Chapter 11
ENG
The knock on my door startled me. No one had ever come to my hovel, and for a second I assumed whoever it was had the wrong address. I expected a human delivery person when I swung the door open, but instead I saw the shrew.
Her midnight curls had been pulled into a messy top knot, ringlets escaping to frame the golden skin of her face.
The hairdo made her eyes look bigger and darker.
But it wasn’t her eyes that held my attention, it was a body part below her neck.
The shrew wore a snug red T-shirt with a low scooped neck that revealed the topmost curve of her breasts.
It was just a glimpse, a hint of the firm roundness hidden by the fabric.
My hand-axe rose as I remembered the feel of them in my hands, the taste of them on my tongue, the way she gasped when I drew her pebbled nipples into my mouth.
Then she told me that she wanted to ride my hand-axe all night long. The instrument in question instantly hardened, and I dragged her into my hovel, barely taking a moment to swing the door shut with my foot before I claimed her mouth with mine.
Her tongue swept against mine. Her hands clawed ineffectually against my shirt.
Then with a frustrated noise, she reached for my neck and climbed me, wrapping her legs tight around my waist and grinding herself against me.
The silky patterned skirt she wore had bunched up above her hips, and I caught sight of the narrow strip of black lace that only served to highlight the beauty of her garden.
We were frantic. Starved. We didn’t even make it to my tiny bedroom, falling instead on the garish plaid couch that had been provided with this hovel.
I held back enough to be careful with her clothing, liking this skirt and top and not wanting to ruin them.
She wasn’t as considerate when it came to my attire.
A seam tore as she yanked my shirt over my head.
A button flew as she impatiently yanked off my pants.
Clearly thrilled to find there were no further barriers to my hand-axe, she dropped her mouth to the tip while my pants were still around my ankles, snagged in place by the shoes and socks I still wore.
The world around me blurred and I fell back against the arm of the sofa, completely consumed by the warm, wet slide of her lips on me, the little flick she did with the tip of her tongue along my slit, the way she took me deep down to my base, sucking as she slid up to release me with a “pop.” Her one hand cupped my balls, while the other supported herself right next to my thigh on the sofa cushion.
The loose ebony curls tickled my skin each time she pulled me in, and her eyes met mine, filled with wicked pleasure each time she slid me free of her mouth.
I tried to hold back but she made a humming noise as she pulled me deep into her mouth and I nearly came undone.
“I want to taste you. I want—” I couldn’t finish the thought, frantically trying not to come.
“Later,” she whispered as she licked the white bead that had escaped my hand-axe. “I know how quickly you recover. We’ve got all night for you to taste me and fuck me. Right now, I want to get you off with my mouth. I want to swallow every drop of your seed. I want to lick you clean.”
I gasped, knowing I was going to lose this battle.
This female could take me over the edge like none ever had before.
There was something addictive about her, something that made me want to claim her as mine, to murder any male who so much as looked at her.
I wanted her in my bed. I wanted her by my side.
Something deep inside me hinted at the male I could become if I just let this shrew into my heart.
It wasn’t long before I lost the battle of control and emptied myself into her mouth. Again and again we brought each other indescribable pleasure. For the second night in a row, neither of us got more than a few hours of sleep, yet I’d never felt so relaxed, so rested.
It wasn’t until the next morning, waking to an empty bed, that reality came crashing down.
What had I been thinking? The urge to claim her, to throw her over my shoulder and take her home where she could be mine forever had seized hold of my mind last night.
I never wanted her to leave my side. Yet in the cold light of day, with rumpled and damp sheets tangled around my legs, I knew this was only a fantasy.
Even if I brought the shrew home as my bride, we’d need to endure the disapproval of my parents and the court.
Then she’d face the incredible boredom of having no real power, no influence, no challenging or interesting work.
Endless days of nothing interspersed with an occasional ceremonial event where our only duty was to stand and smile for hours at a time.
As much as I wanted her, this was no life for my shrew.
I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t do that to me.
It would be better for us both if I married someone like that princess of Canton-onia.
She knew what endless boredom this role entailed.
Just like me, she’d been born and raised to know her position in life.
Such an environment wouldn’t wither her, slowly, sapping the boldness from her soul like it would from my shrew.
I spent nearly an hour in the shower, scrubbing myself over and over with the soap to hide the scent of the shrew from the other orcs I would undoubtably see later in the afternoon.
It was incredibly crude to mention the scent other orcs carried from their recent sexual activity, but the males on our hockey team weren’t particularly cultured or mannered.
I didn’t want any comments about my escapades last night, and I certainly didn’t want anyone recognizing the shrew’s scent from the one time they’d met her over the weekend.
A good cleaning should scrub her scent from me, no matter how I mourned losing the remembrance of last night in my nostrils with each inhalation.
There was no need for me to rush to the arena, since I wasn’t interested in playing this hockey game or anything to do with my supposed employment.
All I needed to do was show up once a day and at games until I found my bride, so I dressed and left my hovel, intending on getting a meal and walking about the city.
As I started down the street, I remembered that I’d told the elderly human I’d met yesterday that I might meet him and his friends at The Old Cellar drinking establishment near the port that seemed to open at a particularly indecent hour of the late morning.
Concerned about what suitable choices of breakfast foods there might be at a pub, I grabbed an egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich and made my way there.
The weather was amazing. The sun shone bright and surprisingly strong for the autumn season.
A cool breeze wove its way through the maze of buildings, carrying the faint hint of aquatic life that made these brackish river waters their home.
Pulling my phone from my pocket I examined several maps of the waterways along this section of the state, amazed at the network of deep-water rivers that fed into the huge bay.
These waters provided not just excellent ports for the shipping and receiving of goods, but also a bounty of food, recreation, and the basis for numerous waterfront communities.
Orcs were not the most sea-loving beings of the fae world, but were very fond of smoked fish, and our young were often found playing in rivers, lakes, and even the sheltered waves of the ocean inlets.
Still, I found myself thinking of the ports of my kingdom, and the little towns that often sprang up near rivers and the shore.
The Old Cellar was an ancient brick building sharing two external walls with a hardware store on one side and a laundromat on the other.
I stood outside and read the sign on the door just to make sure that the establishment was in fact open at this hour of the morning.
Walking in I took a second to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and immediately heard the old man I’d met yesterday.
“Enzo!” He walked over to me and reached up to presumably slap me on the shoulder in greeting. With the difference in our height he was only able to reach my biceps. I gently returned the greeting.
“Come meet my friends,” the man turned and waved toward a crowd of equally elderly males and females, all staring at me with expressions of curiosity and interest.
Introductions were made and I was immediately assailed with questions about my kingdom, the food, and the healthcare system.
The food questions were easy to answer. I told them all about my childhood favorites—what Piotr called “comfort foods.” Then I described the lavish banquets the royal palace hosted for feast-days.
Edna demanded to know if the “regular people” were provided these fancy dishes or if they were only made for the “rich muckety-mucks.” I was happy to assure her that a lottery system ensured over half of the attendees at the palace were non-wealthy citizens, and that the palace sent small versions of whatever pastry the feast-day called for to community centers and areas that served our poorest citizens.
Edna sniffed, only mildly impressed by this.
Before she could berate me for not feeding the disadvantaged from my own plate, Benny demanded to know the details of our healthcare, referencing something called “Medicare” and lamenting about the need for “supplemental insurance policies.”
I felt myself begin to sweat. “We have healers in our cities and towns that can manage most illnesses and injuries. I don’t know what they charge for their services.”
They probably billed the palace, but I’d never seen any invoices or even the fees for various magical healing amulets or charms either. From the scowls of Piotr’s friends, this lack of knowledge was a significant moral failing.