The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

She can feel her brow furrow; she didn’t know that was possible. She imagined that her word, and the fact that no man could say he claimed her, would suffice, but knowing now that there was a way to see she was a maiden? Coral begins to worry about what she had done last night-perhaps the exploration of her body had robbed her of the only dowry she had.

By the time the midday meal is finished, the entire town has gathered. Bushels of crops have been brought, more animals, chests of goods and wears, filling the area next to the animals with the reparations to make up for the past three years.

The men are all lined up outside of the tent; they seem to go through it quickly, entering in and exiting a few minutes later. When they finish, the women then line up, with the oldest going through first followed by the youngest. Nervous, Coral hangs back, helping clean up the cooking area before reluctantly making her way to the tent. She sees that she is the last one and it doesn’t help her fear any, as she can see that the young women ahead of her are just as nervous. One by one they enter the tent; some only take a few moments, others several. Finally, it is her turn.

She walks in, her eyes having a hard time adjusting to the darkness. There are two tables, a taller one at which an older centaur stands; his wispy hair is long since white, his thinning hindquarters showing the age of an old horse, grey hair peppering the once brown fur. With his sleeves rolled up, he stands over a large ledger, quill in hand.

“What is your name, lass?” He asks blandly.

“Coral Blackthorn, sir,” she replies.

“Blackthorn? What is your age?”

“I will celebrate my eighteenth year tomorrow,” nervously, she glances at the other table. An old woman, face heavy with wrinkles, her thick white hair braided over her shoulder, looks at the young girl.

“And who are your parents?”

She is surprised by this question, “They are long since passed, sir. I live with Mr. Piers, he is my guardian.”

“Ah,” the centaur says, intrigued, “All right, Ms. Blackthorn, have a seat on the table. Mildred will give you a quick look over, then you can leave.”

Hesitantly, she hops upon to the table. The old woman wastes no time; she looks into the girls eyes, feels the girls throat, opens her mouth to check her teeth. Coral gets a chill; it reminds her of how Piers looks at livestock when they go to neighboring towns to make a purchase.

“Lie down,” the woman says blankly.

She doesn’t want to, but slowly she lies back. When the woman start pushing her skirt up, Coral immediately stops her and sits up, “I beg your pardon, but-”

“Lie down,” the woman repeats, firmly.

Glaring at her for a moment, she finally complies. Her face starts to burn red but she does her best not to fight the woman as she pushes up her dress. The old lady spreads Coral’s legs and soon she can feel cold, bony fingers pulling apart the lips of her cunt. Coral gasps when the old woman slides a finger inside of her, followed by another, to measure the resistance of her opening.

“Huh,” she grunts, “she’s intact.”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

When the woman pulls her hand away, Coral snaps her legs shut and immediately sits up, eyeing her.

“Do you have any skills, Ms. Blackthorn?” the centaur asks, as if their conversation was never interrupted.

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” she stammers out, “I can do whatever needs to be done. I help Piers with healing the animals, I can cook, I can mend, I can butcher, I can forage,” she isn’t sure what more she should say.

“That will suffice,” he says, “you may rejoin the rest of the town now.”

Scrambling to her feet, her face burns red with embarrassment as she exits the tent, fists clenching the sides of her dress as she quickly makes her way towards the front of the crowd. Coral sits with the other women, on the grassy ground in the meadow just outside of the centaur encampment. The men sit in a separate group, with a walk way down the middle. At the head of the crowd, the Governor and a few of his appointed officials, stand beside Rainer, Quell, and the two other centaurs that they dined with.

All of them wait several moments, before the older bookkeeper centaur slowly meanders out of the tent. He walks to a tall table, setting the ledger down; Rainer joins him, picking up a quill to jot his chosen names down with as he goes through the list of villagers.

“Heavens, that blonde one would be so handsome if he were a man,” Coral can hear one of the girls behind her whisper to her companion. Immediately she draws her eyes up, catching the cold, blue gaze of Quell staring at her. She knows that he heard the comment.

“There would be a line of women swooning over him,” her companion agrees.

“Even so, can you imagine how big his… manhood must be when he gets excited? Good lord, it would tear a woman in half!” She giggles almost uncontrollably with her friend.

Quell smirks, stamping his back hoof. Mortified, Coral drops her chin to her chest, tearing her eyes from his. She tries to breathe slowly.

The bookkeeper hands the Governor the list, taking stance next to Rainer who has joined his centaur companions. The man clears his throat, speaking loudly so that all can hear, “In Atonement, we offer a share of our bounty to our gentle neighbors, ensuring that peace abounds for many more years to come. It is our duty to make reparations for the good of the town, and for three of you it will be an honor to help us maintain this truce with the centaurs.”

He looks at the list, getting a little pale. Coral raises her head, waiting to see who has been chosen this year. In all years past, they have chosen lone villagers, those who never had or no longer have a family, or whose family has grown up and moved out. Generally, it is always the elders who have a useful trade, craftsmen, bakers, seamstresses, but all who have already passed their skills on to the next generation.

“Cecil Evergreen,” the Governor calls the first name. Cecil rises from the back of the crowd; a man in his late forties, he is the town’s master blacksmith. His son, several years older than Coral, has already proven his knowledge of the trade and more or less runs the smithy for his father. Cecil reaches down and squeezes his son’s shoulder, before walking down the aisle and towards the front of the crowd to stand in front of the centaurs. He bows slightly, stepping to the side to wait.

Glancing from the paper, back to Rainer, the Governor calls out the next name, “Margaret Elwood.” A quiet murmur ripples through the crowd; Coral turns around to see a girl, her own age, rise to her feet. She does not know Margaret well, but enough to know that she hasn’t been entertaining any promises of proposal at the Celebration. It has been many Atonements since a maiden was chosen. Margaret is visibly shaken, tears rolling down her cheeks as she manages to stumble out of the crowd. Her mother stifles a wail. Margaret stops before Rainer, managing a courtesy, before stepping to the side. Cecil wraps his arms around her, attempting to calm her down.

The Governor glances at his son briefly, shaking his head; he turns his gaze directly to Coral, catching her by surprise, “Coral Blackthorn.”