Editor's note: this story contains scenes of rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, or non-consensual sex or scenarios.
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Bawdy was too soft a word for it. It was to Mevenmein's advantage to turn the duel into a spectacle. An impressive display would win him favor with the lords under him, and, more importantly, could turn the duel itself into a mere side event. Bands vied for attention at every corner of the fairgrounds. Wine and beer flowed freely from tents and stands. The smells of roasting meat and baking fruits filled the air. And of course, there were an abundance of slave girls on offer.
Josephine walked the grounds in plain sight and completely invisible. Most men had no idea how easy it was for a woman to disappear. It didn't require magic. She wore a long cloak with a hood that covered her face. Around her neck, outside the cloak, she wore a heavy chain shackled with the symbol of some house six counties over. To anyone who saw her, she was the property of a lord they did not know, out on an errand they did not care about. With her body not on display, she was a risky prize. Perhaps someone truly desperate might open her up and see what they had won, but with so much free, easy meat, why bother? She was effort in a sea of ease.
A woman staggered past her -- fully nude except for a thick iron collar with a metal box hanging from it. There was a slit in the box just large enough for a single coin, and written on her body in tar was 'GUD FUCK 1 HAF PENY.' Semen dripped down her thighs and the sides of her mouth, though Josephine didn't hear so much as a jingle from the box. Not surprising. The girl had no way to enforce her pay. She could only hope she did a good enough job that whatever man was fucking her took pity on her. There was a look of despair in her exhausted eyes. Likely from realizing she would never make enough to satisfy whatever master had sent her here.
As she passed, two men, stumbling drunk despite the earliness of the day, grabbed her and pulled her to the side of the road. Josephine walked past without a second glance. Looking down the street, she saw at least four other women in identical states.
She passed stalls that were just a row of asses and cunts sticking out holes in the wood. There was a whipping post where, for a price, men could take brambles or rods to the skin of fresh young maidens. There were women in stocks with their buy and rent prices painted on their foreheads and tits. Every food stall had a team of nude women alternating between serving the food and serving the customers who paid extra. Every tent had a pair of pretty women in front, dressed in lingerie and begging every passerby to go in. "The women inside make us look like ugly hags," Josephine heard one say to a man in a pleading tone as he fucked the women she was chained to by the neck. "Don't waste your time with our loose cunts master. The women inside have the tightest holes in the county."
'Wanton,' that was the word for it. She had seen worse of course, she had lived in the capitol, but there was something about the ramshackle nature of it that got under her skin. Yesterday, this whole area had been an open field with some slaves crawling over it -- setting up posts and carrying in carts and barrels. Now moans of pain and pleasure mixed with lute strings and flutes.
She passed an open strip of land where well-dressed men were playing darts. The 'boards' were women whose asses had been painted with concentric circles of red and blue. They cried out with every hit as the men congratulated each other. Each of them had at least one, sometimes two slaves to suck their dicks as they waited their turn. Josephine could see the replacement boards were already being prepared -- a line of slaves stood at the end of the field, their asses being pained by other slaves. A few were crying, but most just looked resigned to their fate.
A loud cry came from one of the boards, and the man who had just thrown his dart pumped his fist in triumph. "Bull's-eye, right in the pussy," he cheered as half the men joined in with him and the other half pulled out their purses to pay their bets. The board, ten or so darts sticking out of her ass and cunt, wept streams onto the ground beneath her face.
Josephine felt no pity for her, or for the scared young girl who was already being chained up to replace her. She stared at them all with disgust on her cloaked face. She had long ago figured out the problem with their world, and as far as she was concerned, these weak cunts, so desperate to please, were as much a part of that as the men that tortured them.
She continued on. The further she traveled from the center of the fair, the more rundown it became. The women here were less numerous, more haggard. No less attractive thanks to the potions given to them at birth, but their scars were more severe. There were no women with boxes on their necks here. No one would pay them in pity. The women that walk here were led on a lead by rough looking men carrying clubs. Drunks and cripples lounged in the streets, drowning themselves in cheap ale or crawling like ants on a carcass over the cheaper ass.
A few stare at her, and Josephine leaned her head forward, worsening her posture. She doubted it would do much, but every little bit helps. Mostly though, she moved confidently. Not too slow, but not too fast -- doing nothing to indicate that she was prey.
The tent was unadorned. No women outside to hark at passersby. No signs promising cheap beer or cunts. Two large men flanked the front flap. One moved to block Josephine as she approached, but she didn't slow, and the man simply let her through without a word.
Inside was a single table with bottles and stoppers of various liquids sitting on it. The sides were lined with boxes and bags of herbs, giving the whole tent a musty smell. The smells of the herbs fought with the cheap, bitter incense that burned in the center of the tent. It was acrid and stung her eyes.
"Leave," the man behind the table said. He wore a large cloak, similar to hers, that covered his entire body. The table was low to the ground, and he sat cross-legged behind it, but even though he was sitting and covering his body with a cloak she could tell he had a powerful frame. His hood was down, and his head was shaved bald. Even the eyebrows were shaved, giving him a strange, unearthly appearance in the hazy smoke.
"You can't be here," he continued.
Eve ignored him. She walked to one wall, where the bags of herbs dangling from the ceiling had been left off. The entire side was bare, save a wooden crest hanging from the ceiling. It was identical to the one burned right above her own cunt -- the king's crest.
The man stood as she walked over to it. He began walking to her in a way that promised violence, but still she ignored him. She lifted the crest off the wall, turned towards him, and placed it on the ground. The man stood before her, his fists balled, his muscles primed to strike, but he didn't move. He just watched her.
Josephine lifted her cloak, and let it fall to the ground. She undid the clasps on her metal panties, and tossed them to the side. Then, she stepped over the crest, squatted down, and began to piss on it.
Almost as soon as the golden stream touched the crest, the man fell to his knees, dropping his forehead to the ground in a deep bow. He kept his bow, even as the pool of her piss reached the ground his face was pressed into. Once she was done, she stood up and stepped over him. Wordlessly, he lifted his head, cleaning her thighs and pussy with his tongue.
"Take me to The Mothers," she said.
