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“Don’t bother,” the soldier said. “There’s no mercy to be had.”
“Tell him Judith is here,” Regan said. “And tell him I’m not here for mercy.”
The soldier seemingly knew her name, because recognition flashed in his eyes. The general must have mentioned her. He slipped into the tent. Muffled male voices spoke. The soldier reemerged, coming through the flap like a baby being born, headfirst.
“Wait here,” he said.
They waited. There came the sound of male laughter, deep and cruel from inside the tent. Another soldier, older, grey-haired, emerged from the tent and gave Judith a look. He liked what he saw, but it was not for him. He walked off.
The young soldier nodded. “You may go in now,” he said. “Only you.”
The old woman did not complain. She dropped down at the side of the tent, at the very edge of it, making exaggerated sounds of pain as she planted herself on the hard ground.
Judith gave the old woman one last look. The old woman nodded, and then Judith went inside.
General Holofernes lay draped over a thick pile of silk cushions, a cup of red wine in his hand. His eyes gleamed and his cheeks were flushed. He’d been drinking deep. Good.
He lifted his cup to her. “Judith. Finally. You came to your senses.”
“I’ve come to claim your protection, if you will have me.”
He stared at her and she dropped her eyes demurely. It was said, far and wide, that General Holofernes prized nothing so much as meekness and submission. And if a woman or a city were not meek and submissive when he came to them, they would be ever after.
The general was an enormous man—tall, broad-chested, arms and legs thick and corded with muscle. He wore a beard and his brown hair was short. If he hadn’t been her enemy, the man who would burn her city down in the morning, she might have found him handsome.
He gave her a leering smile. “I will have you.”
The tent was large and lit by three oil lamps hanging from the beams. A large tent, almost grand with comforts. Fine wool blankets, thick cushions for sleeping and more. A table laden with bread and oil and wine. He hefted the wine skin and filled a wooden cup for her. She cradled the large wine cup in her two hands, lifted it to her lips, and feigned drinking from it. Even though the table sat between them, she could smell his body–the sweat and heat and musky maleness of it.
He drank deep from his cup before setting it down, empty. If his fighting prowess were anything like his drinking prowess, her city would be ashes by this time tomorrow.
“More wine, sir?” she asked, her voice low and respectful.
“You first. Wine after.” He waved his hand lazily, beckoning her to him. She prayed her God would forgive her when she sinned this night. She sinned to save her people. She offered another prayer that she would live long enough to repent.
She rose from the floor and went to him, head down. If she’d thought he was deep enough in his cups to be weak and yielding, she was sorely mistaken. When she neared him, he grabbed for her, his Goliath hands circling her waist almost entirely. He pulled her down to him and thrust his hand into her hair, holding her head and assaulting her mouth with rough, wine-sweetened kisses. He pushed his tongue between her lips, and she allowed herself a soft moan.
She’d been a widow too long, she thought, which is why she didn’t recoil as she should. But perhaps if she could feign pleasure well enough it would fool him into letting down his guard.
His hand moved from her back to her belly, then to the bodice of her gown. He yanked on the fabric, baring her breast. The kiss ceased but only so he could gaze on her body.
As if she weighed no more than a child, he hefted her in his massive arms and brought her breast to his mouth. He latched onto her nipple and sucked it hungrily, greedily, and to her horror it hardened in the hot cavern. He let it go but only to kiss her mouth again, as hungrily as he’d sucked her. He held her breast in his hand and kneaded it, hard, but not too hard. His large palm cupped it and his thumb rolled the nipple, which sent waves of pleasure—unwanted and unwelcome—rolling through her belly.
“Better than dying at dawn, isn’t it?” he taunted as he pulled her red gown up to her hips, exposing her to his eyes under the soft flickering light of the oil lamps. He wedged his hand between her quivering thighs and forced them apart. He cupped her between the legs, his hand buried in her soft curls.
“Burning hot,” he said. “I hope you burn my fingers off.”
Roughly he rubbed her, pushing through the folds of swollen flesh until he found her wetness. And she was wet and it did shame her. Worse, when he stroked her along the slit of her body, she released another moan, shameless this time. He pushed a thick and calloused finger into her sex, then a second. She cried out softly at the invasion, even as her body contracted around his fingers. He spread them apart inside her, opening her almost painfully wide. Her hips moved into his hand. He held her cupped in his palm and he was so strong he lifted her lower body by the fingers inside her, lifted and moved her so that he could cover her with his own body.
He tore his tunic off. When he was naked, he hovered over her on his knees, letting her see his organ, dripping from the tip, big as another man’s forearm and purple-red in its eagerness to have her.
He grabbed her by the hips again and yanked her to him, settling her in place so that she lay splayed open before him, thighs wide, gown bunched at her waist and her breast bare. He tore at the shoulder of her gown to bare her other breast. He gripped it, squeezed it, all the while watching her face contort with pleasure and fear.
In the back of her brain, Regan knew this was a dream—she wasn’t Judith, and Judith wasn’t her. Still, she quivered with true fear. She could smell his sweat and the olive oil burning in the bowl of the lamp. This was no ordinary dream. She was damp with sweat and wet inside. Her skin prickled on the rough fabric beneath her. And she desired this man who she knew she should hate, and so hated herself.
He brought his massive organ to the entrance of her body and pushed it to her opening. His arm wound round her back and lifted her. When her hips rose off the cushion, he impaled her.
Judith cried out in ecstasy, which she would later tell her servant was feigned. It was their signal after all, that cry of pleasure. A small sword would soon be slipping under the edge of the tent, even as the general loomed over her, spearing her again and again…
