D: Spoils of War

Garet leaned over the bar and clutched the tankard between his
aching palms, letting the coolness of the ale seep through his skin.
Slowly, he lifted the tankard to his lips. The long day was at last
ended, and he took what little joy he could from the coarse brew --
sharp in his throat, warm in his belly, hot in his blood.

Down his gullet the liquid rushed, the sensation numbing his memory of
the day, just as it had numbed the memories of countless other days
before this one. The tankard clacked on the bar as Garet set it down
again, half empty. With an audible sigh he watched the bubbles on the
surface of the liquid chase each other to the circle's edge.

"Buy me a drink, soldier?"

Garet started at the sultry sound of a female voice. Only now did he
notice the tall woman who had come to the bar. Her clothes -- tight,
low bodice, loose wrap-skirt with high slits to the thigh -- were those
of the whores he'd seen in other parts of the city. She arranged
herself upon her stool, shook her head of extravagantly tied blonde
hair, and leaned toward him so that he could see some distance into the
dark hollow between her breasts. Tearing his sidelong glance from her
overflowing bosom he looked briefly into her face.

"How did you know I was a soldier?" he said.

"Are you? It is merely an expression. Well?"

"Well what? Oh, I see." Garet looked at her, wondering why she had
approached _him_. Maybe she had drawn a blank after trawling through
the tavern's other patrons, and he was the last. It might be amusing to
see how far she would try.

"Yes, wench, I shall buy you a drink." Garet took a coin from his pouch
and struck its edge on the bar. As the landlord came over, Garet eyed
his companion. Yes, she was a whore -- no doubt of that. But there was
something else about her that he could not place. She took up the glass
the landlord placed before her and sipped. Evidently she was a regular.
Though she had said not a word to him, the landlord obviously knew her
tipple. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. Garet must have seen
her here before.

Turning toward him the woman put down her glass, her smile caressing
his gaze. She moved in an assured manner, confident in the charms of
her sex. She was attractive, but had undoubtedly seen better -- and
younger -- days.

"What is your name, siren?"

She chuckled at the barbed compliment. "Carily, sir. And at your
service." Her smile never faltered.

"Well, let me tell you, Carily," said Garet, grasping his tankard, "you
are wasting your time on me."

"Surely not, sir?" Carily reached out a hand and lightly stroked
Garet's arm. "A fine man such as yourself. I have seen you in here many
times, and always alone."

"That is the way it has to be."

"But why? Are you not interested in the pleasures of the flesh?"

"Indeed I was. But no more."

"Perhaps you would prefer a man?" Carily lowered her voice and leaned
closer. "I have a friend --"

"No. I have no desires for congress with those of my own sex. Nor have
I ever." Garet could feel Carily's breath on his face, could smell her
scented body. "But do not mistake me. If circumstances were different,
you and I could make good trade. Rest assured you would well earn any
payment from our transaction."

"So why not now, soldier? This fighting talk is very fine. And here I
am, ready and willing to comply with your requests, whatever they may
be."

Garet shook his head, drained his tankard. He looked at Carily, a whore
whose whole demeanor spoke confidence and command. If only things were
different. But there was no use crying over stale ale.

"Do you have other...trades, here, tonight?" Garet asked. "If not, we
could share another drink or two." The ale was doing its work, and if
the whore was so curious... "I could tell you, if you want. I have not
related my story in a long while."

"Yes," said Carily. "Let us drink, soldier, and you tell me your
story."

#

It was in the days before the conquest, before the siege. I was in the
Prince's army, a loyal member of his elite force, honored to be
selected for his personal Guard -- one of the Rebels.

We had come many leagues across the land, toward the city -- this very
city, in which we now enjoy a quiet life under the rule of our noble
king, the then Rebel Prince. In our wake we left a flaming trail that
could surely be seen from the very heart of the Citadel.

The guard had split up. Such was the unpreparedness of the surrounding
countryside, it needed only half a dozen of us to enter each village
and set it ablaze. The villagers were disorganized mobs, and those men
that dared to challenge us were soon dispatched. Most, wisely, fled --
taking their families and a few belongings days before our arrival. The
advancing smoke warned them of our imminent approach, so they made
themselves scarce.

Occasionally, though, we would come upon a homestead or a farmhouse
that was not deserted. If the residents were subservient, and
surrendered, we would allow them to serve us a meal, replenish our
supplies and make their escape in safety. Then we would burn the place
to the ground.

It was to one such well-appointed dwelling that we stopped some leagues
outside the city walls. But here the occupants were far from compliant,
attempting to fell us with lances, and screaming abuse from the
windows.

We would find no pleasant supper here, so we battered down the door.
The two men within tried to run our sergeant through as he stepped
inside, but he was light of foot and true of aim -- his twin daggers
had scarcely left his hands when the men of the house fell dead against
the wall, each with a blade through his neck.
I followed the sergeant into the house, with news that we were being
covertly observed. Another of the guard had informed me that the
surrounding trees harbored unarmed onlookers.

Inside the house a woman had entered the room, and seeing the dead men
-- her husband and son, I presumed -- she became possessed of a wild
revenge. She reached down to the nearest still-warm corpse, tugged the
dagger from its neck, and with a benighted cry she leaped upon the
sergeant. But he caught her with ease, deflected the blow, and she
plunged with full force onto his sword.

As the woman let out her death sigh, I heard another sound from behind
the inner door. I bounded over and thrust it wide, to discover
another woman -- or rather, a girl -- cowering and sobbing at the
spectacle that met her gaze. This girl -- the daughter of the household
-- did not attempt to fight, or escape. So overcome with grief and
horror at what had befallen her family, I think she had temporarily
lost her mind.

Now, the Rebel Prince's rules of war were very specific in
circumstances of this kind. If there is resistance, the enemy must be
slaughtered. Usually, of course, this is precisely what happened. If
the slaughter is carried out within sight of any other contingent of
the enemy, it must be ritualized and drawn out, the better to humiliate
and terrorize them.

In the case of women, however, the slaughter must be preceded by the
gravest humiliation of all.

It fell to me, therefore, as the one who had discovered the daughter,
to carry out the Rebel Prince's orders.

I was but a young soldier in the Prince's Guard, and had never before
been called upon to execute this particular duty of service. We had all
been trained for it, but the first time one has to put such training
into effect... it is an awesome responsibility. The action has to be
carried out in full view of both the enemy and one's own
comrades.

The training sessions were called _the spoils of war_. We were
instructed that if necessary we would be required to take these spoils
as quickly and brutally as possible. To that end we were presented with
a succession of women from a nearby whore-house, whom we were ordered
to strip and _rape_ as efficiently as we could.

We were taught how to twist the woman's limbs to immobilize her, how
best to slit her clothing so that the fabric fell away with the minimum
of slashes, and how to manipulate her body into a position of maximum
exposure. We were also shown -- with not a little encouragement from
these whores, who were well paid for their instruction -- how to ensure
our own responses measured up to the task in hand. Making the most of
the proximity of naked female flesh, we were shown how to enhance our
own arousal to the degree necessary to perpetrate the intended
violation.

And so it was that I found myself dragging a cowering young woman
outside into the light. Half out of her wits, having just seen her
whole family murdered, she was not really aware what was happening as I
pulled her over to the gate.

She became aware, however, as I took my knife to the front of her
dress, sliced through several layers at once, and ripped the fabric
clear. My eyes feasted on her compact breasts as I sheathed the knife
and pulled away the last remaining shreds of her clothing. My hands
gripped her pale flesh as I turned her around, forcing her to bend over
the low rail of the gate.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I knew what my orders
were.

With one hand I held her wrists together on her back. With the other I
delved for and exposed my sexual organ, already reacting to the
prospect in view. I leaned forward so that I could feel the girl's soft
buttocks against me. The resultant arousal was enough to allow me to
perform as required.

I kicked her legs apart, lifted her behind to a more amenable position
and attempted to penetrate her. The resistance of her body was all the
further stimulation I needed. Stiff as a staff, I forced myself into
her. She screamed. But I continued as ordered, each thrust producing an
agonized cry from the violated girl, until -- with furious relief -- my
liquid heat pulsed into her body.

Still holding her fast, I hastily stuffed my subsiding organ back
inside my clothing, then wiped off my fingers on her bare skin. With
both hands I pulled her up to a standing position and turned her round.
Black hair straggled across her tear-streaked face. I could just make
out that her eyes were puffy and red. Her body trembled, and a trickle
of blood stained the inside of her thigh. Never mind, I thought. For
you it will soon be over. I shall live with this for the rest of my
days.

Her sobs grew to a wail when she saw me take out my knife again. But it
would not last long. She screamed when I placed the blade between her
legs. The scream became a terrified cry as I brought the knife upwards,
the honed edge easily parting her flesh. Onwards and upwards -- her
blood oozed over the steel, spreading over her quivering skin,
splashing onto the brown earth. The trickle down her leg was soon
engulfed in a far greater flow.

Blood gushed over my hand as the blade sliced open her belly. Onwards
and upwards -- the blade halted at her breast-bone, but a quick tilt
and thrust sent the point deep into her heart.

She was silent now, her head lolling forward, and I released her arms.
She crumpled to the ground, into a red puddle of her own blood -- a
wrecked carcass of sliced flesh and spilling guts.

How I avoided retching my own stomach onto her pathetic corpse I cannot
tell. We left her there, a grisly warning to all who dared to resist
the Rebel Prince's advance.

The trees, we noted, were silent.

#

"My god," said Carily. "That is by far the most gruesome story I have
ever heard."

"Is it?" Garet was surprised the whore had let him get this far. Only
on one previous occasion had he tried to tell this tale, but his
listeners had walked away well before this stage.

"There is more?"

Garet sighed. "There is."

#

I tried to forget about my _spoils of war_, but the image of that poor
girl's crumpled corpse haunted my dreams. And as it turned out, I had
further cause to regret my slavish following of orders.

A week after the incident, after the breach of the city walls and our
triumphant invasion of the Citadel, I was taking a well-earned evening
off in a tavern not unlike this one, when the landlord approached
me.

"Comrade Garet, sir, someone would speak with you."

"Yes? Who?"

"Would not say."

"Well, bring them over." If truth be told I had drunk more ale than I
had intended that evening.

"No, sir. They would speak in the back." He jerked his thumb toward the
doorway at the rear of the bar.

"Oh, very well." I stood, a little unsteadily, and made my way round to
the back. Finding myself in a darkened room, and feeling somewhat
dizzy, I fell back into the only chair.

As my eyes accustomed to the dark I became aware of some shapes moving
in the corners of the room. These appeared to grow larger and take on
human form.

"Comrade Garet." The woman's voice came from behind me. And so did the
light that suddenly flickered across the room. I turned in my seat, and
was about to stand when she placed a hand on my shoulder.

"No need to get up, Comrade Garet. Let me introduce myself. And my two
friends."

The lamp she carried now illuminated the shapes -- two more women
standing in the corners of the room. The woman who had spoken
continued. "My name is Karol. And these are Hega and Suen." At the
sound of their names the two shapes each took a step forward and
bowed.

"I am glad to meet you...all three of you. But I --"

"We are members of the Resistance --"

"Then I shall have you arrested." I tried to stand. This was some kind
of ambush, and I needed to get away. But I found it extremely difficult
to gather strength enough to rise from my chair.

"You need not trouble yourself, Garet. You are in no fit state to
arrest anyone." The woman, Karol, hunkered down in front of me, holding
the lamp up. She had cropped blonde hair, and in the lamplight I
thought I recognized her features -- something about them -- but I
could not place it.

"You are feeling weak, and light-headed," she said, standing up. "That
is because the ale you consumed contained a special draught. So you
will not be going anywhere for some while. But just to make sure..."
she nodded to the other two, "Hega and Suen will restrain you. Please
do not struggle."

At this point I realized, even in my addled state, that I was in
trouble. But the powerful draught they had used to contaminate my ale
had all but incapacitated me. I could only sit and watch as the two
women advanced upon me with lengths of cord, and proceeded to tie my
wrists and ankles to the chair.

"Very good," said Karol, once they had ensured I could not move. "You
know, of course, of the Resistance. But does the name Jone mean
anything to you?"

I looked at her, shook my head.

"No, as I expected, her name means nothing to you." She turned, walked
to the far end of the room and turned back to face me.

"But we know of you." Her voice was now louder, and she spoke as if
through gritted teeth. "We have been watching you. We have been
watching you ever since you raped and murdered my sister!"

"Y-your...?" I could hardly speak. I was in fear of my life, though I
knew that death was all I deserved.

"What had Jone ever done to you? Or to the great almighty Rebel
Prince?"

"I --"

"Quiet!" she turned to Hega and Suen. "Get him ready."

The two women came toward me as Karol stood at the far end of the room,
arms folded across her chest, watching me. I shut my eyes, knowing that
something terrible was about to happen, and there was nothing I could
do to prevent it. I was guilty, and I was about to be punished. Let it
be death, I prayed.

My eyes opened again as I felt a hand in my crotch. Hega (or was it
Suen?) was pulling at my clothes and I saw the glint of a blade as she
sliced through the fabric. She continued to pull at my clothes until
she had exposed my private parts, and a good proportion of thigh and
abdomen.

She turned to look at Karol, who came over and peered disdainfully
between my legs. "So this is it? This is what you used to defile poor,
innocent Jone? Hardly seems possible."

I looked down at my pathetic, shrivelled organ. In my anguish I had to
agree.

"Girls, I find it hard to believe that this is the same Garet whose
virile member so effectively violated my sister. See what can be
done."

At this, Hega (I think it was she) took hold of my organ in her fist
and began to pull it. Despite my abject misery and fear, I felt a
response almost immediately. And so did Hega. She looked up and nodded
to Suen, who picked up the lamp and placed it on the floor in front of
me.

To my surprise, Suen then began to undress. She dropped her clothes one
by one into a pile at her side, until she stood, nude in the flickering
light, caressing her lissom body with her palms. Soon my organ was
thick and heavy in Hega's hand, and still she continued to pull and
press and bend and twist.

My breathing had become somewhat rapid and shallow with my unexpected
arousal. I felt I was surely near to climax, even more so when Suen
bent her naked body over me as she peered between my thighs. Hega now
had the head of my organ grasped between her finger tips, stretching it
out.

Then Suen passed a stout thread around its base, encircling it several
times. She gripped the shaft in thumb and index finger causing the
blood to press toward the head, increasing my erection. This she did
twice more, in a slow pumping action, until the organ was a deep shade
of purple and hard as a rock. Then she tightened the thread and tied it
off. I felt as if I had a rod of lead between my legs.

Hega cradled the bloated member on her open palm, bouncing it to gauge
the weight. Karol now came over and peered down at me.

"Oh yes," she said, crouching. "Much better. I think we can do
something with that." She reached behind her briefly. When her hand was
visible again, so was a small, sharp blade. It had a curved edge and a
long thin point.

She took my organ in her hand, picking it delicately off Hega's palm.
In other circumstances the prospect of what was likely to follow would
have had an instant deflating effect, but the tightness of the thread
ensured the organ retained its full capacity.

Karol placed the sharpened edge of the blade on the bulbous arrowhead
of the organ, and drew it back in one swift motion. The stretched skin
split instantly, spraying blood in a fountain that spattered my legs,
Karol's hand and the front of her shirt.

Undeterred, she drew the blade crossways across the tip of the organ,
then underneath, each time the splitting skin giving way to a spray of
dark blood that went everywhere, filling the air with red mist.

Though the horror of her actions had temporarily numbed me, I now felt
shrieks of stinging pain at each malicious slice. As she mutilated me,
the full agony of it seared all the way up my tense, wracked
body.

Her cuts became quicker, and more frenzied. The organ's tip was now
suffused in blood, so I could not see what must have been a bloody
piece of shredded offal, but the pain spoke instead. I knew I was
ruined.

I had not known I was screaming, but I stopped when I saw Karol put her
knife down. Instead she took up a silver thread, much finer than Suen's
tourniquet. She passed it twice round the still-engorged shaft, behind
the thread. It was then I realized this was no ordinary thread, but
fine wire.

Before I had time to contemplate the prospect, Karol stood up. "This is
for Jone," she said, wrenching both ends of the wire apart. The loop
narrowed, and narrowed further, pinching the flesh, stretching the
skin. The skin then ruptured; as the wire bit viciously in, it made a
complete, circular slice.

The agony of that slicing, as the wire slipped relentlessly toward
itself, shot through me in an instant, the ripping flesh making an
awful crunching sound as my organ and I were forever separated.

Blood gushed out of where my severed member used to be. Blood dripped
out of the severed member itself, as Karol held it up in front of my
face. She waved it before my eyes, letting large spots of blood spill
everywhere like warm summer rain.

She brought her face close to mine. "I shall keep this," she said,
shaking the now shrivelled and insignificant piece of meat by its
shredded foreskin. "It will be my trophy, to remind me that poor Jone
is now avenged."

#

"So you see," said Garet, "why I can be of no use to you."

"Yes, now I do." Carily nodded, but said no more.

The whore made no move to leave, so Garet asked, "So why are you still
here?"

"Just because you have lost your sexual member, it does not mean you
are not a whole man." Carily tipped her glass. "Are you going to buy me
another drink?"

Garet shook his head and sighed. "I will, if you tell me what you think
of my story."

"Well, you did wrong when you raped and murdered Jone." She spoke the
name exactly as Garet remembered Karol had pronounced it. "But I think
you know that. And I think she was rightly avenged. I think you know
that too."

For a whore she was remarkably percipient, thought Garet. "What did you
do before you sold yourself?" he said.

"Oh, many things." She reached into her pouch and withdrew a leather
string. "For a while I was a member of the Resistance, but don't tell
anyone." She smiled -- a smile that passed all over her face, including
even her eyes. "Customers resent it, you know."

Garet's jaw dropped.

"And I changed my name. Karol seemed far too stern for a whore." She
lifted the leather cord. "This is for you."

At the end of the cord hung a cylinder of clear resin. Set inside the
resin was a shrivelled piece of meat.