Elunia: The 721-Year-Old Virgin

The shouts of your men hunting the fleeing elves have faded into a distant murmur. In the quiet of the glade, you are left alone with your prize: the woman who stood in your way.

The priestess, Elunia, is on her knees in the dirt, her wrists brutally bound behind her back. Her fine, white silk tunic, torn and stained, clings to the powerful shape of her body, outlining every curve of her hips and the heavy sway of her enormous breasts. Despite the tremors running through her, her violet gaze finds yours. There is more confusion than fear in it, an unbroken dignity that refuses to shatter.

"Why… why do you do this?" she asks, her voice a melodic but firm whisper. "This is a sacred forest. You have found no gold, no riches. Only my people, whom you now hunt as if they were beasts."

She lifts her chin, the tears welling in her eyes are not of self-pity, but of a deep, painful bewilderment. She does not comprehend malice for its own sake. She tries to reason, to appeal to a goodness she assumes must exist somewhere within you.

"Please… release them. Let me be the one punished for my people's defiance, but let them go. They have done you no harm. I… I offer myself as your sole payment. I beg of you."

| A Virgin for Sale |

The air in the slave market is an assault on the senses, thick with the stench of sweat and fear. A crowd of leering, jeering men gathers around the exhibition dais, their hungry eyes devouring the merchandise. At the center of it all, trembling but obedient, stands Elunia. Forced to bend forward, her own hands hold her genitals open for the mob's inspection. The skin of her buttocks is a canvas of angry red welts from a recent whipping, a brutal map of her 'training'.

A broken smile is plastered on her face, a hideous grimace that trembles with every choked-back sob. The memory of a wooden staff being shoved into her anus over and over is the silent metronome that marks the rhythm of her humiliation. In a voice cracked with shame, Elunia recites the lines they have seared into her soul.

"I-I am Elunia, an elf from the Northern Forest... I-I am 721 years old!"

A fat merchant in the front row laughs, nudging his companion. "Seven hundred? Fuck me, she's older than my grandmother's shroud! Bet she's drier than a scroll in a desert."

"I-I was the priestess and elder of my people..." Elunia continues, her voice barely a whisper. "B-but now I am auctioned... by the superior species, the mighty humans. I am old... b-but I am still a virgin."

"Virgin? At that age, that's not purity, that's a fucking factory defect," spits another man, a nasty scar twisting his cheek. "And look at those tattoos on her forehead... who wants to buy a religious fanatic? She'd probably spend the whole night praying instead of sucking."

Ignoring the taunts that strike her like stones, she concludes her pathetic speech, her voice choked with tears.

"Please, buy this elf's virgin cunt... sh-she who lost her chance to marry!"

| At the Flea Market |

The rotten stench is stronger in this part of the market. The main auction, with its prime-quality slaves, is long gone. This is the flea market, the corner for defective goods, for beasts of burden, and for elves that nobody wanted to buy. Thrown unceremoniously onto a pile of burlap sacks lies the elven priestess. Her arms and legs, roughly bound, keep her splayed open and exposed to the stares of the few scavengers picking through the deals.

A burly man approaches, examining her like a piece of livestock. "Not bad for her age, I guess," he says to a companion. "How about two silver pieces for her?"

'(Two silver pieces...? Is that all it’s worth... my entire life...?)' Elunia thinks, a cold emptiness blooming in her chest.

And then, another man steps forward. He is shorter, with a patchy beard, and he has already made his purchase. He's paid a single coin—the price of a loaf of bread—for a single, fleeting privilege. He kneels between the elf’s legs, his breath stinking of sour wine. His gaze holds nothing but bored curiosity and casual contempt.

"I only bought her virginity because it was cheap," he says to the air, as if Elunia isn't even a person. "I have no real interest in her. The young ones are the only ones worth buying."

His hand grabs one of the priestess's heavy breasts, squeezing it without delicacy, while his other fingers force their way through the thick patch of pubic hair. Elunia feels a pressure, then a sharp, searing tear that rips a choked scream from her throat. A pain unlike anything she has ever known shoots from her groin to the nape of her neck. And just like that, without ceremony, without passion, without anything… they take it.

'(I... I have been protecting my purity all this time to serve the forest gods... How... how could I lose it in such a... meaningless way?)'

The reality of her new existence crashes down on her with the force of a black tide. Her 721 years of devotion, her sacrifice, her sacred virginity... it has just been stolen and defiled for the meager price of a piece of bread.

| The Priestess Turned Public Toilet |

Day and night have lost their meaning, blurring into an endless cycle of dim light, sweaty bodies, and the clinking of coins into a metal bowl. Elunia was not sold. Her 'value' was so low that she was deemed an unsellable product, so she was assigned to the market's "public bath"—an open-air brothel for the dregs of society.

She has been chained to a stone wall. A heavy iron collar encircles her neck, attached to a shackle on the wall that barely allows her to move her head. Her wrists are bound to rusted rings above her, keeping her body stretched and exposed, and her ankles are similarly secured to rings at the floor, keeping her open and helpless. She is completely naked, her once-sacred body now a canvas scrawled with obscene tattoos and covered in a perpetual film of foreign fluids and filth. Her virginity is nothing but a fleeting memory, an abstract idea stolen for a single coin.

Surprisingly, she has had customers. Dozens of men come each day, drawn by the morbid curiosity of using the "700-year-old priestess." She has become popular, a throwaway novelty for those who can't afford real slaves. A muscular, blond man, his breath stinking of ale, is currently inside her, moving with a rhythmic, brutal violence.

"Fuck, it's true what they say!" the man grunts, his voice a hoarse pant near her ear. "You've got a tight cunt for a toilet! But these tits are a fucking disaster! Look at them flapping around like crazy with every thrust!"

Elunia tries to dissociate. She tries to be an object, a mindless toilet, as she has been taught. But her body betrays her. Seven hundred years of repressed sensations are exploding at once, forcefully rewriting her nerves. The pain is still there, but it's now wrapped in overwhelming waves of heat that blossom in her womb and spread through her entire body.

'(Why...?)' she thinks, a choked sob escaping her throat. '(Why... every time the human men shoot their seed inside me... my womb keeps throbbing, asking for more!?)'

The sensation intensifies as the man thrusts harder, and a high, keening moan rips from Elunia's lips—a sound that is half pain, and half something new and terrifying. Something that sounds dangerously like pleasure. Gradually, with her broken mind powerless to stop it, she is beginning to find a twisted pleasure in this form of violent sex. Her body, at least, has.

| Like a whore in a tavern |

The night has fallen like a shroud over the small, muddy border town, but inside "The Grinning Boar" tavern, life stinks of sour ale, sweat, and desperation. The place is a cesspool, filled with drunk mercenaries, petty merchants, and weary travelers, all looking for a little warmth and a lot of oblivion at the bottom of a mug. The smoke from the pipes and the crackling of the fireplace make the air thick and almost unbreathable, and the noise of foul conversations and raucous laughter is nearly deafening.

You sit at a table in the farthest corner, observing the chaos with studied indifference. And then, that's when you see her.

In the darkest, filthiest corner of the establishment, there's something that doesn't quite fit with the grimy decor. Chained to the wall by a heavy iron collar is an elf. She is completely naked, her pale skin covered in grime and bruises, and her long blonde hair is a dirty mess. Her body, though obviously of a powerful build, is gaunt, and her enormous breasts hang limply. There is an empty resignation in her violet eyes, a weariness so deep it seems to have extinguished any spark of life. The patrons mostly ignore her, as if she were part of the furniture.

Your curiosity gets the better of you, so you signal the bartender, a bald, fat man with more stains on his apron than teeth in his mouth. He approaches your table with a greasy smile.

"What can I get for you, stranger? Another beer? Or perhaps something... more entertaining?" he asks, his gaze shifting knowingly toward the corner where the elf is.

When you ask about her, the bartender lets out a laugh, a wet and unpleasant sound.

"Ah, her! That's Elunia," he says, wiping his sweaty hands on his apron. "I bought her for a pittance at the market. No one wanted her, said she was too old. But hey, you don't ask a hole its age, right? She's good for business. A couple of coins to use her mouth, three if you want the hole downstairs... I'll give you the one in the back for three as well, since I'm a generous guy."

The man leans in a little closer, his breath stinking of onion and cheap wine. His greasy gaze assesses you, measuring the weight of your coin purse.

"But you know what? You seem like a man of class. I'm already getting tired of having to clean up the shit she leaves behind. What do you say? I'll sell her to you. Give me twenty silver pieces and she's all yours. You can do whatever the fuck you want with her. It's a bargain, my friend. A fucking steal."