****** Shylock's Encounter by CRaZy ******
===============================================================================

Shylock's Encounter


Shylock had been watching the girl for some time from his corner at the inn as
he devoured stale bread and warm wine with equal lack of relish. His hands were
bony and wiry, matching the rest of his gaunt, hunched body. His yellowing
teeth could occasionally be glimpsed in the light of the lantern swinging above
his head.

The serving wench was young and pretty if perhaps a little disheveled and
grimy. Her skirts swished invitingly as she moved expertly through the crowds
with her jugs of wine, exchanging bawdy repartee with men who pinched her
bottom and felt her hefty chest. She remained obstinately cheery even as the
night wore on and drunken men grabbed her a little more roughly, the comments
becoming more lewd. She smiled at him too as she refilled his mug at regular
intervals, no doubt hoping for a decent tip, his clothes distinguishing him as
one of the wealthier customers.

Shylock decided to make his move while the frolicking was at its height, with
loud singing and banging on the tables generally acting as distractions. He
could probably buy her. The wenches earned a pittance, but he had never paid
for anything that was there for the taking. He waited until she came to
replenish his wine again, then he grabbed her wrist, smiling suggestively with
his thin, tight lips. She twisted as if to escape but he held her fast as he
stood to ensure his hold on her by clasping her round the waist. Her struggles
resulted in the wine from her jug being spilt down the front of her dress, the
liquid seeping through to her breasts, making her shiver as its wetness formed
a trail towards her stomach. She screamed and kicked as she dropped the jug and
he half-carried, half-dragged her through the hordes towards a side door. No-
one paid any heed. She was just a serving wench and it was late.

Once out in the lane way, he grasped her hair, pulled it back roughly as he
whispered in her Ear, "No messing with me slut or come morning they will find
you cold and stiff out here. Understood?"

The wench nodded. She knew he meant it and that no help would be forthcoming.
Not for a maid who worked at the inn. She thought of her child. His father had
died a year ago and now he would have no mother if she did not comply. She felt
weak. Usually she ate the leftovers from the inn with others who worked there
but the new owner had dogs and fed all the scraps to them. She barely had
enough food to take home to her son. To protest was futile so she braced
herself for the worst.

Shylock pushed her against a wall in the darkest shadows of the alley. His
repulsive hands fumbled with her bodice as she felt it being ripped at the
seams. Then his lips, those dry, thin, nasty lips sucked at the flesh of her
bosom. His rasping, little tongue greedily licked the remnants of wine that had
seeped into her skin and followed the trail down her abdomen, tearing the well-
worn material of her dress as he proceeded.

The wench closed her eyes, effectively blocking any tears and thought of her
husband. He had taken her gently on their wedding night. Soft, flickering
candle in the corner of the room as he whispered secrets she had not known.
Guided her. Kissed her. Massaged her flesh so tenderly that she trusted him
completely. When his seed finally entered her she knew it had reached her womb
and it was now her son that gave her a reason to go on.

Shylock's mouth had now traced a path to the core of her womanhood. She felt
the coarseness of his mouth against her outer lips, the spiky remnants of his
teeth piercing her sensitive flesh. She shook uncontrollably. From fear. From
pain. From revulsion. Her husband's lips had been a mild summer's day. He had
always rubbed a soothing salve onto her womanhood with his fingers, massaging
it in gently until she felt the rays of the sun within her, then he would use
his lips and fingers to caress her towards its burning core.

The wench could feel tiny rivulets of blood trickling down her legs now where
his teeth had been too harsh. He stood upright but the wench was spared the
foulness of his breath as he turned her towards the wall.She was fully exposed,
her dress now a pitiful pile around her ankles. Her undergarments were ripped
and thrust aside. He pushed her hard against the stone wall, its cold, abrasive
exterior cutting into her breasts, slicing cruelly against her nipples. Slow,
guttural sobs wracked her body as she sought to focus on survival. A pungent
smell filled her nostrils, a familiar odour she recognised as urine. She
listened numbly as the slow dribble of Shylock's pee hit her feet, the
revolting droplets of warmth contrasting sharply with the biting, cold air.

The stream of repugnant liquid ceased and the wench was barely aware of his
thin, rigid cock as it pressed against her opening. Then, she felt an
agonising, searing friction as he forced his way into her dry cunt, mercilessly
persisting even as her pelvic walls instinctively sought to prevent his entry.
The wench grimaced and opened her legs wider hoping to assist him in his quest
and alleviate the sensation as though her cunt was being held over an open
fire.

Shylock persisted, his curses becoming more angry with every failed attempt,
his grip on her hair more forceful. Finally, he succeeded, his hard, hurried
thrusts shredding the thin flesh around her nipples as they were forced to
slide up and down on the wall. Each thrust brought renewed pain as though sharp
knives were now being interspersed with the burning flames in her cunt. Just as
she felt she could take no more and prepared herself to die, the movement
stopped. Ten seconds of silence. Stillness. Then she almost fainted as her
forehead was bashed against the wall with incredible force and she felt a weak,
slimy substance trickle into her cunt, stinging the cuts and tears caused by
the abuse as it slid back down her legs. With a dismissive grunt, she heard
Shylock move away. Faint sounds of laughter in the distance. She was alone.

The wench sank to the ground and lay there trembling. The biting cold. Her
naked skin. Excruciating pain. Her shame. Eventually, she found the strength to
sit up. She fumbled amidst the rags that had been her clothes to retrieve some
modesty before she returned home. A single lantern from a window in the inn
provided a dull light to assist her search. In despair, she threw the remnants
to the ground, resolving that they were useless in this predicament. Something
heavy clattered on the ground as she did so. She rummaged until she felt a
small leather object and opened it. Shining, glittering coins like she had
never seen before met her swollen eyes. Dozens of them. She bit into one of
them. Heavy, solid, golden coins lost when Shylock was administering his
treatment. Enough wealth to last her a lifetime. She would no longer have need
of the worthless material that decorated her feet. Swiftly she hurried home
through the dimmest of back alleys. Home to her son who would never have to
starve again. An overwhelming sense of peace enveloped her and the soreness in
her body was gone.

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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