[hider=The following is a graphic depiction of sexual abuse. You have been warned]
If there was any more hate contained in Kirsta’s gaze, then the door in front of her would have burst into flames. 

It was nothing more than a simple inn room, one of many that she used for her “clients”; men who had purchased the right to use her for their own pleasure. It was sparsely furnished, a cot, table, chairs, wash basin, all the things a weary traveller could want to rest their body. She and several other girls long ago formed a working relationship with the innkeeper, ensuring that there was always a room available for them to use, giving him a cut of their earnings. A pleasant enough man who understood how the world worked. 

No, it wasn't the room itself that inspired such loathing in Krista. It was what the room meant to her now. 

Slipping inside, she set to work preparing everything for the night. Every time, he insisted that she always show up on time. It didn't matter if he was late, or didn't show at all, if he was there and she wasn't, there would be hell to pay. It was all part of the The Ritual. First she gathered some matches and set about lighting the oil lamps set in the walls. He always wanted to be able to see her. The next step was to remove her dress, baring her naked body to the warm light as she neatly folded it over the back of one of the chairs. He didn't always have her do this part. Sometimes he would let her keep it on to start, but it always meant that the dress would be unuseable when they were done, and she actually rather liked this one. It was a gift from one of her previous clients, soft green and made of a flowing material that hugged her curves and emphasized her bust. The fact that she would be allowed to keep it this time, however, gave her no sense of relief or gratitude towards him. He didn't deserve that. She also unstrapped the small dagger that she kept around her thigh, concealing it beneath the cot.

The third, and most important step, was to don her collar. A piece of black leather with a solid clasp in the back and three rings riveted to the remaining sides, it sat snugly around her throat. It was his “gift” to her, his means of marking her as his own, and he expected her to wear it at all times. They both knew that she didn't, that she couldn't, wouldn't, and for that he would punish her. It was all part of his sick game, and it made her hate him more every time they met.

Now suitably prepared, she knelt at the foot of the cot, facing the door and tying her hair back with a leather thong, a manner that she knew he preferred. There was nothing left but for him to arrive. So, she bowed her head, closed her eyes, and waited. 

The door opening made her eyes open, but she kept her head. Footsteps echoed slightly on the wooden floor, and a pair of boots came into her view. He snorted, then walked away, and she heard a couple dull thunks from the table. “Fix me a drink.”

The next step of The Ritual. She slowly stood up, keeping her eyes down as she made her way to the table, where there sat a jug of mead. Looking at him was strictly forbidden, except when he wanted her to look at him. Carefully, she filled the wooden mug that sat beside the jug, then got back down on her knees, offering up the drink. Once he took it, she folded her hands in her lap, waiting. 

She listened to him walking around, then suddenly he seemed to bump into her, and she felt the warm liquid splash onto her head. It soaked into her hair, and a single, solitary drop slid down over her eye, making her blink. 

“Awe, now look at what you made me do.” 

Kirsta didn’t respond to the cruel sarcasm dripping in his voice. She had no doubt that he had done it on purpose. He was always looking for a reason to punish her, to hurt her. Even when she did everything perfectly, he'd make up an excuse, and sometimes he didn't even bother with that. No matter what, it was always her fault. So it didn't surprise her in the slightest when he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up into the sneering face of her half-brother, Captain Camlin Mogran. “You made me spill my drink, you stupid whore,” he snarled, “Now apologize.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes as it felt like her hair was going to be torn out by the roots, and she swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, sir,” she answered as meekly as she could, and she cried out as he yanked her hair again, sending her sprawling across the floor. “Please, forgive me, I'll do better next time.”

Standing over her, he poured the remainder of his drink over her face, then set the mug down on the table. “Clean up your mess,” he told her as he sat down, the leering smile on his face and sizeable bulge in his trousers indicating how much pleasure he took in debasing her. Moving up to her hands and knees, Kirsta began licking the fruity mead from the floor. Internally she seethed, and it takes considerable effort not to lunge up and strangle the Legion captain. The only thing holding her back is the knowledge that she would undoubtedly lose, and the only thing it would accomplish is making her situation worse. 

When she's finished, she hears a soft thump from where he sits. “You missed some, bitch.” She looks in his direction, seeing his legs outstretched and one finger pointing to his boots, and she schools a grimace from her face as she crawls over. When she bends her head, however, he withdraws from her. “Beg for it.” 

She looks up at him, sneering down at her, and her body quivers with repressed rage. “Please, sir, may this stupid, worthless whore clean your boots?” She has to resist spitting out the words. 

Wordlessly he extends his legs again, and she begins, cradling each boot in her hands as she laves the rough leather with her tongue. As she suspected, there wasn't a drop of mead on them, not that it would have mattered. By the end, her mouth is dry from all the spit she used, and her tongue is rough and sore, the taste of dirt and mud making her want to gag. But he doesn't let up, seizing her hair again and dragging her head into his lap before slapping her roughly on both cheeks. “That was for making me spill my drink. Now get to work.” 

Her face still stinging hotly, she drew down his trousers and took his length in her mouth. Impatient, he forces her down, making her gag before she has a chance to relax her throat, the scent of his arousal intermingling with the fruity smell of the now sticky mead that covered her face. He barely gives her a second of time to breath before forcing her down again, and when at last he throws her to the floor again her chin and breasts are coated with saliva. “Pathetic,” he sneers, forcing her legs open and planting his boot on her mound, “The one thing you know how to do, and you're not even any good at it.” Grinding cruelly against her, drawing forth a pained whimper, Camlin leans forward, putting some of his weight behind the pressure. “Did you wear your collar today like you were supposed to, whore?”

Not even trying to suppress her tears, Kirsta looks away. There was no point in lying, not when they both knew the answer. “No sir. I'm sorry.”

He kicks her in the ribs, and the sharp pain combined with the sudden placement of all of his weight against her sensitive folds rips an involuntary scream from her throat. “If I wanted apologies from a spineless trollop, I'd go to my sister. Now shut up.” He savagely twists his foot again, making her writhe in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure, and his sneer deepens. “Look at you. You enjoy being used like this more than I enjoy using you. You really are nothing more than a worthless harlot.” Finally removing his boot, Camlin drags her up to the cot and mounts her, forcing another cry from her. “If it wasn't for how tight you are, you'd be completely useless,” he grunts.

As he thrusts painfully into her, Kirsta retreats deep inside herself, until it's almost like she's watching it happen to someone else. In her mind’s eye, their roles are reversed. There Camlin is the one who is helpless, tied to the cot and begging for mercy as she traces a bloody line on his body with her dagger for every indignity and injury she has suffered at his hand. Even when he takes her body by the throat, striking its face and breasts repeatedly when it grabs his wrist in a desperate attempt to draw breath, she simply watches, and immerses herself in the cold pleasure of imagining herself cutting his heart from his chest and showing it to him as his life drained away. That particular fantasy was tied with making him choke on his own member and balls for her favorite.

Then she felt him pump his seed into her belly, and The Ritual was over. Slowly, she comes back to her body, chest heaving as she gulps down air. By the time she can raise her head, he's already tucked himself back into his trousers, a small pile of copper coins sitting on the table. Giving her one last cruel smirk, he left without another word. 

Wincing, she sits up, surveying the damage. Her body ached, she could taste blood coming from her split lip, the rest of her face felt like it was on fire. Sitting and urinating were going to be uncomfortable for at least a day, and she could see a large, blotchy bruise on her ribs. No doubt her face wasn't in much better condition. Camlin wasn't the only one of her clients to get rough with her, but he was the only one who took particular pleasure in attacking her face. The others she could convince, but not him. In addition to his personal enjoyment, it was another means of his control over her; after all, nobody wanted to hire a bruised prostitute.

Working the clasp of her collar, she threw the bit of leather across the room, then winced as she bent down and retrieved her knife. Walking was going to be awkward and painful for a while. Cleaning her face, chest and thighs at the washbasin, she unfolded her dress and slipped the coins he had left her into her coinpurse. It would be enough to afford her at least one meal. 

She was just about to leave when the door swung open, and a chill ran down her back as Camlin walked back into the room, a stormcloud in his face. This was not part of The Ritual, he NEVER came back afterwards. “W-what is it?” she stammered, her usual confidence shaken at this unexpected development. Had he decided to renege on their deal? 

He simply scowled, and the chill in her spine turned to solid ice as a pair of Royal Guards followed him into the room. She couldn't help but back away a little, too startled to think. The Royal Guards only ever acted under the direct orders of the King. What had she possibly done to have garnered that much attention?

The two Guardsmen looked her over, both clearly displeased by her current state, then one of them spoke, his voice as deep as summer thunder. “Kirsta Corasdottir, you have been chosen to meet the great and honourable King Cacus. You are to come with us, immediately.”

Kirsta instantly paled, both at the fact that they knew her name, and in recognition of what this was. The previous summer, one of the local madams had been Chosen, and none had heard anything about her since. Some of the girls that that she might have been made into the one of the King’s concubines; after all, what else did you use a whore for? Most, however, believed her to be dead. Now it seems that she had been chosen, somehow, and Kirsta knew two things: that she very much did not want to answer this summons, and that she didn't have a choice in the matter. 

She took a steadying breath, and smoothed the front of her dress. “Very well.” She hoped that her voice didn't betray her concerns. As the Guardsmen escorted her from the room, Kirsta felt a small amount of satisfaction at the angry look on her half-brother’s face as his favourite chew toy was taken away. 

Whatever happened, she would at least have that much.
[/hider]