Chapter Five #3
The orcs toppled him, ridding him of his loincloth, and then their hands were on his naked body. They stroked his cock and pinched his nipples, dipping between his legs, pressing fingers into Lawrence’s most intimate opening.
Andre clung to Farigoth. Lawrence writhed on the ground, overwhelmed. The orcs brought him to the pinnacle of lust, release shooting out of him in a high arc. They mounted him, one after the other, each bringing him to another shuddering orgasm.
“All three are claiming him?” Andre asked, indicating Lawrence.
He couldn’t believe how hard they made him come and in such quick succession.
It was the same all around the bonfire, orcs in twos and threes descending on men, making them theirs.
Still, most orcs were left without, watching as their comrades ravished the men.
“Oh yes. There are many orcs and few mates. If they worked together to make him spill, he’s given all three permission to take him.
Every time he comes on an orc’s cock, the orc deposits his seed in him, tying them together as mates.
Few orcs get a mate to themselves.” Farigoth nodded toward a couple to the south, a lone orc taking a tall, muscular man from behind.
A moment passed before Andre realized who he was looking at.
“I permitted Ikathurg to mate Eric when he extracted the information that got us into Castlehill—and to you.”
Andre sat up straighter. “To me?”
“I’d heard of you. Your beauty. Your willingness to surrender. When I picked up your trail and smelled your submissiveness for myself, I had to have you.”
Andre felt weightless. He gazed at Farigoth with wonder. The orc chief had pursued him, an ordinary man from Stagfield. A stable boy turned stable master turned steward. Andre had worked hard to get ahead, spending long hours in the stables, always going the extra mile for Lord Aranin.
“Once we are mated,” Farigoth said, indicating the crowd, “we will join the tribe.”
“Join the tribe?” Farigoth couldn’t possibly mean what Andre thought he meant. Farigoth would mate him in front of the orcs, but surely, it wouldn’t continue to happen in public. Would it?
“A chief must prove his virility, his ability to pleasure and breed his mate. The tribe must see the evidence of the mate’s satisfaction. How else would they know their chief is taking good care of him?”
Anxiety and excitement flashed through Andre. Farigoth would keep claiming him publicly, asserting his territory. His ownership. It was beyond Andre’s wildest dreams.
With poorly hidden arousal, he watched the debauchery unfold around the fire, men reaching one climax after another as the orcs pounded them. If only Andre could bask in this kind of pleasure too. For now, he’d have to content himself with watching.
When the bonfire had burned down, Farigoth took Andre to his tent.
The night was clear and cold, a myriad of stars glinting in the sky.
The moment Farigoth stepped away, taking his body heat with him, a violent shiver rattled Andre.
Gooseflesh pebbled his skin. As he shuddered, Farigoth barked an order at the guards to get more pelts.
That night, Andre lay under a mountain of furs and still couldn’t get warm. They were marching south, and winter was turning to spring, but it was a cold night, and by morning, Andre’s feet were ice. When he climbed onto Chestnut, the wind picked up, its chill engulfing him. Andre sneezed.
Farigoth whipped around, alarm on his features. “Are you sick?”
Andre didn’t want to lie to his new master, but neither did he want to worry him unnecessarily.
An icy gust struck his bare skin, and he sniffled. If his condition hadn’t been obvious before, it now was. “Maybe.”
The pure terror in Farigoth’s eyes hit Andre unprepared. He recalled the orcs’ history, how they’d lost their females to illness, and it dawned on him that there was nothing that terrified an orc more than a sick mate.
“No, don’t worry, I—”
Farigoth laid a big hand on Andre’s thigh, his palm hot against his cold flesh. “You’re freezing.” His eyes were wide with shock. “You must tell me when you are cold. When you feel less than comfortable. I will not suffer my mate-to-be succumbing to illness!”
“It’s just a cold—”
“Guards! A fur cloak for my mate! Quick!”
Andre struggled to hide his surprise. Orcs found clothing beyond a loincloth objectionable.
They wore little, showing off strength and muscle, and wanted their mates skimpily dressed and displaying ridiculous amounts of skin.
Apparently, the need to keep a mate healthy overruled their dislike of clothing.
The guards brought forward a massive cloak of thick brown fur, and Farigoth wrapped it around him.
The garment was warm and soft, silky fur pleasuring Andre’s skin.
But no matter how many times Farigoth adjusted the cloak, it kept falling open at Andre’s front, revealing his bare flesh from his throat to the gilded belt of his loincloth.
Farigoth added a clasp and chain so that the cloak wouldn’t gape anymore, but a strip of skin remained visible.
“I’m already much warmer,” Andre reassured him.
“Yes?” Farigoth ran a hand from Andre’s collarbone to his lower abdomen, leaving a trail of warmth. The concern drained from his features, replaced by a smug expression. “You are very pretty, even when wearing clothes.”
Andre chuckled, drawing a raised eyebrow from Farigoth. “I apologize, My Chief. Thank you for your kindness.”
A smile crossed Farigoth’s lips, but then he caught himself, the happy expression replaced by his usual stern face.
They made good progress that day, the wind chasing small, white clouds across the sky.
Andre caught glimpses of Eric riding his horse, Ikathurg beside him, a hand on his thigh. At one point, Ikathurg dragged him off the horse and into the bushes. They returned disheveled, satisfied smiles on their lips.
Further back rode Lawrence, accompanied by his new mates. The orcs kept close, petting and stroking him.
Had Andre not been claimed by the largest of the orcs, he would’ve been envious of the mated men. He couldn’t wait to give himself to Farigoth, to let the orc assert his power over him. Deep down, Andre didn’t mind the tribe witnessing their union. By the end, Farigoth would own him.
That night, there was no bonfire, though countless smaller fires littered the camp. The orcs roasted whatever game they had caught during the day, hand-feeding the meat to their new mates with pride, hordes of unattached orcs watching with flaming desire.
Andre and Farigoth sat apart from the others, Andre safe in Farigoth’s lap.
Their roast, liberally seasoned, smelled divine.
Farigoth tore off a strip of meat, offering it to him.
“You must eat well to maintain your health.” He pushed the morsel to Andre’s lips, the scent of the richly spiced meat filling his nostrils.
Andre salivated. He opened his mouth, welcoming the food.
Locking eyes with Farigoth, he curled his tongue around the tender piece of game.
Flavor exploded on his tongue, and a moan slipped free.
Farigoth’s gaze flared. Feeling bold, Andre licked the meat juice off Farigoth’s fingers, sucking them clean one by one.
Given their size, it was no easy feat. Each digit filled and stretched his mouth.
Andre sucked them clean with fervor, heat igniting his loins.
When the orcs around camp had finished their food, they descended on their mates.
Under the hungry eyes of the tribe, they took them.
The pleasured cries of the men mixed with deep orc grunts.
Wherever Andre looked, orcs were claiming and breeding their men, the slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh ringing through the night.
It was an orgy. He was closer to the debauchery than the night before, when he’d sat removed on the dais.
Here, the mating took place all around him.
Underneath his loincloth, Andre twitched. Farigoth had him burning with desire. His lonely hole pulsed, begging for relief. He hadn’t come in a long time, hadn’t even experienced the shallow satisfaction of an orgasm achieved by stroking himself to climax.
The cool night air brushed his skin where it wasn’t covered by his fur cloak, the light breeze playing with his loincloth. Its silk stroked his swollen, weeping tip. Blushing, Andre pulled the cloak over the place where his straining cock tented the thin fabric.
Farigoth grumbled in displeasure. He caught Andre’s wrist, staring intently at him as he pulled his hand, and with it the cloak, back. “I did not give you clothes so you could cover your need.”
“But—”
“This,” Farigoth said, gesturing at Andre’s thinly-veiled arousal, “is beautiful. You must not hide your lust.”
Andre lowered his voice to a whisper. “Everyone’s going to know that I’m…”
Farigoth frowned and made a show of looking at the copulating couples around them. “It is not a problem.” His frown deepened. “They need to know that I arouse you.”
All his life, Andre had been taught that sex was private and shouldn’t be put on display. Doing so was shameful. He wasn’t supposed to want to show off his desire. He wasn’t supposed to like enormous cocks. Or worse, orcs.
“Valian culture,” Andre said, “is different.”
Farigoth made a dismissive gesture. “Valian culture does not apply here.” He was right. At the camp, orcs outnumbered men, and the gap would be even greater in Turia. Valian sensibilities didn’t matter.