Washed UpMature


Washed Up


It was cold, freezing maybe, Elia couldn’t tell. She felt like she’d never feel anything again. Not the sea breeze on her glowing skin, nor the agony and pain of the Captain’s lashes. She was aboard some charred flotsam, a remnant of the vessel “Our Fair Lady” after the Nadir quickly set the vessel aflame beginning with the mast and the sails. She could see the ship’s flag, or what was left of it floating back and forth on the azure, unforgiving ocean. The skull symbol visible even under the moon’s reflected pale light. She was sure there were no other survivors; she was cursed with the Ancient’s own luck to be living but what life could now be had? Was she doomed to die alone atop a piece of burnt hull?

The water must have had its fill she thought. She was trying to understand why such a savage and unprovoked attack took place. She knew that the slaver was an illegal vessel, but on it she had seen wondrous sites that she could only have dreamed of. It was her home. Now it was gone in a matter of seconds.

She was weary to the bone, her body screamed with the ache of tiredness; she knew that if she slept she may never wake up. Her eyes, as deep and blue as the ocean she now floated on aimlessly, slowly closed.




As a watcher of the sea of Norseland Chiat didn’t get much amusement. The Lord of the land had a very cruel sense of humour when he decided to ‘promote’ him to ‘Chief Sea Watcher.’ His post was a very arduous and boring one. And his fear of the sea, a novelty and joke frowned upon and rare among his people, didn’t help. He was one of the Lord’s Guard. His post was exactly what he had wanted in a profession; he was always warm and food and mead was always available. He knew he’d fucked up atrociously when he fell asleep outside his Lord’s chamber in a drunken stupor, and when he found out the next morning that a rival Lord of the land, wishing to take his Lord’s realm for his own had dispatched some fool to kill the Lord in his sleep he had expected to be strung up naked and left for dead, food for the direwolfs out in the barren wilds. Instead his Lord had survived, thanks largely to his weak bladder in the night, to sound the alarm and watch the attacker flee out the nearest window, not realising the room was near sixty feet up in the air. It didn’t do the assassin’s looks any favours.

Chiat was sure that his drink had been laced with some sort of wicked sleeping draught but his pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. The Lord knew of his fear and decided to humiliate him by posting him in the worst possible place a thalassophobic could be; next to the deathly ocean.

Then he saw her, a young woman, he didn’t know how old washed up on the beach, her face submerged in the sea. He ran as fast as his gluttonous bulk would take him to her, she must have been about fifty yards away. How could he not have noticed her before? The short distance felt like miles, standing outside a door all night after gorging on more than his fair share of food and drink all day did that to a man. He reached her and turned her over probably rougher then he would have wanted. She was beautiful, sundrenched blond hair rolling down past her shoulders to the small of her back. An exquisite figure with large rolling breasts further accentuated her face and he imagined her legs wrapped around his. “Not a good time to be gettin’ excited,” he said aloud. He picked her up in his arms and, after a time and a struggle, got her safely into his new shack of a home. He laid her gently onto his lumpy single bed and dumped furs on her. He had a thought. “Looks like those soaked rags are goin’ to have to come off my dear if I’m goin’ to get any heat back into ya.” He grinned mischievously and hungrily. He removed the furs. He peeled off her rag of a top first, slowly watching her breasts tumble out pale as the snow in the wilds. He was licking his lips now not taking his eyes off her, and then he slowly pulled down her ripped breeches savouring every millimetre of glistening skin that he revealed. He felt himself becoming hard as he drank in her body, her alluring breasts, her enticing fanny. He sniffed the air with an air of a man who wanted much but could have only little. He knew that this woman could be dead within the hour and he didn’t want to add to the cause of it. He decided to wait. He raised a flagon of mead to her lips and watched her drink. Good, he thought.




Elia woke up naked, freezing and alone. She was afraid. She found herself in the dingiest little shack she’d ever seen, she found it hard to imagine one person living here let alone two. She sat up and clutched the furs about herself. She could here noises outside, a roar, suddenly in a panic she stood up and tried to run from the shack fearful the Nadir had come to finish her off and reward her with the same fate as that of her shipmates. She bolted towards the door, which was only a few steps away but she was blocked by an enormously fat shaggy bearded man.

“Hold on there Missy, were do you think your off to?” said the man, his chins wobbling with ever spit filled syllable that escaped from his mouth.

“I have to go!” Elia screamed at him.

“No way your goin’ anywhere!” he grabbed her roughly by the arms and flung her back onto the bed, clearly relishing his little wrestle with this beautiful young naked girl.

Elia screamed in pain as he climbed on top of her and entered her from behind, she was sobbing as he continued, back and forth harder and harder, drooling on her back and neck, pinching and slapping and punching her. She was trying to get him off but he was too strong. She was being raped by a fat fucking bastard she thought. She felt weak and slowly succumbed to the throbbing pain in her body. She felt like she was still on the boat with the Nadir; helpless and afraid. He was groaning now with each stroke, louder and louder until he finally came. He rolled off her in a fat heap and proceeded to pull his breeches back up, a big evil grin on his face. “It was worth the wait,” he said. With that he walked out of the shack laughing, no doubt thinking about when he could begin again. He slammed the door. She lay there on the bed crying, in pain, her body on fire just like the rest of her companions had been as they died. She could hear the roar again. It was the ocean swell breaking on whatever fucking beach she’d washed up on. She spiralled into unconsciousness fearful of the fat man’s next visit to his bed.  

The End

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