4
Erik's mouth was still open, his tongue still out, his body still slick with cooling come. He was still tasting it—that bitter, earthy, wild taste—when Krag's words registered. Your real christening. The orc's cock, half-hard and glistening, was aimed directly at his face.
"Open wider," Krag commanded.
Erik's jaw stretched, his lips peeling back from his teeth. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He knew what was coming. Some part of him had known since the moment Krag mentioned it earlier and now that moment was here.
"Master, I—"
"Shut up. You don't speak unless I tell you to. You just open that pretty mouth and take what I give you."
Erik's protest died in his throat. His hands, braced on his thighs, trembled.
His cock, jutting up from his lap, was so hard it ached, the head purple and slick with pre-come.
He didn't understand his own body anymore.
He should be disgusted. He should be fighting.
Instead, he was kneeling naked on the stone, covered in orc seed, mouth open like a baby bird, waiting.
Krag's hand squeezed the base of his shaft. The piss-slit—that tiny opening Erik had tongued earlier—flared. And then a stream of hot, golden liquid arced through the air and splashed against Erik's tongue.
The taste was—
Gods.
It was salt and ammonia and something sharp, something that burned the back of his throat. It was hot—hotter than he'd expected, almost scalding—and it flooded his mouth faster than he could swallow. He gagged, his throat convulsing, and piss spilled over his lower lip, dribbling down his chin.
"Don't you fucking waste it," Krag snarled. "Swallow. Every drop."
Erik swallowed. The piss seared down his throat, hot and bitter, and his stomach lurched. But he opened his mouth wider, tilting his head back, letting Krag see that he was taking it. The stream hit the back of his throat directly now, and he didn't gag this time. He drank.
And drank.
And drank.
Krag's bladder seemed bottomless. The piss kept coming, a relentless hot flood that filled Erik's mouth over and over, and each time he swallowed, the taste grew more familiar, less shocking.
The ammonia burn became something else—something that made his skin tingle and his cock leak.
The heat of it in his belly, the weight of it, felt like being filled from the inside.
"There you go," Krag murmured, his voice a dark purr. "Drink it all, you filthy little piss-whore. Look at you. You're not even gagging anymore. You're guzzling it like it's honey wine."
Erik's eyes, watering, met Krag's. The orc was right. He wasn't gagging. He was drinking—eagerly, desperately, his throat working in long, rhythmic swallows. The taste that had seemed so vile moments ago was now just Krag, just another part of the orc he was learning to crave.
The stream shifted, spraying across his cheek, his nose, his forehead. Erik gasped, and piss ran into his eyes, his hair, dripping down the back of his neck. Krag was painting him with it, hosing him down like an animal, and Erik just knelt there and took it.
"Fuck, you're beautiful like this," Krag growled. "Covered in my come, soaked in my piss. You look like you belong to me now. You smell like it too."
The stream died to a trickle, then stopped. Erik knelt in a puddle of his own making, piss dripping from his hair, his chin, his eyelashes. His cock was still hard. Still leaking. The stone beneath him was slick with pre-come.
Krag shook the last drops from his cock, then gestured at the floor. "You spilled some. Clean it up."
Erik didn't hesitate. He bent forward, pressing his tongue to the cold stone, and lapped up the puddle of piss that had pooled between his knees.
The taste was mixed with dirt and dust now, gritty on his tongue, but he didn't care.
He licked the floor clean in long, broad strokes, his ass in the air, his cock swinging between his thighs.
"Look at you," Krag said, circling him slowly. "An hour ago you were a proud thief. Now you're on your hands and knees, licking piss off the floor like a dog. What happened to all that defiance, little thief?"
Erik paused, his tongue still pressed to the stone. "I don't know, Master."
"You do know. Say it."
Erik lifted his head. Piss and spit dripped from his chin. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, found Krag's. "I wanted it. I want it. All of it. I don't know why but I—" His voice cracked. "I need it. I need you to use me. I need to be your whore."
Krag's tusks gleamed. "Better. Now clean my cock."
He stepped closer, his half-hard shaft bobbing in front of Erik's face.
It was slick with residual piss, the foreskin still pulled back, the glans glistening.
Erik leaned in without hesitation and ran his tongue up the underside, collecting the salty-bitter taste of piss and the faint musk of come from earlier.
"No sucking," Krag reminded him, his hand resting on the back of Erik's head. "Just lick. Clean every inch."
Erik did. He licked the shaft from base to tip, lapping at the piss-slit until no trace of urine remained.
He cleaned the heavy foreskin, lifting it with his tongue, delving into the crevice beneath.
He nuzzled into the thatch of hair at the base, inhaling the thick musk there, then licked the sweat from Krag's balls, sucking each one into his mouth just long enough to clean it before releasing it.
By the time he was done, Krag's cock was fully hard again, jutting out like a weapon. Erik stared at it with naked hunger. His hole, still slick and stretched from Krag's fingers, clenched around nothing.
"Master," he whispered, "please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me." The words tumbled out, desperate and broken. "Please, I need your cock inside me. I need you to fill me. I've been good—I've done everything you asked—please, Krag, please—"
Krag grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. "You think you've earned my cock? You think licking my feet and drinking my piss makes you worthy of being fucked by me?"
"Yes! Yes, I'll do anything—anything you want—just please, please fuck me—"
Krag backhanded him. Not hard enough to do real damage, but hard enough to send Erik sprawling onto the wet stone, his cheek stinging, his cock throbbing. He scrambled back to his knees immediately, mouth open, ready to beg again.
But Krag was laughing. A deep, booming laugh that echoed off the walls. "Oh, you're broken now, aren't you? Completely fucking broken. Look at you, begging for my cock like a bitch in heat. It's beautiful."
He crouched down, bringing his face level with Erik's.
His golden eyes were bright with satisfaction.
"But I'm not going to fuck you tonight, little thief.
You need to want it more. You need to ache for it.
You need to spend the night on this cold floor, covered in my come and piss, your hole empty and hungry, thinking about nothing but my cock. "
"No," Erik whimpered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. "No, please, I can't wait—I need it now—"
"You'll wait because I tell you to wait.
" Krag straightened, and from a hook on the wall he took a length of chain with an iron manacle at one end.
He clamped it around Erik's ankle—not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that it wouldn't slip off—and secured the other end to a ring set into the floor.
"You'll stay here. You'll think about what you want.
And when I come back tomorrow, if you've been good, if you've spent the whole night aching for me, maybe I'll give you what you're begging for. "
"Master—"
Krag turned and walked toward the chamber's entrance. His massive frame was silhouetted by the torchlight, every muscle carved in shadow and flame. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.
"Try not to touch yourself. If I come back and smell fresh come on you, I'll know. And I'll make you regret it."
Then he was gone. His footsteps faded down the corridor, and the heavy iron door slammed shut with a boom that reverberated through the stone.
Erik was alone.
He knelt in the puddle of piss and come, his ankle chained to the floor, his body trembling. The torchlight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and urine. His smell. Krag's smell. Their smell, mingled together.
His cock was still hard. Still aching. Still leaking a thin, steady stream of pre-come onto the stone.
He could touch himself. Krag wasn't here to see. He could wrap his hand around his shaft and stroke himself to a desperate, shameful climax, and no one would ever know.
But Krag would know. Krag would smell it on him. And the thought of disappointing the orc, of losing his chance to be fucked, was somehow worse than the ache in his balls.
So Erik didn't touch himself. He lay down on the cold stone, his cheek pressed to the wet floor, his body curled around his aching cock, and he waited.
His mind replayed everything that had happened. Krag's tongue in his ass. Krag's fingers stretching him open. Krag's come on his face, in his mouth, coating his skin. Krag's piss flooding his throat, hot and bitter and perfect.
He wanted more. He wanted all of it. He wanted Krag to come back and hold him down and force that massive cock inside him, wanted to feel his belly bulge with it, wanted to be filled with orc seed until it leaked out of him. He wanted to be used and degraded and owned.
He wanted to be Krag's whore.
The realization should have horrified him. Instead, it settled over him like a warm blanket, comforting and right. This was who he was now. This was what he was for.
"Master," he whispered into the darkness, testing the word. It felt good on his tongue. Right. "Master. Please come back. Please fuck me. I need you."
The torchlight guttered. The shadows deepened. And Erik lay there, chained and filthy and aching, counting the seconds until Krag returned.