The Orc King's Captive (2 page)

She fought her urges, sick with
disgust and self-loathing, but it only seemed to make her excitement more
intense. Her fingernails dug into his thighs, her muscles straining as she
tried to push him away, but he was oblivious to her efforts, as implacable as
stone. It was getting harder to breathe. Her lungs were beginning to burn.

She opened her mouth, gasping
for breath, inhaling his curly brambles. They stuck in her throat, making her
choke. She seized him by the balls, closing her fingers around two large orbs
wrapped in a leathery, hairy sack, and squeezed.

His cock twitched against her
cheek, growing harder, and she heard him chuckle.

She squeezed harder, digging her
nails into his wrinkly flesh.

"Ah. That's it, Little
Queen. Show us some fire."

She screamed, pulling on his
sack as hard as she could, but her cries were muffled by his skin, and his cock
only grew harder and thicker. She wasn't hurting him at all; he was
enjoying
it.

Kerlok jerked back her head. She
sucked in great mouthfuls of air, tears streaming down her cheeks. She refused
to sob. She let go of his nuts, suddenly embarrassed.

"How do you think orcs make
love, Little Flower? Next time, try biting them. I'll enjoy it more."

His cock had grown firmer, a
stalk of dark meat almost as long as her forearm. A thick foreskin covered the
tip, but he teased it back, revealing the broad crown underneath. It looked
like a weapon, a glistening spear meant for impaling soft flesh.

If he tries to put that inside
of me...

"Open your mouth," he
said, twisting his fingers in her hair.

She clamped her teeth together,
grimacing at the pain.

He slapped her, sending her to
the floor.

Her face burned and a fresh wave
of tears ran down her cheeks. He reached down and grabbed her chain, yanking
her back up to a kneeling position.

He dug his hard fingers into her
cheeks, forcing her teeth apart. If he'd used any more force, he would have
broken her jaw.

He stuck his finger into her
mouth, pressing down on her tongue. His skin was coarse and leathery and tasted
like sweat and blood. She bit down hard, digging her teeth in as deeply as she
could.

Kerlok laughed. "Your teeth
are dull," he said. "Most of my wives have fangs."

He forced her mouth open and
pushed the head of his cock inside.

He had a tight grip on her hair
so she couldn't turn her head or pull away. The cleft tip dragged over her
tongue, smearing her sensitive tastebuds with a bitter, salty liquid. She
wrinkled her nose in disgust. His cock tasted like a hank of greasy, cooked
sausage, like something coarse and common roasted over a campfire.

"Show us an elf queen knows
how to use her mouth for more than nagging."

She sat inert, trying not to
move or gag. She refused to give him any satisfaction.

He chuckled and grabbed the back
of her head, forcing his rigid cock into her throat.

The head lodged there, throbbing
and pulsing, stretching her gullet and blocking her air pipe. She struggled,
trying to push herself away, but he held her fast until she began to retch.
When he felt the contents of her stomach rising up to meet him, he pulled out,
letting her spill them on the floor, coughing and sputtering.

He let go of her chain, letting
her crawl on all fours, heaving.

He circled around her, like he
was stalking a wounded deer. She saw his broad feet padding through the edge of
her vision. He walked high on the ball of his foot, his heel rarely touching
the floor. She realized how little evolved the orcs were from animals.

He moved behind her, out of her
vision, and she felt his fingers slip under the neckline of her gown. He pulled
with both hands, dragging her backward as he rent the fabric. The pearl buttons
fastening her dress spilled onto the floor, rolling around her hands and knees
like marbles.

He crouched over her, running
his coarse hand down her spine, his hot breath making her shiver.

He grabbed the sleeve of her
dress at the shoulder and ripped down the seam. A few more tugs was all it took
to strip her. He tossed the tattered scraps of silk to the orcs that stood
circled around them, hooting and cheering.

She could feel them looking at
her, feel their wolfish eyes caressing the delicate curves of her naked flesh,
probing her damp, hairless slit, smelling her heat as they imagined what they
would do to her. Her loins began to throb, aching with horrifying desire, her
cunt moistening as her body prepared itself for their entrance.

I do not want this
, she
thought, outraged; but her body knew differently. For all these long years,
these long centuries of diminishing interest and desire, it had yearned for
this, for someone—something—powerful enough to force her to feel this
heat, to reduce her, finally, to the animal that she was, to the flesh and
blood beneath the flowery dresses, the scented lotions, the elegant discourse.
For something that would fuck her. Something that would put her in her place.

She felt like she'd been frozen
in time, like some superior glamor had beguiled her, left her paralyzed on her
hands and knees. She could still taste the bile in her mouth, smell the pungent
aroma of his cock, but none of that mattered beside the feeling of cool air on
her exposed sex.

She heard him spit. The eyes of
the orcs became strangely bright, their fangs exposed in an expression of
barely constrained lust. She felt his warmth on her flanks, a brief touch of
something wet and rigid against her asshole, and then fire as he pushed himself
in.

She screamed.

He grabbed her hair and yanked
her head back, cutting her off. His cock was buried inside her anus, stretching
her tight ring so wide she felt like she was being split in two.

The crowd was cheering, a
terrifying roar of squealing laughter, like the sound of a pen full of pigs
being slaughtered. His whispered words cut through the din: "You're my
bitch, now, fairy queen."

He pushed his cock in further,
forcing a grunt out of her. It stretched her open; it felt as thick as a
watermelon; she didn't understand why he hadn't broken her hips when he'd
thrust it in. Her asshole burned, but she knew by the ease with which he'd slid
his cock through her tight ring that he'd coated it with something—his own
saliva, she guessed. She supposed that it could have been much worse.

She felt his hands tighten
around her hips, bruising her sensitive skin. He grunted and shoved, shaking
her body, straining his muscles.

She could feel the hard mass of
his cock lodge in her core, feel his bristly balls press against her cunt. He
was all the way inside of her now. She felt like she was trying to pass an elm
tree.

"You will learn to enjoy
this, Little Flower. Soon, you will be begging me for it, crawling to me on
your hands and knees."

That was an impossibility, she
knew. It felt like he was fucking her with a branding iron. A piece of hot
metal the size of a battering ram.

He pulled out slowly, as if
savoring the discomfort he knew she would feel. It burned almost as much going
out as it did going in. She fantasized about turning the tables, about tying
him down and ramming a pike in his ass.

The orcs were going wild,
shouting obscenities in a crude tongue she didn't understand. The tears were
flowing freely down her cheeks, her arms and legs trembling under his weight.
Next to her, he was a giant.

He began pumping her, forcing
himself in and out of her, intent on shaming her and giving himself pleasure.
In all her years, she'd never allowed anyone to even think about this act in
her presence, let alone attempt it, and yet here she was, being fucked in the
ass for a cheering crowd.

As the act wore on, and he fell
into a strong, steady rhythm, she noticed that the burning began to fade, that,
though he filled her to bursting, he wasn't splitting her open, and that her
tears had begun to dry. She felt her heart beating stronger, her breath getting
deeper, and waves of excitement coursing over her body.

His cock was hard, thick and
pulsing, a slick pole that stroked back and forth over her sensitive ring,
stretching her out in curious ways. She felt something like a jolt a few inches
inside of her that made her arms buckle and her nipples tighten.

Spirits, no. Anything but
this.

As he slid in and out of her,
she began searching for tingles, as if she could root them out and banish them,
but she only caught them after the fact, in her goosebumps, her groans, the
trickling of her cunt.

She tried to clamp her mouth
shut, tried to stamp out her desires, but every thrust brought her closer to
the thing she dreaded more than anything else: desire. She refused to surrender
to him, refused to enjoy being degraded, humiliated, publicly shamed. Refused
to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she wanted more.

But it was hopeless. Her body
had turned into another traitor, a scheming counselor intent on her
destruction. She couldn't stifle her moans, couldn't hide the trembling of her
limbs as his magnificent, bestial cock forced itself inside of her, couldn't
wipe away the trail of lust that had started running down her leg.

She was digging her nails into
the marble, arching her back, biting her lower lip to keep herself from crying
out. She felt a flush of heat rush up from her loins to her chest to her neck
and cheeks and she knew it was over. Her muscles contracted, spasming around
his cock as she felt herself carried away on her orgasm. The world went dark,
the throng of orcs dimmed into a blurry haze, their raucous voices drowned out
by her moans of ecstasy. She felt her body bucking, shaking uncontrollably as
his cock tightened and swelled. She felt him twitch violently and then warm,
wet heat filling her. His throbbing cock twitched again, then a third, fourth,
and fifth time as he filled her backside with his seed. It poured out of him in
a rush, spilling out in such quantity that it began oozing back out through her
hole to run down her legs. She heard him grunting and sighing, felt his hands
crushing her hips, the gentle shudder of his body as he finished his release.
And then it was over.

He pulled out slowly, as if the
effort had fatigued him, and she collapsed in a heap. She watched from the
floor as he strutted around the dais with his fists in the air in a sign of
victory, working the crowd, his proud cock hard and glistening.

––––––––

W
hen she woke, she found herself
still naked save for the collar around her neck, sitting on the floor of her
bedroom, shackled to the foot of her ornate, four-poster bed. The shutters of
the high, arched windows were open, letting in the dim light of a gray sky, a
cool breeze, and the sounds of battle. A chickadee was perched on the sill, but
when she whistled to it, it flew away. She heard a grunt to her right and
turned.

An orc sat on one of her
grandmother's delicate chairs, elbows on his knees, staring at her. The legs of
her chair bowed under his weight.

"Sleep well, elf
queen?" He smiled; half of his teeth were missing. He seemed particularly
revolting for an orc, but it was hard to make comparisons. They were all so
brutish and bestial.

"Like a baby," she
said. Her voice sounded thick and it hurt to speak. She poked at the inside of
her cheek with her tongue. It was swollen from where Kerlok had slapped her. No
doubt it had bruised nicely. Her bottom was sore as well, though she supposed
it could have been worse. Kerlok's oily saliva seemed to have protected her
from the brunt of the damage.

"Soon you will carry
Kerlok's baby," said the orc, chortling.

"You don't really know
where babies come from, do you?" she said. Antagonizing her captor
probably wasn't a good idea, but Quolondra wasn't used to guarding her speech.
In any case, it was better to appear strong than weak.

The orc stood up, knocking over
the chair with a clatter. "I know how it works," he said, sneering.
"Maybe I show you. You carry my baby instead." He undid his belt.

Quolondra tensed, a cold knot in
her belly.
Like dropping a candle in oil
, she thought bitterly. How
she'd managed to avoid being raped in her sleep she'd never know.
Instinctively, she tried to raise a protective ward, but instead of a surge of
Elder power, she felt only a dim void.
The collar.

"I'll shout," she
said, keeping her voice calm. "I'm sure your king won't like the thought
of his hound chewing his toys."

The orc hesitated, giving her a
sly smile, showing her the gaps in his teeth. He re-buckled his belt,
tightening the strap. His hands were big enough to crush pumpkins. "There
will be plenty of time for me later," he said. "Kerlok uses his women
hard, but tires of them quickly. You will find me more patient. And much less
forgiving."

Quolondra's shoulders prickled
with goosebumps.
This one's cruel,
she realized,
with no love for
women.
She'd have to be more careful.

"Where is your
master?" she asked. "Taking the rest of his hounds for a walk?"

"Killing your kin," he
said, shrugging. "Or raping them. Who knows."

"Yes, orcish hospitality is
legendary." Something about the way the orc was behaving suggested
bravado. Quolondra guessed that the orcs and elves were still fighting.
Hylandryl was a large city, and its winding alleys, high towers, and
labyrinthine hedge mazes would prove a greater hindrance to subduing the
population than the orcs realized, even depriving the elves of their magic.
There was still hope, then, and that gave the queen more than enough reason to
keep fighting.

"What's your name?"
she said after a long pause. She hoped she'd waited long enough to make it seem
like idle conversation.