Times of war were never easy on the conquered. After all, to the victor go the spoils. The warriors, not paid by any other means, were expected to have first go at what scraps may be offered up by the towns and villages that fell to them. Those that bade them to fight did so for power rather than loot. Of course, "what scraps" always included the women. The old and ugly only sometimes escaped such attentions when there were plenty of comely girls to be had.
Edgewood Village burned bright that day. The season had been rife with conflict and it was only a matter of time before the brushfire skirmishes of clan warfare erupted into serious battle and resulted in the sacking of a township. It could have been Westford instead, and things would have gone much better for Duncan and Seamus had it been. But perhaps it was fate which drew them to the pillaging and burning of Edgewood.
Their fate came not as a result of their being fighters. Rather, it had much more to do with the particular bit of loot they chose to take. That is to say, the two women they chose to rape.
The town was already burning and the last few pockets of resistance had been skewered on pikes or greatswords. Chaos dominated; amidst the burning huts and swirling smoke, victorious MacLellans were quickly taking anything of value. As far as enjoying the flesh of the conquered women, it was mostly a matter of priorities. Some soldiers preferred to be the first to sew their seeds, perhaps finding it distasteful to put their pricks into cunts already well-greased by others' efforts. Others either weren't so fastidious or their loins no longer burned so fiercely with the passion of youth. Duncan and Seamus were of the former type.
"In here!" Seamus pointed.
"Are ya crazy, lad? That's the hag's hut," came Duncan's reply. "Cursa ya, she will, and your willie'll shrivel up and fall off!"
"Yeah, an' next ye'll be tellin' me she sacrifices babies on the Winter Moon, and flies around by stickin' a broomstick up 'er arse."
"Nay, Seamus, they sacrifice the babies on the Autumn Moon."
"Well ye go off and do what you will, then," Seamus chuckled. "Me, I'm going to see if the witch has a sweet young daughter."
Duncan shook his head and followed after his friend.
The inside of the hag's hut was dark. As they stepped inside, the sounds of the cheerful victors' plundering faded. A kettle hung over a pile of embers in the center of the room, emitting a foul stench. Behind it, sitting on the floor and grinning wickedly, was Edgewood's spirit-woman.
"Ahh, right on time," she wheezed, as she brushed aside the small collection of bones and twigs arranged before her. "I expect ye've come for my Lilly."
"If ye mean that stinking wad of pus between your legs that used to be your flower," retorted Seamus, "you could only dream. But if ye have a young'n hidden away in here, we'll just make use of her and be on our merry way."
Duncan thwapped Seamus on the shoulder and pointed. "You were right," he interrupted. "Look over there." The place he indicated was a pile of sleeping furs arranged at the far end of the hut, behind the witch. And sitting up, brushing the topmost furs aside, was a maiden who was very fair indeed.
"Hahh!" shouted Seamus, slapping his thigh. "Oh, even dark as it is, it is easy to see that she is a pretty one indeed! Come here, lass."
The witch tossed something onto the embers, and the fire sprang to life. A strange and not unpleasant aroma filled the room. "Be warned," she intoned. "Lay a hand on my daughter and it will be the end of you both."
Her words made Duncan nervous, but Seamus only laughed. Striding quickly, he moved past the hag and grabbed the girl's wrist. "Whatever you say," he sneered.
"So be it," spat the witch. "You have sealed your fate. Now before you begin taking your plunder, let me tell you a little story." Seamus and Duncan both sat heavily on their rumps, the energy gone from their muscles, the words gone from their tongues. They could no longer hear anything outside the witch's hut, but whatever powder or potion she had thrown on the fire left them without even the wherewithal to wonder at it. Softly, she began to speak.
* * * * * * *
My story is about a young man, much like yourself, his sack full of spunk and he was practically bursting at the seams. Like you, he thought women were there only to provide a warm, wet place for him to plant his pole and spew his seed. His name is unimportant. By profession he was either a scalliwag or an adventurer, depending on whom you asked.
One evening he happened to rescue a young lady from peril. She was in the Wood, not so very far, collecting berries and roots and flowers. But a boar chased her up a tree. Our young rogue heard her cries and came to help. A couple well-placed bolts from his crossbow dispatched the menace, and he helped her down from the tree.
Oh, she was grateful, and promised this fellow a handsome reward. Her father was a man of some means. But the reward he had in mind she refused to give. She was to be married, and she was a maiden. Her new husband would be quite put out if she came to his bed already deflowered.
It was already coming nighttime and they were alone. The rogue decided he would take what he wanted and be done with it. His prick was hard as his breeches would allow, and he was determined to put it in her no matter what. They were too far away from town for her cries to be heard, and he got as far as ripping off her skirt before he suddenly paused.
A very faint, but very sweet aroma had found its way to his nose on the evening breeze. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before. Spicy and pungent, it seemed to reach into him through his nose, down through his belly, and grip him by his balls. He looked up into the face of what he thought was the Goddess herself.
