Infiltrate

The boy stumbled along the street, his vision blurry, and the beginnings of a splitting headache already throbbing in his skull. He wobbled on his feet, arms outstretched, ready to catch himself should he fall.
He was almost a man now – nineteen - and would soon no longer be able to enjoy these evenings with his friends. Nights in the pubs, with the gallons of beer, and the serving ladies dressed in low-cut bust lines, it was all a young man could need. Soon though his father would find him a bride, and he would be held back by having to work in his father’s business, and by the heirs he would need to have and look after. He sneered at the thought of snot nosed children.
Well, at least he’d have fun with the wife chosen for him.
He thought of big busted women, the images covering his sight, his focus on his fantasies. This, combined with his state of drunkenness, made him an easy target in the dark alley he walked in. The moonlight was lost between the two stone walls around him. His arms extended, he felt his way through the alley, thinking his home had never felt this far away before.
His large fingers, previously running over the rough, cool surface of the walls, connected with something soft, something warm. He immediately withdrew his arms, squinting ahead of him. Small amounts of moonlight illuminated this part of the alley. Ahead of him he saw, nothing, nothing but the small puddles in the gutters, the piles of rubbish at the edges, and the locked doorways he passed.
He frowned, whipping his head back and forth, searching for the source of the feeling. He found nothing; no one was out except the occasional rat out in the main street. He shrugged, disregarding the feeling. It must have been the alcohol; it was muddling his brain, messing with his nerves.
It was then that something collided with his back, knees giving out, dropping to the pavement. He tried to roll, to groan and get up, to defend himself, but he found his arms had been restrained. He tried to pull them free, his confidence falling with the rise of his fear. He was a big man, thick arms, wide shoulders, from years of fighting and training. His arms still wouldn’t budge, his shoulders protesting with each desperate tug to try and free himself.
The hands, hand, holding his wrists together, were small, long fingered, feminine. The foot holding his back down, now he thought about it, were softly padded, and smaller than a man’s. A rope of long, soft hair tickled his cheek, the stray stands falling out of the plait, rubbing against his face. Warm air blew across his ear, and a smooth woman’s voice whispered in his ear. If he hadn’t been in such a situation, simply the sound would have spurred more fantasies in his head. Now, however, the sound sent his heart racing faster, pounding against his ribcage. The words the women spoke were more frightening, “Pray to your god, Malachi, and be thankful you were the first in your family. You don’t have to endure the heartbreak and fear as your relatives start dropping like flies.”
His bladder gave with the threat, eyes widening. The image of his father, cruel and cold, was the last thing he thought, before he felt cool metal to his back, and sudden, all consuming pain.