If you enjoy this story, you can read more tales of Etrebor in my premium collection The Etrebor Exchange, available for only $7.99 USD at my creator site. Purchases fund the creation of new, free content! (Click here to view in store.)
Jenny had never heard of Duhthri, the Festival of Penetration, until the year that it was suddenly everywhere.
It was an Etreborian holiday, tied to their misogynistic national religion that celebrated Man as god and Woman as property. For most of history, Etrebor had been a small, insular nation, largely ignored by the world – but in recent years it had parlayed a renewed political relevance into a position as a world cultural leader, first making its degrading passports (which depicted a woman’s tits and cunt) a global standard, and then using a series of trade deals to incentivise other nations to pass increasingly misogynist laws.
The most recent law in Jenny’s home country had guaranteed an unrestricted freedom for followers of the Etreborian religion to practice their beliefs and observe the religion’s holidays and rituals. And as the week of Duhthri approached, this generated a considerable amount of interest among men of certain circles, and those who were paying attention may have noticed a sizeable number of men spontaneously converting to the Etreborian religion as the festival approached.
No one explained the Festival to Jenny until it has already been in progress for two days. She had seen the banners up around town, with their images of triumphant phalluses, crawling naked women, and the omnipresent logo of a vagina with semen dripping from it.
“What’s going on?” she asked her friend Taylah. “What are all these banners?”
“It’s Duhthri,” Taylah explained. “How could you not know? God, you haven’t eaten food prepared by anyone else recently, have you?”
Jenny had. She habitually ate her lunch at cafes, and had attended a restaurant last night. “Why?” she asked.
Taylah explained. “It’s an Etreborian festival, celebrating the forceful impregnation of cattle – except the Etreborian word is a word that means both ‘women’ and ‘cows’, so really they mean women. It goes for a week. The first three nights are the Trinity of Preparation – we’re in day 3 right now – and then there’s the Hours of Shame, which goes for two days, and then the weekend is what they call the Orath, or the Running of the Cows.”
“That sounds gross,” said Jenny. “But why shouldn’t I have eaten out?”
“Because in the Trinity of Preparation, it’s the Etreborian custom to drug women, to prepare them for the rest of the festival,” said Taylah. “Traditionally, they mix cum, piss and fertility drugs into food they feed to women during this period, but I heard recently they’ve developed a drug that counteracts birth control and makes you super-horny too.”
Jenny felt her cheeks burn. She *had* thought her lunch and dinner yesterday tasted strange – there had been an odd white sauce on her steak last night – and she had been so horny when she woke up in the morning that she had masturbated before going to work – very unusual for her. And she was still a little wet now…
Had she eaten some stranger’s cum? Had she been drugged?
“Oh my god,” she said. “We need to go the police!”
“You can’t,” said Taylah. “It’s legal now, if you follow their religion. Their right to drug women and feed them cum is protected by freedom of religion.”
Jenny was horrified. “What happens during the rest of the festival?”
“In the Hours of Shame, they practice the public degradation and mockery of women,” said Taylah. “It’s traditional to publish nude photos you have of other women during this period. The Etreborian papers run a special edition that’s nothing but back to back demeaning photos of women, but these days men publish them to the internet as well. They only address women by names like “cunt”, and they compete to degrade women in public by things like ripping off their clothes, urinating on them, and insulting them.”
“I can’t believe this!” said Jenny. “This isn’t Etrebor! How many Etreborians are there in this city anyway?”
“Oh, it’s not just Etreborians,” said Taylah. “Tons of men have converted to their religion so they can enjoy the festival. Some women, too. Anyone in town could be involved. Me, I’m just going to go home and lock all my doors until it’s over.”
Jenny thought that was a good idea – but when she went home, she was in for a shock. A man was at her front door – taking the entire door off its hinges, and loading it onto his ute.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed at him.
“Removing your door, cunt,” said the man matter-of-factly. “Us believers have made a list of known residences of single women, so as part of the Trinity of Preparation we’re going round and removing your ability to lock your doors against men. We’re allowed to, as part of our religion.”
There were a stack of doors in his ute. He must have been to many houses before hers.
She thought about attacking him, but he was bigger and stronger than her, so in the end she just watched him drive away. Afterwards, she went inside and discovered that many of her interior doors had been removed too, so that none could be barred or locked.
In despair, she sat and made herself dinner from her fridge. Only afterwards did it occur to her that the tradesman had had access to her fridge, and had opportunity to add his cum and drugs to her food supplies – but by that time the next wave of arousal was hitting, and all she could think about was guiltily masturbating in her bedroom, hoping that no one walked into her house, keenly aware that she had no way to stop them.
Later, after she had cum, she thought about trying to leave the city and go somewhere safe – but her car had been immobilised too, and when she tried to take a bus, the bus driver was refusing to let women board.
By now she was terrified. The next day she didn’t leave the house, didn’t go to work, and just hid in her bedroom. By late afternoon she was beginning to think this may keep her safe – but then she heard approaching loud voices, music, and marching feet. A small parade was moving down her street, of maybe thirty men. Two were carrying a large placard showing a fake-titted blonde bimbo, kneeling, covered in cum, with the words “RAPE THE COWS” written on it. Others carried smaller signs with misogynist logos or the sperm-and-vagina logo.
At the front of the group, a man held the leashes of two naked women, who were crawling on all fours in front of the parade. There were clamps attached to their nipples, with weights hanging from them, and their mouths were gagged with ball gags.
The parade went from house to house down the street, stopping and investigating each. When they came to Jenny’s, she tried to run, but they came in through the front door and caught her. The laughing men cut her clothes off her with knives, leaving her naked, and then began to mock her.
“Look at those stupid fuckbags,” laughed one. “Barely worth raping.”
“Her cunt looks loose,” said another. “I bet you could stuff a whole wine bottle up there. If you fucked her, could you even feel the sides?”
“I think it’s trying to say ‘no, please, stop,’” laughed another. “But all I hear is ‘mooo, mooo’.”
They held her down, and Jenny thought she was going to be raped, but all they did was handcuff her hands behind her back. Then one man applied a sticky patch to her right shoulder.
“Preparation drugs,” he told her. “Just like the ones you’ve been fed for the last three days, but stronger.”
Maybe it was all in her head, but Jenny thought she could feel the dermal patch going to work immediately. Certainly her cunt was getting wetter….
The men pulled out the contents of her cupboards and drawers. They cut up all her clothes, until she had nothing left to wear. They flushed her birth control pills and condoms down the toilet, then they smashed her phone and cut her telephone and internet cables. Lastly, one of them attached small clamps to her nipples and clitoris with bells hanging from them. They didn’t quite cut off the circulation in these tender areas, but nor could she dislodge them from her body with her hands cuffed behind her back.
Finally, they took photos of her, assuring her that they would be uploaded to the internet with her real name attached, to help family and friends find them and see them.
Then they left her there.
“See you at the Running of the Cows,” they laughed. “Word of warning – when you hear the horns, start running.”
She lay there in her bed, among the torn ruins of her clothes, all night. At first she was relieved to be left alone, but her pussy grew wetter and wetter, and she couldn’t sleep. She wished her hands were free so she could masturbate. She got up and tried to hump her cunt against the corner of a table, but it was unsatisfying.
By morning, she was tired, hungry, and unable to think straight for arousal. She stumbled out into the street – still nude, handcuffed – ostensibly in the hope of finding food, but at the back of her mind thinking that maybe there might be a man who might fuck her, and help her take care of this maddening arousal.
Instead she found that a trough had been set up in the middle of the street, labelled “cows”. It appeared to be filled with dog food, or something equally slimy and disgusting. Several other nude women that she recognised as her neighbours were kneeling by it and pushing their face into the gross foodstuff to eat it like dogs.
Jenny resisted for a moment – then knelt and joined them.
The woman next to her at the trough was the cute brunette who lived next door. Jenny wasn’t a lesbian, but the woman had a dermal patch just like Jenny’s and was clearly as frustratingly aroused as Jenny was, so when they were done eating, they shared a guilty exchange of looks – and then without any spoken agreement, both went back to Jenny’s bedroom, where they spread they legs and lay in a 69 position, faces flushed with shame as they licked each other to a desperately-needed orgasm.
The arousal didn’t fade after Jenny had cum, though, so the two women stayed like that, lapping at each other’s fuckholes, until they both fell asleep.
They were woken in the morning by the sound of distant horns. Jenny jumped up in shock, remembering the man’s warning – “when you hear the horns, start running” – and realising that Taylah had never actually told her what was involved in “The Running of the Cows”.
But, as should have been obvious to her, what was involved was rape.
She got up and started running – as best as she could with her hands cuffed – even before she saw the first man. Her tits bounced painfully without support, but she jogged as best she could. The bells attached to her nipple and clit clamps jingled merrily as she ran.
But, drugged and tired, she couldn’t outrun even one man – and it seemed like every man in the city was out. The rules of the Running of the Cows were simple. The cows ran, the men chased, and when a man caught a cow, he raped it.
Jenny was raped for the first time in the park at the end of her street, by a man who tackled her from behind, causing her to fall forward and take her full weight agonisingly on her tits. She felt her hips lifted up, putting her in a position on all fours, and then the man jabbed his erect cock into her fuckhole and began to vigorously rape her.
She cried not from the violation, but because under the influence of the drugs her pussy was a traitor, and she orgasmed twice before he filled her womb with his cum. He wiped his cock on her ass cheek, and then stood. Jenny’s brunette neighbour was running past at that point, and the man abandoned Jenny to chase down his next prey.
Over the next 48 hours, Jenny was raped 30 times. The men were crueller to her if she didn’t run. Some had found electric cattle prods, and if they encountered her unmoving they would use the prods on her pussy and tits until she got to her feet and began trying to run – at which point they would tackle her and rape her.
Sometimes it was just one man holding a hand over her mouth as he thrust into her humiliatingly wet pussy. Sometimes it was a group, and the men would take turns holding her in place, squeezing and abusing her tits, raping her pussy or anus, or stuffing their cocks into her mouth as she gagged and struggled.
And thanks to the dermal patch, always, always, the abuse would make her cum.
When it was over, and the festival came to a blessed ending, she went back to her house to sleep. A police officer checked on her wellbeing the next day, and helped her out of her handcuffs. She thought she recognised him as one of her rapists from the day before. She paid for her doors to be replaced, and life began to go back to normal.
Except, as she had feared, she soon discovered she was pregnant. The fertility drugs and the sheer amount of sperm that had been pumped into her fuckhole had left her knocked up. And then the final horror hit.
“And I’m sorry,” said the doctor who she had gone to see for the confirmation of her pregnancy test, “but I’m now going to have to notify the Etreborian embassy. Recent laws mean that any woman impregnated during the Festival of Duhthri has their pregnancy governed by Etreborian law – and that means no terminations without male approval; male supervision of your work, dress and living conditions until birth; regular treatments of your breasts to promote strong milk production; and education in Etreborian beliefs to ensure that you will bring up any child according to Etreborian principles about the relative roles of men and women….”