Chapter Five
Andre
For all his adult life, Andre had fantasized about being claimed by a big, powerful male, and here he was, being carried off by the most formidable orc.
Just hours ago, he’d thought true satisfaction was out of his reach.
Now, his hard cock was pulsing against Farigoth’s muscled front, drop after drop of precum soaking into his breeches.
The enormity of his decision was sinking in.
Andre’s old life was over. He wasn’t going to return to Castlehill.
With a pang, he realized he hadn’t said goodbye, neither to the people he’d served, nor to Chestnut.
He’d be taken across the Great River into the former Turian lands, where he’d live with the orcs, assimilating into their culture of violence and sex, power and submission.
The orc camp was a sprawl of tents and fires.
Everything was massive, from the giant leather tarpaulins resting on tall wooden frames to the orcs themselves, clustering in fours and fives around wide fire pits.
They turned, chatter falling silent, as Farigoth carried him past. Andre could’ve sworn they were salivating, their loincloths tenting.
Farigoth paid them no mind. He brought him to an enormous sleeping tent, carefully setting him down before lifting the flap, revealing a dark cave carpeted with thick, fluffy pelts. A tremor rolled through Andre. This was where Farigoth would claim him.
Andre took a deep breath, the dark scent of orc and desire emanating from the furs. He removed his boots and stepped over the threshold and into his new life, toes sinking into the soft pelts.
“Good night,” Farigoth said and made to close the flap.
What? Wasn’t he… “Wait!” Andre regarded him through the opening, Farigoth’s face in shadow. Why wasn’t he coming in? Wasn’t he going to take him? Had Andre misunderstood? Had he done something wrong? “Aren’t you coming?” he asked, his voice small.
Farigoth exhaled a rush of air. “You’re hard to resist. But no, I cannot mate you now.
I am the chief, and you are a mate of exceptional value.
In my tribe, it is tradition for the chief to publicly exact permission to penetrate from his mate.
We will perform the ritual across the river, in the temple of Orakh, god of orgasm. ”
Exceptional value? Permission to penetrate? Ritual? Andre wasn’t sure what Farigoth meant. He stepped closer, looking up at him. “So you won’t take me now?” It was hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but he managed.
“No. Observing the ritual is important.”
“What is this ritual about? What will I have to do?”
“You? Not much. You’ll be lying sprawled out on an altar, and under the watch of the tribe, I will make you honor Orakh.”
“Make me honor Orakh?” Andre’s limbs tingled as understanding unfolded.
“Make you spill outside a fertile mate’s hole. Male orcs are incapable of that. It is an act of complete surrender, and the only way a mate can permit an orc to penetrate him.”
“In public?” Andre felt faint.
“Yes. A chief must prove he can satisfy his mate, otherwise his ownership may be challenged. Especially when the mate is so… coveted.”
“I have no doubt you will satisfy me.” The words slipped out of Andre. Heat slammed into his cheeks when he realized what he’d said.
But being made to climax in front of the horde? Cold sweat broke out on Andre’s brow. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the thought. In the most private corner of his mind, it excited him. The notion made his cock swell. It was indecent. It went against the very idea of Valian propriety.
Oh God. Andre was in over his head. He swallowed audibly. Public displays of intimate relations were normal for orcs. His heart hammered. “And then you’ll mate me? In front of the tribe?”
“Yes,” Farigoth said. His scent intensified, wrapping around Andre.
He yearned to be claimed. Farigoth was going to take ownership of him.
Orcs regarded their mates as property. Was he ready for this?
One look at Farigoth gave him the answer.
Gazing at those thick legs, at those hard, bulging muscles, he knew he’d do anything for Farigoth.
Anything to have him sink into his hole and own him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the large, empty tent behind him. “Where will you sleep?”
Farigoth gave him a puzzled look. “Outside the tent. I won’t allow another orc near my mate.”
“Won’t you be cold lying on the ground?” The nights were chilly this early in the year.
“I will not lie on the ground. I will sit.”
“But you need to sleep. And you’ll be cold. Orcs hate the cold.”
“I can sleep sitting up.”
Andre turned and grabbed one of the largest pelts, holding it out for Farigoth. “At least take this.”
“No. I will not take away my mate’s comfort.”
“But there are many pelts—”
“You must be warm and comfortable. Now go to sleep. And Andre?”
“Yes?”
“Do not touch yourself. I forbid it. I smell how aroused you are, but all this,” Farigoth ran his giant paw of a hand along Andre’s front and down to his eager cock, making him strain into the touch, “is mine. You may not indulge in it. Do you understand?”
“Yes… My Chief.”
Farigoth cupped his face. “Good human.” Andre’s cock throbbed. “Once I have mated you, you will not want for anything. I will provide you with the deep, intense satisfaction you deserve. As often as you wish.”
How was Andre supposed to survive the night with such promises hanging over him? His hole was begging to be filled.
“Sleep now,” Farigoth said and let the tent flap fall closed.
Exhaling, Andre settled among the pelts. They were soft and warm, the fur sliding between his fingers as smooth as silk. He lay down and pulled the pelt he’d offered Farigoth on top of himself, nestling into its softness. It smelled of Farigoth, and Andre couldn’t help but bury his nose in it.
That was a bad idea, the scent provoking a desperate twitch from his cock. He couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to. But if it ended with Farigoth fucking him, Andre would do anything. Given the orc’s sheer size, he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Farigoth would satisfy him.
With the orc’s scent in his nose, Andre’s arousal continued to simmer. His sleep was light. As the night progressed, the air in the tent grew colder. Caught in the drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep, he wrapped himself tighter in the pelts.
He must’ve finally fallen into a deep sleep in the early morning, for when he woke, warm sunlight was falling through gaps in the crudely stitched-together pieces of leather that made up the tarpaulin. Groaning, Andre rolled onto his back, draping an arm across his eyes.
“Good morning,” a low, rough voice greeted him, and unreasonable happiness tugged at the corners of his lips.
He peeked out from underneath his arm, finding Farigoth crouching in the tent entrance.
“We’re leaving?” Normally, Andre was the first to get up, waking the servants and ensuring everything was prepared for when Lord Aranin rose.
At the orc camp, he had no responsibilities.
He was to obey and please Farigoth but hadn’t been assigned any duties.
That might change today, but somehow he doubted it.
“Not yet. There’s a ceremony first. Come, join me for it.”
Andre fixed his hair, ensuring his plait was neat and even, and smoothed out the creases in his clothing.
On the other side of camp, a wooden dais had been erected, shallow steps leading up to an enormous throne framed by skulls, long, impressive tusks serving as gigantic armrests. Andre had no idea what kind of animal the latter might’ve come from. Certainly none native to Vale.
Farigoth took his place on the throne and motioned for Andre to follow. Before them, the orcs were congregating, the morning sun bathing them in light.
Having always deferred to Lord Aranin, Andre wasn’t used to being everyone’s focus. Now, thousands of orcs were undressing him with their eyes. Unsure what to do, he hesitated, and, like the day before, Farigoth lost patience and hauled him onto his lap.
The crowd grew, every orc’s attention glued to Andre. He was representative of what they wanted but couldn’t have. Eager murmurs swept through the horde, though the orcs didn’t dare to approach, Farigoth’s presence and an honor guard, twelve strong, keeping them at bay.
Farigoth silenced the tribe with a snarl. Andre startled, going rigid in his lap. He relaxed when Farigoth’s arm wrapped around him.
“We have come to an accord with the humans,” Farigoth’s sonorous voice rang out, reaching the farthest ranks. “They’re giving us ten thousand men to mate and breed.”
An enthusiastic roar went through the crowd.
“We drove them into a corner, and they finally yielded.”
The orcs howled, beating their chests in victory.
“Village by village, they will go and find men for us to consume. As a sign of their goodwill, they’ve sent the first one hundred men, eager and willing to be vanquished by mighty orcs.”
Farigoth gestured to the north. All eyes followed.
A procession of men, led by knights on horseback, was streaming down the hill.
Impressive—though Andre should’ve known that Lord Aranin would work hard to deliver those first men swiftly.
He imagined the lord’s aides drifting between tents at night, seeking volunteers, messengers riding to nearby villages to recruit.
As the procession drew closer, two things became apparent: The men were dressed in the way the orcs preferred—naked save for the flimsy loincloths covering their privates.
Secondly, their hands were bound behind their backs with ribbons of silk, their restraints decorative rather than restrictive.
The men were tied to each other, creating the impression of a long row of captives being served up as an offering to the enemy.
The orcs, gratified by the display of Valian submission, shouted their approval.