The Handmaid's Dilemma: A Narrative Fiction

“No misunderstanding here, lass,” he said, his voice thickly accented, his thin lips curling into a cruel sneer. “This place has been deserted for a long time and we’ve used it as a resting point. But now we find you two here, using our place.” Perceval, still lying on the floor, groaned. The blonde man-in-charge stepped toward Perceval and pulled back his foot as if to deliver a swift kick to the ribs, but Perceval shot up into a seated position and grabbed the Pict’s foot. Unbalanced, the Pict fell back. Yet before Perceval could get to his feet, one of the two men in the background drew his sword, marched forth, and cracked Perceval over the head with the sword hilt. Once again, Perceval lay unconscious. “Stop, stop this, please!” Joan …show more content…

Tears welled up in his eyes. Joan understood. This was an incredibly desperate situation. She and Perceval were out in an isolated cottage, on their own against three men. No one was coming to their aid. It was a terrifying and sobering notion. Perceval turned his attention to Gurid. “Please, please don’t harm her. I’ll do anything! Cut my throat, beat me to death, whatever you want. Just let her go.” Gurid stopped sniffing Joan’s hair, but still held the strands within his fist. “You’d do anything?” he asked Perceval, his eyes narrowed. “Anything.” “Suck my cock would you? Take it up the backside?” bellowed Gurid. “Would you do it if we promised to let your pretty little wife go?” Perceval closed his eyes and nodded. A tear slipped down his cheek. “What a fucking baby we have here.” Gurid dropped released Joan’s hair and started roaring with laugher. “Do all of King Arthur’s knights weep like you?” Gurid stood right in front of Perceval now. “If I drop my trousers right now, you’ll get on your knees and do whatever I ask?” His eyes still closed, Perceval nodded. “Answer me out loud, you big bastard!” demanded Gurid. “Say you would do …show more content…

“I’ll get this over with and we can have our leave.” She released his face, gave a watery smile and stepped back toward Gurid. “Joan?” Perceval struggled against his ropes, twisting and contorting, panic in his voice. “Joan, no! Don’t do this!” She ignored her husband’s implorations, and with her chin lifted in defiance, trying to muster as much pride as she could, Joan glared at Gurid. “What would you have me do?” “Gods, no,” moaned Perceval, still struggling against his ropes. With a lurid sneer, Gurid said, “Ah, willing are you? Let’s have you unlace your top, lift your skirts, and lie down on the table.” Joan undid the laces at the front of her smock dress and allowed the fabric to fall down. Apparently, the dress hadn’t slipped low enough, so Gurid’s hand shot out and he tore open the fabric, exposing Joan’s breasts. His men whistled and shouted their approval. Meanwhile, Perceval kept fighting against his restraints, groaning and cursing with frustration, until the taller Pict kicked Perceval in the gut. Perceval, with the wind knocked out of him, leaned forward and