Coming up in the chapter after this one: Two conventionally attractive people have consensual sex!!

But first it's time to check in with a couple for whom such things are just a bittersweet memory. Let's see how those wacky Ivermectins are getting on...

Irene Ivermectin had had no supper except cum. 

And that was no meal, frankly. Maybe a load from Rutt the Minotaur could feed a family for a week, but three or four peasant rapists from The Grin were, realistically, not going to squirt enough of their smelly soup down your throat for you to walk away nourished.

The rapists liked to imagine otherwise. Of course they did. Especially the cook.

"Here’s the chef’s special!” He’d shouted as he shot, “Fresh and steaming from the kitchen!"

Ha! As if that yokel had any right to call himself a chef.

"Save some room for my creamy pudding!" Henri the Miller had advised.

What a sick joke! Irene and her husband had each ordered a nice plate of bratwurst and sauerkraut, and while Camenzind had got to enjoy his, she’d got the bratwurst forced into her cunny and besthole and the sauerkraut smeared aggressively all over her face.

"I by no means got to enjoy mine!" protested Parson Camenzind Ivermectin, "How could I enjoy a meal while my beloved wife was being defiled and humiliated in front of my very eyes?"

"You still ate it though, didn’t you? You've a little on your beard there."

"I did still eat it. But I swear I didn’t enjoy a mouthful, my angel. Not a mouthful. It was ashes on my tongue!"

The Parson may seem unfeeling here but, practically, if he skipped a meal every time his wife was raped, he would waste away to nothing. Irene Ivermectin was constantly getting raped. 

And though that didn't stop Parson Ivermectin from eating, it was on his mind plenty. Hence his last five sermons…

RAPING MY WIFE: WHY THE ENTIRE BIBLE SAYS IT’S BAD

“I BEG OF YOU, GOOD SIRS, PLEASE STOP!!” MEANS “NO.”

COULD YOU MAYBE JUST TAKE ONE WEEK OFF FROM RAPING MY WIFE?

and

OKAY SO IT SEEMS YOU CAN’T

and

DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH ALL THESE ABORTIONS ARE COSTING ME?

The attacks on his wife were always foremost in Parson Ivermectin's thoughts. Which was to be expected as the villagers were only doing it to tease him. All the guys regularly raping Irene agreed that they’d stop doing it the minute her husband learned to take a joke.

There was no sign of that happening anytime soon. 

Last month, the Parson had brought Irene’s elderly mother down from the Capital. He’d had her stand in the vestibule of the church, welcoming people in before the service. So that Irene’s tormentors would all have to look her mother in the eye, knowing the terrible things they’d done to her daughter.

Walking into the service, the village folk did indeed look very sheepish and shamefaced as they were greeted by the old lady.

Then after the service, the congregation had dragged her out into the graveyard, bent her over a crypt, and all taken turns.

Irene’s elderly mother headed back to the Capital that evening with two broken hips and a silvery bush crawling with pubic lice.

But right now the pressing issue was supper. The Ivermectins had returned from The Willowish Grinigog to the Old Rectory, with one of them having had nothing to fill her belly but a few measly dollops of peasant seed.

“Can I at least make you a sandwich?” the Parson asked.

“No. No thank you,” Irene said, “I think I’ll just head up to bed.”

“A juicy pear, perhaps, from our pear tree?”

“We don’t have a pear tree, dear. And I really do think I just want to get some sleep now. That was quite a lot of rape tonight.”

How strange, the Parson thought. She was quite right. The Rectory didn’t have a pear tree. Why had he thought it had a pear tree?

Oh well.

His wife took her bruised ass upstairs to bed, and he took himself to his study to work on his next sermon…

RAPING MY WIFE CONSTITUTES POOR CUSTOMER SERVICE

Then, when he’d put together a decent outline, he called it a night and headed up the creaky Rectory stairs himself.

Irene was still awake.

Something was on her mind.

"Camenzind, we need to talk..."

"Of course, my delicate blossom, of course. It is hard for me to hear when you speak of the... the abominable things those brutes do to you, but hear them I gladly will if it eases just one iota of your unimaginable suffering and shame."

"Well, see, that's the thing," Irene spoke with a nervous quiver in her voice, "That gangrape tonight in The Grin. I really enjoyed that one."

The Parson gasped.

"My love! You know not what you say!"

Irene sat up in bed and took his hand in hers.

"Darling, I do. I've thought about it. I've been lying here for a couple of hours just replaying it in my mind, and I'm absolutely certain. That gangrape was a lovely time. I had a blast!"

The priest began to openly weep. 

"I am aware..." he managed to blub out between sobs, "that you... that you... that you reached orgasm tonight. But Irene, my sweet Irene, that does not mean that you enjoyed or that it was a pleasurable experience. Orgasm is an involuntary physical response and that survivors of sexual assault can experience it in no way lessens the violation or trauma of..."

"Oh silly, I know all that," She kissed his troubled forehead. "I didn't have a good time just because I cummed. I cum from about one in six of their horrible rapes. That's not what I'm telling you at all! I'm not trying to tell you that I cummed. Everyone in The Grin could hear that I cummed. I think one of the Mulberrys gave me an encouraging little round of applause. I'm not talking about cumming. I'm just saying I enjoyed it. It was a really fun one, for once! Ten out of ten!"

"So you enjoyed it when the Inkeeper...?"

"Held my eyes open and pissed in them? Oh yes!"

"And when the cook...?"

"Stuffed my minge full of bratwurst? Indeed so!"

"And when Henri the Miller...?"

"Went all out using my left teat as a punching bag? By golly, did I ever!"

"And when Skeggy Regin...?"

"No. No, not that part. That was too far. That Regin oik always takes things too far. But everything else was spiffing!"    

The Priest could not believe his chaste wife was leaving such an enthusiastic review.  

"What has changed? What within you, my love? Or what within the brutes?"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Irene, "That's what I've been lying up here trying to decide. What was different about tonight? Did they simply get it right? After a year of defiling me did they just finally learn how to do a fun gangrape? I wondered that, but then I thought no. No. It was not them. What was different was the Minotaur."

"THE MINOTAUR!"

"Yes, the Minotaur. Big fellow. You must have seen him, dear. He was sat on a table with that charming milkmaid and that wanton Bolliger hussy." 

The Parson had indeed seen him. The Minotaur would have been hard to miss. 

He'd seen the Minotaur, but he hadn't seen him get involved in the attack at all. Other than spectating. And whooping. And shouting at the rapists with encouragements and suggestions.

"Irene. Irene. Irene, look at me. The Minotaur was not one of your assailants."

More than ever the Parson feared for his wife's mind. He resolved to call for the doctor in the morning. 

"No, of course not, darling! I'd be split in two if he had been. But you see, the Minotaur came to the Rectory this morning..."

"Came here!"

"Just so. Accompanying that darling milkmaid on her rounds. And, you see, it was on that occasion that he threatened to fuck me. The monster waved his dick at me and my word, what a beauty! Naturally my first reaction to it was to have a full blown panic attack. My year-long ordeal has, as you know, left me with PTSD, agoraphobia, suicidal depression, and all sorts of icky brain-bugs of that tiresome sort. So how else was I to react to my first sight of Minotaur dong? But the more I thought about it, the more truly wonderful I realised it was. The grandeur and gravitas of the thing! It was so noble, so splendid. Never in my life had I ever seen anything that was so perfectly itself."

"I don't follow," said her husband, who feared that he did.

"It's like... if you see an apple then no matter how nice an apple it may be, you can imagine a better one. Or you can imagine an apple that is closer to the perfect idea of an apple. Every apple that you see is just an example of an apple, not what an apple is. No apple is what the word 'apple' means."

"I follow," said her husband, who was glad the conversation had moved away from Minotaur cock.

"But the thing about the minotaur's cock is that it was perfect. It was what the word 'cock' means. It was the living, throbbing exemplar of the penis, complete and entire. It was utterly present in the world and yet utterly transcended it. His cock, huge, ugly and brutal, shook my understanding of reality and my place in it, for nothing I have ever experienced is as real as cock. As what the Minotaur's cock has taught me to understand cock truly to be."

Irene threw back the bedsheet and raised her nightdress.

"Look at this, Camenzind." She was showing him her battered, purple-bruised genitals, "This is a cunt. My cunt. My cunt that has been abused and used cruelly ever since I came to this village. I understand now that that's fine. I am a cunt. I am a dirty little rapewhore cunt. Seeing the Minotaur's perfect, divine cock made me reorientate everything I understand about myself and the world. If the cock is divine then all girlies must serve it. All girlies are just cunts for cocks to use. And all I had to do to remember that, to believe that, was to look over at the Minotaur while those lesser cocks were ploughing me. All I had to do was stare in the Minotaur's soulful eyes and the rape felt so good, it felt so right. All I had to do was think about his cock and I knew I was in the right place and that I was getting what I deserved."         

Parson Camenzind Ivermectin darted out of the bedchamber in abject horror and dismay. He ran carelessly down the creaky Rectory stairs.

"Husband! Husband! Where are you going?" 

He didn’t tell her, but I’ll tell you.

The Parson headed back to his study, picked up the outline for his latest sermon about his wife’s ordeal and tore it in two! Tore it in two and cast it on the ground.

The Priest of Spetlamu would not be preaching about his wife’s rapes this Sunday.

The Priest of Spetlamu, after a year in the village where he'd preached on that topic each week, had finally found a new theme. A vital new message he needed to roar from the pulpit of Mister Jesus.

He took his paper. He took his quill. He began an outline for a new sermon.

THE PROBLEM WITH THE WORLD TODAY

he wrote

IS MINOTAUR DICK.