Holly

The smell of cheap rotting pine wood, straw, and horse shit filled the air, cloying and heavy, crawling its way up into my nose to linger. The old covered wooden cart carrying me and two others, rumbled down poorly kept stone roads. One wheel, warped from water damage, added a lilt to the sway of the cart, that sent me jerking from side to side, alternatively bumping into the splintery unsanded wall of the cart, or my sister in chains. We three were all bound at our hands, as well as ankles, shackled together with a chain a mere foot across, forcing us into an awkward shuffle when made to walk. The girl next to me shakes with fear and whimpers every time we are jostled against one another. The girl across from me weeps silently. We are a sorry lot to be sure. The aftermath and castaways of battles already forgotten in the excitement of a new war.

I was six when my life was stolen from me. It felt a thousand summers ago now. I could scarcely remember my parent's faces. The invaders stole our food-stores and valuables, killed most, and even took a few women as slaves. There was no way to know which my mother had ended up. The armies of our king drove them off, but not before most of my village had been killed or captured. Serfs were sent to replace the field workers and rebuild the town, and soldiers rounded up anyone under the age of 13. No one wants to care for a child not their own. For the next few years I scrubbed floors, and beat rugs and tapestries clean, and polished glass and silver, until my fingers bled, and my limbs went numb from effort. My only respite was the giant bed I shared with four other girls my age. My life turned into an endless cycle of effort. If I disobeyed I was beaten with a dried reed on the backs of my calves. It left horrible welts that hurt for days but never caused any lasting harm that would prevent me from cleaning and mending.

We were taught to sew, but no one bothered to teach any of us to read or write or even speak properly. There was no reason for it. Our only tasks were to take orders from the cantankerous House Maiden who directed our efforts and dealt out punishments. I was once beaten for asking what my name was, as I had forgotten the one my parents had given to me before they died. The House Maiden just called all of us 'Girl'.

When I was ten and two I was moved to another, larger castle. This time there were lots of girls like me, and I had my own bed! I lived in a big hall with dozens of other girls. The Castle Maiden was just as mean as the last though. The reeds were replaced with a mean leather crop, as meant for a horse or ox. It made a threatening loud cracking sound that echoed through the castle when she used it. By direct comparison it hurt less, and the sting only lasted hours, not days, but she was accurate with the damned thing, and knew where it hurt most. The backs of our knees was often a popular target. She liked to do it when we were carrying something too, so if we buckled and spilled, it would give her leave for even harsher punishments.

I wasn't moved again until I was twenty, with nothing but rubble and ash left of the last place I'd known. Nothing more than a scullery maid turned spoil of war. I didn't know which side had me. I didn't even know which side had won. I'm not sure it mattered.

This time only a few other girls went with me. Just three of us. I noticed the two girls I was with were exceptionally beautiful, but I didn't understand the significance of that at the time. The castle we were moved to was even bigger than the last. Bigger than I knew could exist even! It had three giant towers, the tallest of which scraped the clouds on this foggy day. We huddled together in fear in the back of the wagon that pulled us into the imposing structure. What opulence it contained had to be imagined, for the entrance we used was dank with mold and moss, and the smell of rotting wood.

Older servants, scullery maids, butlers, waiters, men-at-arms, soldiers, castle guards, cooks, and stablemen all gathered here, though those distinctions were lost on me then. We three were gathered into a side room. A man was already there, and he appraised us in a calm, detached manner that sent shivers of fear down my spine. He had the same leather switch the Castle Maiden had, and poked us with it, posing us in a line, raising our chins and turning our heads with it to view our profile.

After spending a while to ponder, gazing at us all in turn, a gleam of hunger in his gaze, he gave us names. Mine was Holly. We were all named after flowers.

After that the large strong man, smelling strongly of wine, grabbed me by the upper arm and eagerly dragged me to a long corridor with a row of matching doors with iron locks, set on alternating sides. He opened the nearest one. Inside was a small stone room, noticeably warmer than the corridor. A diffused heat came up from the floor, the smell of firewood baked into the stone. One torch on the wall next to the door provided a warm flickering light. An odd throne in the middle of the room was the only other feature. It was propped up by a single thick wooden pole, the height of the room, that disappeared into the stone floor and ceiling. It gave the impression of running the entire height of the castle. No windows, and no tapestries, it was otherwise a bare room.

He put me on the throne. It was designed so that I lay flat and folded nearly in half, with my head held up and forward by a small curved and upholstered pillow. My legs were up and wide, bent at the knees and feet in the air with soles pointed to the sky and fitted into stirrups that tightened down with a wooden screw. The bind forced my body, shoulders to ass, flat against the leather back of the throne, which had gentle curves following the shape of my body. Leather straps at my ankles, and above my knees, pinned my legs to the worn wooden leg rests. Fear curled in me, shortening my breath. My arms were made to be fixed against the main pole, bound with soft, fur lined leather cuffs. A series of holes bored into the pole let him feed the chain connecting the cuffs through and set the bind based on the length and flex of my arms, to which he stretched me to my limit. The bind pulled me solidly to the back of the throne. I flexed in my bonds, immobilized. To the sides of my gaze was the head immobilizing pillow, like horse blinders. Glancing down, my chest loomed, pressed out immodestly, and beyond, my body laid vulnerable and open, skirt pooled down around me revealing my underclothes, and the whole of my sex pressed into a flat plane. Testing more now I found I could wriggle my hips around, and arch my back a bit more but that was all. I reflexively tried to close my legs and felt the wood and straps flex to their limit, creaking, but holding strong, keeping me spread wide and folded in half, a barely understood modesty driving terrible shame through me. I wanted to fix my dress, and cover my shame. I trembled in my bondage as this scarred, and brutal looking man, towered over me, gazing down at my helpless form, and radiating a greedy, hungry lust.

The throne had me at waist hight of the man who put me there. He stepped forward, looming and crowding me but not touching me. He pulled a blade from his waist and started cutting my simple dress and undergarments apart. I tried to scream but my throat rebelled. I shook in fear, pulling at my bonds and thrashing my head from side to side as he tore my clothes from my body until I was bare before him, bound and stretched wide. I burned in shame, screwing my eyes shut, hot tingles erupting all across my face, and down my neck. I had never even been left alone with a man before, let alone denuded before one, like a whore. Everything in me wanted to hide, to cover my shame. He stepped close. Far too close, I recoiled at the smell of him. Sweat and drink. I turned my head to the side as much as I could and squeezed my eyes shut.

A quiet shriek as his hands landed on me, my eyes shooting open. "You're a pretty one," he said mildly, one hand playing with my hair, the other landing on my ankle. I jumped at the contact, my breathing turning panicked. The pillow forced me to choose between keeping my eyes closed which was terrifying, up at his hungry gaze, forward at his hands taking their leave of me, or down at the thing bulging his pants out, almost pressed against my most private places... I stared up at him, unable to lean my head back, forced to look past my eyelashes, begging for mercy with my eyes. He shushed me, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle, at first." He chuckled, in a dark, hungry way. "I'm good at breaking in new girls. I'll get t' your friends later, but I 'ad to have you first. Your life is going to be ratha' simple from 'ere on out. You may call me Overseer, any other man you will call Master."

I heard him but the words didn't resonate. All I could focus on was his hands. He took another step closer and leaned in to run one hand down an arm, and the other along my thigh, his eyes wandering over my exposed body. I'd never been touched like this, and I was horribly aware of a tingling warmth spreading through me that sometimes kept me awake at night. A feeling that I'd never had a chance to explore, languidly beginning to flow throughout me, tingles erupting in waves down my spine, making me shiver under his touch. His hands were hot on my exposed skin. The one on my thigh sent a shiver through me that made me want to arch my back. I gasped quietly, struggling against my bondage as I starred wide eyed at his hand as it smoothed over my goose-pimpling skin. I couldn't look away. "Ay, that's it my pretty flower," he said, voice low, half a rumble in his chest. "We're a training ground you see. Men come 'ere from all across the Kingdom to train to fight for 'is Majesty, an men 'oo work 'ard, deserve nice rewards. That's where you come in. Every day you'll be trussed up 'ere for the men to sate their lusts upon."

A white wave of dread washed over me. I felt dizzy. I pulled helplessly at my bonds. The Overseer's hands had not stopped their patient perusal of my body. Firm hands exploring shivering skin. He ignored my panic and calmly satisfied his whims. Despite the warmth of the room my nipples had grown hard. His hands went to them, inches in front of my face, gently pinching and twisting them. I was unprepared for how good that would feel, and let out a surprised shriek. He smiled at me and leaned in, sucking the left one into his mouth. I stared, open mouthed and wide eyed at he sucked and nipped and licked the throbbing nub, effortlessly following my thrashing movements pushing the leather straps holding me down to their limits. He gazed at my face, unblinking, watching my expression. With his left hand he squeezed and massaged my other breast, seemingly for his own enjoyment, his spare hand caressing my thigh, sweeping closer and closer to my center. I whimpered and whined as his efforts grew more intense. An aching wet tension building in my core. Sometimes I had dreams about kissing cute boys and would wake up pleasurably tingling down there. It had never felt anything like this. A kind of need that just grew and grew. Deep inside something shifted and I felt myself clutch and squeeze with out meaning to as the apex of my private place tightened into a singular focused point of awareness like I'd never felt before, throbbing and swelling, a maddening pleasurable ache that was quickly becoming the only thing I could think on. I wished I could reach out and touch it. It begged attention in a way I had always been able to ignore before today. It had never been this strong, this intense. When the Overseer found a particularly sensitive spot everything would swell and squeeze, the sensation somehow satisfying and frustrating at the same time, making me moan in wordless adulation. I wanted to beg him to touch it, but couldn't fight past the embarrassment of asking for my own defilement.

The Overseer pulled away. His gaze raking over my body. "Ay, you're ready." His hands went to his belt, unbuckling it, and letting his pants drape open. A musky funk offended my nose but that concern was secondary as I gazed, frozen as his... thing... came into view. It looked enormous, and was an angry red color, leaking and throbbing, the skin of its end shining in the torchlight. I reflexively tried to pull away, but the throne kept me held in place. He held it one hand and slapped it on my thigh, inches from my throbbing center.

He was going to put it in there... I had seen animals do it, but never people. I had scarcely been able to think about any of this stuff, let alone find any where private to explore. Fear and curiosity warred inside as a well of shame opened beneath me at the realization that I was more curious, than scared.

He pressed it against me, and groaned low and hungry, "you're soaking wet you fucking slag." I looked away, screwing my eyes shut, not quite understanding the words he was using, but the implication was clear. He was mocking the eagerness of my body to be violated. I flushed in shame and cried silently at my lost innocence. He pressed in a bit and I screamed. More in surprise than pain, though there was a stretching that lived on the knife's edge of pleasure and pain that made me pant and squirm. He pressed in and a brief discomforting pinch gave way to blossoming pleasure. The flesh there was more sensitive than I could believe, and the warmth of him, and the hardness of it inside me was terribly compelling.

He sank in slow until he was buried in me, his gaze hooded, jaw slack, staring down at our joining. The way he savored the feel of me enveloping him was inspiring. I focused on it. The sensation was riveting, a pleasurable sliding sending delicious shivers up and down my spine, making me flex in my bondage. With a deep sigh he bottomed out, nestling into the crook of my wide spread thighs. I gasped, starring dumbly down at where it had disappeared into me. I was pressed as hard as I could back against the binding throne, quivering against him. He didn't move, save the way his thing twitched and throbbed within me, low half-moan half-snarl noises rumbling out of his broad chest every time it swelled. I squeezed down in return, reflexively, delirious at how good it felt to do that.

He pulled out, half as fast as he had gone in, and I gave out a quiet shriek, cutting it off as quickly as I could, my privates fluttering at the sudden departure. "It's alright if you make noise little slut, I don't mind," he said smugly, smirking at the way I reacted to him. I hated him in that moment, for mocking me while reveling in his own enjoyment, but as he moved, his touches, and the feel of him inside me made my body sing regardless. I tried to stay silent to deny him, but he started to thrust against me, his thing sliding in and out over and over, and soon my gasps turned to soft cries, turned to shrieks and moans I could scarcely believe were noises I was capable of making. Raw and desperate sounding. Begging with out words for something I didn't comprehend.

I became intensely aware of how flushed I was, sweat dripping down my body, trickling down my spine and pooling uncomfortably under me as his plundering thrusting grew hard and quick. His smirk had faded to a slack jawed gaze at my body as he ravaged me, staring often at the way my breasts shook to his movements. His gentle touches turned hard. He grunted and panted, his face a mask of effort and pleasure, red and sweaty. When I clenched on him he groaned, his voice higher than I'd heard it before, his eyes rolling up into his head. The pleasure twisting and spiraling within me took a new focus. A rising tension grew and grew, and though I did not understand, I felt I was building towards something, and the closer I got the more I wanted it. My breathing grew quick, and whatever it was seemed to loom. I felt myself grow tighter inside, and his rhythm faltered. His thing hardened as if it had turned to stone, and the Overseer moaned in a quiet vulnerable way, as his pace suddenly doubled, his grip on my hip and breast hardening to the point of pain.

I screamed, not expecting the sudden speed and strength behind his pounding of my helpless body. I drummed my hands and scratched uselessly against the pole my arms were bound to. In seconds he stopped, arching into me, groaning and snarling, his face a wild and terrifying, yet enthralling thing I could not look away from. He looked transported, his eyes rolling. His thing throbbed wildly within me. Seconds later it was over. He pulled from me quickly and suddenly. I gasped, reminded of the looming thing I had not arrived at. I panted, tingling and swollen, desperate for more, but everything had stopped, except my thing, which clutched rhythmically for a few seconds, in a way equal parts pleasurable and torturous. Gradually, the throbbing pleasure I had been enjoying gave way to a terrible, hungry ache.

What had felt full and pleasured seconds ago, was now aching and empty. I found I could squeeze and clutch on purpose down there, but it only highlighted the loss.

I felt denied... something...

With an extremely satisfied sigh, all tension and fury drained from his face and manner, the Overseer set his clothes right, and with a quick, "be seeing you lass" he was gone.

My body thrummed with unresolved tension.

Slowly...

Cruelly...

The flush and heat receded, leaving only the ache and frustration. Quivering sensitive flesh tingling in the warm, still air. I wanted to touch myself, sure I could get myself back to that peak I had been driven too, but I was securely bound. I let out a frustrated moan just as the door opened. I wallowed in the shame of my desperate eagerness of another man coming to use me, to perhaps take me where the Overseer had not, but it wasn't a man. An old half blind woman with a basket of towels and soaps in one hand, a bucket of water in the other, and a bedpan under her arm entered. She set about cleaning me, inside and out with a pungent tincture, removing the evidence of my defilement into the bedpan hung on a hook built into the throne, and washing the sweat from my body. She did not speak the whole time and left with out ceremony. Her brief interaction with my aching core only reminded me of the fire that had been built there, but did nothing to raise me towards that thrilling and intimidating peak. As the minutes trickled by, the ache settled somewhere deep inside, heavy and throbbing.

I cried, silently.

Some time later the old woman came back to replace the torch on the wall and give me some water to drink. She had the bed pan again, and to my extreme shame, I had to use it. It must have been after their dinner when another man came. A guard in training, his clothes much more abused and ill fitting than the Overseer's. He seemed young and eager, and was finished with me inside of ten minutes, having only stoked my fires back into a rage before leaving me, once again, a frustrated throbbing mess, denied the promise of the pleasure being forced upon me.

When I was finally freed, and led to the group hall where I'd be locked away to sleep with the other girls, I still trembled with unresolved need. During dinner I sat, barely tasting the food as I dwelled on what had happened to me. I thought about their things. The way they felt. The pleasure forced on me. By the time we had finished our small dinner of meat-pie and still-water I was thrumming deep inside, the frustration only rising. Rubbing my thighs together felt good, and made my breath quicken, and my nipples harden into hard throbbing peaks. The more I did it the slipperier I felt down there.

We were not given clothes, even to sleep, just a threadbare blanket of woven wool to keep us warm at night. I tossed and turned on the straw bed, my ravishment replaying in my head over and over. My nipples were hard and aching, and I played with them the way the Overseer had, pinching and pulling until the tension built within me. I reached down and felt the wetness I produced. He had liked that. Said it meant I was ready. I reached down, and slid a curious finger over the small slit. I almost gasped aloud with how good it felt. I let the finger sink inside as I curled onto my side and into a ball so my movements wouldn't be noticeable beneath the blanket. My core was slick enough to make the progress of my finger effortless, sliding over the squeezing, sensitive flesh of my insides. I had to press my other hand over my mouth to keep silent. I found that rising need within me, chased it, sliding my finger in and out, faster and faster. The apex of my sex grew hard, a little nub of flesh throbbing and begging for touch. I brushed it gently, testing, and moaned aloud only to choke the sound off, freezing still.