All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives".
The icy cold seemed to seep deep into her bones, slowly leeching her already sapped strength. Her clothes were in tatters, her peasant blouse ripped at the seams and hanging off of her in grimy brownish grey shreds, her woolen breeches stained and dirty and frayed at the hems. Her once beautiful honey blonde hair was long and stringy and greasy from unwash. The last time she had run a brush through it was lost in her memories.
She winced in pain as she ran a finger under the cold iron manacle clamped to her ankle. The thick heavy chain rattled against the icy stone cobblestone floor beneath her, and for the thousandth time she tested the strength of the links by heaving in futility against the bolt set in the middle of the floor.
Her cell was small, about ten paces by ten paces, with lank, damp, rat infested straw piled in one corner for her to sleep on. One wall was built entirely of metal strips, spaced about a hand span apart, crisscrossed vertically and horizontally, riveted together like an impenetrable wall of steel latticework. She had spent the better part of a week on her hands and knees scraping and gouging at the base of the wall, trying to find a loose plate. All she got were bloody knees and torn, ragged, bleeding fingernails.
She tilted her face up and peered at the slim, feeble ray of moonlight straining through a tiny, barred window high above her head. Although filthy and bedraggled, clothes in shreds, bare feet pale and icy cold to the touch, her startlingly blue eyes were bright and intelligent and blazed with intensity.
She surveyed hash marks scraped into the wall next to her. Fifty-eight days she had languished in Baron Olaf's prison. Fifty-eight days of near starvation and other...far worse things. She shuddered and held her knees close to her chest as she huddled in the cold dark.
A distant door clanged shut and she heard the sound of heavy boots clomping toward her. She licked her lips in anticipation, and her stomach growled in readiness. As she crawled across the room towards the iron wall, she found herself hoping it was Bruno coming to feed her. He was the gentlest of her gaolers.
The boots clomped up to the bars in her iron wall, and Bruno smiled wolfishly down at her. He was huge and hairy, wearing mostly furs hand-stitched to plates of boiled leather. His massive chest was bare and covered in thick, dense fur. Strapped to his waist was a menacing spiked mace, which she had seen him use with ruthless precision.
"Roit then, 'ere's your supper, be quick about it, or I give ye me fist."
He pushed the waistline of his leather breeches down and shoved his massive, veined cock through a square in the wall. The girl gulped once, then licked her lips and leaned in. His putrid aroma gouged her nostrils; the stench of sweat, garlic and feces almost making her gag. Bruno reached through and roughly grabbed her by her stringy hair, pulling her hot mouth over his rigid manhood.
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Two Months Previous
Dara crouched down behind the apple cart, waiting for her mark. Through the noisy throng of people in the market square she could barely make out the long, pretty blue gown worn by Baron Olaf's current concubine as she wandered aimlessly from cart to cart, purveying the merchants' wares. Fat Olaf had a predilection for only the best apples, and every weekend he sent his slut to pick him enough for cobblers and strudels to last the week.
Over her shoulder the mark wore a fashionable leather purse, bulging with copper and silver crowns. Two well-armed burly guardsmen hovered nearby, not paying very close attention to their ward, their thoughts diverted by the sights and sounds of the end-week peasant market. Dara sucked in her breath and waited, her mind wandering as she contemplated what she would buy with her spoils. A bigger knife would probably be her first purchase. Maybe a poniard, or even dual short swords, like the black forest bandits wore.
Definitely a bigger weapon was needed. Ever since her sixteenth summer Dara had started to attract unwelcome male attention. In the two years since, her breasts had filled out to almost embarrassing proportions, and her long legs and taut posterior had become the recipient of wolf whistles and coarse propositions. Self defense was a priority for a homeless street urchin and pickpocket.
A close flash of vibrant blue brought Dara back to the present, and she realized the concubine was standing in front of the apple cart. Slipping to the side, she reached up around the cart and deftly slit the strap holding the purse. However, before Dara could ease it into her hand, the unaware slut leaned down to pick up a plump, green granny smith. The purse strap slid off her shoulder and the purse crashed to the ground, coins spilling in all directions.
For a moment time stood still, then Dara locked eyes with Baron Olaf's whore. The woman's eyes grew wide and she sucked in a great breath to start the hue and cry. In one fluid motion, Dara scooped a fist full of coins off the dirt at her feet and punched up with her other hand into the woman's midsection. With a great "oof" the shout was stifled and Dara sprinted into the alley behind the cart, clutching her handful of coppers and silvers.
As she ran, Dara glanced over her shoulder and saw the woman holding her stomach and pointing in her direction. A second later she heard the shrill cry of "stop! thief!, but she was already rounding the corner. As she turned her head back, she slammed face-first into the wide, muscular chainmail clad chest of one of the concubine's burly guardsmen.
She crashed to the ground, coins flying in all directions, dazed and on the verge of unconsciousness. The guardsman reached down with one massive, calloused hand, clutched her by the shoulder and punched her right between the eyes. Sparks flew and darkness enveloped her.
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Bruno chuckled and groaned as he shoved his meaty prick in and out of Dara's throat. Gaoling was pretty dull business, but having a hot-mouthed wench like this suck his cock a couple times a day was worth the boredom.
For her part, Dara sucked like a woman starving, which she was. There was nothing loving about her manipulations; she licked and slobbered over the fat, purple head and ran her tongue up and down the shaft with only one thought in mind – lick up his hot copious seed so that her belly would be almost full. Throating his massive cock had been daunting at first; after all, before Bruno she had never even seen a penis up close. But after several months of practice, she learned to swallow the head and shaft and control her gag reflex. His putrid smell still made her eyes tear up, but the alternative was starvation.
Bruno reached both hands through the bars and roughly gripped her by the ears. "That's roit, wenchie, suck it deep, just the way Bruno loiks it."
Dara sucked him as deep as she could, her forehead and chin banging painfully on the metal bars of her cell as he pulled her face on and off his cock by her ears. Her eyes fastened on the metal key ring clanking against his thigh, just inches from her nose.
Once she had tried to lift it off his belt during her "feeding," but Bruno had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to his keys, and his fist had snaked around her wrist as it crept through the bars. He then had her put her other hand through and fastened them together with a length of leather strapping. Entering the cell to stand behind her he pulled her breeches down to her ankles and mercilessly whipped her naked ass until it was beet red. Afterwards he slathered her nether hole with hot cinnamon butter and fucked her arse until she blacked out. The worse part about the whole ordeal was that when she awoke, his seed had dried on her back and she missed her feeding.
Bruno groaned one last time and pulled a hand back through the bars to grip his turgid cock by the base. His other hand still gripped her fiercely by one ear and pulled her mouth deeply over his mushroom head. Grunting, he gushed once, twice, his hot seed fountaining into her mouth and down her throat. He popped his cock out of her mouth and stroked himself a few times; a couple of weak spurts geysered out and splashed across her nose and cheek. He shoved himself back into her mouth as she fervently sucked every drop she could out of his rapidly softening prick. Finally he released her sore ear and fell against the outside of the wall, breath heaving.
"Roit snappy job as usual, wenchie. The Baron say he moight come down for a nice spitroasting tonight. 'Ere's some lard to prepare yer arse. 'Is Lordship says last time you chafed 'is holy scepter." Roaring with laughter he dropped a ceramic jar into Dara's hands and turned and clomped back down the hall.
A spitroasting. Dara stifled a sob as she pried the cap off the jar in her hands. In her previous life the thought of a spitroasting brought to mind the mouthwatering taste of a coney or piglet cooking slowly over a fire, juices dripping and sizzling. Today, the meaning caused her to shudder in fear, with the realization that she was the coney, and that both ends of her body were to be plugged and spun at the whims of her merciless captors.
She stopped, looked down at the jar of lard in her hands. Her icy blue eyes then traveled down her legs to the manacle around her ankle. A plan began to form in her mind.
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Later that night she sat in the cold dark, her back propped against the damp stone wall and rubbed her sore ankle, the manacle lying off to the side in the filthy straw. As soon as she had pried it off her lard-slicked foot she had yipped for joy and run circles around her tiny cell. For the first time in two long agonizing months she had a small spark of hope.
Far away a door clanged shut and Dara scrambled to slide the manacle back over her foot. Gritting her teeth in agony she pulled it into place and then rubbed lard under the rim of the metal ring for later. She hoped Bruno didn't check the level of lard in the jar, because a good-sized dollop rested beneath the straw in the corner.
Steeling herself for the upcoming performance, she knew she somehow had to convince Fat Olaf to let her suck him dry – that way she could lift the prison key she knew he kept in the inside pocket of his tunic. Baron Olaf, unfortunately, preferred his women on their knees facing away from him so that he could wrap his hands in their hair and ride them like a suckling pig.
