Clara's Offering

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

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A huge thank you to GigglingGoblin for giving me feedback on this story. Your advice was invaluable.

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Pale light moved across the loft bedroom slowly, the dawn chorus of birds drowning out the muffled moans coming from the straw bed. The goose feather quilt had been thrown back, and Clara lay sprawled. Her hand was buried under the skirt of her nightgown, her fingers rubbing tight circles across her clit.

She had been dreaming again. Lately, she was woken early every morning by vivid dreams in which she was being ravished, and every time she couldn't keep her hands from straying down to where she wanted them most. Most nights she dreamt of being on all fours, presenting herself to someone who deserved her, who awoke something in her, and feeling the hot stretch of being filled and fucked.

Today was different. Today she had dreamt of mouths moving across her, lapping and sucking at her breasts, then her thighs, then her pussy. Thinking of her dream, Clara pressed her thighs together, feeling her climax drawing closer.

The familiar bang of the heavy front door broke her concentration. She knew it would be her uncle going out to milk the cows, and that her aunt would soon be calling her name to get her ready for the market.

Clara screwed her eyes shut, desperately trying to push the thoughts from her mind and re-stoke the fire between her legs, slowly pressing one finger into her slick pussy to stroke the sensitive place she had found in her nightly explorations.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs as she heard her aunt call out, "Clara!"

Clara snatched her hand away and pulled the quilt back over her quivering body, wiping the sweat from her brow and feigning sleep. She heard the door swing open.

"Get up, girl, it's market day and we need to be there early," Clara's aunt didn't hesitate as she stomped into the small attic room, a dress bundled in her arms.

"Darian's parents are coming for tea this afternoon," she continued, "so we cannot afford to miss out on the good bread and cakes like last week."

"Alright, alright," Clara mumbled, feigning sleepiness. She narrowly avoided hitting her head on the sloped ceiling as she rose from the bed.

Her aunt gave her a sharp look, her dark eyes narrowing. "You'd better drop that attitude, girl. You're lucky to have had a match made at all, and you'll be grateful to the Lucasson family for pledging their son to you!" she snapped, draping the dress she carried over the chair at the small vanity. "You'd best dress quick smart if you know what's good for you."

She turned her squat figure to march back down the steps, leaving the door hanging open behind her.

Clara sighed and gently closed the door, though she dearly wished to slam it. Darian. How much she wished she would never have to see him again! He was eight years older but acted eight years younger. She had never known him to be anything other than immature, cruel and selfish - and when she turned twenty-one next month, she was going to be wed to him.

That thought alone drove the last of the pangs of desire from between her legs. Clara didn't want to imagine what their wedding night would be like. As an orphan, taken in by her aunt and uncle, she was considered damaged goods. Bad luck. Cursed. What decent family would give their son away to someone like her? Clara certainly felt cursed when she thought of what her future held.

She shook her head. It wouldn't do her any good to dwell on that. She moved to the crooked vanity opposite her bed, pulling her cool linen nightgown off over her head. The nights lately were warm - they always were, leading up to her birthday - and she put her nightly dreams of being dominated and fucked down to the sweaty, breathless feeling the summer brought out in her.

The fresh morning air stirred across her breasts, and Clara gazed in wonder at the vanity mirror as her blush pink nipples began to harden. Her gaze dropped, following the curve of her creamy skin to the dark thatch of curls between her thighs. Her chest tightened in anger.

'I refuse to let Darian Lucasson be the one to enjoy this first,' she thought, though she had no real way of avoiding it. Their town was old and traditional, nestled in the foot of tall mountains that were covered in deep, dense forest. If she slept with a man in the town, she would be even more of an outcast than she already was, and might end up with worse than just Darian. If she fled the town, would she even make it as far as one of the mountain villages?

Releasing the breath she didn't realise she had been holding, Clara tore her eyes away from her body, picking up the dress her aunt had brought to her. She pulled it on, doing up the buttons on the front of the dress, red like small berries.

Clara had to admit that the dress was beautiful - her aunt pulled it out every time she was planning to parade Clara out in front of potential suitors. It was a soft, cream-coloured cotton sprigged with minute dark green flowers, the bodice a matching deep, forest green. Clara pursed her lips as the last button, at the crest of her breasts, slipped in her fingers. The dress had been her mother's, and so she loved it, but Clara's curves were more ample than her mother's had been. Exhaling, she managed to finally slip the button through its eyelet. The neckline of the bodice dipped suggestively, hugging her breasts as they rose and fell with her breath.

Completing the outfit, Clara pulled a ruby-red ribbon from within a drawer of the vanity and used it to tie her dark hair in a high bun, letting her bangs cascade freely across her forehead, framing her hazel eyes.

Clara's hand hovered over the drawer she had pulled the ribbon from. A small bound-leather journal lay within, pushed right to the back to avoid detection. Clara had little left that had belonged to her mother, and the entries in the journal told her that it was astounding that she and Clara's aunt were related at all, let alone sisters. She closed the drawer with a quiet, wistful sigh.

Pulling on her boots, Clara gave herself one final look over in the mirror. She was ready to face the day.

----

The markets were already busy by the time Clara and her aunt arrived, store vendors shouting their prices and body bustling back and forth between stalls. Clara nodded as her aunt waved her away toward the stalls before plunging into the crowd. Splitting up saved time, but also granted Clara a few precious hours of freedom.

It was when she was choosing peaches at the fruit stall at the far end of the town square that it happened. A woman nearby screamed, only to be hushed quickly. A robed figure gripped the woman's arm forcefully, quieting her, as a second robed figure beside him spoke to someone Clara didn't recognise.

It wasn't the robed figures that had shocked the woman - they were a typical site in the town square. They were the Brethren, spiritual guides of the town, communing with the gods of the forest to keep their town safe and in harmony with nature. Clara made the stranger out to be a traveller from one of the small mountain villages. It was they who usually brought news to the town.

Curious, Clara crept closer, pretending to browse a stall packed with onions. She started, noticing that in one hand the traveller casually held the head of a stag, its blood dripping into a pool at his feet. The traveller was a head taller than the Brethren, with wheat-brown hair, his stance wide and his features concerned. He spoke quickly with the Brethren, handing them a carved stone. Clara stepped back at the sight of the stone, realising that the conversation was more dangerous than she had suspected. She had gotten too close.

As she moved back her eyes flicked up, meeting those of the stranger. His eyes were a deep grey, unsettling her and pinning her to the spot. He smiled at her, and she nodded politely, turning quickly back to the fruit stand. She chided herself. Was she that desperate for the attention of a man that she would almost interfere with a message concerning the Offering? She shook her head, the red ribbon fluttering with the motion, and moved back into the crowd.

As she moved through the bodies, she began to hear whispers and raised voices rippling along behind her, from the direction of the exchange she had just witnessed. She paused at a jewellery stall, listening to the conversations around her.

"A maiden? But how-" one snippet came, and Clara craned her neck to hear more.

The shopkeep at the jewellery stall watched her.

"Someone just came by here, told me all about it," the woman piped up, her voice croaking. Clara turned back to her.

"What?"


"I said I already heard all about it," the woman repeated. "This season's Offering isn't a prime pig or a barrel of our best wine," she leaned in conspiratorially, and Clara did the same. "It's a maiden."

Clara blinked at the woman, confused, but the woman only grinned.

"Don't you know that the wolf god of the mountain asks for what he wants? It's been ten years since the last time they asked for a maiden. I remember her, poor girl. Sarina Hallewell, it was. I suppose he ate her right up!" the woman spoke wistfully, as if looking back on a fond memory, rather than a human sacrifice. "The gods were especially pleased after that one, what a harvest we had that year! You can start looking forward to a year of plenty, you can!"

Clara backed away from the stall, cold balling in the pit of her stomach at the callousness of the shopkeep. A human sacrifice? She shivered and turned to head back to her aunt.

----

The afternoon tea had worn on dreadfully, Clara's heart withering every time Darian Lucasson tried to reach under the table to grip her thigh with his pale, clammy hand. Her heart sunk altogether when her aunt had asked cheerfully for the Lucassons to stay for dinner, and a long afternoon became a long evening.

Finally alone after the sun had long set, Clara undressed and collapsed into her bed, not bothering to take her hair down or pull on her nightgown.

Bright moonlight filtered in through the window as Clara's thoughts turned over. Not wanting to reminisce on the afternoon, she thought back to the strange news she had heard that morning at the market. The topic had come up again over dinner and no one but her had seemed phased by it. Her aunt had laughed as she pointed out that the owner of the pig, cow or produce that was chosen to be Offered was paid a fat sum of gold; she could only imagine how much the 'owner' of the maiden would be paid. They had all laughed, but Clara couldn't shake the bizarre feeling she had. Fitfully, she drifted to sleep.

----

It wasn't the hushed voices downstairs that woke Clara, nor the heavy footfalls up the staircase. It was the bang of her door hitting the wall as it was thrown open.

A moment later they were on her, their faces obscured by their hoods, grabbing her wrists and legs and lashing them together with a thick, coarse rope. She barely had time to scream before one of the hooded men stuffed a rag in her mouth, gagging her. A second rag was tied over her eyes, blocking out the light of the full moon, now high in the sky as midnight approached.

Clara shook as the two men pulled her roughly up off her bed and hauled her downstairs. She wished they had had the decency to cover her up, her naked ass exposed to the warm night air as they stepped out on the street.

It was deathly quiet outside as they hauled her into a waiting cart, but she knew that the town would be watching from behind drawn curtains. She silently cursed them as tears welled in her eyes, dampening her blindfold. She saved her harshest curses for her aunt and uncle, who were probably enjoying a far finer sum of gold as payment than they would have received from the Lucassons, and an unwanted niece permanently out of their hair.

Clara wasn't sure how long they travelled, but she could tell when the cobbled stones of the town turned to rough dirt paths, the wooden seat of the cart leaving red marks on her exposed ass. She tried to wiggle her arms free from the rope, but the heavy hand of the man beside her gripped her wrist. She was surrounded.

Clara's heart began to beat faster as they finally slowed to a stop. The dark forest was alive around them, insects chirping and leaves rustling. Clara was hauled out of the cart and carried by foot some way into the line of trees, the man who carried her chuckling as her exposed breasts bounced against him.

She heard one of the men gruffly bark out "here", and she was set down, held in place by one of the men. She considered shaking off his grip and running, but her ankles were bound even more tightly than her wrists. She blinked as unexpected moonlight hit her eyes, the blindfold being removed. Next came her gag.

"You don't have to do this-" Clara started, but the one before her shook his head. They were Brethren. Likely the same she had seen that morning in the market.

"It's been decided," the Brethren stated, "so there's no use protesting. We need you to open up." He lifted a white glass vial that he held in his hand. Uncorking it, he gripped her face with one hand and began pouring the clear liquid in her mouth. Clara strained her head away, thoughts reeling.

'Are they drugging me before they kill me? Should I be grateful for this?'

The man held her face tighter, and the liquid splashed into her mouth. It had a faint musky taste, almost sweet, and she swallowed reflexively, its smoothness coating her throat.

"Okay, come on, let's get out of here," the man holding her interjected, and she noticed fear in his voice. What was this?

"Here," the Brethren before her gestured urgently, "bend her over here."

Clara looked around her for the first time. They were in a forest clearing that met the rocky foot of a mountain and was coated with a soft, lush grass. In the centre stood an altar carved from dark, smooth stone.

It came up to her waist height and had a smooth, sloped surface. Four metal rings were mounted at the its base. A sacrificial altar? Clara mused, noticing with surprise that her fear had dissipated.

The Brethren led her to the platform and a gruff hand pushed her down, face first, over the altar. The smooth top of the stone pressed against her stomach, stopping just under her breasts, which hung down before her. The slope of the stone meant that she was angled forwards, her pussy exposed and presented.

The hooded men got to work quickly, untying and re-tying her limbs so that they were no longer bound together, but instead tied to the metal rings, immobilising her and spreading her legs wide. Clara fidgeted, the feeling of the warm night hair against her most sensitive areas sending an unusual jolt of heat through her body. She was growing impatient.

"Aren't you going to kill me, already?" she snapped, surprising herself. What was in that vial they had given her?

One of the hooded Brethren moved to her head, reaching down to hold her chin in his fingers.

"No," he said, pulling the red ribbon from her hair, which cascaded down her shoulders in unruly waves. "We're going to Offer you." Clara caught sight of a cruel grin beneath his hood as he tied the ribbon in a bow around her neck, as if she was a gift.

She called after them as they walked away, suddenly uneasy. They didn't turn back, and soon the sound of the horse and cart had faded completely. The night hummed around her and she strained at her ties, but it was no use.

The strange heat returned to her body, pooling in her groin. Why had they left her like this? The sensation bloomed through her body as she felt herself grow wetter, unable to stop her thoughts from straying back to the feeling of her fingers against her clit, her pussy lips, inside herself...

Her attention snapped back to the present as the sounds of the forest around her grew silent. Did she hear a twig snapping? Clara strained to look around her, but even with the light of the full moon illuminating the clearing, she couldn't make out anything. The silence made her heart pound with anticipation, the blood rushing to the place between her spread legs.

Suddenly, Clara yelped, biting back a moan as a huge, hot tongue swept over her pussy. Behind her, a deep voice chuckled and Clara stiffened, goosebumps crawling across her flesh.

"What, are you shy now?" the deep voice spoke. Hot breath poured over her labia, telling her that the speaker was still positioned right behind her presented ass.

"Isn't this what you've been dreaming of? I've been watching you. I know what you do at night."

Clara shuddered, her pussy becoming more and more engorged as he spoke, his voice awakening some animalistic urge inside her. That same urge she had been battling every night and trying in vain to satisfy with her own fingers.

"H-how do you know that? Who are you?" Clara stammered, a shiver running through her body as she heard an animalistic growl come from the figure behind her.

"I chose you to be mine," he spoke, ignoring her questions. "But first, I must claim you. After this, you will be bound to me. No other will touch you."

Clara kept quiet, trying to understand who - or what - was behind her. Had she escaped one fate of a forced marriage, only to fall straight into another?

Her mind went blank as the wet tongue returned, drawing a long swipe from her clit, along her labia, up to her tightly clenched butthole. A moan escaped her involuntarily, her nipples swelling and hardening at the sensation. A growl of approval came from behind her as the tongue swept along her again, this time faster. It was a sensation unlike what she could produce from her fingers alone, sending jolts of pleasure through her lower half.

A hand landed on her ass cheek and she gasped. It was larger than any man's hand, and rougher, with claws that gently pressed into her skin. It kneaded her flesh and she bit back another moan. The musky liquid she had been forced to drink had definitely done something to her. She hadn't wanted to share her first experience with Darian, and now it was being taken, stolen by someone - or something - else, and her body was responding eagerly. Clara tried to fight the tendrils of pleasure that followed the creature's claws as he ran them along her back, savouring the softness of her untouched skin.

"Don't fight it," he growled. "It will help you to... adjust." Soft footsteps fell as he moved around to her front and Clara gasped, limbs straining against the ropes that bound her to the stone platform.

Clara recognised his figure instantly from the stories she had been told as a child. Taller than any man, wider, hairier, and stronger - yet strangely human. He was a werewolf.

He stared down at her, his deep grey eyes musing over her features.

"I am the one your people call the wolf god, Torbin," he spoke, his guttural voice spilling from lips that curled back to reveal pointed teeth.

Clara tore her eyes from his, curiosity overtaking her as she let them roam downward in the same way she had admired herself that morning in the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of what hung between his legs. It was bigger than any she had seen, thick and fleshy, with a smooth head that twitched under her gaze as it began to fill and harden before her. Instantly she imagined feeling it inside her.

Torbin smiled above her and knelt down, holding her chin gently in one hand as the Brethren had before.

"What beautiful lips you have," he growled, running his thumb over them and parting them gently. Glancing down, Clara noticed that his cock was still growing, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. She felt her pussy twitch at the sight of it, blood rushing to her clit as she thought back to her dreams of being filled and fucked.