The Orc Commander and the Elf Maiden

1

AERHRIL HAD HEARD that it would hurt to lose her virtue, but it didn’t.

Of course, nothing about the experience was going the way it was supposed to go, so she guessed that the lack of pain was only to be expected at this point.

It didn’t feel good, either.

He was big.

But she’d known that about him. This was not the first time she’d seen his cock, even if that was something that a proper lady like herself was never supposed to have done.

She should have come to her marriage completely pure, never having seen a man’s member, especially not an orc’s member.

But she had seen this orc’s member before. Had touched it. Had stroked it.

Having seen him, having touched him, having loved him, having wanted him? It didn’t mean she wanted this, however.

No one could want this.

Because now, that huge orc member of his was intruding in and out of her, between her spread thighs, while the skirts of her wedding gown were pushed all around, ripped a few times, too, lying in pools of blue shimmering silk around her to bare her to him.

Actually, to everyone.

But he was in the way, because he was standing between her thighs and pushing that big, thick, green-gray cock of his in and out of her.

They were all still there, the people who had come to her wedding. Well, some of them were dead, she supposed, and she wondered at herself for the way she was thinking about that and not having any actual emotion about it.

There should be an emotion, she thought. But ever since it had started happening, ever since he’d penetrated her, the world had whittled itself down to nothing but the sensation of his hugeness, and the sensation was overwhelming, and she did not have any space within her for emotion.

So, here she was, on the altar to Numearil, the god of the harvest and fertility, lying on her back with her skirts torn and her legs parted and an orc fucking her.

She looked up at him, the orc who was doing this to her, looked at his features in profile, the features that had been dear to her for so long, because they’d been children together, her and this orc, and she supposed his features had been different when they were children, that they’d changed and grown sharper and more distinct as he came of age.

They’d grown rugged, masculine, handsome.

He was in profile, because he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her husband.

No, not her husband, not yet, because they had not gotten that far when the wedding had been interrupted.

It had been odd, when she’d seen Dathor bursting through the doors of the chapel, coming straight for her. For a minute, she had thought he’d come to rescue her.

This wasn’t rescue.

She guessed he was raping her.

She had struggled and hit his chest with her ineffective fists and cried—but that had stopped, she noticed, she wasn’t crying anymore—and he had seized her face with one of his burly green-gray hands—hands that were also graceful owing to his mixed blood, half orc, half elf—and he had squeezed and he had said, “Have you forgotten I hate you, Aerhril?”

And then she had seen it in those stormy light-colored eyes of his, seen it in the way he’d sneered at her, seen it all over him, and known she would not stop him. He was like that, though. When he decided a thing, he did it.

She wasn’t looking at her fiancé, Celedin, but she knew that he was being held in place by two orcs, and that he was being forced to watch this, and that Dathor was taunting him at regular intervals about it.

Dathor hated her, but he hated Celedin more. He had always hated Celedin. They had been enemies when she had first come to this place. Dathor hated her now, but he used to love her.

Dathor was big and he was taking up all the space inside her, every bit of space, because there was so much of him, so very much.

She was stretched, and the stretch wasn’t painful, but it was overwhelming, it was a lot, and she could not do anything except look at him, look at his face and think about times she’d kissed it or touched his skin or wiped away his tears.

Think about all the times she had looked at him when he didn’t know she was looking at him—like this, she supposed—and been so shamefully drawn to him.

She wasn’t supposed to want a half-breed, of course.

She wasn’t ever supposed to have wanted him.

And he wasn’t ever have supposed to have had her, but he was. This was happening. And it was horrible, really, the worst thing on land or sea, and she would not be able to forgive him for this, she couldn’t.

He was so very, very big.

His cock angled in, hitting something inside her that dragged a tattered noise from between her lips.

He looked at her.

Their gazes met and snagged and she looked into his stormy eyes and they widened, and she saw the expression that passed over his face. Regret.

But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t forgive him. He had ruined her in front of a chapel of people, in front of Celedin, and he had brought all of these orcs with him.

How was she supposed to forgive him this? Ravishing her like this?

The tears might be coming back, she thought, and she fought them.

He flinched, and his rhythm inside her flagged. He slammed against her, hard, letting out a grunt, and he stopped his movement.

When he retreated, his cock was still hard as he tucked it into his trousers. He shot a glance at Celedin. “Your dying thought can be whether or not my orc seed will take root in her womb,” he spat at the other man.

But she was fairly certain there was no seed as she drew her trembling thighs together, as she pushed the tatters of her skirts down over her body.

Dathor gestured without looking, his gaze holding Celedin’s. “Get her out of here. Take her to the room at the top of the north tower. She won’t want to watch this.”

Orcs were coming for her. They were all dressed the same, like Dathor, in their rebel uniforms, the fabric a dark blue.

She scrambled backwards on the altar, trying to get away from them, but two of them seized her. They were taller than Dathor, bulkier, full-blooded orcs with thick necks and wide chests. They yanked her up between them, each taking her by an arm.

She tried to watch as Dathor advanced on Celedin. Dathor was saying something to him, something as he leaned close to the other man, whose face was bleeding, who was…

Oh, by the gold fingers of dawn itself, Celedin was crying, too. She had not seen him cry since they were all children together. Admittedly, he started paying other children to hold Dathor down while he beat him before they were out of childhood.

She moaned. She couldn’t stop herself. The sound just bubbled up out of her.

Dathor turned, his expression fierce. “You want to plead for him, then?”

She could not speak or the tears would come out.

“Hold her still,” said Dathor in a hard voice. “I’ve changed my mind. She watches.” He turned back to Celedin. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you when you were slamming your fist into my face again and again, I told you that you would pay for everything you did to me? Do you remember?”

Tears streamed down Celedin’s face. “Please, Dathor, please. We are cousins. We are blood. If that means anything to you—”

“Blood?” said Dathor. “Oh, am I not a creature, then? Am I not an animal?” And he had a dagger and the two men looked into each other’s eyes, and she thought Dathor’s face was twisting, too, she thought he might cry.

But he didn’t.

He just slashed Celedin’s throat, one quick motion, and Celedin’s head slumped forward, and blood poured all over the front of his tunic, and she moaned again, just a moan, just one low and long moan.

Dathor turned to look at her, his expression twisting. “Take her to the tower,” he said hoarsely.