As a kid, I knew that something wasn’t quite right with the events that unfolded at the time. Even though it was never brought up again under any circumstances by either one of my parents, it’s something that always stuck with me. I can’t say it’s a memory that I tried to suppress seeing as it was always there at the back of my mind, bothering me like an itch that wouldn’t go away unless properly scratched.
The day is April 23rd, 2017. It’s an ordinary Sunday afternoon in London.
The crowd bustles, trains whirr, birds chirp.
Life in the city is business as usual.
Three teenage girls take photographs outside 187 North Gower Street, soaking in the ambiance of the Sherlock set. They step into Speedy’s for a cup of coffee.
The women lament over the loss of their favorite show. On March 8th, the BBC announced Sherlock would not be returning for a fifth series, and cowriters Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss were quick to assure their fans that it was time to lay the beloved program to rest.
But what the women saw next changed their lives forever.
You never thought that desperation would lead you to such a situation.
a new era of peace welcoming the kingdom, there was no longer high
demand for a blacksmith in the city. Your father, who had been employed
by even the royal family, had lost his job. Your family had lived a
comfortable life in one of the richer districts. Now, you had been
forced to sell nearly everything in an effort to make ends meet. Your
father took whatever odd jobs he could find. Your mother became a
servant at the castle. Your siblings, older and more talented, found
jobs easily. You couldn’t bring yourself to enjoy the merits of their
hard work. You were young, but you were sure that you could be hired
somewhere. You couldn’t lift much, given your easy life, but there was
bound to be an opportunity lurking just around the corner.
opportunity, you quickly learned, was in a brothel. After moving to the
slums, there was one at the end of your street. You passed by it every
day and night as you searched for jobs. The workers, both men and women,
were clad in revealing clothes. Through the windows, you could see that
those layers were quickly shed. You knew that they made good money,
especially since you had seen some of the richest men coming and going,
sometimes even bringing gifts. If a wealthy individual liked someone
well enough, they could simply buy them for indefinite use. They would
be showered in jewels and gold, but they would never be truly free. The
consequences were too great. You worried what your family would think.
eventually came across an advertisement for a position on a farm. The
owner was looking for more help. The contract would last one year, give
or take circumstances. The pay was better than any other job you could
have taken, given your small list of skills. You would finally be able
to help your family. The owner would give you a room in the homestead,
so your family wouldn’t have to spend money to feed you. You would send
them money every moon or so to help them cover rent.
“Hey,” A voice rumbled behind you, “When’s breakfast? I’m starving.”
pulled yourself from your thoughts, glancing to the window. The sun
hadn’t risen yet. Meals were always at dawn, noon, and dusk. The night
was dangerous outside of city walls, so field work was only done during
the daylight hours. When you first arrived at the homestead five days
prior, you had been assigned as the cook. You did your job well enough,
save for a few small mishaps. The work wasn’t very challenging. The hard
part was dealing with the field workers. They were all more beasts than
men. Even the smallest towered above you, strong enough to lift you
with one hand. In the mornings, they smelled of booze. At night, of
sweat and dirt. But that wasn’t the issue.
You didn’t turn to look
at him, instead focusing on the eggs you were making. If you burnt
them, you wouldn’t hear the end of it, “It won’t be for another hour, at
the very least. You should get some more sleep. There’s still ale left
The floorboards creaked, the man moving closer. Your grip
tightened on the frying pan as you watched his right hand reach around
and grab your breast. He squeezed, then slipped his hand between your
apron and your dress. His fingertips found your nipple, pinching. Your
breath hitched. You swallowed the desire the hit him in the face with
the hot pan, instead moving the scrambled eggs away from the stove. His
other hand found purchase beneath your skirt, tugging your smallclothes
to the side so he could thrust a finger inside of you.
to push him away, but his grip was too tight. He was used to chopping
firewood and steering cattle. Manhandling you was easy for him.
even if you did manage to land a hit on him, you would be the one
punished. You had learned that lesson on your first day. After signing
your contract, preparing dinner, then heading to bed, one of the men had
gone into your room. You fought back, hitting him across the face with a
broom. When you went to the owner to report the worker, he berated you
for harming one of his workers. He was only in it for the money. If one
of the field workers was injured, they wouldn’t be able to work as well.
He told you that, also you were primarily the cook, you were also
considered a morale booster. Apparently, the homestead made more money
when the men had something to sink their cocks into. From what you heard
in your few days there, you were beginning to suspect that the owner
also partook in a morale boost from time to time.
The man pulled
you away from the stove. You wrenched away from him, glaring. For a
brief moment, you saw the scar that the broom had left beneath his eye.
He had told you afterwards, a hand in your hair as he pushed you into
the mattress, that he liked your fire. He kept talking, even as he
gripped your waist and fucked you harder. He had been working at the
homestead for years, but they had only recently started employing women.
first, Jenn, quickly became a favourite of the owner and got pregnant.
Still, you had seen her with the workers. She had been serving drinks as
you cleaned dishes when one of them pulled her into his lap. Her dress
was tight over her swollen belly as he tugged her back to meet each of
his thrusts. She made no effort in being quiet, though she asked him to
be gentler for the baby’s sake. Her contract was technically up a month
before her pregnancy was discovered, but the owner kept her on the
grounds that she couldn’t work as well in her current condition. The
very thought made you shudder. With the way things were going, you
wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up pregnant again shortly after
The second and third, Trish and Corina, were a bit
younger than you and rather mousy. They were intimidated by the men,
which made them easy targets. Trish, who was slender, was being to show.
Her dress rounded out just a bit when she stood up straight. The men
had laughed about it, one of them saying that it was obvious when her
dress was off. Corina, who was curvier and had a bit of pudge on her
stomach, hadn’t shown any signs. Still, you figured that it was only a
matter of time.
You, on the other hand, had only been working
there for five days. You had bled just before leaving for the homestead,
so you had a little while to think of a way to escape. At the very
least, you could devise a plan that would keep you from becoming a
permanent employee. You had quickly discovered that most of the workers
preferred a certain girl, though they would often take advantage of any
opportunity if in the mood. The one currently trying to undress you,
however, only had eyes for you. After you fought back against him, it
seemed that he reveled in the idea of forcing you to submit.
bent you over the counter, his stiff cock pressing against you. Only his
trousers and your skirt were in the way, but he would remedy that
easily. A large hand pinned you onto the countertop. Even as you
squirmed and tried to kick him, he merely laughed as he pulled your
smallclothes to your knees. He lifted your skirt, the cold air causing
you to hiss. Fingers stroked and prodded, rubbing your walls. You
reached back, trying to claw at him. The sound of rustling clothes made
you tense, only for him to brush against your entrance. You didn’t have
the chance to retaliate. He buried himself to the hilt. You couldn’t
help but cry out, unbearably full. When he shifted, you could feel the
tip move over your cervix. It made you shudder, blinking back hot tears.
It was painful, but exactly what he wanted.
He withdrew, setting
up a lazy pace. There was still time before the others would wake and
come downstairs. He could take as long as he wanted. Even if they found
you both in the kitchen, no one would do anything about it. If anything,
one of the workers would probably insist that he was next in line.
hand on your back lifted, instead tangling in your hair. A swift pull
made your back arch. You straightened, ready to slap him, but his other
arm kept your elbows at your sides. You had no way to fight against him.
Your jaw tightened. You swore that you could feel your stomach
distended by his cock, a small bump moving upwards and outwards each
time he filled you.
“Come here,” He grabbed your face, his fingers
prying your jaw open. He forced you to look at him, his smirk only
widening as you glared. His cock twitched, your breath caught in your
chest, “Give me a kiss,” His mouth covered yours, leaving no room for
refusal. His grip kept you from biting him, your teeth digging into your
own skin as his tongue entered your mouth. He still tasted of booze.
withdrew slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. You
pulled your head away in disgust, wanting to clean your mouth out with
soap as soon as he let you go. His pace had quickened, each thrust deep
and rough. You winced, hoping that he was close. The sooner he was done,
the sooner you would be able to clean up and forget it ever happened.
arm left your sides, only to hook around your neck. Your nails dug into
his skin, trying to pry him off. He wasn’t choking you, but just a
little more pressure would close your airway. His other hand slipped up
your dress, toying with your breasts. You choked back every whimper.
Hearing you cry out only spurred him on. He would only taunt you,
wondering aloud if your body wanted this, wanted to be taken and filled
and bearing his child.
His touch wandered lower, settling just
below your navel. With every movement of his hips, a small portion of
your stomach shifted against his hand. You forced yourself to stay quiet
as the end of his thrusts became rough. He was doing it on purpose,
trying to get a reaction out of you.
His mouth moved to your ear,
“I can’t wait to see you stuffed full with my brat in your belly. You’ll
be trying to do your job like a good little cook but they’ll be kicking
up a storm. A big, strong troublemaker, just like their daddy. I’ll
fuck you through your labor pains and get to see the look on your pretty
face when you realize that you can’t fight what’s happening, you can’t
stop yourself from having my kid. The boss will be livid. You’ll owe him
another year of work for giving him another mouth to feed. I just have
to keep you full until my last two years are up. Then I can take you
with me and make you my darling little housewife. It sounds like the
perfect retirement, doesn’t it?”
“I’d rather die,” You growled. He
pulled you in for another sloppy kiss, his grip and pace unforgiving.
You’d undoubtedly have bruises within the day and a bit of a stumble in
your gait. You pulled away from him, breathing ragged. His fingers
slipped between your legs, rubbing in quick, harsh circles. Your knees
quivered, then buckled. A yelp of pain escaped you as he hit your
cervix, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You turned just
enough to put a hand to his chest, trying to push him away. You couldn’t
let him finish inside of you. You weren’t going to have his children.
a sudden pinch to the sweet spot between your legs sent sparks up your
spine. Your entire body tensed, more out of pain than forced pleasure.
You tightened around him like a vice. He twitched inside of you, barely
able to withdraw an inch before filling you again. He grinded against
you, each movement causing you to shudder. It was overstimulation on
your part. You were dizzy, even as he returned to tracing small circles.
stilled, panting and sheathed within you. A familiar warmth pooled.
Your grip loosened on his arm, exhausted. You could feel some of his
seed dripping down your thighs. You would have to bathe when you had the
chance. He let you go. You leaned against the counter, trying not to
fall. He removed himself, adjusting his trousers. You refused to look at
him, silently hoping that he would leave.
He smacked your rear, “I’m going back to bed. See you at breakfast.”
looked to the pan of eggs you had been making before he had intervened,
seeing that they were cold. You would have to start from scratch.
Note: Hello! Keira Metz here! It’s been a while since I’ve posted
anything, so I decided to start a new tale. Depending on the response
from all of you lovely readers, I’ll continue this. Otherwise, I can
whip up something new. Also, there may or may not have been some
foreshadowing in this one, ehehe~
Storefront window displaying women’s clothing, six mannequins wearing dresses and a suit, women’s dresses hanging on back wall, mirrors, lamps, potted plants and vases of flowers also in the window display. Written on the outside awning: “4145-Fit Rite Shoppe-4145.”
Harvey C. Jackson Collection.
Courtesy of the Burton Historical Collection, Detroit Public Library