The Messenger
Chapter 6: The Teller

Copyright© 2017 by RC Smith

Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 6: The Teller - A girl growing up in a violent world, a mysterious teacher, torture and death, a cruel king, a young queen. And in the second part, a country in ruins, a man who is not a hero, and a slave girl who slowly remembers that she is.

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Fiction   Snuff   Torture   Caution   Violence  

Here is this story that I’ve heard — that I’ve overheard, one late winter evening, at a country inn, one man telling it to a group of people with whom he shared a table. Flickering oil lamps lit the taproom, one on each of the tables and two or three on the counter. The tables were almost as dirty as was the floor, there were no pillows on the ramshackle chairs and benches, from the stove in the corner came puffs of smoke and too much heat. I had had my share of dubious food and cheap wine, but was not drunk — it would not have been a good idea for a woman on her own to get drunk in such a place. I was tired, but not sleepy. I did not want to think — or rather, there were things I did not want to think about. I had run out of things to read. I tried to ignore the sounds — the snores of those who had gone to sleep on the benches, with their cloaks as blankets if they had them, the heavy breathing and the loud or muted sounds of pleasure or pain from those who occupied benches but slept not, the drunken laughter and the sudden curses from the tables were cards or dice were played, the occasional shouts for more beer or wine — the pub catered to both tastes — and among all those sounds, I dimly heard the voice of the story-teller. I had missed the beginning of his story, and, with all the noise, I missed much of the rest, and I never heard the end.


“Not a good idea for a woman to get drunk in such a place?” she asked.

“I understand what you’re saying,” I replied, “but it’s a fact, isn’t it? A man risks being attacked when he carries something of value with him, and, clearly enough, in this dump none of them did. A woman invites attack for the ever present value of her female body.”

“But by stating that her body has a ‘value’ other than to herself, you de-humanize and objectify her. It’s the hallmark of a society that treats women as objects, and their bodies as commodities. By accepting this so matter-of-factly, you are in fact reinforcing female subjugation.”

“How do I advocate subjugation by stating that something has value? It’s a simple fact — have gender equality, have a matriarchal society, there will always be more men wanting to rape women than women wanting to rape men — and don’t tell me it’s because women are never violent.” She’d hardly tell me that. I deserved the look she gave me.

“But exactly because rape is done by men to women, we have to address the sexualization and objectification of the female body as its cause.”

“Address it,” I said. “Address gravity when you stumble over a tree root and skin your palms. Or keep an eye on the ground.”

 
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