There are a lot of ways to test a witch.
They come for her at night. Clem wakes up with a scream on her lips and hands all over her body, dragging her out of her bed and into the streets outside. She kicks and thrashes, but the men holding her – and she recognises them all, Judd Aker and Hann Fare and Larkin Bryche, neighbours and acquaintances – they’re all bigger and stronger and angrier than she has ever been. It’s cold out in the night, or at least the air is. Because heat presses in from every direction, from hot skin grasping her and the men’s torches. All Clem can do is gasp and stammer ineffectual protests, wincing as her bare feet scrape along the dirt and cobbles. Her dark hair is tangled, hanging over her face, but she can’t push it away with both arms held in bruising grips.
If she survives this, she’ll bear the marks for weeks. But the chances of that, she knows, as much as she dreads it, are low. Because it’s not hard to figure out why this is happening, and what she is about to face.
When they reach the town square, the stocks are already open, waiting for her.
There’s a crowd, all eyes glinting with torchlight fixed on her. They look like the demons she dreams about.
“Clematis Mere,” Aldus Rake, mayor and monster, leers at her. “You stand accused of witchcraft. You will be tried before God and before us, and should you be found guilty, punished fittingly. Would you like to make a confession now?”
He offers it like a mercy, like she hasn’t seen what happens to every woman in her place. Whether they confess or protest, fight or submit, live or die. Her house isn’t too far from here. She hears the screams and pleas while she cooks, while she sews, while she sleeps.
“I’m innocent.” Her voice comes as a raspy whisper, but even over the hum of incensed voices, they all hear her.
Last month, Royse Oket went willingly to her trial. The month before, Molle Low screamed and kicked and scratched a gash into the butcher’s arm as she was forced into the stocks. Both of them met the same fate, but something in Clem’s mind screams that there must be a way to get out of this, must be a way she’s missed that means this doesn’t happen. She’s not as strong as Molle was, and her instinctive struggles do nothing. Its an icy realisation that she is simply too weak to even hope to escape. Even if there had been plentiful food, even if her work had built her muscles, she’s small and frail, and Aker’s hand on her left forearm wraps all the way around with ease.
There is no gentleness in the way she’s shoved down into the stocks, abrasive wood scratching and digging into her slim neck and wrists. She makes one last desperate attempt, utter terror swelling up in her throat, before the contraption closes on her. She can’t muster a scream, but a ragged cry of terror breaks free. Her legs are forced apart at the ankles, cuffed to a long bar that holds them apart. Then the lock seals with a definitive click, and it’s over.
But the worst is just beginning.
She’s bent over at the waist, and she’s painfully aware that her flimsy cotton nightgown is the only thing preserving her dignity and innocence. Well, innocence only in the technical sense, because every person in the village has seen and understood carnality now, years into the spate of witch trials.
“Please,” is the only word she can choke out before a harsh blow lands on her ass, pain shooting through her as all she can do is thrash fruitlessly against the wood and metal holding her down.
Then her gown is yanked up, and a wordless cry leaves her throat when the next slap lands squarely against her pussy. She’s never been touched there before, never touched herself, because it’s wrong and dirty and sinful. The other girls, the ones with loving husbands, had whispered about fornication and pleasure and intimacy, the wonder of the wedding night and the first touch, and now Clem is tarnished and all she has to show for it is pain.
“Please, stop, no-”
The pain is immeasurably worse when she’s spread open and a thick finger shoves into her. It’s dry and rough, scraping and tearing, and with every moment the agonised cries that she heard so often make more and more sense.
“Quiet, girl,” the man spits, and there’s only a moment of relief when he withdraws before two fingers are forced in. Clem screams for the first time, but far from the last.
They probe around in her, and she swears she feels them wet with blood as they plunge deeper.
“She’s a virgin,” the man comments, then chuckles. “Well, she was.”
There’s more talk and laughter over her head, familiar voices, but her blood rushes through her ears too loud and fast to hear much. She knows what the men say though, when they test witches. It’s cruel and crude, and maybe its a blessing that she can’t make out each threat and insult hurled at her.
It’s without ceremony that the first cock is forced into her. It’s huge, deep and piercing in a way that feels like it enters her stomach, her chest. She screams again, blinded by burning tears. She thinks she bleeds from her neck and wrists too, when her body takes over and fights harder than it ever has to get away from it’s bonds and the agonising intrusion, but she can barely feel anything but the length spearing her.
The thrusting begins a moment later, in and out and in and out and in and out, pounding her harder into the stocks. The wood and metal rattle with each thrust that shakes her whole body. It feels like it will never end, that she’ll live the rest of her life and die here with a cock tearing her apart, but then it does end. Somehow, he speeds up, faster and harder and more agonising, but then the rhythm stutters and with one final deep thrust, he buries himself in her and finishes. She can’t decide if it’s better or worse as she’s flooded with his seed. It’s hot and thick, and fucked so deep inside her that it feels like it will never come out. And there’s so much of it, she thinks it must be filling her up completely.
But finally, finally, he’s slipping out, smearing his seed across her thighs as he wipes himself clean. Clem’s mind is spinning with pain and humiliation and fear and disgust, but exhaustion is the most overwhelming of all. She drops her head, panting for breath as a seemingly endless flood of tears pour down her face. She must look like a wreck, more so than before, beaten, bloody and used. But he’s finished – he’s spent, he’s done, and she’s so relieved and dizzy that she forgets what always happens next.
When the second cock slams into her, her scream is silent, feels like it tears her throat apart anyway.
“No!” It comes out as a desperate whine, more animal than human, but she barely feels human anymore. “No, no, no, please!”
They’re laughing again. When thick fingers twist into her hair and wrench her head up, she meets the eyes of her next door neighbour. Hann was the one who’d pinned her wrists as he’d dragged her out of bed, and still looks at her so coldly she can barely recognise the man who’d fixed her roof after last year’s storms. He looks at her like he hates her, and then he pries her mouth open and fucks her like he hates her too.
He might be bigger than the cock in her pussy, relentlessly pounding into her, or maybe he just feels bigger in the tightness of her throat. Black spots dance across her vision as he drives in, making her choke and gag and sputter but not letting up at all. The grip in her hair burns, pain prickling across her scalp and she’s yanked forward into each merciless thrust. Her mouth rapidly fills with spit, and something more bitter smeared across her tongue and lips, but she can’t spit or even swallow as she’s used.
When the man in her pussy finishes, there’s no relief this time. Nor when Hann slams himself all the way down her throat, bulging her neck and spills, feeling like his salty come is going straight into her stomach.
When he pulls himself out, she can’t muster the energy to plead for mercy. Not even when another cock spears her cunt, not when another man she vaguely recognises forces himself down her abused throat. The mess of fluids at both ends eases the slide a little, but not nearly enough.
Clem thinks she might die. She thinks she wants to.
And then a calloused hand reaches down, below the length buried in her pussy, and roughly pinches the little nub of flesh there. Her cry is muffled by the cock in her mouth, but her whole body seems to seize up and squirm as the sensitive flesh is rolled between rough fingers.
Someone laughs. “You want the whore to enjoy this?”
An answering scoff. “You never felt the way they clench up if you make them come?”
The heat coiling through her makes sense now, and she despises it. But there’s no way she can do anything but weakly struggle as he continues pinching and twisting and flicking at the most sensitive part of her body, painful arousal shuddering through her with each movement. When she comes, wailing and shaking on two cocks, it’s hell and heaven.
“Fuck,” someone gasps, and then the length in her mouth twitches and spills, soon followed by the man using her pussy.
The pain doesn’t fade, doesn’t feel like it ever will, but the pleasure from her forced climax seems to muddle it up in her head – the soreness suddenly feels different, less agonising and more like sensitivity. Each thrust into her pussy has her whining and squealing around the flesh in her throat, has her body twitching and her cunt clenching. All of her nerves are alight. Every pass of skin against hers seems to rub her raw until the only thing her mind can latch onto is the stimulation that feels like its driving her crazy. She’d never really lost awareness of any part of her body – just felt everything in pure, overwhelming clarity – but now that feels sharper, stronger. She can feel the in and out thrusting on both ends, the slick seed, blood and spit lubricating each slide, the sharp coldness of the air wherever her exposed skin isn’t being clutched and groped. Her mouth tastes of copper and salt, unpleasant but so strong its like the only thing she’s ever tasted. Her sex feels achingly, the sensitive nub above it raw and tingling; she can feel the swell of her belly, rounded from God knows how many loads of seed fucked into it. Everything burns and aches, but not purely painfully.
The next time a man grips her hips and comes in her, grinding into her ass, she climaxes against him with a muffled scream. And that seems to open the floodgates, her first untouched orgasm followed by another when someone pulls out and slaps her pussy, and she feels thick seed drip out down her thighs. Another when her cunt is roughly entered in one vicious thrust. Another, another, another long after she’s lost track of how many men or how many hours, when she blinks and the sun is over the horizon and the sounds of people starting their days reaches her ears. Every climax is tinged with pain, each moan half a scream, but she can barely think straight enough to wonder if it’s possible for her to feel pleasure again without the undercurrent of agony.
Finally, after the men currently using her withdraw and are not immediately replaced, she finds herself slumping down in the stocks, weakly coughing up sticky white spend.
It’s… over?
She dares to look up, blinking dazedly as she registers the large crowd dispersing. Women hurry by, resolutely not looking at her as they pass on their way to work. Passing men are more overtly curious, peering and leering at her, helpless and marked.
It’s over.
“Good girl.” The mayor’s voice sounds from behind her, and she’s too exhausted to even flinch when a slap lands on her ass. Then he’s pushing something large and thick into her pussy, and she drops her head to choke back more tears. “You’re serving your community, Clematis. We could redeem you yet.”
He reaches over and grabs her hair, pulling her back into an arch as he starts slamming into her. “Don’t worry, only four more weeks of this and you’ve completed your trial.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qkij1e/trial_rapenoncon_gangbang_rough_fiction
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