Chapter Ten
Andre
Andre’s vision returned as he came down from his climax. The hall’s attention was on him, glued to the cum he’d splashed against his abdomen. Orcs licked their lips, eyes widening when Andre, shaky from his orgasm, lifted a few inches off Farigoth’s cock and sank back onto him with a groan.
Copulating in the audience hall was part entertainment for the tribe, part affirmation of Farigoth’s power. He was to ride Farigoth, holding onto his release until he commanded him to come.
Containing his passion wouldn’t be easy.
With Farigoth’s giant cock in him and greedy orcs watching, Andre’s lust reached new heights.
This was different from the mating ceremony where he’d lain chained on an altar in a dim chamber.
Here, he was moving freely on Farigoth’s cock, bright light falling onto him.
The orcs were closer and had a better view of Andre, of his bound cock and the cum shooting out of him.
He was to deliver a performance, the thought equally disconcerting and arousing him.
“Another contingent of men will arrive tomorrow,” Farigoth said, his voice booming through the hall. Up and down Andre moved, the orcs’ attention split between him and listening to Farigoth. That, of course, was intentional. “We are going to receive another ten men.”
Farigoth conveyed the bad news as though it were good. Andre had heard of how the delivery of fifty had been received. The orcs who’d gained a mate had been elated; the rest had grumbled about “traitorous humans going back on their word.”
Now, an angry roar ripped through the crowd.
Orcs threw their heads back and bellowed in anger.
Farigoth firmed his grip on Andre, helping him maintain a steady rhythm.
The orcs snarled and hissed. There were hundreds of them in this hall, the majority without a mate.
Some had jumped to their feet, flashing their teeth.
Farigoth slapped Andre’s thigh, ordering him to come. He wasn’t sure if Farigoth showing off before an angry, mateless horde was wise, but Andre was obedient to a fault, and when Farigoth demanded he come, he did.
That big cock grinding across his prostate made it effortless.
Andre focused on the fullness and the sparks each slide sent through his core.
The rings constricted, trying to ward off his orgasm, but the power Farigoth held over him was too great.
His inner muscles tensed, embracing their master, and Andre came, crying out as he contracted in climax.
His balls shuddered, and cum shot out of him.
Bliss surged, and then Farigoth was unloading inside his hole.
Andre couldn’t help the happy moans pouring out of him.
Lo and behold, it mollified the horde. Through half-closed eyes, Andre watched them calm, their interest caught on his cum-spurting cock and the white liquid dripping down his erection and onto his plump sack. They were all but drooling.
Farigoth came endlessly, Andre groaning as he absorbed the precious seed dousing his channel. Farigoth’s release was a gift that he welcomed with fervor, his depraved noises telling the horde how much he loved it.
But as his high wore off, the orcs grew restless, anger mounting. A hulking orc with spiked hair—he was frighteningly close to Farigoth in size—stomped toward the throne, huffing and grunting.
“Ten men! It is not acceptable! I spit on the humans and their false peace!”
And he did exactly that, spitting on the floor before Farigoth. The blatant show of disrespect was a slap to the face.
The guards rushed forward, six of them seizing and pushing him to the ground, his forehead pressed into his own spittle.
“You dare to defile the throne!” one of the guards snarled.
“Serckor,” Farigoth growled, “for your insubordination, you will be whipped. Thirty lashes will bring you in line.” A shock went through Andre.
Thirty lashes? Farigoth turned to the guards.
“Take him to the town square and wait for the end of the audience to administer the punishment. The tribe must witness every excruciating strike so they learn obedience.”
Thirty lashes was brutal. Excessive. It would flay the skin off Serckor’s back.
In Vale, authorities reserved such harsh punishments for hardened criminals who’d committed serious offenses.
In a culture that valued strength above all else, Farigoth couldn’t allow an insult without serious repercussions. Still, it didn’t sit right with Andre.
At the foot of the dais, Serckor bucked and thrashed, shaking off two guards. They were massive, but Serckor was bigger. More guards rushed forward, overpowering him as he fought with bared teeth. A dozen orcs, holding and surrounding him, dragged Serckor from the hall.
“Do not question the treaty,” Farigoth roared. “The humans said they need time to recruit willing mates. Men will come, and you will find satisfaction between their spread thighs. Until then, you must be patient.”
The audience moved on to other topics, orcs bringing forward petitions, grievances and disputes that needed settling.
Farigoth administered judgment, arbitrating between orcs.
Whenever someone needed to calm down or be reminded of Farigoth’s power, he slapped Andre’s thigh, and Andre dutifully came, letting the horde see who owned and controlled him.
By the time the audience wound down, Andre had lost count of his orgasms. With Farigoth replenishing his fluids, there seemed to be no end to the number of times he could come, blissfully shuddering in climax whenever Farigoth required it.
The orcs bowed to Farigoth and retreated. Andre lifted off his cock, sinking onto his lap, muscles tired. Farigoth stoically watched the tribe retreat from the hall.
After all the orgasms, Andre craved affection, yearning for a closeness that went beyond the sexual.
Farigoth’s face was unreadable. It didn’t perturb him.
He snuggled up to him, stealing the intimacy he craved.
For a moment, Farigoth didn’t react. Then he wrapped his arms around him, and Andre’s heart soared.
Over the coming weeks, no further men arrived. Eventually, a missive from Lord Aranin reached Turia, claiming that he needed more time to find volunteers. Public opinion of orcs remained negative, and while he was trying to change that, it wasn’t easy.
Regardless of the reasons, the lack of men stoked turmoil among the orcs. The tribe had withdrawn from Vale because they’d been promised mates, and now, the men weren’t coming. The orcs felt cheated.
Over time, the atmosphere in Turia soured. Orcs argued in the square, fights broke out, and at one point, an angry mob stomped through the streets, growling and hissing. The guard had to drive them apart.
One night, alarmed shouts tore Andre from his sleep. He lifted his head from where it’d been lying on Farigoth’s chest. Where was the noise coming from? The scent of smoke was drifting in from the window.
Andre was awake and out of bed in a heartbeat, Farigoth rousing. He sprinted onto the balcony.
Beyond the palace buildings, to the south, the flickering glow of a blazing fire shone against the black of night. Fright slammed into Andre. That way lay the stables. “Chestnut!”
He rushed out of the bedchamber and into the corridor in nothing but his loincloth. No time to bother with shoes. Farigoth was on his heels, his heavy footsteps catching up to him.
Andre ran along the hallway, down the stairs and out of the palace, onto the main square.
It was mayhem. Screams rended the air. Orcs carrying barrels of water were dashing one way, a stampede of panicked humans the other.
A lone man stood in the middle of it all, staring south where the flames were licking at the night sky, the running orcs parting around him until one of them had the presence of mind to pick him up and carry him off to the sides before he got trampled.
Andre made to sprint south, but Farigoth’s hand came down on his shoulder, stopping him. “No. This is dangerous.”
Andre spun around. “Chestnut’s down there.” Terror choked him.
The shine of the fire reflected in Farigoth’s dark eyes. “I will get him for you. Go back inside.”
Andre couldn’t hide in the safety of the palace when Chestnut and Farigoth were out there. “No, I want to—”
Farigoth growled but didn’t argue. There was no time. “Stay close to the walls. I do not wish to see harm come to you.” Then he was off, hurrying toward the flames.
The intelligent thing would’ve been to stay where he was, but images of a frightened Chestnut bucking in the barn, the flames closing in on him, flooded his mind.
Farigoth would run into the burning stable because he knew how much Chestnut meant to Andre, and an orc would rather die than fail his mate.
Andre couldn’t let that happen. He was going to get Chestnut himself.
He took off after Farigoth. The barn was made of wood, and the straw and hay inside would ignite in seconds. Was Andre too late? His heart squeezed.
The smoke intensified as he ran, stinging his eyes and nose. Tears leaked, forcing him to squint through the haze.
The fire was further south than expected. Orcs kept rushing past him, hauling water.
One of them stopped in his tracks when he saw Andre. He was one of the palace guards often stationed outside his door.
“High Mate,” the orc said, setting down the water and catching him by the shoulders. “You cannot go further. It is not safe. Let me return you to your chambers.”
Andre tried to wrest free, but the orc held him in a vise grip.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot let you go. Allow me to accompany you to safety.” He was probably afraid of what Farigoth would do to him if he let Andre run into danger.
Andre gritted his teeth against the panic building inside of him. He had to help Farigoth; he had to get Chestnut. The guard was stronger.
Farigoth peeled out of the haze, leading a terrified, neighing and rearing Chestnut.