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Mari should have never let slip that she was well-versed in the arts of the healer. But she'd been too eager to delay the defloration she surely knew had to be inevitable, and so had blabbered on to the Garleans about how she'd be a good little healer to the troops. How the other "comfort women", one and all from Doma, had glared at her, sullen contempt in their eyes for the eager little collaborationist whore. And then the hooded schadenfreude in their eyes, when the Garleans dragged her anyway, by the hair, to the middle of the castrum mess hall, where a knot of Garlean legionaries had already begun to congregate.
Her first time was nothing at all like how she'd imagined it. And she'd imagined it often - the gentle embraces and sweet kisses of a tender lover, under the moonlight with cherry blossoms in the wind. Or perhaps a stolen moment by candlelight in a study, passion enflamed by vigorous debate on the finer points of the banned Five Classics, entwined together in-
The first man to enter her did so unceremoniously, pushing her face down against the dirty concrete floor and thrusting into her as he rained blows down on the back of her head. She barely even registered the pain of her maidenhead giving way. At some point, he had finished inside her sacred temple and another had replaced him, but by then her mouth too, was occupied, with the accompanying snarled threat of savage violence if she dared to bite down.
And so it went, an interminable gang rape that seemed never to end. Where one Garlean finished, within her or on her, another had immediately taken his place, a seething mass of rage and rut with Mari at the center of it, its unwilling receptacle.
And the entire time, in between the slaps and the pinches and the punches, a constant stream of insults, jeering and hateful, had rained down on her. The hate in their voices, and the foreign accent they were rendered in made some incomprehensible, but others came across clear as crystal. Savage. Barbarian. Slut. Cocksleeve. Trash. Cunt. Whore.
In the brutal struggle session, someone, impatient, had instead forced his manhood into that tight rear entrance dry, ignoring her mewling cries of distress. The pain of the unlubricated invasion was intense, but more searing still was the utter sense of violation and shame, as the soldiers of an army that had plundered her homeland now plundered the depths of her body for their merciless pleasure.
There was, presently, a pause in their savage revel, and Mari felt a wave of relief that her ordeal was at last over. A centurion, the one who had picked her out in the first place, looms over her broken body. He takes her trembling, witless hand in his, running his hands over her fingers. "Did you not say you were a healer?"
In the lull, someone horks loudly and spits. Mari flinches when the spittle hits her in the eye, a reminder of the bubbling cauldron of sexual violence that only the centurion is now keeping at bay. "Y-yes, yes I am, I can heal. I can- I can serve in- in other ways than t-"
Pain lances through her as the centurion jerks Mari's finger back with a savage twist and any subsequent words are consumed by an involuntary animal howl of pain. She curls up in a ball and attempts to shrink away, but the centurion has her fingers in his hand still.
"Then heal, you fucking savage," he sneers. He twists suddenly on another of Mari's fingers, and Mari feels it break.
Through quivering lips, she mouths the incantations of geomantic benefice in a frenetic whisper, not taking her eyes off the centurion. Pain zaps at her neck where the shock collar protests at the flow of aether, but the relief it brings to the rest of her ravaged body more than makes up for it - and slowly, the rest of her - her broken fingers, her split lip, her sprained limbs... her bruised stomach... her bleeding rear entrance and sore temple - begins to heal.
All the while, the soldiers watch in a hungry, lupine silence. Some, Mari notes with growing disquiet, are stroking themselves openly.
"Wait," Mari whimpers as the centurion releases her half-knitted hand, now. She sees a flutter of pity pass fleetingly over his face, but then the iron mask of imperious contempt slams back down over it, and he steps away.
"Wa-wait!"
The centurion snaps his fingers, and like a dinner bell, the pregnant tension breaks. As one, the legionaries surge forward, and Mari's world degenerates once again into a maelstrom of degradation and pain.
"Break, heal, repeat," a legionary whispers into Mari's ear as he shoves the bulb of his cock between her trembling lips. "We're just getting started, you little whore." Behind her, another thick manhood rams brutally through the tight sphincter of her rear entrance, and she screams.
This is the longest night of Mari's life, and it is, at this moment, only the end of the beginning.