His Orc Chief (Folk of Vale #6)

Chapter One

Andre

Andre bit the pillow to muffle his impassioned groan as he sank the oiled plug into himself.

He had always liked them large, but the shame that consumed him over his preferences had held him back from getting what he needed.

After months of mental debate and countless unsatisfying nights, he’d found the courage to pay a woodworker for what he wanted.

Blushing and stammering, Andre had given measurements on the low end of what he was looking for. The man’s eyes had gone wide.

Andre pushed the toy deeper, its girth dilating his rim, opening him wide. Still, the plug was nowhere near as big as he’d asked for. Perhaps the woodworker had thought he wasn’t able to take it as big as he liked it, but he was. Oh, he was.

At least the man had been discreet. Andre had intentionally commissioned someone from two villages over. The last thing he needed was rumors that Castlehill’s steward was a slut for big cock. Even if it was true.

Andre fed himself the final inches, the plug thick and heavy inside him, the wide base settling at his entrance. Grunting, he unclenched his jaw, teeth letting go of the pillow so he didn’t mangle it.

As big as the toy was, it wasn’t large enough to satisfy him.

He needed a monster of a cock to find relief.

All his life, he’d struggled to achieve climax, nothing and no one ever big enough to grant him the deep, lustful convulsions he craved.

It had upset more than one former lover.

Stroking himself had never brought Andre more than the disappointing mockery of a true orgasm.

Across the room, shadow slid along the windowsill.

If he wanted to find release, he’d have to hurry.

Simmering arousal had tormented him all morning.

When the lunch bell rang, the rest of Castlehill’s staff had gone to the refectory, while Andre snuck off to his chamber on the third floor—a considerable step up from the small room by the stables he’d inhabited before his promotion.

Andre gripped the toy’s flat base, driving its length in and out, trying to hit that needy spot. If prodded enough, it would grant him respite from the constant, churning desire in his loins.

If only there were a man who could sate him, a tall, muscular giant who wouldn’t feel intimidated by his desperate, shyly spoken requests for more.

But no, that wouldn’t happen. Not even the burliest farmhands, the thickest blacksmiths, met Andre’s needs.

He sighed, not liking where his mind was taking him—to the orcs.

It was a thought Andre rarely permitted himself.

Towering seven feet tall, weighing three hundred pounds of war-forged muscle and possessing an insatiable appetite for men, the orcs were formidable.

Since their invasion of Vale two winters ago, they’d been spreading fear and terror among the people.

Fear and terror were not the emotions Andre felt when he thought of them.

Brawny hulks, the orcs were perfectly suited to his preferences.

And their reputation? Well, Andre wouldn’t mind being held down and ravished by a big, powerful monster.

He imagined the enormous clubs the orcs had to be hiding underneath their leather loincloths.

The notion of being taken by one of those brutes was almost enough to bring him to completion.

He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the plug, imagining it was an orc pounding him. No doubt such a massive beast would get him over the edge and send him clenching on that girthy—

Andre moaned. He shifted, knees spreading wider, digging into the mattress, as he tried to get the toy deeper and feel its full length.

The greatest orc was their fearsome chief, Farigoth the Ravager. Few people had seen him and lived to tell the tale. He was the biggest of them, a mighty, terrifying presence. They said he wore the bones of his enemies on a necklace, fierce battle scars marking his skin. He’d never lost a fight.

Andre gritted his teeth, need throbbing between his legs. Farigoth the Ravager. A titan. All muscle. The power he’d put behind every thrust…

Andre narrowed around the plug, arousal drooling onto the sheets.

The angle was perfect, the toy’s blunt head hitting him just right.

Farigoth’s weight would press him into the mattress, his dark, masculine scent engulfing him as he, with awe-inspiring strength, plowed into him, hurling him over the edge and into paradise.

In the hallway, a door slammed shut. Footsteps clacked across the marble floors.

A drop of sweat ran down Andre’s spine and into the small of his back. If he wanted release, he’d have to hurry. Lunchtime was almost over.

He frantically thrust the plug, struggling to get himself to where an orc no doubt would take him. Panting, he changed his hold on the flat base.

Voices filled the corridor, a rapid, urgent staccato. More doors banged. A commotion arose.

Andre cursed. Something had happened. An argument between servants or a runaway horse, perhaps a fire in the kitchen.

His sense of responsibility told him to get out of bed and deal with the issue.

But he was close. So close. The afternoon would be agonizingly long if he didn’t come.

He had about two minutes before someone came and dropped whatever mess had been made at his feet.

He plunged the toy deep, a full-body shudder wrecking him as the tip hit his sweet spot. Just a few more thrusts…

A knock on the door. Disappointment crushed Andre. It was over. His chance of coming had vanished. The dejection snapped to shock when the door handle pressed down. He’d forgotten to lock the door.

He flipped onto his back, the plug slamming deep, and threw the sheets over him to cover his predicament.

The door swung open, and Lady Cordelia marched inside. Her long brown hair was a tousled mess, her cheeks flushed, a leather cuirass strapped to her torso.

Andre’s heart was in his throat. For a terrifying moment, he thought the young woman would guess what he’d been doing. Andre had been caught before, many years ago, in his native village of Stagfield. It hadn’t ended well.

“The orcs are coming.” The words rushed out of her. “We’re evacuating.”

Andre collected himself, ignoring the plug pressing into his prostate. He was known for his professionalism. He could do this.

“Why are you evacuating, My Lady?” Castlehill was a defensible fort. And Lord James Aranin had stationed an army nearby, which was meant to cut off the advancing enemy and decimate their numbers. Had the troops fallen?

“A scout just arrived, almost breaking his horse’s legs when he raced up the hill. The orcs avoided our ambush in the south and are marching on Castlehill.”

Andre grabbed his drawers and breeches and, under the covers, pulled them on. This was a highly inappropriate situation for both him and Lady Cordelia to find themselves in. At least the door stood wide open, protecting her from suspicion.

Lady Cordelia appeared oblivious. “Eric must’ve cracked when they interrogated him.

” Eric was a scout in the employ of King William III of Vale.

He’d recently stayed at Castlehill and was meant to report to Lord Aranin, who’d relay to the king.

During Eric’s last mission, the orcs had captured him.

Everyone worried he might’ve been given to Ikathurg, the orcs’ feared interrogator for Eric was privy to Lord Aranin’s war strategy.

“The orcs knew about the ambush and went around it,” Cordelia continued. “James thinks they’ll surround us. We don’t have enough defenders to hold the castle.”

Hastily, Andre slipped into his shirt. It made sense for the orcs to try to take Castlehill, Vale’s most important stronghold in the south. As steward, Andre would stay behind with a small contingent of servants while Lord Aranin and his sister fled with their retinue.

A valuable and useful prisoner, Andre would not be treated badly by the conquerors. He’d likely remain free and be asked to keep the castle running, which was in the interest of both the orcs and Lord Aranin.

Andre climbed out of bed, covering his crotch with his jacket. “I’ll keep everything in order until your return.” Once the orcs held Castlehill, there was no telling if House Aranin would ever be able to come back, but this was what he was supposed to say.

“You’re coming with us.”

“It’s fine.” The orcs would storm Castlehill’s walls. Heat washed over Andre. The orc leading the charge would claim him. Andre throbbed. “I’ll stay behind and maintain the castle while the orcs occupy it. I don’t mind. It’s my duty.”

“No. James’s orders. Everyone evacuates.”

“But—”

Behind Lady Cordelia, servants marched into the room and began packing Andre’s belongings.

“We need to flee, and you’re coming with us. That’s the end of the discussion, Andre.”

“Yes, My Lady.” There was nothing else to say. Lord Aranin, a generous and kind liege, didn’t want to leave Andre to his fate. Given the orcs’ reputation, it was understandable. Andre hid his disappointment behind a pleasant smile.

He was about to make an excuse to go to the bathroom and remove the plug when panicked shouts sounded from the battlements.

The orcs were in sight. Andre was steered out of his chamber and down the stairs, every step pushing the plug into his prostate, the gland swollen and responsive from earlier stimulation. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Down in the courtyard, the stablemen saddled the horses.

Attendants readied the carriage, an ostentatious coach of golden splendor and lavish comforts.

Lord Richard Dalton, a cousin of Lord Aranin’s, who had been visiting Castlehill to consult on the war against the orcs, climbed inside, followed by his husband, Lilian, a delicate spring fae.

Andre, unsteady on his feet as he crossed the cobblestones, made for the stables, where he kept his beloved horse, Chestnut. Also, there was a washroom at the back Andre could use to—