Chapter Fourteen #3
None of them wore more than a loincloth and whatever jewelry their mates had gifted them. Andre was decked out in riches and would’ve felt self-conscious being on display, but it brought honor to Farigoth, and Andre didn’t mind being shown off as the chief’s prized possession.
Across the unlit twin bonfires, the nobility had taken their seats on a wooden dais: Lord Aranin and Raziel straight-backed and side by side, Master George inappropriately in Resh’s lap, Lord Dalton with an arm around Lilian’s shoulders.
Lady Balfe of Firshaw was there with her husband, as were Lord Lighthall, who’d inherited the earldom of Stonebridge from his late mother, and many other nobles of the south.
Below, the crowd drifted between the stalls selling hot sausages, buttered bread and hoppy beer.
Word was that the party from Stagfield was delayed due to a miscommunication, and Andre was glad for it.
Perhaps they would miss the festivities.
Regardless, the crowd was larger than it had ever been, a couple of thousand men at least. Boisterous laughter filled the evening air, the sun’s golden light falling between the trees of the nearby forest. Hidden deep in its shadows, the orcs were performing their own rites before the festival of Ugkor began.
Their proximity made the Valians nervous. Knights on horseback circled the grounds, ensuring the safety of the men. Farigoth had the horde under control; nothing would happen, but the men of Vale had demanded security measures from their lords and ladies if they were to be near the orcs.
The moment the sun kissed the horizon, a marching band of drummers and pipers entered the meadow.
In forest-green uniforms, buckles polished to a shine, they strode across the grounds, coming to a stop in front of the nobles and played them ‘The dance of springtide.’ It was a cheerful piece, the upbeat melody praising the season’s riot of colors.
When the music and the subsequent applause had faded, Lord Aranin rose from his seat to speak, his voice carrying across the field.
“Welcome, my lords and ladies. Welcome, people of Vale, to the spring festival where we rejoice in the bloom of the land and the coming of summer. This year, it is no ordinary celebration: we have gathered to honor our treaty with the orcs.” A murmur went through the crowd, men shifting from foot to foot.
“I want to reiterate that there is no need for concern. No man will be forced to mate an orc, and no orc will ravish a man against his will. We are here to pay tribute to the men who have given themselves to the tribe and to observe them as they perform their sacred duty. No more is asked of us. Enjoy the evening. Let the festivities begin!”
The music resumed as Lord Aranin and Lord Dalton descended from the dais. The guards handed them torches, and under the eyes of the people, they did the honors of lighting the bonfires.
Within minutes, the flames were dancing in the darkening sky.
The scent of woodsmoke filled the air, chasing away the mosquitoes buzzing over from the nearby lake.
The bagpipes set in, and soon, the local shepherds were driving their livestock between the fires to obtain the Lady’s blessing for their herds.
Wren, a shepherd from Castlehill, was not there.
Andre hadn’t seen him once over the winter, and rumors said he’d run away with Prince Elior of the Summer Court.
Andre had dismissed the stories, but his absence was unusual, and before his disappearance, the young man had been strangely close to the prince.
Stars flared to life in the sky one by one, and when the Winged Horse constellation rose, the music stopped. Knights escorted Andre and the other mates along a path of lanterns into the forest.
The moment he stepped between the trees, the fragrant scent of honeysuckle and woodruff enveloped him.
Sweet and seductive, it called them deeper into the woods.
Andre and the men followed the lantern path through the trees, the soft light touching the moss at their feet.
After a few minutes, they reached a sparsely forested area, lamps hanging prettily from the trees, creating the impression of fireflies dancing through the night.
It was here that the mating would take place.
The orcs emerged from the greenery and met their mates halfway, the pairs spreading across the glade.
Farigoth’s imposing stature stood out among the horde.
He scooped Andre up and chose a spot below a large hardwood tree, gently pushing Andre onto his back.
Grass tickled his skin. Above them, the tree’s verdant canopy spread like an umbrella.
The thin chains wrapped around Andre’s torso glinted in the lamplight, emeralds shimmering softly.
Farigoth dragged a warm finger along those golden lines, a smile softening his features.
“My beautiful mate. Tonight, the humans will understand what it is like to be with an orc, and they will fear us no more.” He undid Andre’s loincloth, letting the silk slide off his hips.
A few yards away, on a free patch of grass, Lawrence’s orcs were shredding his sparse clothing, salivating.
Ikathurg pushed Eric against a tree, hungrily kissing him.
Further afield, Gael’s mates toppled him, the young man dropping a delighted shriek as he tumbled into the grass, and the orcs descended on him.
Andre spread his legs in invitation. They gazed at each other as Farigoth pulled at the toy, the plug coming free. He shrank it, leaving but the rings holding Andre’s cock and balls captive. Andre’s hole gaped, trembling as it slowly closed. He loved being so exposed.
Farigoth lifted Andre’s butt, legs in the air, and dipped his head. Hot breath ghosted over Andre’s most private opening. Tingles rushed across his stretched rim, the little muscle contracting in excitement.
A happy cry tore from his lips when Farigoth licked across his opening. Big hands seized his cheeks, spreading them. Farigoth’s tongue circled him, warm and wet.
Andre went cross-eyed as waves of bliss washed over him.
No man had tongued him there, the caress so intimate it made his head spin.
Every lick was acutely personal, Andre answering with whimpered moans, affirming each flick of tongue with wholehearted enthusiasm.
His volume picked up when Farigoth dipped inside, his thick, powerful muscle easily breaching Andre’s slack ring, diving into his channel.
Around them, the glade came alive with moans and grunts, men writhing under skilled orc hands, groaning to the steady rhythm of girthy cocks.
Farigoth wriggled deep, massaging Andre’s inner walls as he wormed in. Fuck, that tongue was long. Whenever Andre thought it must’ve bottomed out, there was another inch. And another.
Farigoth snaked across his prostate. An ecstatic shout ripped out of Andre, and dots of bright light exploded in his vision.
His legs shook. Blindly, he gripped the roots of the tree and hung on for dear life as Farigoth flicked and stroked his sweet spot, a cascade of mindless screams and whines pouring out of him.
Farigoth’s tongue was a gift from heaven. Andre’s head lolled from side to side, his eyes only by chance falling on the path leading up from the festival grounds.
In the distance, Master George was leading the men through the forest. An army of knights tailed the group, ready to intervene in case the situation got out of hand.
It wouldn’t. The majority of orcs were here with their mates, and the unmated ones were sure they’d have no trouble securing a willing mate once the men saw what the orcs could do for them.
Farigoth rolled the tip of his tongue over Andre’s gland, eliciting an eager rock of his hips. He chuckled, repeating the motion, and Andre hissed when his balls tried to draw toward his base, the ring angrily tightening and pulling them away from his body.
Andre grunted, face tense, hands clutching the gnarly roots. Lust crested, and his cock jerked in the unforgiving hold of the toy. Just as it became too much, the peak leveled off.
Panting, Andre let his head drop back. Those rings worked tirelessly to prevent his orgasms. He was grateful they helped him be good and not come without permission.
The group led by Master George reached the edge of the glade.
The sounds of fucking, skin slapping skin, rang through the night.
Master George guided the men onto the meadow, men and orcs in intimate embrace surrounding them.
With a flick of his hand, he encouraged the group to disperse and take in the debauched sights, which the men did with hesitation, worried an orc might jump them.
But no such thing happened; the orcs were engrossed in consuming their mates, the first cries of release resounding across the grass.
Master George retreated toward the woods, where a dot of red light hovered between the trees.
A flash erupted, and a dark figure emerged from the shadows—Resh.
He took George’s hand and led him into the thicket.
Andre suspected what his intentions were on this night of secret lovemaking in the forest.
The knights remained at the edge of the glade, barely visible in the dark. But they were there, a layer of protection for the men, who roamed between the moaning heaps on the grass.
Farigoth’s tongue didn’t let up. He teased Andre’s most sensitive place in a ceaseless stream of licks and prods.
Precum pearled on Andre’s tip, the thickening bead winking in the light of the lanterns.
Farigoth’s caresses grew the shiny blob until it dripped down in a long, clear thread, hitting Andre’s taut stomach.
Another lick, another sluice of precum.