Her nostrils flared. Her yellow eyes narrowed. The slitted pupils contracted. Her lips— thin, pressed— curled. The expression of a woman who has smelled something that offends her on a level beyond the physical.
The smell was of cum. Of piss. Of sweat. Of unwashed bodies. Of blood. Of infection. Of the accumulated, concentrated, compressed stench of human misery compressed into a underground space with no ventilation and no light.
She walked.
The corridor opened. Into a wider space. A chamber. The dungeon chamber. The room was large— thirty feet by forty. The ceiling was vaulted— stone arches, the work of masons who had built this place to last. The floor was stone. Drainage channels ran along the walls— for the water, for the blood, for the other fluids.
The walls had holes.
Not holes. Openings. In the walls. At waist height. Three feet wide. Two feet tall. The openings were closed— not with doors. With wooden walls. Boards. Nailed across the openings. Blocking the view. But not blocking everything.
Legs were visible.
Sticking out. From the holes. Through the gaps in the boards. Women’s legs. Bare. Pale. Thin. The ankles were tied— rope, rough, the fibers cutting into the skin. The feet were bare. The toes were dirty. The legs were spread.
Their pussies and asses were visible.
Sticking out from the wall. Like merchandise on a shelf. The lips were swollen. Red. The inner flesh visible— pink, raw, chafed. The hair was matted— with cum, with dried fluids, with dirt. The asses were bare. The cheeks were red— spanked, slapped, the handprints visible. The anuses were stretched— not naturally. The evidence of use. Repeated use. Constant use.
They were citizen women.
Edda could tell. Not by their faces— the faces were not visible. Hidden behind the boards. But by the skin. By the hands— the ones that were visible, the fingers gripping the boards, the nails broken. These were not peasant hands. Not calloused. Not rough. The hands of women who had been gentle. Who had been raised in houses. Who had been— citizens. Commoners. Women of the town.
And noble women.
Edda saw. One of the pairs of legs— the skin was pale. Very pale. The kind of pale that comes from never seeing the sun. The kind of pale that comes from living indoors, from being carried in carriages, from wearing silk. The ankles were slim. The feet were small. The nails were— had been— manicured. The remnants of polish— red, faded— on the toenails.
A noble woman. In the wall. Her pussy and ass exposed. The lips swollen. The anus stretched. The cum— dried, fresh, the white fluid visible on the hair, on the thighs, on the stone beneath.
Men used to fuck them.
The evidence was everywhere. The cum— on the legs, on the walls, on the floor. The condoms— none. The seed was inside. On the bodies. The smell— the concentrated, rancid, overwhelming stench of semen and urine and sweat.
The soldiers pissed in them.
The evidence was on the walls. The stains. The yellow. The dried urine on the legs, on the thighs, on the pussy. Running from the opening— from the pussy, from the anal— down the legs. Drying. Crusting. The amber color visible in the torchlight.
They were fuck holes.
Not women. Not people. Holes. In a wall. For the soldiers to fuck and piss in and enjoy. Living fleshlights. Breathing cum-dumps. The kind of thing that a soldier uses after a shift— unzips, pushes in, finishes, walks away. The kind of thing that does not have a name or a face or a history. The kind of thing that exists only for the hole.
Edda’s face changed.
The calm was gone. The stillness was gone. What remained was— disgust. Pure, absolute, visceral disgust. The expression of a woman who has seen many things in her seventy years but who has never— never— seen women treated like this.
She snapped her finger.
The wooden walls broke.
Not fell. Not opened. Broke. The boards— the thick, nailed planks that sealed the holes— shattered. The wood splintered. The nails pulled from the stone. The shards flew— outward, away from the women, the fragments scattering across the dungeon floor.
The women were visible.
Behind the boards. In the cells. In the wall. Each cell was three feet wide. Three feet deep. Four feet tall. Not enough to stand. Not enough to lie down. Enough to kneel. Enough to crouch. Enough to be— positioned. Legs out. Ass out. Pussy out. Through the hole. Tied. Ankles bound. Hands bound. Mouths gagged.
They were crying.
The gags— cloth, rope, leather— muffled the sound. But the crying was there. The heaving. The sobbing. The bodies shaking— the shoulders, the backs, the hips. The tears— running down the faces, over the gags, onto the chest.
Their bodies were— ruined.
Not by nature. By use. The breasts were bare. The nipples were— swollen. Engorged. The suction cups were visible— small, glass, attached to the nipples. The mechanical devices that drew milk. Constantly. The milk was visible— white, thin, running from the nipples, into the cups, through tubes, into collection jars.
They were being milked.
Like cattle.
The women were commoners— mostly. Citizens. The wives and daughters of merchants, of craftsmen, of guards. Women who had been taken. Arrested. For crimes— real or invented. For debts. For insults. For being in the wrong place. For being pretty. For being available.
And noble women.
Edda saw. In the cells. Among the commoners. The pale skin. The fine hair. The manicured nails. The noble women— the wives and daughters of minor lords, of barons, of knights. Women who had been— disappeared. Who had been reported as missing, as dead, as fled. Who had been here. In the wall. For months. For years.
Maids.
She ignored them.
Not cruelly. Not indifferently. But with the focus of a woman who has a mission. She walked past the cells. Past the women. Past the legs and the pussies and the asses and the crying. She walked deeper. Into the dungeon. Toward the back. Toward the one cell that was different.
The cell was closed.
Not with boards. With a door. An iron door. Heavy. Locked. The door of a cell that held something— someone— that the palace did not want to escape.
Edda arrived.
She looked through the bars.
Inside the cell—
A young woman.
She was seated. On the stone floor. Her back against the wall. Her knees drawn up. Her arms around her legs. Her head on her knees.
Her body was petite. Small. Slim. The body of a woman who has not eaten enough. The ribs were visible. The collarbones were sharp. The wrists were thin. The ankles were bony.
She was naked.
Completely. Her body was bare. Her skin was pale— not the noble pale. A different pale. The pale of a race that does not see the sun. Her breasts were small. Barely mounds.
The nipples were pink. Small. Flat. Her stomach was concave. Her hips were narrow. Her pussy was— bare. No hair. Not shaved. Naturally hairless. The slit was visible. Tight. Closed. The lips thin.
Her ears were not human.