy with drink and residual battle-fever. He shoved the curtain aside, stepped into the tiny, dark space, and freed himself with a grunt of relief.
He didn’t see her.
A girl…younger than him…was pressed into the farthest corner, behind a small barrel and a stack of empty sacks. Her elegant beauty hidden beneath a layer of grime and a plain, homespun dress. She had been hiding here for hours, praying the violence would pass her by. Her heart stopped as the huge young warrior stumbled in. She saw the flash of his hands at his waist, heard the rustle of leather. Her eyes widened in the gloom.
A thick, ruddy cock sprang out, already half-hard from the adrenaline of the day. She froze, her breath trapped in her throat. A hot, powerful arc of golden piss erupted from it, splashing loudly into the dirt-filled pot in the center of the small space. The sound was a steady, hollow splatter. The pungent, salty smell immediately filled the closet.
The trajectory was aimed at the pot, but the force was such that droplets sprayed outward. A warm, wet splatter hit her shins, soaking through the thin fabric of her dress. She flinched, a tiny, involuntary shift of her legs, trying to escape the minor deluge but desperate to remain silent. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to any god that would listen.
Barlon, head tilted back in relief, suddenly frowned. His stream was hitting the pot… but the sound was off. It was a splatter-splat against the clay, but there was a secondary, wetter thump-thump sound coming from the right. He blinked, his drunken brain processing. He experimentally swayed his hips to the left. The stream hit the wall: a sharp splat-tat-tat. He swayed back to the right, aiming at the darker patch of shadows. The sound changed to a dull, liquid thud-thud-thud against what sounded like… fabric?
His curiosity, ale-fueled and blunt, overrode all else. He leaned forward, peering into the dark corner as his stream began to dwindle.
Two huge, terrified eyes stared back at him from the gloom, glistening with unshed tears. A pale, dirty face. A trembling form curled behind a barrel, her dress darkened with a spreading patch of dampness where his piss had found her.
Barlon yelped, lurching backward. He fumbled with his cock, shoving it awkwardly back into his breeches and lacing them up with frantic haste. A hot blush of utter embarrassment burned up his neck. “I’m… shit… I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t see you there.”
The girl didn’t move. She just stared, a trapped rabbit facing a wolf.
“It’s… it’s alright. You can come out,” Barlon said, his voice gentler now, trying to sound reassuring. He took a step back, giving her space. “I won’t hurt you.”
With a gasp that was half-sob, half-scream, the girl exploded from her hiding spot. She ducked under his outstretched arm, a blur of dirty homespun, and burst through the curtain into the main room.
“Hey!” Barlon stumbled after her, his long legs eating up the distance. She was fast, fueled by pure terror. She yanked the broken door open and sprinted into the twilight.
He caught her at the edge of the trampled vegetable garden, just outside the hut. His hand closed on the back of her dress, and he pulled, not hard, but enough to spin her off-balance. She fell against him, her back to his chest, his arms wrapping around her middle to keep them both upright. She was all sharp elbows and desperate, writhing energy.
“Let me go!” she hissed, her voice a raw scrape. She kicked backward, her heels connecting with his shins.
He grunted, tightening his hold. “Stop fighting! I said I wouldn’t hurt you!”
“Liar!” she spat, twisting in his grasp. She managed to turn her head, her eyes blazing up at him with a fury that stole his breath. “You’re one of them. You’ll fuck me and leave me in the dirt. Well I won’t let you. I’ll fight. I’ll… I’ll bite it off if you try!”
The sheer, vicious defiance in her voice, so at odds with her trembling body, sent a jolt straight through him. He’d expected weeping submission. He was getting a spitting wildcat. His grip changed, one arm banding across her upper chest, just below her throat, pinning her arms to her sides. His other hand splayed across her stomach, holding her flush against him. He could feel the frantic hammer of her heart against his forearm.
“You’ll bite my cock off, will you?” he murmured, his lips near her ear. His voice had dropped, losing its boyish embarrassment, gaining a rough, dominant edge that was new even to him. He pressed his length against the curve of her ass, letting her feel it through their clothes. “You’d need to get very close to manage that.”
She stiffened, feeling the thick ridge of him. A different kind of tremble went through her. Not just fear. Something else. “Don’t,” she whispered, but the fight was leaching from her voice, replaced by a shaky breathlessness.
“My father told me to pick a woman,” Barlon said, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear. He inhaled. She smelled of smoke, sweat, and the faint, clean scent of her fear. He tightened his arm, feeling the soft press of her breasts against it.
“I’ll scream,” she threatened weakly.
“And my men will come. And they’ll watch.” He pressed his hips forward, a slow, grinding roll. “ Or, they will want to take turns... Is that what you want?”
A ragged sob escaped her. Her head fell back against his shoulder, a gesture of defeat that made his blood sing with triumph. Her body, though, betrayed a different story. As he held her, as he rocked against her, he felt a subtle, answering warmth. A relaxation of her thighs. A hitch in her breath that wasn’t entirely pain.
“What’s your name?” he breathed.
“Anya,” she whispered, the word a surrender.
“Anya,” he repeated, tasting it. He turned her in his arms, finally facing her. Her eyes were huge, her lips parted. He saw it then…the shock, the fear, but beneath it, a flicker of furious, fascinated arousal. She was looking at him, at the young conqueror stained with her humiliation, and she wasn’t looking away.
He stared, his own desire a raw, hungry thing. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs rough against her cheekbones. “You’re mine now,” he stated, the words leaving no room for argument.
She didn’t agree. But she didn’t disagree. She just stood there, trembling in his hold, as the sounds of the raucous victory feast drifted across the field, and the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving them in the violent, intimate twilight.
An hour after Lord Barlon’s arrest…
A rider, his face etched with urgency and dust-caked sweat, spurred his horse into a thunderous gallop, the beast's hooves pounding the earth, kicking up clouds of dirt that blinded him and scorched his throat. His heart raced wildly, each jolt of the ride sending sharp pains through his legs, his mind fixated on the dire news he carried.
He burst into a campsite like a storm.
It was a sprawling, chaotic sprawl of canvas tents, cookfires, and raw, unbridled life. Hundreds of Lord Barlon’s warriors… men who lived by the sword and took what they wanted… were in their element. Some sat around fires, tearing into roasted haunches of venison, laughter booming as ale sloshed from tankards. Others were sparring, the clash of steel and grunts of effort a constant percussion. And some… some were fucking.
Right there, in the open. A warrior with a bushy beard had a woman bent over a fallen log, her back arched, her cries sharp as he slammed into her from behind. Another pair were tangled against a tree, the woman riding him, her breasts bouncing freely as she moaned. Another two were chasing after a fleeing woman, her clothes ripped, their cocks free and swinging about as they run. It was a display of conquest, of pleasure taken without apology.
The rider didn’t wait for the horse to slow. As it skidded into the clearing, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped, landing hard on the packed earth, his boots digging in. He sprinted toward the nearest group of men.
“Where is he?” the rider barked, his voice raw with urgency. “Where is your captain?”
The warriors looked up, their faces smeared with grease and amusement. One, a bald man with a missing ear, chuckled. “Why so sweaty, boy? Run from a woman?”
Another, younger, leered. “Join us for a drink.”
The rider’s hand shot out, grabbing the younger man’s shoulder. “I don’t have time for your stupidity. Where is your captain?”
“The captain? What's it to you, eh? You come charging in like a spooked horse… sweating buckets and panting like you've been chased by demons. Got something stuck up your ass?”
A grizzled veteran, still gnawing on a bone, grunted and pointed toward a large tent in the distance. "He's in there, pounding away at some sluts. Go on, if you've got the guts, might walk in on something that'll make your eyes pop."
Without hesitation, the rider bolted toward the tent, the raucous sounds growing louder with each step. As he neared, the shouts and wails of a moaning woman burst forth, her cries a lewd crescendo of pleasure…ohhh, gods.. yes.. ahhh.. intertwined with the deep, throaty grunts of her partner.
Around the tent, a few warriors had gathered. They weren’t guarding. They were spectating. Some stood with ears cocked, grinning. Others were crouched, peering through small gaps in the seam of the canvas, their eyes wide. A few had their trousers open, their cocks out, stroking themselves lazily as they watched the shadow-play within. One man was even kneeling, his face pressed close to a hole, his hand pumping his shaft fast and rough, his breath coming in short gasps as he mirrored the rhythm inside.
The rider paused at the tent flap, his pulse thundering in his ears, the erotic symphony inside making his stomach twist.
"Captain I must speak with you… I have a message. It is urgent!"
From within, a gruff voice bellowed back, "Piss off, you fool!
The words were a sharp, dismissive whip, laced with irritation.
The rider tried again, pushing at the flap slightly, repeating his plea.
“It’s urgent! Your fa…”
A dagger sliced through the tent's door with a vicious rip lodging into the ground mere inches from his boot. Startled, he recoiled, the metallic tang mixing with the musky air, realizing this alone wouldn't suffice.
He backed up a step, turned to face the camp, and shouted with every ounce of air in his lungs, his voice tearing across the chaos.
“LORD BARLON HAS BEEN ARRESTED BY THE KING!”
The proclamation rang out like a war horn, raw and unfiltered, freezing the scene in an instant.
Silence crashed over the camp like a wave. mid-thrust couplings halted abruptly, fights dissolved into stunned pauses, and the laughter faded, replaced by a heavy hush broken only by the faint crackle of fire. Warriors who heard him straightened, abandoning their indulgences, their boots thudding as they converged on the rider some still half-clothed, cocks wilting from their interrupted sessions, others flexing bloodied knuckles with growing menace.
Then, the tent flap flew open, and five naked women spilled out in a frenzy of bare skin, their bodies a scorching display of disheveled lust. The first tumbled forward, her ample breasts jiggling with every step. Another emerged with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, her ass marked with red handprints, swaying seductively as she giggled breathlessly. A third bolted out, her thighs glazed with fluids, leaving a glistening trail, while the fourth and fifth followed in a tangle, one with fresh bite marks on her neck and the other her hands trailing over her breasts. They didn’t look at the gathering warriors, they scurried away, their breasts bouncing as they ran into the shadows between tents.
Then, the man emerged.
He stood in the doorway. He was very large. Tall and broad, his chest a wall of muscle, his arms thick with corded power. He was naked. His body was a map of battle scars and fresh sweat. His cock, thick and heavy… still hard… glistening with wetness.
He stared down at the rider, his eyes like chips of flint. The silence of the camp was absolute now, a hundred warriors…a few that had heard and gathered… waiting, watching.
“Huh?” the captain’s voice was a low rumble.
The rider, met his gaze. “Your father,” he said, the words sharp and clean, cutting through the tension. “He has been arrested by the King. Treason.”
Minutes after Lord Barlon’s arrest…
The palace cell door was wrenched open with a violent scrape of iron hinges. Two guards… the king’s royal guards… their gauntleted hands around Lady Anya’s and Lyssa’s arms with impersonal brutality.
“In,” one grunted, his breath smelling of stale ale.
Anya tried to step down the short stairs by the door with some dignity, but her foot caught on her gown’s hem. She stumbled, saved from falling only by the guard’s unforgiving grip that bit into her flesh. Lyssa was less fortunate. As she moved to descend, the guard holding her yanked hard, pushing her off balance. She cried out, her form pitching forward. She landed hard on the muddy cobblestones of the cells ground, her silks instantly stained with filth.
A coarse laugh echoed. The guard who had pushed her, a man with a broken nose and cruel eyes, loomed over her. “Clumsy little bird. Need to watch your step.”
Lyssa pushed herself up, her palms scraped, fury overriding her fear. She glared up at him, her eyes blazing. “You touch me again, you filth, and I will remember your face. When I get out of here, I will find you. And I will tear your cock off with my teeth and make you swallow it.”
The guard’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of surprise, then dark amusement. He leaned down, his voice a low growl for her alone. “Feisty. I like that. Gives a man something to work with.” Then, as she was pulled to her feet by Anya, his hand swung in a swift, casual arc. Smack. The sound was flat and heavy in the damp air. His palm connected squarely with the curve of her buttock, a brief, shocking impact that made her gasp and jolt forward.
The other guards watching laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“Enough!” Anya hissed, wrapping a protective arm around her daughter. “You are royal guards, not tavern thugs. Act like it.”
The broken-nosed guard just winked, his gaze lingering on Lyssa’s backside. “Just helping the lady find her footing.”
The iron door of the cell clanged shut.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Lyssa’s composure shattered. A sob wracked her frame. Anya was there instantly, pulling her close, cradling her against the soft, generous curves of her own body. She stroked her daughter’s hair, her own heart a frantic drum of terror.
“Shhh, my love. Shhh. It’s going to be okay,” Anya whispered, the promise hollow even to her own ears.
Lyssa choked out, pulling back, her face streaked with dirt and tears. “What will they do to us? What… what has happened to Father?”
Anya’s throat closed.
“I do not know,” she breathed.
“But we must be strong.”
Hours bled together in the murky, timeless dark. They huddled for warmth, saying little, each lost in a private hell of dread. The only light came from a flickering torch outside the door, casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the wall.
The sound of heavy boots and jangling keys shattered the silence.
The cell door groaned open. Three guards stood there, their faces hard in the torchlight. The one with the broken nose was in front, a smirk playing on his lips.
“You,” he said, pointing at Lyssa. “Up.”
“No!” Anya surged to her feet, placing herself between the guards and her daughter. “You will not take her.”
“Move!” the guard shouted, and nodded to his companions.
They moved with brutal efficiency. One grabbed Anya by the shoulders, hauling her back with a strength that made her cry out. The other two descended on Lyssa.
“Get off me!” Lyssa screamed, lashing out. Her fist connected with a guard’s chin, a glancing blow. It only angered him. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it hard, forcing a yelp of pain from her lips. The broken-nosed guard seized her ankles.
“Stop!” Anya shrieked, struggling against the iron hold on her. She was shoved hard against the slimy stone wall, the breath knocked from her.
They dragged Lyssa out by her legs. Her body scraped across the rough stone threshold. She kicked, she screamed, she twisted like a wild thing. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the doorframe wall, her fingers clawing at the stone until they bled.
“Mother!
One of the guards drew a short, heavy rod from his belt. He brought the rod down. Thwack! The sound was sickening, a dull impact on the tender flesh of Lyssa’s upper back, just below her shoulders. Lyssa cried out, a sharp, pained sound that tore through Anya.
“Lyssa! Lyssa!” Anya’s voice was raw, a scream of pure maternal terror. She threw herself forward again, grabbing at the arm holding the rod. She was met with an elbow to her stomach. The air left her in a whoosh, and she doubled over, gasping.
The guard kept hitting Lyssa again. Thwack! Lyssa’s body jerking. Anya fought for breath. She crawled toward them and managed to wrap her arms around one of the guard’s legs, clinging with desperate strength. “Let her go!”
The guard kicked, not hard, but with a contemptuous shake that broke her grip. She fell back, landing hard on her rear, the impact jolting through her own lush curves.
“Where are you taking her? Answer me!” Anya shrieked, her dignity, her composure, everything burned away in the furnace of her fear.
Lyssa’s head twisted back, her eyes wide with terror, finding Anya’s. “Mother!”
The door slammed shut, cutting off the cry, cutting off the light, cutting off everything.
Silence rushed back in, deeper, more profound, and infinitely more terrible.
Anya leaned her back against the cold wall. The stone leaching the warmth from her body.
The only sound was her own ragged, broken weeping, echoing in the empty dark where her child had just been.
Several hours after Lord Barlon’s arrest…One hour after Lyssa was taken..
Lady Anya sat huddled in the corner of the cell, her knees pulled tight against her chest. Her head rested heavily on her knees as she stared blankly at the mortar between the stones, counting the cracks for the hundredth time to keep her mind from shattering completely.
The heavy iron hinges of the cell door groaned. The door swung open with a dull thud, the light from the torch in the corridor spilling into the room and blinding her after so long in the dimness. Anya squinted, shielding her eyes. Three silhouettes stood in the doorway, blocking her escape. Two royal guards flanked their captain.
Anya’s body tensed, the despair momentarily replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. She scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling from disuse, but her eyes flashed with a ferocious light. She didn't care about the pain in her joints or the dirt on her skin.
"Where is my daughter?" she screamed, her voice cracking around the edges, shrill and desperate in the confined space. "What have you done with with her, you monsters?"
The guards didn't flinch. They stood like statues, hands resting on the pommels of their swords. The captain, took a step forward, his boots crunching on the dirty ground.
Anya’s rage boiled over, a hot flash that obliterated reason. She lunged at him, swinging her leg with every ounce of strength she had left, aiming directly for his groin.
Her foot connected with solid steel. The captain wore a codpiece of reinforced metal, and the impact sent a shockwave of agony shooting up Anya’s shin. She gasped, stumbling backward as her foot recoiled, the toes throbbing as if they had been smashed with a hammer. She nearly lost her balance, catching herself against the slimy wall, breath hitching in her throat.
"You filthy bastards!" she snarled, clutching her injured leg, her face contorted in pain and defiance. "Fuck you!"
The captain didn't even blink. He moved closing the distance between them in two long strides. He reached out, his hand tangling viciously in her long hair. Anya cried out as he yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him, her neck exposed and vulnerable. The metal edges of his gloves dug into her scalp, sending sharp stings of pain across her skull.
He leaned down close, his breath hot and smelling of stale wine and rot.
"Shut your mouth, whore," he hissed, his voice low and dripping with malice. "You will move quietly and do exactly as you're told, or I’ll have my men take turns with your daughter until she is broken beyond repair."
Anya’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating in sheer horror. The image his words invoked made her stomach heave, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. She looked at the two guards behind him, their leering grins suggesting they would enjoy the task immensely.
She gathered the saliva in her mouth and spat directly into the captain’s face. The glob hit his cheek, running down toward the scar. "Fuck you!" she shrieked, her voice raw and tearing at her throat, "I will rip you apart! I swear by the gods, I will kill you all!"
The captain wiped the spit from his face with a slow, deliberate motion, his expression darkening into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate. He didn't strike her, though his hand tightened in her hair, pulling hard enough. He yanked her forward, nearly pulling her off her feet.
"Take her," he ordered, his voice flat and hard as iron.