One Shots

Slave 4 You [Pet puppet Pt. 2: The Prequel]

Slave 4 You [Pet puppet Pt. 2: The Prequel (Heteroséxual + Supernatural)]

~800 AD (9th Century), Britannia

"Please tell him to have mercy!"

"Have mercy-"
"We have given you plenty-"
"Who will be left to cook and clean and raise bairns?"

Cearo ducked back flush against the stone of the wall just as a cold, unwavering gaze of the middle man of their ruler flashes her way. She prays he does not spot her. That would not be good for her wellbeing. Women are not tolerated in the meeting hall, never mind that woman be her. To say she is unwelcome in the village would be an understatement. Animosity however is not a foreign concept for Cearo, since the day she was born she was cradled with it and since has grown to be her companion.

Since their invasion the Viking rulers had been tolerable exempt for one odd demand. Every year their Lord would demand a pure maiden. The request had been fulfilled for as long as Cearo could recall and harmony had been maintained. Rumours of when this demand had not been met in the plundering of other villages echo throughout their own; it is enough to preserve the ringing fear into the hearts of the natives. Stories vary from the Lord and his men plundering stocks to leave inhabitants to starve, to slitting the throats of one member of each family, to all but a few women being ceased in retaliation for the blatant disobedience. The heinous acts were not something anyone wished to recreate and as such they had scarified many maidens. The majority were reluctant as expected but their voices were not regarded and hay straws were drawn to determine the family from which the proverbial lamb should be collected.

Cearo had never been regarded. If there's one small fortune in her life it is that.

Born to a whóre, at womanhood she was expected to follow in her mother's footsteps. It was not a career she craved despite the insistence of some of her mother's clients. It was only by some small miracle that the day one of the rowdy drunks became overly pressing with the matter he soon developed poxes across his lips and mouth. From then she was cast upon as 'cursed' and unworldly. A siren luring the men of the village to their demise. While insulting it is certainly a protective and powerful title. Cearo knows nothing of this ancestry of hers though she is able-minded enough to realise that such beliefs would maintain a detachment from her and the rest of the village.

"The last one was not pure. His Lord requires a pure maiden. Fulfil this by moon-rise or your souls will all be greeted by Hel*."

Upon hearing that statement ringing through the wails of the menfolk, Cearo ducks further around her crook just as the march of the Lord's men file past. She peaks as they stride forth, their enormous frames clad in fine wools and leather and great beards they would comb. Like many in village she does not find the foreigners unpleasant to look at or be around, particular as they smell a lot better than the village men. Nonetheless, thoughts like that will only remain in her head as even she's not that foolish to act upon such desires.

"Now what?" cuts a voice through the silence.
Cearo resumes her position to hear the verdict. She's not surprised Edith was impure; several times upon her wandering in the woods, Cearo had stumbled across the little chit with her lover. She had never stayed long and had remained silent but the suspicion had always remained in the recess of her mind. It seems the mystery has been solved now though that does leave a dilemma which she supposes the men are quickly realising. The last woman of age married and all other unwed females in the village have yet to bleed. All except...
She stifles her gasp praying to all and every divine power they do not come to the same conclusion as she has.

Unfortunately, despite her insulting perception of their intelligence they are not as dim-witted as she hopes.

"We cannot!" gasps one man elaborating, "she shall curse us all."
"We will be cursed if we do not deliver," retorts another.
"And what of the consequence of delivering a whore's daughter, a-a wicce*!"
Feared silence echoes throughout the hall making Cearo painfully aware of the war drum of her own heart. She has never dealt with the devil or any other such evil spirits and to be slashed with such slander is like a stab to her soul.
"It is of no matter," gravelly cuts through one voice, "there is no other option. The invaders do not share our believes, they will not find out. She may not live long enough to show them."