Alice2015
Literotica Guru
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- Oct 23, 2014
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"The Protector"
(closed)
Tabitha Goran hovered over the tarp wrapped form that was her father's body. Her grey-blue eyes were glazed over once again by yet more tears. She'd cried when she'd heard that his Confiscation and Collection Squad had been ambushed, fearing the worst. She'd cried when the other men carried his blood covered corpse into the Community's bunker, confirming the worst. And she'd cried yet again when she learned that the Perimeter Patrol that had gone out to rescue the Squad -- a Patrol in which her now-missing brother had been a member -- had also been attacked, turning the worst into the unimaginable.
She was all alone now. She still had her 8 year old brother, Petey, of course, but with the loss of her mother four years ago, her only sister a year after that, and now the last adult members of her family, she was -- essentially -- a war orphan.
She flinched at the feel of a hand coming to rest on her shoulder, then looked up into the eyes of the Community's Matriarch. Maggie said with a soft tone, "Come, dear. It's time to let your father rest."
Tabitha knew what that meant: it was time to burn her father's corpse. There were no more burials in this part of the city, no caskets to be laid in the ground. Snipers occupied the upper floors of nearly every building in the downtown area and they had no compassion for the grieving. Early in the Civil War, the members of the Community could venture out into the City Park across Broadway under the protection of white flags and bury their dead in what had once been an international renown rose garden. No more. This deep into the war, with many of the Militia's weakened by a lack of resources, terror was the greatest and most often engaged weapon. And nothing brought terror to the grieving than to be shot down in cold blood over the still open graves of their dearly departed.
Tabitha didn't go outside to participate in the funeral pyre. She'd said her goodbyes to her father. She'd said them to her absent brother, as well, even if there hadn't been a body over which to mourn. He was dead, too. She knew that. The militias that surrounded the Community didn't ransom the troops they captured. The Community had nothing to offer them in the way of payment. Her brother, if he hadn't been killed outright, would have been tortured for information about the Community's defenses, then killed and fed to the patrol dogs or -- if the bastards had them -- the pen of hogs.
She spent the next days under the watchful eye of the Matriarch, as did the survivors of most recently lost Community members. She did little the first day other than stare at the walls, cry, and sleep. By the second, she was eating again and spending time with her little brother. And by the third, she had returned to performing many of her domestic duties, which -- of course -- had been made much easier by the halving in size of her family unit.
On the fourth day, the Matriarch came to the family's quarters, a 90 square foot utility room on the B3 level of the Museum of Natural History which -- still standing but badly damaged -- was the center of the Community's territorial holdings. She looked to the teen and said, "Tabby, we need to talk about your Protector."
Tabitha had known that this conversation was coming. Without her father and brother, she had few opportunities to earn a living in the Community; and while many of the Community members would have loved to take care of her out of the goodness of their hearts, most of those folks were barely surviving as it was, and taking on another mouth --- two, including Petey -- would have meant that all would eventually starve to death.
There was no industry to speak of in the Community, short of creating the offensive and defensive weapons the Militia used or of creating tools and other goods from the items that were scrounged by the C&C Squads. And with the exception of the domestic tasks she'd performed for the family, she had nothing more to offer in the way of Service. She knew basic first aid, but she was no nurse or doctor. She couldn't dance or sing for the Militia Members to entice them to share their meals or slip her a little of their compensation for keeping the Community safe and not getting killed doing it. And she'd never shot a fire arm in her entire life, so joining the Militia wasn't even a thought.
Of course, she could always whore herself. Several of the Community's women did. Hell, some of the men did, too. She was still very much a virgin, a not-so-secret secret about the Community. There would have been a line stretching all the way up to the Museum's lobby of men willing to pay to claim Tabitha's purity if her father hadn't long ago explained the dangers of even thinking such a thing by pounding the shit out a Perimeter Guard who'd tried to get his then-little girl out of her pants.
She was of the age of consent now, though ... which was why the Matriarch wanted to talk to her about a new Protector. They went upstairs, walking in silence past the various check points until they'd left the basement levels, ascended the dust and leave covered Grand Staircase, and arrived at the Neanderthal exhibit on the second floor. They were deep inside the museum here and safe from sniper fire.
"Sit, Tabby," the Matriarch said, using the girl's nickname. She patted her hand on the stone bench upon which she'd already made herself comfortable. She took Tabitha's hands into her own and, with great compassion, spoke of the great loss she'd suffered and of how she had to be strong, for herself and her brother, and ... so much more that Tabitha was soon turning out in the desire that she get to the point. "So ... have you had any offers?"
The Matriarch asked the question so simply and bluntly, without emotion, as if she was asking, Have you had dinner yet?
Tabitha nodded tentatively but did not speak.
The Matriarch knew that look. She squeezed the girl's hands and asked, "Did you have any offers of permanency?"
Several men had quietly and inconspicuously approached Tabitha about trading food and other goods for a fuck. She'd politely turned them down. She may have been young, but she wasn't naïve: she knew that she would get a better offer of Protection if she presented herself still chaste and free of any possibility of pregnancy.
This time, Tabitha shook her head.
"Are you still pure?"
Tabitha hesitated, then nodded. It was uncomfortable for her to talk about such things. Her sexual experience -- or lack thereof -- should not be a bargaining chip, but in this new reality, it was. And if that didn't make it hard enough, she'd long hoped to surrender her virginity to a young man for whom she'd recently developed both a love and lust. Unfortunately, he didn't have the position necessary to become her Protector, regardless of how much Tabitha wanted him or how much he wanted Tabitha.
The Matriarch paused a moment to study the girl, then said, "I've been approached by someone who can provide for you ... and, of course, your brother, in a way that no other man ever will."
The woman left the statement hanging there, with no identification of the man. She didn't need to tell Tabitha who it was: the description alone identified the man.
"The Commander," the teen said softly, the disappointment more than evident in just those two words.
"Yes, my dear. He is aware of your loss. And he has offered Protection for you and your brother. You'll move into his quarters. You will never be hungry. You will never want."
That, of course, was a relative term. Those considered well off in the new Civil War reality were surviving now on an income equivalent to about half the pre-Civil War poverty level, yet they were far better off than the majority of those still living in the City. They ate every day; they lived in better conditions; they had unfettered access to actual medical professionals; and, more often than not, they had plenty of fire power to ensure that they kept what they had.
"I want you to consider it, dear," The Matriarch said, standing to look down upon Tabitha, still clutching her hands. "It is a grand opportunity for you and Petey. I think it would be a mistake to pass it up."
(closed)
Tabitha Goran hovered over the tarp wrapped form that was her father's body. Her grey-blue eyes were glazed over once again by yet more tears. She'd cried when she'd heard that his Confiscation and Collection Squad had been ambushed, fearing the worst. She'd cried when the other men carried his blood covered corpse into the Community's bunker, confirming the worst. And she'd cried yet again when she learned that the Perimeter Patrol that had gone out to rescue the Squad -- a Patrol in which her now-missing brother had been a member -- had also been attacked, turning the worst into the unimaginable.
She was all alone now. She still had her 8 year old brother, Petey, of course, but with the loss of her mother four years ago, her only sister a year after that, and now the last adult members of her family, she was -- essentially -- a war orphan.
She flinched at the feel of a hand coming to rest on her shoulder, then looked up into the eyes of the Community's Matriarch. Maggie said with a soft tone, "Come, dear. It's time to let your father rest."
Tabitha knew what that meant: it was time to burn her father's corpse. There were no more burials in this part of the city, no caskets to be laid in the ground. Snipers occupied the upper floors of nearly every building in the downtown area and they had no compassion for the grieving. Early in the Civil War, the members of the Community could venture out into the City Park across Broadway under the protection of white flags and bury their dead in what had once been an international renown rose garden. No more. This deep into the war, with many of the Militia's weakened by a lack of resources, terror was the greatest and most often engaged weapon. And nothing brought terror to the grieving than to be shot down in cold blood over the still open graves of their dearly departed.
Tabitha didn't go outside to participate in the funeral pyre. She'd said her goodbyes to her father. She'd said them to her absent brother, as well, even if there hadn't been a body over which to mourn. He was dead, too. She knew that. The militias that surrounded the Community didn't ransom the troops they captured. The Community had nothing to offer them in the way of payment. Her brother, if he hadn't been killed outright, would have been tortured for information about the Community's defenses, then killed and fed to the patrol dogs or -- if the bastards had them -- the pen of hogs.
She spent the next days under the watchful eye of the Matriarch, as did the survivors of most recently lost Community members. She did little the first day other than stare at the walls, cry, and sleep. By the second, she was eating again and spending time with her little brother. And by the third, she had returned to performing many of her domestic duties, which -- of course -- had been made much easier by the halving in size of her family unit.
On the fourth day, the Matriarch came to the family's quarters, a 90 square foot utility room on the B3 level of the Museum of Natural History which -- still standing but badly damaged -- was the center of the Community's territorial holdings. She looked to the teen and said, "Tabby, we need to talk about your Protector."
Tabitha had known that this conversation was coming. Without her father and brother, she had few opportunities to earn a living in the Community; and while many of the Community members would have loved to take care of her out of the goodness of their hearts, most of those folks were barely surviving as it was, and taking on another mouth --- two, including Petey -- would have meant that all would eventually starve to death.
There was no industry to speak of in the Community, short of creating the offensive and defensive weapons the Militia used or of creating tools and other goods from the items that were scrounged by the C&C Squads. And with the exception of the domestic tasks she'd performed for the family, she had nothing more to offer in the way of Service. She knew basic first aid, but she was no nurse or doctor. She couldn't dance or sing for the Militia Members to entice them to share their meals or slip her a little of their compensation for keeping the Community safe and not getting killed doing it. And she'd never shot a fire arm in her entire life, so joining the Militia wasn't even a thought.
Of course, she could always whore herself. Several of the Community's women did. Hell, some of the men did, too. She was still very much a virgin, a not-so-secret secret about the Community. There would have been a line stretching all the way up to the Museum's lobby of men willing to pay to claim Tabitha's purity if her father hadn't long ago explained the dangers of even thinking such a thing by pounding the shit out a Perimeter Guard who'd tried to get his then-little girl out of her pants.
She was of the age of consent now, though ... which was why the Matriarch wanted to talk to her about a new Protector. They went upstairs, walking in silence past the various check points until they'd left the basement levels, ascended the dust and leave covered Grand Staircase, and arrived at the Neanderthal exhibit on the second floor. They were deep inside the museum here and safe from sniper fire.
"Sit, Tabby," the Matriarch said, using the girl's nickname. She patted her hand on the stone bench upon which she'd already made herself comfortable. She took Tabitha's hands into her own and, with great compassion, spoke of the great loss she'd suffered and of how she had to be strong, for herself and her brother, and ... so much more that Tabitha was soon turning out in the desire that she get to the point. "So ... have you had any offers?"
The Matriarch asked the question so simply and bluntly, without emotion, as if she was asking, Have you had dinner yet?
Tabitha nodded tentatively but did not speak.
The Matriarch knew that look. She squeezed the girl's hands and asked, "Did you have any offers of permanency?"
Several men had quietly and inconspicuously approached Tabitha about trading food and other goods for a fuck. She'd politely turned them down. She may have been young, but she wasn't naïve: she knew that she would get a better offer of Protection if she presented herself still chaste and free of any possibility of pregnancy.
This time, Tabitha shook her head.
"Are you still pure?"
Tabitha hesitated, then nodded. It was uncomfortable for her to talk about such things. Her sexual experience -- or lack thereof -- should not be a bargaining chip, but in this new reality, it was. And if that didn't make it hard enough, she'd long hoped to surrender her virginity to a young man for whom she'd recently developed both a love and lust. Unfortunately, he didn't have the position necessary to become her Protector, regardless of how much Tabitha wanted him or how much he wanted Tabitha.
The Matriarch paused a moment to study the girl, then said, "I've been approached by someone who can provide for you ... and, of course, your brother, in a way that no other man ever will."
The woman left the statement hanging there, with no identification of the man. She didn't need to tell Tabitha who it was: the description alone identified the man.
"The Commander," the teen said softly, the disappointment more than evident in just those two words.
"Yes, my dear. He is aware of your loss. And he has offered Protection for you and your brother. You'll move into his quarters. You will never be hungry. You will never want."
That, of course, was a relative term. Those considered well off in the new Civil War reality were surviving now on an income equivalent to about half the pre-Civil War poverty level, yet they were far better off than the majority of those still living in the City. They ate every day; they lived in better conditions; they had unfettered access to actual medical professionals; and, more often than not, they had plenty of fire power to ensure that they kept what they had.
"I want you to consider it, dear," The Matriarch said, standing to look down upon Tabitha, still clutching her hands. "It is a grand opportunity for you and Petey. I think it would be a mistake to pass it up."
