#dark!tonda x reader

[theinheriteddutchess]

Amazing, perfect, exhilarating!

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you’re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.

[mysoftboybensolo]

The Princess and the Miller

A/N: In honor of @monsieurbruhl​ reaching 1,000 followers as well because I can’t stop thinking about her post, I decided to make a Tonda one-shot. It deviates a little from the original post, but I hope you all still like it. BTW I haven’t read the book or seen the movie, but after reading up on it, I am going to go with an alternate version of this world. Hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Tonda x Fem!Reader. No use of Y/N.

Warnings: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluffy Smut, Happy Ending.

You had always been told that when you turned 21, you’d marry a prince. It was a marriage arranged since your infancy, you hadn’t met your betrothed and yet you were in a carriage on your way to his kingdom to marry him. You tried your best to find the best in the situation, tried to get some semblance of an idea of who the man you’d soon call husband, but all you got were very generic answers. He’s speaks several languages, plays many instruments, charming, handsome. But no one told you whether he was kind, generous, or good. Your eyes fell on the greenery whirling past your carriage as you felt your nerves grow.

Silently, you prayed that the prince you’d soon be married to would be kind, that you could learn to love the man and try to have a happy life. Your prayers quickly stopped as suddenly, the carriage had rocked and jumped wildly and then before you knew it, the carriage tipped over and things went black. A pounding in your head was the first thing you clearly knew before your eyes managed to open and focus enough to see the destruction before you. The coachman that was riding with you was trapped beneath the carriage and you could hear the soft whimpering of pain. You stand, though your leg was in great pain, and despite your own weaken state, you tried to help by pushing against the carriage, but to no avail. You looked around and noticed smoke in the sky. Someone lived by, they will help.

Running towards the direction, you press on, despite your own body aching, your head swimming with light headedness, because you had to help. Tired, but you managed to reach a mill, and saw a figure whose back was turned from you. “Excuse me,” your voice low and hoarse. The figure doesn’t hear at first and continues with his work, so you move forward, your body leaning against a pile of wood, which you knock down on accident.

The figure whipped his head around and at first seemed ready to fight but seeing you, blood dripping from your head, your weaken state, made him soften. “Please help,” you manage before passing out.

The next thing you knew, you wake up in a bed, your head bandaged, your leg in a splint and the pain subsided a bit and everything started to slowly come back to you. You try to get up from bed only to be hushed and pushed back gently. “No, don’t get up.”

It’s then do you take a look at your rescuer. He was older than you, can’t be no more than ten years older, but his wavy brown hair which he tied back, to his warm brown eyes and friendly smile made him seem boyish. “The coachman,” you say suddenly, “My carriage had crashed, he needs help,” you say, trying once again to get up.

“Alright,” he says, once again gently, pushing you back down, “I’ll go and see. In which direction did you come from?” You tell him to the best of your knowledge, but your head hurts so much, and you feel as if you want to cry. He offers you a small wooden bowl and brings it to your lips. “Drink. It’ll help with the pain.”

You do as your told, what else did you have to lose? Once he makes sure you drank all of it, he settles you back down and goes to find the carriage. Laying there, you wait and the pain in your head fades, allowing you the chance to wonder what will happen now; will your betrothed start to get worried if you are not there by tomorrow and have a search party sent for you? Will your father when he doesn’t receive word from you? Quite a bit of time goes by before you realize that the man returns, and his face is grave.

“I am sorry miss, but the coachman is dead. He died before I found the carriage.” His brown eyes grow tender with remorse and silently offers sympathy.

You cry, not only because the coachman was a good man you knew growing up, but because you felt completely and utterly alone. How you wished you were home now, wished you never left to be engaged, wished you were with your family now. The man does not say anything to you for a long time, leaves the cottage with a shovel in hand, and you knew what he was going to do. His absence allows you time to grieve, time to accept the situation, and when he returns, he still gives you space, waiting for you to speak first. He tells you he had buried the coachman, but you don’t feel like you could respond without crying, so you remain silent. When you do speak first, it is late in the night before he decides to retire to sleep. 

“What is your name?”

“Tonda.”

“Thank you, Tonda.”

Crying yourself to sleep, you wake and it takes you some time to realize where you are but are quickly comforted by the sight of those same soft brown eyes, sitting by the fire, stirring the pot. “Good morning, did you sleep well?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” He gets up to bring you some porridge, gesturing for you to eat. “Where am I?”

“In my mill, just on the outskirts of Schwarzkollm, a small village, simple, but good. Where were you heading off to, maybe I know a way to get there.” You thought to not tell him the whole truth, withhold your being a princess, but looking into his eyes, you feel as if you can utterly trust him with anything. So, you explain that you were on your way to be married, that your betrothed was expecting you any day and must be worried. He took your being a princess well and instead of acting like everyone else who fell to their knees and dare not look at you, he continued to look at you, like you were an actual human being, not a symbol as your father once described you. “I know the kingdom, it’s a half a day’s ride from here. I’ll take you there as soon as I am sure you are feeling better.”

“Oh, thank you, Tonda! Thank you!” You clasp his hands into yours, a gesture of gratefulness, but somehow the touch made your cheeks grow warm. Perhaps it was because you realized that this was the first time you had been alone with a man that was not your father, perhaps it was because of how close both of your bodies were, or perhaps it was the look in Tonda’s eyes that made your stomach flutter like a million butterflies.

Word quickly spread that Tonda had a visitor in his mill, a young and pretty woman at it too, and people came to know the story, though you asked Tonda to not revel your true identity. Tonda was polite and kind enough to try to hold many of them back, certain it would overwhelm you, especially from the trauma you suffered the day before. But a few older women get by, offering food, clothing, and remedies to help you feel better, and you thank them graciously, knowing they mean well. You become grateful to be alone once again with Tonda, so you could have some peace.

He is gentle when he checks your bandages, cleans the wounds, and reapplies fresh wrappings. “You have only a small cut on your forehead, that’ll heal soon, but your ankle looks very bad,” he observes and you have to agree with him, what with it’s dark purple bruises and deep cuts that even grazing it caused great pains. “Stay off it for as long as you can; the longer you stay still, the quicker it’ll heal.”

You stay in bed, applying ointments and herbs that Tonda and the older women bring to you, while Tonda does his chores as well as trying to care for you. Feeling guilty, you offer to do little things to help, such as peel potatoes and mend clothes, little things you didn’t think mattered, but did mean so much to Tonda.

You wondered how you’d pay him back, especially since he was good enough to grab your trunk from the wreck and brought it to the mill. It wasn’t the clothes or the trinkets you cared about, but your books. Your father took great care to have you educated, to read and write, know your math and history. One day, Tonda noticed you reading and asked about it. “Oh it’s one of my favorites, but then again, I am partial to love stories. I’m almost done with it, you can read it after if you like.”

His cheeks grew red. “Oh, that’s kind of you, but-”

“But what?”

He looks down then admits, “I can’t read.”

You look at him surprised, such a capable and bright man stood before you, and he didn’t know how to read! “Well, how about this? As a way to repay you, I can teach you to read and write in the evenings, and whatever else you’d like to learn. What do you say?”

At first, Tonda tried to refuse, saying that there was no need to repay him, but after arguing that it would be good for him when he does business in the village, he at last accepts.  And so went your life for the next month. During the day, Tonda worked on the mill while you tried your best to help in bed, then in the evenings, you taught Tonda how to read and write. He was a quick learner and so proud of himself that you couldn’t help but to be proud as well.

In the time between, you both came to understand each other. Tonda proved to be a kind, gentle soul who loved animals and children, with a quick wit and a wonderful sense of humor. His father taught him to fight, which you were grateful to hear that he had little cause to use his skills, his mother taught him how to cook, which is why you were always asking for second helpings of his food. He told you how he was orphaned when he was quite young, and had lived on his own since, how while there were times he didn’t mind the peaceful quiet, he struggled with the solitude.

You told him how you understood what he meant, often feeling all alone in the big castle, how your being a middle child and not a boy, your worth was measured in how good of a wife you could one day be. You tell him of your apprehensions of your upcoming marriage, how small and insignificant you feel in this world, especially since there had not been any word on anyone trying to find you.

“No one is insignificant. We all have a reason, a purpose. Even a blade of grass has a purpose, for that blade of grass may very well be shelter to an ant, the nourishment an animal needs to live. You have your purpose, you may not yet know it now, but you will. You’ll mean something great to someone, and they’ll find they can’t live without you.”

Your heart thumps harshly against your chest, the look in his eyes, the tenderness in his voice all touched you so deeply, that you almost forgot to breathe. He turns away from you, looking as if he spoke something he shouldn’t.

The next day, you try to walk. The bruises have gone and the cuts have turned to faint scars, but it is still a little sore. Tonda stands by your side as you attempt to walk and with each attempt, you get further and further. While the sight of you getting better should have been a moment to celebrate, neither of you say the words, but both remember his promise. “I don’t think I am quite healed yet,” you speak before he does, “I think we ought to wait until I am able to walk completely, perhaps another week, just to be sure.” You are grateful when Tonda happily agrees and lets you remain with him.

A week turns to two, and those two turns to four. You learn from him how to work the mill, helping him more and more, going into the village with him, meeting the people properly. You don’t hear the whispers of the villagers, certain that you and Tonda were courting, but it’s perhaps better that you didn’t it would only make things complicated. And still, two months and no word, no sign of either kingdoms looking for you.

Eventually, you dare ask Tonda to take you to your betrothed kingdom. You just have to know what happened, why no one came for you, to let them know you were safe. A flash of pain shoot across his eyes, but being the honorable man he was, he hitched his horse and the two of you rode on. When you did reach the kingdom, you were surprised to see celebrating going on, ribbons everywhere, flower petals falling from the sky, cheers from the crowd.

“Excuse me, what is happening?” Tonda asked a passing villager.

“The prince is married!” said the villager, running off towards the castle.

You and Tonda stare at each other bewildered. Trumpets sound and you see, standing on the balcony is the prince you were to marry, and beside him, your sister, as his bride. The sight is like a stab in the heart, not because you had wanted to marry the prince, but because you knew the truth now. No one came for you because in their eyes, you were dispensable, if not you, another will easily take your place. 

The realization made you break down, sobbing as Tonda took you away, carried you even as you were so overcome with despair. He helps you back on the horse and together, he brings you back to his mill. The entire ride, you are sobbing into his back, holding on to him for dear life, your heart utterly broken. It’s dusk when you return to the mill, and ever the gentleman, Tonda helps you down from the horse and escorts you back in, making a fire when he sees you shiver. “I am so sorry, my princess,” he says at last softly, “They do not deserve you if they think you can be easily replaced like that.”

“I’m just,” you say low and brokenly, as you sit in the closest chair, “Not the blade of grass they needed it seems.”

He quickly kneels before you, taking your hands into his and makes you look into his eyes. “You are more than a blade of grass; you are the sky, the earth and the oceans. You are everything that makes life worth living for, and that prince and your father are fools to not realize that. You mean something great to me, always.”

You stare deep into his soft brown eyes and it hits you. Tonda, the man who rescued you, who cared for you, listened and taught you, you were in love with him. Yes, it was clear now, and the revelation helped to ease the heartbreak. Taking his face into your hands, you reached forward and kissed him. It was gentle at first, beautiful, something you had always read about in the romance stories and it made you both gasp when you parted.

You don’t know who prompted it, you feel as if it was you, but you can't be certain, but what you do know is that Tonda carried you to the bed, clothes stripped from the both of you and for the first time for either for you, you laid down together and carefully learned together these first throes of passion and love. His coarse hands were gentle on your skin, his lips everywhere as if he couldn’t dare part with you, his movements gentle and slow, not wanting to rush this breathtaking moment. He sighs and moans at the feeling of your soft hands running down the planes of his back, combing through his long wavy hair, the soft whimpering of your voice in his ear. 

“I love you,” his speaks desperately, lovingly, hopelessly, “I love you, love you, always.”

Hours later and you stare into the small fire as it slowly diminishes and Tonda curled behind you, sleeping. Today was a whirlwind of emotions, and yet, you couldn’t find it within yourself to feel guilty for how it ended. It stung to think your own father didn’t care, that to the world you were dead. In his sleep, Tonda pulled you closer and nuzzled himself closer to you, making you smile.

Well, you think, perhaps it’s better that the world thinks me dead, to earn this second chance to truly live. And live you did with your sweet miller, happily ever after, in fact.

Tagging those who I think would be interested: @monsieurbruhl​, @creme-bruhlee​, @bruehl​, @neonheart1244​, @justfangirlthingies​, @git-it-got-it-good​, @daniel-bruhhl​, @cazzyimagines​ 

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you’re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.

[mymindwent-bruehl]

Now i can’t look at any tart the same way before this

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you’re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.

[whatevermonkey]

AHFJCUJFJFJF

I have no coherent thoughts but 🥵🥵🥵

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you’re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.

[runawaywerewolf]

this is incredibly stupid but the inclusion of historically accurate costumes makes me unreasonably happy here. the chemise!! you are doing better than the alienist costume department!!

lmao obviously the fic is really good too

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you���re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.