[darkstalker]

been awhile since i wrote to this one so i hope you enjoy!
*****


Clare watches him, watches the writhing creature with its tendrils sliding over her hips and genitals, caressing her breasts, nudging the tips of them, running the tendrils over the edge of her neck and passing it over her soft lips. It sends a shiver down her spine, feeling that sensation just beneath her skin as the ghost like apparition wanders over her body.
Her hair being pulled back comes suddenly from the brute who just violated her as he jerks her head back. He kisses her roughly on the mouth, pushing his tongue in, stroking her insides with his flesh. He pulls back, their saliva connecting their lips still. “Satisfied?” she asks, her eyes, hard and cold. She tries to feel nothing, to give him no satisfaction in her violation. By the look in the man’s eyes it’s working.
The man slaps her roughly across the face. “No, not hardly,” he says. “But I’ll have satisfaction.” He jerks on her chain, the metal tightening around her neck as she stumbles forward, giving her trouble breathing. “I guarantee it,” he hisses.
The walk down the hillside is troublesome, Clare’s feet almost slipping beneath her more then once. It does not help her pride or feelings that the men will hoot their pleasure or slap her rear, feeling her body with lust filled hands, their gazes traveling over her naked breasts. Some even pull her back from the one before her, groping her breasts and kissing her roughly before the man ahead of her will jerk the chain and force her forward, stumbling. Worst is when some of the men’s fingers will drift down between her hips, dipping into her still warm opening and poke their fingers inside. From these she is hard pressed to resist screaming with every intrusion as their fingers push inside, stroking her warm flesh and pressing against the aching burns in her vagina. She forces back the tears as each one does so, gritting her teeth. For some reason the wounds there are healing slowly, or not at all. She can only imagine it’s because of the creature who glides by her eyesight. It wafts by in the air its mere presence ominous.
She grunts as another man sticks his fingers into her privates, bruising and tearing healing flesh.
“Seems the bitch doesn’t like it much when we touch her womanhood,” says the old man behind her, his breath stinking of alcohol. His fingers are dipping inside, pressing against the folds of her vagina and Clare can feel the warm trickle of blood still flowing down her hips.
“Doesn’t matter,” says the man before her, jerking her chain so she is mere inches from his face. “She’ll learn and she’ll satisfy. That is her only purpose.”
“Yes,” says the old man, his hands dipping into her leather jerkin or what remains of it, feeling her shoulders. “That is her purpose, isn’t it?” he says, fingers kneading the flesh on her back. She feels him grip the leather there and pull, the fabric tearing. She blinks, holding back her emotion, not wanting to show them that each time they tear at her clothes they tear a piece of her pride. A mere strip is pulled away to hang limply from her hips and then she is pushed forward.
It goes like this for several minutes, the men passing her from one to the other, her hips aching with each touch, various foul mouths pushing between her lips and each man taking a strip of her clothing. By the time they enter the village most of the leather around her hips has been torn away so nothing is covered, her womanhood bare to everyone to look upon.
She sees the fires as they enter the village gates, the men and women waiting looking towards the returning group. They gather around the group in a rush, the man before her struggling to hold his grip on her chain as people huddle in, surrounding her, their hands groping and pulling at her flesh, jerking at her hair. “Looks like new flesh for the master to play with,” says a crone, pulling at her hair. “Nice cunt for fucking,” says a large fat one as he jabs thick fingers into her vagina making her inadvertently squeeze on his fingers and groan.
“Pretty mouth,” says another, before he pushes his lips against hers, taking advantage of her temporary weakness. “Nice tits for whipping,” says a thin man with long nails as he squeezes her breasts his nails scraping the pliable flesh. “Fine ass for the beating too,” says a large one as he slaps her rear then grips both ends, kneading them.
Oh gods, she thinks. Clare’s face burns red with indignation, feeling a hundred hands on her sweaty skin, pulling and pinching as she is pushed back and forth among the group. Lips and mouths press over all of her body. In that time, someone is always jerking and pulling at her chain. She doesn’t even realize at first when the chains are loosened on her wrist until the shackles snap away with a loud crackt. But with the sound she reacts.
A face palm to one man where a nose crunches, a palm to another where a throat caves in and the man falls to the floor writhing and a kick to another brings that man to their knees. But for every man or woman she drops another seems to take their place and her speed and strength is not that of a warrior right now. The toxin has worn her levels down exceedingly. And she can feel a hundred small pricks, see as a snake like appendage withdraws back into the ear canal of some man or woman and feel as the toxin wears away at her.
Right now, she thinks, she is no more powerful then a woman of twenty five with her build and that is almost nothing at all. So it is with little surprise that she finds her body pulled taught, her legs spread wide and bent back across a beam as her arms are soon bent back behind a second beam. Her boots and gloves are violently ripped off, tossed aside like so much debris while her legs and arms are roughly tied. Each arm to each leg and leg to arm so her body is straining against the chords, her breasts and abdomen pressed forward. She tries to move, feeling little slack in the bindings as the wood from the beams grinds against her shoulders and legs. She stares at each man and woman, sensing no yoki in any of them but swearing each one is a yoma beneath their skin and flesh. “I’ll kill all of you,” she growls between grit teeth, tugging at her restraints. Anger welling inside her with her shame.
The man who had been pulling her chain, chuckles. He pulls the chord of a whip tight and smiles grimly. “No bitch,” he says. “I think you won’t.”

*****