A Detestable Woman Pt. 02

Content warning:

The following story contains a moment of graphic violence. There are elements that are intended to titillate, but this is not one of them.

Nevertheless, if this sounds like something that might disturb you, you should pass on this one.

- The Author

"There is nothing wrong with fucking someone who only wants you for your body. Not only is it enjoyable, but you'll find it can be one of your most useful tools."

"You're a woman now. You'll find that it's necessary to be detestable."

- Advice from Den Mother

A DETESTABLE WOMAN, PART II

Summertime.

The players are staging a musical event tonight. Their playing area, empty for now, is already ringed by rows of villagers.

The prince's father-a doddering, decrepit old man-ordered the construction of a hut at the rear of the crowd. It looms there in the late evening light, a monument to his towering self-regard.

In there sits the prince himself, alone.

The hut has a window in front. From there, the prince can watch the proceedings, unsullied by contact with his future subjects.

From the other side of the field, with eyes made acute by youth and training, I spy on him from the tall grass.

Through the window, one can see his hand, waving occasionally. Otherwise, the hut might as well be empty.

For all anyone could tell, he might be napping in there.

The prince is the same age as me and the others in my peer group. He is the only son of his father, and he has no children of his own.

When his father dies, the prince stands to inherit uncountable privileges. The prince's own heirs would eventually be likewise rewarded, and so on down the line.

Imagine it. Being handed all the resources and authority in the known world, just because your forebears fucked and happened to produce you.

Ridiculous.

As the sun sinks below the hills, fires are stricken into firepits and the field is lit by their light. The players take the stage, striking up their pounding instruments and their horrendous caterwauling.

The crowd applauds the beginnings, then settles in to gaze gormlessly upon the spectacle.

If I move now, I won't be seen.

I hike up my stolen robe to my waist, baring my muscular thighs and hairy vulva.

I squat on my heels. From the folds of the robe, I produce a small leather satchel and open the drawstrings. I dip my fingers into it. They come away with a thick glob of animal grease.

I reach down in between my legs and smear grease onto my asshole. It's harshly cold at first, and its viscosity makes it unwilling to stay in place. The warm wind blowing on my ass only makes it feel chillier.

But, with enough rubbing, the grease warms, and the contact grows more pleasant. The skin and hair between my asscheeks grow slippery.

I stroke my anus in little circles, feeling the ridges, rubbing the grease in until I'm frictionless to the touch.

It raises a tingle inside me.

Sadly, I have no time to waste, and the occasion for play is yet to come.

I toss the box into the tall grass and wipe my fingers on the hem of the robe. I check to make sure the stone is still hidden inside.

Staying low to the ground, I sneak around the perimeter in a wide arc, heading for the hut. The greasiness of my bottom makes every movement feel strange.

Behind the crowds, in shadows thrown by firelight, beneath the din of the shrieking musicians, nobody notices me. Soon, I'm less than 20 paces away.

The hut is open at the back.

The prince is indeed awake, sitting on a thick cushion that smells of ostrich feathers even from here. He faces away from me, watching the performance through the window.

I approach from behind. He doesn't hear.

If the outside of the hut is hastily constructed, the inside is more dismal yet. All uneven bare branches and splinters.

Even for his dear prince, the old man could not be bothered.

Once I'm in the hut, I speak, just loudly enough for him to hear.

"Hello."

He startles, turns, looks over his shoulder.

When his surprise clears, his face turns lecherous.

"Oh, hello," he says back to me.

The robe is colorful and bejeweled. My eyes are shrouded in dark paints, my left breast out in the open. I would be recognizable to him as a prostitute.

"Let us stay quiet," I bid him. "I've been sent to entertain you."

"Of course," he says, still lecherous, "a gift from my father, no doubt."

"Yes," I say, siezing the opportunity to lie.

"How kind of him," he says, turning around on his cushion to face me.

He's beautiful. His heavily muscled chest peeks through his resplendent tunic. He hasn't been a man for long, but his arms, legs, chest, and jaw have already sprouted thick curls of dark bodyhair.

The front of the cloth below his waist is already swelling into a tent. The thought flits through my mind that he may be too big for what I have planned.

But I will not be deterred.

"Let's see what my father's riches have bought me today," he says.

I undo the clasp over my right shoulder. His dark, almond-shaped eyes leer at me with anticipation as the cloth comes loose and my other breast tumbles free.

Naked from the waist up, I stand still, hands at my sides, for his consideration. Though I'm surrounded in darkness, a window of flickering firelight illuminates me from my chin to my navel.

"You're a well-endowed girl," he remarks. "How old are you?"

I tell him the truth. He looks disappointed.

I add that this is my first time doing this, which seems to cheer him up.

I continue my charade, unbuckling the belt at my waist and letting the robe fall to my ankles. I stand before him, unclothed and unarmed.

This sight seems to cheer him even more.

He stands up. He approaches me. His shadow covers me entirely. His silhouette is haloed by firelight that picks out the fine ends of his hairs. He stands taller than me by a head, at least.

He's close enough to me that I feel his body heat. The hard bulge in the folds of his skirt pokes my belly.

He touches his finger to my lips and pushes. I open my mouth, passively accepting the invading digit.

He pokes and prods, pulling my lips this way and that, looking at my gums, looking at my teeth.

Apparently satisfied with what he finds, he extracts his finger and wipes the saliva on my collarbone.

His eyes fall to my breasts. He takes one in each hand, stroking them, squeezing them, circling my wide areolas with his thumbs, rubbing the hard nipples. It does very little for me, but he seems to enjoy it.

He releases my breasts and lets one hand travel down my belly. Briefly, he lets a fingertip linger in the cavity of my navel.

His hand travels farther down. His fingers thread themselves into my pubic hair.

He does not try to penetrate me.

He strokes the hair, almost paternally, before gripping it in a great fistful.

He yanks sharply. I list forward a little, but I keep my footing. There is no pain, but I cry out anyway.

He circles me like a lion.

He's behind me now. His soft fingertips touch me between my shoulderblades. They trail down my spine, then stop at the divot at the top of my asscrack.

Instead of continuing downward, he strays over to my hip.

When he speaks, the smell of his dinner hits my nose.

"You're a little fat, aren't you?" he says.

"Yes," I say, not quite understanding the point of the question.

His fingertips are moving again, downward, then inward, tracing the contour of my asscheek.

He fingers the fold where the curve of my ass hangs over the back of my thigh, and there he pauses.

I strive not to react, hoping silently that he doesn't find the grease.

He grips my hips from behind with both hands.

"Good birthing stock, though," he says.

"Yes," I say.

He pulls me backwards by the hips. A hard, cloth-covered nub presses wantonly into the small of my back.

"Would it not be a shame if I impregnated you?" he says.

Silently, I agree with him.

He breathes on the side of my face. "Just imagine. My firstborn, the son of a common whore!"

I start to say "Yes" again, but he laughs loudly, a little too close to my ear. I say nothing, trying not to flinch.

He releases me and swats my ass. I stumble forward a step.

"Turn around," he says.

I turn to face him. I can feel his handprint throbbing on my bottom.

I'm already starting to forget it as I look him over.

He's pulling his clothes off over his head, bare from the belly on down. He's close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his skin.

I've seen many cocks. This one is not long, but it is thick. Dark hair climbs nearly to the head, and travels outward from the base of it in a radiating pattern down his thighs.

His clothes fall to the floor in a heap next to my stolen robe.

He looms naked before me, his middle third illuminated in flickering orange light, all black hair and rippling musculature. The shadow of my head falls upon his protruding member.

"Get down," he orders.

Obediently, I sink to my knees, below the level of the light cast by the window. The uneven wooden slats of the floor dig into me, but the prince does not appear to notice.

I try not to roll my eyes. He could have offered me his cushion.

The smell wafting up from his crotch is pleasant. Like fragrant oils, with a faint tang of urine.

"I said get down," he says.

He puts a palm on my forehead and shoves. I fall backwards, catching myself on my ass and my splayed hands. I feel splinters going into my skin, which I barely notice as I try to contain my fury.

I should just murder him.

If it shows in my face, he doesn't notice as he crouches over me, lowering himself into the shadows. There, in the dark, he gathers me into his powerful arms.

As he puts his weight on me, I lower myself onto my back, onto the floor. More roughness, more splinters. I ignore it. I hold his waist between my thighs.

His chest hair tickles my jaw. His cheek presses impersonally against the side of my head. His body is arched over me, his hips lowered in between my raw knees.

His cock pokes against my thigh, then between my labia.

I reach down and helpfully guide him away from what he searches for. His cock feels good in my rough palm-large, hard, throbbing, velvety and warm.

I redirect it to my anus.

The prince impatiently pushes his way into the slick opening, scarcely leaving me time to register the pressure. I relax and exhale to allow him inside.

It feels much bigger inside my ass than it did in my hand. It's almost too much-the fullness, the incredible rush of sensation makes it hard to breathe.

And, as he slides inexorably further in, as his hips make contact with the backs of my thighs, the intensity does not abate.

He does not wait to gauge my reaction. He withdraws, almost to the crown of the head. It's an outrushing sensation that feels pleasurably of taking a shit.

Then he pushes back in.

He glides in smoothly, my tight anal muscles no match for the slippery animal grease and the prince's formidable weight.

I feel full. I feel full up to my guts, I feel that my asshole could not be stretched further, I feel overwhelmed in a way that isn't pleasant or unpleasant, but could be tipped either way.

He's been in me for a single stroke.

He withdraws again, plunges again. He fucks, and he fucks. All I can do is take slow, measured breaths of his entrancing body odor.

Then he stops. He gives me a look that chills my blood.

"Why does your cunt feel strange?" he says.

Quickly gathering myself, I say, "I'm menstruating." I'm suddenly aware of how heavy his body weighs on top of mine.

"What does that mean?" he says. The head of his cock is stopped cruelly just inside my anus.

"Nothing," I say. "Just fuck me, my prince."

"Shh, quiet now," he says, and puts a hand over my nose and mouth. An instinctive "mmf" escapes through my nose.

He responds by pressing harder. It turns my head, pushing the side of my face into the floor.

"Shut it, whore," he says. "Your chatter will make me go soft."

My labored breaths hiss under the palm of his hand, but otherwise I make no further sound.

It occurs to me what an awful risk this is. If he tried to overpower me, I might be able to fight him off, but my disadvantage would be enormous.

He releases my face. His hips begin to rise and fall again, his cock resuming its circuit in and out of my slimy ass.

I feel relieved. The danger has passed.

Surprised, I also find myself desiring the prince. His continued attention is a relief of its own.

His strokes change rhythm, growing faster and more shallow. He no doubt feels the first hint of impending orgasm.

The time is now.

With haste, I speak the words so that he can hear them, words that put a daze upon his head and trap his mind.

He will still take pleasure. He will still believe he has control.

But he is under a compulsion he won't be able to shake, an effect that will only intensify as he comes closer to emitting his seed.

After that, he won't be able to move, won't be able to harm me.

Won't be able to stop me.

The prince fucks, his jaw slack, his eyes clouded. He looks down into my face. There's nothing to stop him from seeing me, or hearing me, or drinking in the world around him. Or taking pleasure in my body.

He simply has no free will.

And it will not return to him until after I've left.

I relax a little and allow the prince to fuck me.

I reach down in between our bodies and touch two fingers to the sides of my pulsing, distended clitoris.

It feels good. It mingles with the full, pounding sensation of the prince's cock. My hand comes into repeated contact with his damp, hairy belly, just above his pubis.

I wet my fingertips with my vaginal secretions. I allow images of past conquests to flood into my mind as I begin to masturbate.

I think of people I've fucked-girls, boys, two-spirits.

And Den Mother.

With memories of her sinewy hands and pungent odor filling my head, with the prince's thick cock filling my ass nearly to bursting, with my fingers swirling on my sex, the peak takes little time to arrive.

An insistent, hungry heat is flowing through me, reddening my ears and curling my toes. I gasp, I swear, and the prince can say nothing.

Muscles in the base of my body convulse. My anus grips the prince's cock frantically, somehow making it feel even wider.

The prince's body is a heavy weight upon me, subduing the thrumming energy that animates my limbs and my hips.

He doesn't seem to notice that I'm coming. He's lost in delirium, focused on his own impending orgasm.

Just as my body starts to lose its vigor, the prince pauses, then plunges himself in me as deep as he'll go. It is not pleasant. I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

A piggish grunt rumbles in his throat. His cock strains my inner walls. I feel very wet inside.

Then he withdraws. It is as intense as the penetration was in the first place. The hut smells of sweat and cunt and anal vapors. My bereft ass swarms with lingering sensation.

The prince remains still for a moment.

Then, moving in unnatural automated gestures, he rolls off of me, onto the floor next to me. We lie side by side on our backs, on equal ground. My sweating skin cools in the air.

I allow myself to linger, just for a minute.

His breathing is shallow. He stares vacantly at the thatched ceiling overhead. There is no sign that he even remembers that I'm here.

I roll over onto my hands and knees. From the folds of my robe, I retrieve the stone.

I reach over to the prince and grip his damp cock, still half-erect, speckled at the tip with flecks of shit. He raises his head a little, as if pleased to have another round so soon.

I pull down the pillow over his face and sit on it. I expect no screams, but I need to be sure.

Squeezing his cock and hoisting it upward, I swipe the stone along the base of it.

A mirthless smile opens at the top of his scrotum, followed shortly after by a curtain of blood, tinted black by the shadows.

The prince's face moves a little under the cushion, under me, but he does not thrash and he does not scream.

Another swipe, and the scrotum and its contents tumble free from his body.

I drop the stone and his cock and I snatch up the scrotum, an oozing wad in my hand.

I get up. The cushion peels away from the grease and tumbles away.

I leave the hut, taking nothing but the scrotum with me, not bothering to look back as the prince lies there bleeding, staring helplessly at the walls of the wooden prison between him and the world.

I sneak away through the tall grass. With the crowd still transfixed with their terrible music, no one notices me.

I stagger for miles in the dark. Tall, reedy grass whips my bare skin. Drunk on sex, drunk on success, my asshole throbbing, my bloody prize clenched in my fist.

When I'm sure I've gone far enough, my spirt flags. I feel very tired.

I lie down in the grass and lay the scrotum next to me. I decide to take a short nap before moving along, and plunge into a deep slumber.

I wake up naked in the tall grass to a cool, pale morning, stiff and groggy. I sit up slowly, shake dew off my limbs, remembering too late not to put my full weight on my sore bottom.

I look around. Grassy fields, fog in places. Not a person or a settlement in sight. I must have gone farther than I thought.

Next to me, lying there in the grass, are the scrotum and testicles of the prince, a barely recognizable mess of caked blood.

I squat, rest my elbows on my knees, rest my chin in my hands.

From my bottom, a fart escapes, followed by greasy pelleted turds that contain the last hope the prince ever had of conceiving a child. They fall into a pile in the grass with a quiet rustle.

My business finished, I stand up. My sore, splintered knees make popping sounds as my body straightens itself out to its modest height.

It will be a long hike back to the encampment.

I don't mind.

I feel the cold breeze on my bare skin, stirring the hair on my head and body. It raises a shiver in me that makes me feel alive.

I look down at the testicles in the grass. The spoils of victory. The den mothers requested them as proof of a job done. There will be hell to pay if I fail to bring them back.

I can't bring myself to pick them up.

I nudge them with my foot into the pile of my droppings. Then I turn my back on them and walk away, leaving them there in the grass with the rest of the shit.

~THE END~

Did you enjoy this story? Give it a favorite, a rating, and a comment to let me know what you think.

Personally, I enjoy stories that provide just hints of background information in order to imply things about the universe where they take place.

I've tried to write "A Detestable Woman" parts I and II in that fashion. For those of you who agree with me, I hope these stories are successful.

The following text is probably unnecessary to your enjoyment. In fact, it may clash with details that were better fleshed out in your imagination.

But, for those of you who like to dive deeper into the lore of the story, I've written the following appendix to "A Detestable Woman, Part II."

As usual, thanks for reading.

- The Author

A DETESTABLE WOMAN, PART II: APPENDIX

The following history was told to our heroine by Den Mother, prior to her first solo task:

"The village used to be a clan like ours. They gathered when they could, hunted when they had to, camped wherever the camping was good. They took when they needed to take, and gave to anyone who needed it.

"There were magic women, whose role was to learn the history of their people and pass it down. Along the way, they acquired certain spells and rituals, which fortified and protected their treasured knowledge.

"The clan came across a foreigner one day. She promised valuable secrets in exchange for safe harbor. She did not say what she was running from.