This story features extreme misogyny, dehumanization, and objectification, extreme physical, sexual, and emotional violence, forced impregnation, slavery, public gang rape, and mind breaking. If these aren't your thing, don't say I didn't warn you.
*****
Dieppe, France, 1663.
The quay smelled of salt and desperation. Great wooden ships creaked, their shadows leviathans through the fog, tilting this way and that in time with the gentle waves.
The administrator dipped his sharp quill into an inkpot black as night, scratching another name into the ledger.
"Marie Lefevre, 18, orphan, Hopital-General de Paris. Dowry: 50 livres."
The girl stood shivering in a patched dress, clutching a sack of moldy bread. Behind her, a line of hollow-eyed women stretched into the fog.
King Louis' orders were clear. There were too many men in New France, only soldiers, fur traders, and missionaries. More women were needed to people the New World. Send only the sturdy: widows, orphans, beggars, those with no ties.
The filles du roi, they were to be called. The King's Daughters.
So they'd been plucked from gutters, convents, debtor's prisons. Girls with hips wide enough to birth a militia, their fat tits stuffed into corsets firm enough to nurse a colony. Warm wombs with which to breed the army that would conquer this savage land.
The priest beside the administrator crossed himself, staring hungrily at the girl's chest, heaving up in down in time with her whimpers of fear. "God will bless their wombs."
The administrator knew better.
Last month, a ship had returned: crew half-dead, holds reeking of dysentery. The captain, drunk on rum, slurred tales of New France: frozen rivers, Mohawk raids, and the dark spectre of Governor Jean-Baptiste de Villefort.
"That whoreson's got a taste for tender cunt," he'd laughed, fingering a necklace of human teeth. "Fucks 'em raw 'fore the ink dries on their marriage papers. Stuffs their bellies full!" Then the captain had seized up and passed out mid-cackle, dead as a doornail.
The administrator handed Marie her papers, staring at her coolly over spectacles mounting his long, narrow nose. Her eyes dampened looking at the document, its cruel dictates etched in gilded script.
"Monsieur le Gouverneur will ensure your... comfort." His words sliced the air. She stared blankly, too starved to grasp the lie.
On the gangplank, a sneering, pug-faced old nun yanked a girl's hair. "Faster, breed wench! The Governor hungers."
With the last of the girls safely aboard, the administrator signed the final manifest, wax seal bleeding crimson under his press.
Whimpers echoed from a ship full of nubile young women as it vanished through the fog and out into the Atlantic's maw.
---
Governor Jean-Baptiste de Villefort strolled down the pier, flanked by guards, teeth gritted into a sneering grin under the dark, wide brim of a lavish cavalier hat. The docks of Quebec stank of fish guts and unwashed bodies, but he breathed it like welcome perfume.
His boots crunched over frost-rimed planks as the latest shipment of filles du roi disembarked. Their wide hips and full tits strained against woolen dresses, cheeks flushed from the voyage.
His eyes flashed dark purpose beneath his long, dark hair.
Fresh breedstock.
He trembled with so much anticipatory vigor his hat's red feather was quivering.
Villefort's steward, a rat-faced clerk, handed him the manifests, grinning up at him with a twisted smile. "Twenty this week, Your Excellency. All... achingly ripe."
Hormones stirred inside the Governor. An ooze of blood pooling to his crotch. His cock thickened.
He stalked toward the girls, his fur-trimmed cloak slicing the icy air.
They huddled like startled deer, clutching dowry chests stuffed with linens and lies about "honorable marriage." He grabbed the nearest one: Marguerite, 19, mousy-brown hair, tits like overstuffed sacks, pretty pink areolas peeking out.
He hooked a finger under her trembling alabaster chin. "Open."
She obeyed, plump lips shaking. Villefort shoved two fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. "Suck. Let's see if you're good for something besides spreading legs." Marguerite gagged, tears spilling as she slurped. The other girls watched, frozen, fresh-faced mouths agape.
His lips spread into a smile again as he slowly withdrew the digit, letting a trail of warm spit stretch between it and her thick lower lip before collapsing away.
"Very good. Now come with me."
---
His study reeked of brandy and male sweat. Marguerite stood before his desk, shaking, stripped to her shift, the fabric clinging to sweat-damp curves.
Villefort lounged in his throne-like chair, breeches already unlaced, his huge cock jutted upward in a stuffed sausage curve, cradled in a net of thick, throbbing veins.
"On your knees, bitch."
She hesitated.
He backhanded her with a loud smack.
She crumpled, sobbing. "Y-Your Excellency, I've never..."
"You'll learn." He fisted her hair, yanking her face into his groin. "Suck. Now."
It loomed large in her vision: a baseball-sized knot of throbbing meat, the glans flared out like a triceratops skull, its pulsing slit oozing a drooled nub of pearly precum.
Her tongue flicked tentatively over his meaty crown.
He snarled, shoving her down until her nose mashed into his pubic bone. "Swallow it, you simpering cunt."
She choked, saliva dripping as she bobbed. Villefort watched her tits sway, heavy and dense but deliciously firm, nipples pebbling as they hardened in spite of herself.
He yanked her by the hair and whipped her around, and then pushed her down. He bent her over the desk. Parchments scattering, ink spilled. Her shift ripped clean off, ass jutting, pale, plump, luminously untouched. Begging for marks.
Villefort spat on his cock, then positioned it at the top of her engorged sex lips. Juice flowed freely from her cunt, spilling over the penis head as it gently kissed her moistened, puffy cunt.
This bitch was just like the rest. She could fight it, she could deny it, but when push came to shove, her body would betray her. Deep down, below her conscious mind, her body wanted to be raped. It wanted to be bred. It craved his creamy cum pumping into that vulnerable womb.
Marguerite quivered and then yelped as he slid the fat member in, her labia stretching and cunt walls expanding to accommodate its girth, her thin hymen torn away. Villefort led his head loll back, groaning in satisfaction as his mating tool expanded to fill her virginal pussy.
"You're a crown whore," he growled, hips pistoning against her soft buttocks with meaty-wet slaps.
Her cunt stretched obscenely around him, sex juices splattering and a thin trail of hymen blood dribbling down her thigh.
She was his whore. His breeding slut. A vessel for his mighty cock and its potent load.
"Y-Yes... my l-lord... yes... yes... yes..." she moaned ragged, beginning to thrust her hips back against his.
"Your job... is to take my seed." He gripped her throat, cutting off her cries, and fucked her harder, desk slamming into the wall. Her tits smashed against the oak, reddening, as she shrieked and moaned.
Her eyes began to roll back in pleasure, the fear and pain melding into the bliss of being fucked raw by a real man. A man meant to breed. The thought sent a shiver up her spine, and the pleasure boiled over into an immense orgasm that made her whole body tense and shake.
Squeezing her throat, he exploded inside her clenching-wet fuck box with a feral roar. Hot cum spurted out from the spasming sausage, sloshing against her back walls like a gush of warm milk, flooding her hungrily gulping cervix. Her sex organs pumped his warm cream down her deliriously willing birth canal, filling the soft depths of her womb with billions of his babymaking sperm. Dense loads of the lifegiving cells began racing up toward her fallopian tubes, where tiny eggs were waiting dutifully.
Marguerite whimpered in pleasure, limp, as he withdrew, his lukewarm spend dribbling down her thighs. Villefort tossed her a rag.
"Clean yourself. You'll return tomorrow. And the next day. Until your belly swells."
---
Late that night, Villefort reviewed the ledger by candlelight.
"Marguerite Leclerc: 19, unwed, robust frame. Impregnation: Pending."
A distant sound cut the night crickets. His quill hovered. Outside, wolves howled.
He smiled, purpose rising through his loins. Nature understood.
---
Villefort's decree echoed through the colonial convent's icy halls.
"One girl each night. No exceptions."
The nuns, pinched-faced and coldly complicit, herded the filles du roi into a slate-walled chamber reeking of lye.
