Scene 1
Description: Priscilla kidnapped.
The evening strengthened as Priscilla stepped out from the drinking hall and into the quiet township of Quakestir. She’d arrived at the tavern earlier than expected, and felt thankful the residents from the last village overexaggerated the distance. On a journey as long as this, it was the small things to say the least.
Arriving early meant she got to a hot meal and a fiery drink (or nine) sooner, but it also meant she tapped out sooner. Leaving for the inn before true night fell meant the barmaid she’d been eyeing up all evening, the one with the dark, hawkish eyes, wouldn’t be accompanying her. However, rising upon first light would jumpstart the final day of travel before she reached the mountains. Even from a 10 hour’s walk away, the peaks smudged the skyline.
Adjusting the leather strap of her heavy dragongun, she rolled her dusky green shoulders in anticipation of a warm bath and a cozy bed. These were unheard of luxuries on the road, but Priscilla was accustomed to treating herself to the finer things. She deserved to, anyway, when she was between contracts. When as skilled as she, her type of work paid handsomely. However, there was a type of debt simple monarchs couldn’t fix. That was why she was eager to pray directly to the Vulture of Blood for forgiveness when she was within the mountains.
The innkeeper barely blinked at the size of her weapon or her stature. They wore an unreadable expression, but their short, thin, upwards tusks belied their shared ancestry with her.
“A room is 20 dukes.” They announced in a smooth, lilting way, without any prompting.
“I’d like a bath, too.”
They gave her a once over, and perhaps the faintest glint lit their eyes.
“The only room with a tub large enough is 50 dukes.”
Priscilla frowned. She understood the premium related to the cost of water and the maintenance of the inn’s energy grid. It was likely both would be in short supply in a town like Quakestir. However. She had a pilgrimage no one was paying her for, and she had finery to indulge in. How else could she convince herself to sleep in a leaky tent the rest of the time?
“40.”
They matched her frown, but only with their eyes. “How could I say no to a person of your caliber.”
She was unsure about whether or not she should be offended as she placed the preserved wooden coins into their palm. However, she decided they were referring to her renown as a pest controlling warrior saint of the Vultures.
“Thank you,” she smiled while receiving the key.
“Enjoy your stay,” they intoned flatly.
As they shifted from a straight posture to leaning back over the show on their flatscreen, Priscilla heard the jangling of many metal keys. It was a pleasant sound in her drunkenness.
She glanced at her key; it was for Room 12. Finding her room was easy with the arrowed signs, and soon enough she was dropping her weapon and rucksack on a luscious bed. Her travelling half-pants and loose fitting cotton shirt were next. She slipped off her boy shorts and walked out onto the patio where a personalised hot-spring bath was steaming under a dim electric lantern. Sighing, she eased herself in.
The water had yellow and pink petals floating in it. Thoughts of fields of chamomile and wild roses were invoked by the colours and scents. But there was another scent hidden beneath the heavy florals; it was maybe jasmine or maybe allspice. Priscilla shook her head. She was there to relax and enjoy herself before bed; she was not there to care about what flowers she bathed in. The fact she was bathing in flowers was enough, she told herself.
Finally dispelling her anxieties, she stretched out her arms, tucked them behind her head and relaxed against the side of the tub. Yawning, she looked up at the stars. They brightened the sky even as the last light of day was still fading.
It wouldn’t be long until she would finally ease her karmic burden by speaking with her favoured Vulture. Her thoughts spun until the lantern cast a shadow over her upturned face. Before she could move her numbed arms, her assailant wrapped a metal cord around her neck. This would’ve been her end had she been a being of thinner skin. As it was, Priscilla choked and gasped at the sharp, burning pain. A gag was slipped over her wide nose and over her lower jaw tusks. Once secured, it took two attackers to hoist her from the water.
The cord around her neck remained tight as one of them bound her wrists behind her back and the other pulled a hood over her head. She tried to speak, to wiggle the huge rubber ball out of her mouth, but her words came out as unintelligible grunts.
One of her captors barked out a laugh. Stars exploded in the darkness of the hood as someone landed a heavy strike across the side of her head. Priscilla groaned.
“Remove the garrotte,” said someone with a flat voice. A voice she recognised. Keys jangled. “They don’t give a shit if it’s roughed up, but they do want it alive.”
Shame blossomed in her stomach when the wire was loosened because she sighed with relief. But her breath gave her strength. She tested the restraints but they didn’t budge.
“Another double one.” Stated a deeper, gruffer voice she didn’t recognize. “And so well endowed.” A thumb ran across one of her nipples before it received a hard twist. She gave a muffled cry. Less than a second later, a thumb stroked the head of her dick and multiple fingers caressed her lower lips.
“That’s why our colleagues specialise in them.” The innkeep replied. “If too many bitches die, they switch a bull in. And vice versa.”
Gritting her teeth against the gag, she felt herself growing, dampening–despite her terrifying helplessness. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to dragonslayers, to a killer of bandit lords.
Warm, soft skin brushed against her ass and breath danced across the back of her neck. “You’re gonna love bein’ a sow.”
She felt the warm head of their dripping cock rubbing on her inner lips, but her body wouldn’t listen to her. Her thoughts kept escaping before she could take the next logical step; never had drunkenness caused such weakness of body and mind. Something else, she thought while grunting through the gag and sounding very much like a pig.
The attacker plunged their thick dick into her and growled so deeply she knew the innkeep was not the one violating her. Who was, she couldn’t guess. She hadn’t noticed other guests or staff. Whoever they were, they were heavyset with rough textured skin–perhaps scales? She purposely focused on sensing any of the person’s identifying traits, if only to distract herself from the disgust building in her core.
They pulled the gag strap and forced her head up with it. As they changed the angle at which they were humiliating her, they punched up against the outside of her cervix with each thrust. Priscilla’s scream echoed despite the rubber gag and the hood and the attacker cramming their shaft into her cunt stilled. Something more stifling was squeezed over the hood on her face and pressed in hard enough to hurt her nose.
“Carry on,” the innkeep chuckled, though they were more muted now.
The captor inside her bent over her, gripped her tits, and continued with a faster, shallower pace. Her vision flashed white beneath the hood as their dick scraped against her most-sensitive inner spots repeatedly. She was gasping and suffocating under the gags and their weight. Drool dribbled over her chin from around the gag and mixed with her snot and tears.
She felt their pace become frenzied, but her resulting sob was lost amidst their low but fast breathing. Her captor let go of her breasts and gripped her hips. They slammed hard against her a few more times and stars exploded behind her eyelids from the pain. After what felt like hours, she felt their warmth gush into her and their weight pressed down upon her heavily as they caught their breath.
Vulture of Blood, she prayed while her attacker lifted their weight off of her. They let her rest against the cool stone tiles of the outdoor bath. A tiny bit of air reached her lungs with each gasp through layers of fabric. All her spinning mind could think of was her unprotected womb. Protect me, she thought to the deity she hoped was listening. Pregnancy was out of the question; she had a pilgrimage to complete. She couldn’t reach the inner mountains to atone for her crimes if…if that were to happen.
Keys jangled again. “I’ll assist with loading it into the wagon.”
Two sets of hands, one sleek and sharp while the other was wide and rough, hoisted her mostly off the ground. Her bare feet slid across tile and then wood, though she still barely felt her extremities. She heard a door open and close, and then another. All the while, keys jangled. Next, her feet dragged across gravel. They tossed her into something and she presumed it was the aforementioned wagon.