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by Nan Hawthorne, who also writes under Christopher Hawthorne Moss, Books and Stories b ChristopherHawthorne Moss at

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Road to Paris: Slavery

WARNING: Violent sexual subject matter.

“I don’t know what you want to know!” Falni choked out as Clothar all but dislocated her already painful shoulder, forcing her to stand before him.

“Watch out. He might have a knife!” one of Clothar’s men warned.

The big Frank glared at him. “Search him then.”

Falni jerked back as the man approached her, almost wrested away from the captain but found herself held by two men behind her. She sagged, knowing what was coming, shaking her head mentally that she thought she might have hid her sex.

“What do we have here?” the first man said with glee as he put hands on her chest to start the search. One hand slipped to her britches and pulled out her eating knife. He used it to cut the tie at her throat, answering Clothar’s curious look with a demonstration. “It’s a woman!”

Falni felt her tunic torn down the middle of her chest. She wore a shirt underneath but it tore away too. Her breasts were now exposed.

The man started to cut away the tie at the waist of her britches. “Stop, I will do that,” Clothar leered. He reached to the shoulders of her tunic and pushed both it and her shirt back so it caught at her elbows. Then he reached for her belt, snapped it apart, reaching to tear her britches open down the front. Her womanhood was exposed now too.

Falni’s memories of her rape as a nine year old flooded back. She took her lower lip between her teeth and bit hard to keep from screaming. Up on the mountainside, on the very rock where she loved to sit and dream, her father’s oath man had found her, roughly pushed her down and taken her child’s body without mercy. He died for it, but so did her innocence, trust and security. And to think she had just been thinking that someday, maybe, she could actually make love with Shannon.

Clothar, spittle on his lips, glanced around. “Get those sacks.”

His men excitedly complied with his orders. One snatched up the sacks, and then laid them on the deck. One of the men behind her grabbed Falni and forced her down on them, on her back. Another man pulled off her britches. They caught on her shoes, so he tore them off too. They did not bother to finish taking off her tunic and shirt.

Clothar kicked her legs apart and got down on her. He roughly spread her thighs and tearing open his own britches, released his phallus. It was large, engorged, and it felt like steel still red-hot from the forge when it ripped into her. She tasted blood as her teeth tore her lip. He thrust into her again and again, watching her face and the blood that dripped down her cheek from her mouth. “Someone slap her hard until she cries,” he coughed out gutturally.

A blow hard enough to break bone came against her left cheek. She tore her lower lip further when the cry escaped from her closed mouth. Clothar chuckled, then groaned and spent himself in her. There was blood on his phallus as he withdrew. “A virgin?” He gloated. “This has been a very lucky voyage for me.”

One by one the other men took her. After the first three she did not feel the tearing of her womanhood any more. It was a strange mercy that the first man was the largest, making the violation of the others less painful. She lay taking one man after another. But by the time they had all had their turn, Clothar was ready again. He commanded his men to turn her over and make her go on all fours. She could not believe more degradation could be done. The big man entered her again, then slipped out and took her in the anus. It tore and burned more than the first assault. She screamed aloud now, over and over. When he finished he withdrew and got to his feet. She slumped to the deck.

“I want to take her in her mouth,” one of his men said greedily.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you. She could bite your prick right off,” said another.

“If she did, I would kill her!” the first man shot.

Clothar, still breathing heavily, remarked, “She might do it just so we will kill her. Better to keep her alive, use her when we want, then sell her on when there’s no more to be had.”

Falni heard none of this. She was blessedly unconscious.

She woke in Clothar’s ship to more violations on the return to port in Frankia. She could not stop the tears from leaking from the sides of her eyes, recalling her childhood trauma, her brother’s death, and of her lost future with Shannon.

Three of Clothar’s men pulled her abruptly to her feet, dumped buckets of seawater over her, causing her to shriek with the pain. They found some rags and fashioned covering for her. She had to be as presentable as humanly possible for the slaver. They tried to cover the bruises and cuts on her breasts, her legs, but could do nothing about the swelling over her broken cheekbone.

Yes, she had hoped they would kill her. At first. But by now a stronger urge than despair overtook her. She wanted to live, to take revenge as horrible as she could, and then she would die. She had to endure until she could escape and go on the hunt for these men, especially the beast, Clothar.


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About the author

Nan Hawthorne now writes under the name Christopher Hawthorne Moss. You can contact Christopher at .