+18 Chapter 3: Village Whores and Fresh Meat

Viktor sat in a steaming bath that Madame Elara had reluctantly prepared, his massive frame displacing so much water that the floor was half-flooded. He winced with every ripple, the hot water stinging the angry red welts Sophia had lashed across his back and shoulders. The fat on his body jiggled as he shifted, and in a fit of pique, he slammed a meaty, ring-laden fist against the side of the copper tub.

“Fucking bitch,” he snarled, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “My own goddamn sister. Does she think she can whip me like a disobedient dog in my own house? In my own body?”

A young male attendant stood silently nearby, eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards, clutching a thick linen towel. Smart kid. Viktor had already screamed himself hoarse at two other servants who had dared to let their eyes linger on the marks of his humiliation.

He sank deeper into the water, the shame burning hotter than the physical wounds. That little scene in the East Wing had spread through the manor like a plague. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere—the servants' usual terror had been tempered with a disgusting spark of hope. They looked at him now and saw a pig that could be beaten.

“Fuck that,” Viktor muttered, grabbing a sponge and scrubbing at his neck. “I need to get out of this shithole manor before I strangle someone. The walls are closing in.”

He heaved himself out of the tub with a wet grunt, water sloshing everywhere. The attendant rushed forward to assist, but Viktor shoved him away with a heavy arm.

“Get my carriage ready. The reinforced one. And four guards—Thorne and his lot. I’m going to Oakridge.”

The attendant blinked, his voice trembling. “Oakridge, my lord? The village? But the sun is already—”

“Did I ask for a weather report, you little shit?” Viktor snapped, tower-drying his rolls of fat with aggressive sweeps. “Tell them I want the best wine, the softest bed, and the cleanest whore they’ve got in that gods-forsaken hamlet. Move your ass!”

Two hours later, the reinforced carriage rolled out of the Grell Manor gates, pulled by four sturdy horses. Viktor lounged inside, his body aching but his mind buzzing with dark, predatory excitement. Oakridge was the closest village under his barony—a collection of hovels and mud-caked streets full of desperate people who existed solely to fill his coffers and satisfy his whims.

The carriage rumbled into the muddy main square of Oakridge just as the afternoon sun hung low and orange. Villagers scattered like mice at the sight of the Grell crest. Viktor kicked the door open and stepped down heavily, his fine leather boots sinking into the muck. His silk tunic stretched dangerously tight over his enormous belly, his gold chains glinting in the dying light.

A couple of farmers nearby stopped their work, leaning on their pitchforks. One of them, a skinny man with a missing front tooth, let out a loud, involuntary snort before clapping a hand over his mouth.

Viktor’s piggy eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the man. “The fuck was that?”

The farmer turned ashen. “N-nothing, my lord! Just… clearing the dust from my throat.”

“Bullshit.” Viktor turned to the captain of his guards, a burly man named Thorne who had a scar running from his eye to his jaw. “You hear that, Thorne? This peasant thinks something is funny. Perhaps my presence is a joke to him?”

Thorne grinned cruelly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. He’d always enjoyed Viktor’s brand of "justice." “Aye, my lord. He seems to have a very lively sense of humour. Want me to teach him some manners?”

The farmer dropped to his knees in the mud. “Please, Baron! I meant no disrespect! It was just a cough!”

“Cut his tongue out,” Viktor said flatly, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. “Then hang him from the well-post. Make sure the others watch. I want them to remember what happens to 'comedians' in my village.”

Screams erupted as two guards dragged the man away. His wife ran forward, wailing and reaching for his cloak, but Thorne backhanded her to the ground without a second thought.

“Anyone else think my appearance is amusing?” Viktor shouted, his voice carrying across the silent square. His face was a mask of flushed rage. “I’m fat, am I? Grotesque? Say it to my fucking face then!”

The villagers stood frozen in terror, the only sound the distant, muffled pleas of the man being dragged behind a nearby barn. A young boy nearby started crying; his mother quickly muffled him with her apron.

Viktor spat into the dirt. “That’s what I thought. Now, where’s the best brothel in this piss-stained village?”

An older man pointed a shaking finger toward a sagging structure at the end of the street. “The Lazy Rose, my lord. Just past the well.”

Viktor lumbered in that direction, his guards flanking him. Every step made his belly sway, but he didn't care. He could feel the eyes on his back—eyes full of hate, yes, but more importantly, eyes full of fear. That was the natural order.

The Lazy Rose was a rundown two-story building that smelled of stale ale and unwashed bodies. The madam—a hard-faced woman in her forties named Greta—bowed so low her nose nearly touched the floorboards when Viktor entered.

“My lord Baron! What an unexpected honour! We have fresh girls, the best wine from the southern slopes—”

“Shut up and bring me your prettiest whore,” Viktor cut her off, his voice raspy. “And food. Lots of it. Roasted pig, bread, whatever you have that isn't rotting. And make sure the bed doesn’t creak like it’s about to collapse under my weight, or I’ll burn this shithole down with you inside it.”

Greta nodded frantically and led him upstairs to the "royal" suite, a room that was barely cleaner than the common area.

The girl she brought was named Rosa, twenty-two, with tangled brown hair and a figure that suggested she had been skipping meals. She tried to smile seductively, but her eyes were glassy and distant.

“Take your clothes off and get on the bed,” Viktor ordered, already tugging at his own silk belt. “And don’t just lie there like a dead fish. I want enthusiasm. I want to feel like you actually enjoy being in the presence of your better.”

Rosa obeyed with mechanical, trembling movements. Viktor didn’t care for the nuance. He climbed on top of her, the bed groaning in agony under his bulk, and took what he wanted with grunting, sweaty effort. He cursed the whole time—cursing Sophia, cursing the hero who would eventually come for him, and cursing his own lungs for burning after just a few minutes of exertion.

When he finally finished, he rolled off her and demanded a flagon of wine, ignoring the girl as she quietly gathered her torn chemise.

Later that evening, after two more rounds and a gluttonous meal of greasy pork, Viktor descended to the common room. A few villagers were huddled over their drinks, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the man who had just executed their neighbour.

One idiot, a younger man who had clearly had too much cheap ale to maintain his survival instincts, whispered something to his friend while looking at Viktor. Both of them let out a stifled snicker.

Viktor stopped dead at the foot of the stairs.

“You two. What the fuck is so funny? Is there a joke I’m missing?”

The men sobered instantly, their faces turning a ghostly white. “My lord, we weren’t… we were just talking about the harvest—”

“Thorne!” Viktor bellowed, the sound shaking the rafters.

The guard captain appeared instantly, followed by two others.

“These two laughed at me. They think the Baron of Grell is a source of entertainment. Kill them. Slowly. Outside, where the whole village can hear their 'jokes'.”

One of the men actually pissed himself, a dark stain spreading on his trousers. “Please, Baron! Mercy! We have families—children!”

“Should’ve thought of that before laughing at your lord, you worthless cunts.” Viktor’s voice dripped with venom. “String them up. Let the crows have their fill by morning.”

The night was filled with the sounds of pleas that eventually turned into gurgles. Viktor watched from the doorway of the brothel, sipping a cup of sour wine, a cruel smile stretching his bloated face. The remaining villagers knelt in the mud, refusing to look up.

By the time the executions were finished, the entire village felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the monster to leave.

The next morning, while nursing a pounding hangover and aching muscles, Viktor decided to take a "victory lap" through the village. His guards cleared the path, shoving anyone who didn't move fast enough.

That was when he noticed a small, rundown cottage on the very edge of the woods. A middle-aged man was coughing violently on a porch, his skin pale and clammy. A girl—no older than seventeen—held his hand, her face a mask of desperate love. She had long auburn hair, a simple homespun dress that couldn't hide a remarkably lithe figure, and striking green eyes that burned with a fierce, protective light.

Viktor stopped, his eyes roaming over her. He felt a familiar stir in his gut.

“Who’s that?” he asked Thorne.

“Local farmer, my lord. Name’s Elias. Dying of the lung rot. That’s his daughter, Mira. She’s the one who’s been keeping that farm running since her mother passed.”

“Bring the father to me.”

The guards dragged the wheezing man over. Mira followed, her fear overridden by fury.

“My lord…” Elias wheezed, barely able to keep his head up.

Viktor looked the girl up and down, his gaze lingering on her chest and hips. “How much for the girl?”

Elias blinked, confusion clouding his pained eyes. “M-my lord?”

“You’re dying, Elias. Your lungs are turning to mush. She’ll be alone, starving, and at the mercy of the debt collectors within the month. I’ll give you fifty gold coins. Enough for medicine, food, and a dowry for your youngest. In exchange, she belongs to me. She becomes a personal maid at the manor.”

Mira’s eyes widened in horror. “Father, no! Please—don't listen to him!”

“Shut your mouth, girl,” Viktor snapped, stepping closer. “This is a business transaction.”

Elias looked at the mud, then at his daughter. He coughed a spray of blood into a rag, his body shaking. “Fifty gold… that could save the boys… they wouldn't have to work the mines…”

“Father!” Mira cried, her voice breaking. “I’d rather starve! Everyone knows what happens to the girls he takes! I won't go!”

Viktor laughed, a wet, ugly sound that made his double chin wobble. “Hear that? She has spirit. I love it when they think they have a choice.” He pulled a heavy leather pouch from his coat and tossed it at Elias’s feet. It landed with a heavy clink. “Take it. She’s mine now. Guards, put her in the carriage.”

Two guards grabbed Mira. She thrashed and kicked, screaming obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

“You fat, disgusting pig!” she shrieked, a kick landing squarely on a guard’s shin. “I hate you! I’ll kill you in your sleep! I hope you choke on your own greed and rot!”

Viktor stepped in close, grabbing her chin with his sausage-like fingers. His breath, smelling of stale wine and onions, was hot against her skin.

“Keep talking like that, little Mira. I find it… stimulating.” He smiled, revealing his yellowed teeth. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to serve me. Or you’ll be broken enough that it won't matter. Either way, I win.”

He released her and waved at the guards. “Load her up. We’re heading back. I have a long night of 'training' ahead of me.”

As the carriage started moving, Viktor sat opposite the bound and furious Mira. She glared at him with a gaze so sharp it felt like it could pierce his fat.

“I will never forgive you for this,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a vow of vengeance.

Viktor chuckled, patting his massive belly contentedly as he watched the village shrink in the distance. He saw the two fresh bodies swinging from the well-post and the father clutching his blood money.

The humiliation from Sophia still stung, but this… this was power.

“Don’t need your forgiveness, sweetheart,” he said, leaning back into the velvet cushions. “Just need your obedience. And I have plenty of ways to ensure I get it.”

He looked out the window, a dark grin on his face. This world was his playground, and he was only just getting started.