The General's Wife (M+f nc rape)


Disclaimer: This story contains graphic sex should not be
read if such stories are illegal in your state, or if you are a minor.

Please feel free to distribute this, on the condition that the
disclaimer and author's name remain intact and unaltered.

For previous parts, or other stories of mine, please check out
my website (thanks to ASSTR) at http://www.asstr.org/~foxbat/ where 
you can find all of my work as well as some recommendations.  All
the content is also available via ftp at ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/foxbat/


Feedback, comments, suggestions, etc are always welcomed and
appreciated at foxbat00@gmail.com





The General's Wife (M+f nc rape)


  She was at the sink, doing the dishes from the midday meal, when the door burst in.  Men, dirty and ragged, rushed in, moving past her at first as they fanned out, eyes only for danger.  More men followed as she could hear them moving upstairs, indiscriminately searching for anything hidden, breaking and smashing anything in their way.  The doors were ripped off her cupboards and closets, tables overturned, dressers emptied.

   Only a minute later, after their fear of danger had receded (for one doesn't live long without such priorities), did greed take over.  The tide of men began to ebb, carrying with it her fine silver, her mirrors and paintings, her bed linens, and everything else of value.

   Through these first two minutes, she simply stood there at the sink, afraid to move as the flood of men rushed past.  Thought eventually conquered fear, however, about at the same time that the men turned to their third greatest need: woman.

   Perhaps she had taken an unthinking step backwards, or perhaps she had done nothing at all except to wait too long.  One of the men leaving with his arms full of looted goods dropped his load, quickly closing the distance to her in a few steps.  With casual ease developed by frequent violence, he seized her hair and spun her around, trapping her between his hard body and the equally hard wall.

   His hands came up, squeezing her breasts roughly, twisting and mauling them, with the carelessness of a kid who cares not if his toy breaks because there will always be more.  Releasing her for only a moment, he spun her back towards him and ripped her dress down the front.

   Her white breasts spilled out in an avalanche of soft femininity, a stark contrast to the dark green and brown world of the men.  

   The sudden exposure unlocked a primal response in her - an inchoate terror, an absolute desire to, at all costs, avoid getting FUCKED.  She felt adrenaline flooding her body.  Time around her seemed to move slowly.  With the lightning speed and poor foresight of a trapped animal, she shot away towards the door, only to be intercepted an instant later.

   When the escape attempt failed, she knew that this would end in rape - a frenzied orgy of satiation, like hunters glorifying in the kill, stabbing the pig with their spears over and over again, long after its death.  The men surrounded her, pushing and passing her around as they groped, ripped, slapped, and prodded.  Dirty, grimy hands squeezed her rear and pushed themselves up under her skirt to get a tactile glimpse of her warm center as she struggled to defend her modesty and soft areas alike.

   Then strong, clean hands seized her.  And cast her out of the circle, onto the cold hard wood floor.  A momentary sob of relief escaped her lips as she, for a moment, thought of her husband saving her from the mob.

   "The commander will claim this one.  Do not touch her.  Take the servants instead."

***


   She was tied up against the wall, her wrists bound to a curtain rod, stretched vertically over her head.  She struggled to keep her thighs closed, her weight shifted to one leg.  Her large white breasts, smudged with the handprints of dirty men, spilled out of the top of her torn expensive dress, the penultimate act of disrespect of a man to a woman.

   The raw terror had worn off, replaced by resignation and dull fear, for this was the fate of wives of important men throughout the ages.  Spared the frenzied gangrape, for the personalized insult of one man against another through his woman.  

   They had married young, and she could recall him easily.  Standing tall and erect, in his uniform with gleaming rows of buttons.  It had been so romantic, their wedding saluted by ranks of pretty soldiers, pressed and clean.  Some risks she had considered - the loneliness, the dignified disfigurements of war, even the letter from the government.  But this was not among those.  Even though she loved him very much, those were all distant and impersonal somehow, disconnected from her, herself, in both time and degree.  Those things she had prepared herself to deal with.  But not this.

   One of the younger servant girls was now brought into the room, kicking failing screaming like a chicken to the slaughter, in the same instinctual terror to preserve her physical integrity, to avoid being penetrated invaded, that had gripped her only a few short minutes earlier.

   The men threw her down on the table, encircling her in a hungry ring.  Cocks sprang out, and her screaming was muted into gargling and sobbing as every available piece of her was raped.  One man straining in her mouth, one on top of her fucking her, but also men with her hair, her hands, her feet wrapped around their members, all desperately trying to penetrate and cum, the adrenaline of battle transmogrified into the lust of rape.

   When one man finished, other took his place in a seemingly endless rotation.  Sobs turned to groans, and groans to grunts, as the woman on the table was slowly fucked into a shapeless dirty pink blob of flesh, the proverbial piece of meat.

***

   Three serving girls had been destroyed on the anvil of the table by the ring of pale buttocks rising from dirty green trousers before the General arrived.

   Although no less dirty, he was immediately recognizable for his gait, his posture, his eyes that saw everything and missed nothing.  He wore only a single medal - for his having saved the life of another soldier at peril of his own, early in his career - on his rumpled battle uniform.  Although mud-caked to the knee and covered in grime, his eyes were bright flashing blue, as if no amount of earth could sully the brilliance and steel behind them.  In a way, he reminded her of her husband.  She could see the same indomitable pride, the same fierce determination, the same piercing look that stripped one down to one's soul.  But where her husband's eyes were softened by love, the General's were not.  They were not filled with hatred, just completely absent of any love.

   When the General entered, the men had paused in their orgy from respect.  Now they resumed, oblivious to the fate of the woman hung against the wall.  With neither shuffle nor stride, the General approached her.  His eyes roamed over her breasts, her bare arms forced overhead, her thighs pressed together, as if he were planning his next battle and she were the map.

   In the intervening time, she had resolved to bear her rape with dignity, to grant only physical violation and reserve the emotional.  For a moment, though, she faltered, trying to twist away from his stare, sinking her shoulders to hide her breasts and turning her hips to frustrate any angle.

   A knife appeared from nowhere, and she was cut down from the curtain rod without freeing her hands.  With an iron grip in her hair, he shoved her over to a side counter, mashing her torso down against the tile surface.  One hand forced her down through the small of her back, the other lifted her skirt.

   Without a pause, he thrust himself into her, pushing past her resistance, burning against the dryness.  Once inside, he thrust, deliberately withdrawing and stabbing violently forward.  The smack punctuating each thrust reverberated through the room over the background chaos, and sent ripples through her white buttocks.  His grunt of exertion matched her grunt of painful impact.

   In the small detached parts of their minds, each was thinking the same thing:  how strange that these two people who had never spoken a word to each other or seen each other prior to this evening should come to be engaged in a sex act; and solely on account of one not there.  He fucked her, not for who she was, but for what she was:  the wife of his opponent.  Because it was the ultimate act of disrespect, directed at him, incidental for her.

   Despite her stolid determination not to show her surrender, to deny her rapist the enjoyment of hot emotion of any kind, to spoil his rape, it was her who felt spoiled.  The General sought nothing of her - unlike a man on the street who might try to fuck her out of lust or attraction or even anger, this man's  purpose had nothing to do with her.  She was merely a conduit, a symbol, to him.  The rape - cock sawing in and out of her, the occasional mauling of her breasts, the hand holding her down - was no less real or painful to her, but meant nothing to him.

   His hands forced her face, her exposed breasts, down against the cold tiles, her hands still stretched out in front of her.  He turned her face towards his empty face and watched a single tear slide down her cheek, his expression unchanging.  Moments later, ramming himself deeply into her, she felt the warmth of his orgasm.

   He withdrew, cast her to floor discarded, and was already walking towards the door as he fastened his fly.


***

   Later that night, she sat in the corner of the empty house, wondering if she could bear the son of the man who had insignificantly raped her, wrapped in a old torn blanket (one of the few things left behind) feeling the trickle on her leg as the tide of his sperm ran out.



   


---


As always, I love to hear your reaction.  Ideas, suggestions (for this or other stories), comments, and criticisms are welcome.

Yours,
Foxbat