7
The leather collar was the first thing Erik felt every morning.
It was a thick band of treated hide, dark with sweat and oil, fitted snug around his throat.
A heavy iron ring hung from the front, and through that ring passed a chain that Krag sometimes used to lead him, sometimes just left coiled on the floor like a promise.
Two months. Two months since he'd been dragged into this stronghold, a thief with quick fingers and a quicker mouth.
Two months since Krag had broken him, remade him, claimed him.
Now Erik slept naked at the foot of the orc's bed, curled on a pile of furs that smelled of sex and sweat and the deep, earthy musk of his master.
His body had changed in those two months—leaner, hungrier, his skin permanently flushed around the collar, his hole never quite closing anymore, always slightly gaped, always ready.
This morning, Krag woke him with a boot to the ribs. Not hard. Just enough to stir him.
"Up, little whore. Today we train."
Erik scrambled to his hands and knees, the chain rattling. His cock was already half-hard—it always was, these days—and he looked up at Krag with eager, glassy eyes. "Train, Master?"
Krag was already naked, his massive body limned in the orange glow of the brazier. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, still soft, still enormous. "You've been obedient. You've been eager. But your body can take more than I've given it. Today, I'm going to find out how much."
He led Erik by the chain to the center of the chamber, where a wide stone block waited—the same block where Erik had been bent over on that first night.
But this time, Krag had laid out tools: a clay pot of rendered grease, a polished metal mirror the size of a shield, and a carved stone plug that made Erik's breath catch in his throat.
The plug was the size of a small melon, tapered at one end, flared at the base. It was smooth and dark, veined with faint lines of quartz that glittered in the firelight. Erik stared at it, his hole clenching instinctively.
"That's for later," Krag said, noticing his gaze. "First, we start with my hand."
He ordered Erik onto the stone block, on his back, legs spread and pulled up to his chest—the same position he'd been in the first time Krag fucked him.
Erik obeyed instantly, his muscle memory taking over, his body already responding to the familiar posture.
His cock was fully hard now, bobbing against his stomach, leaking a thin stream of pre-come.
Krag dipped his fingers into the grease. It was thick and pale, rendered from some orc-hunted beast, smelling faintly of smoke and meat. He slathered it over his right hand, working it between his fingers, coating every knuckle. Then he pressed two fingers into Erik's waiting hole.
No resistance. Erik's body opened for him like a flower, the ring of muscle stretching easily around the invading digits. Krag added a third finger, then a fourth, working them in and out with wet, obscene sounds. Erik moaned, his hips rocking, his cock drooling.
"You're so loose now," Krag murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Remember when two fingers made you scream? Now you're swallowing four like it's nothing."
"More, Master," Erik gasped. "Please. Give me more."
Krag grinned. "Greedy whore."
He folded his thumb into his palm and pressed his whole hand against Erik's hole.
The stretch was immense—a burning ring of pressure that made Erik's back arch and his mouth open in a silent scream.
Krag moved slowly, inexorably, his hand twisting as it pushed deeper.
Erik felt his body opening wider than it ever had, felt the ridge of Krag's knuckles sliding past his rim, felt the width of the orc's palm stretching him impossibly full.
"Fuuuuck," Erik whimpered, his fingers clawing at the stone. "Master—Master, it's—your whole hand—"
"I know." Krag's voice was a dark purr. "Look down, little thief. Look at what you're taking."
Erik forced his eyes open and looked at his stomach.
The bulge was obscene—not just a ridge, but a massive, shifting mound that pushed up against his skin.
He could see the outline of Krag's forearm, the shape of his wrist, the vague suggestion of knuckles pressing from the inside.
His belly was distended like he'd swallowed a cannonball, the skin stretched taut and shiny.
"Gods," he breathed. "Gods, I can see—I can see your whole hand inside me—"
"And you're going to see more." Krag reached for the polished metal mirror and angled it so Erik could watch himself. "Look at your reflection, whore. Look at what you've become."
Erik stared into the mirror. The reflection showed him everything: his spread legs, his gaping hole stretched around Krag's wrist, his swollen belly bulging with the shape of the orc's forearm.
His own face was a mask of ecstasy—lips parted, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed.
He looked wrecked. He looked owned. He looked beautiful.
"I'm your hole," Erik whispered, the words spilling from some deep, broken place inside him. "I'm just a hole for you to fill."
"That's right." Krag began to move his hand, pulling back slightly before pushing deeper. "Now take my fist."
He fucked Erik with his hand—slow, deep strokes that made the bulge shift and roll beneath Erik's skin.
Each thrust pushed the forearm deeper, made the distention more pronounced, made Erik's eyes roll back in his head.
The grease squelched obscenely, mixing with Erik's own fluids, and the sound of it filled the chamber like a second heartbeat.
Erik screamed. Not in pain—in bliss. The fullness was beyond anything he'd ever felt, a pressure that bordered on spiritual, and his untouched cock erupted, spraying thick ropes of come across his chest and the bulge in his belly.
He convulsed around Krag's arm, his hole clamping down with the force of his orgasm, and Krag laughed and kept fucking him through it.
"Good whore. Coming from nothing but my fist in your guts. You're ready for the plug."
He withdrew his hand slowly, and Erik felt the emptiness like a physical loss. His hole gaped open, a dark, wet chasm that fluttered uselessly, and before it could close, Krag pressed the stone plug against it.
The plug was cold—shockingly cold after the heat of Krag's fist—and it was huge.
The tapered end slid in easily enough, but the widest part stretched Erik's rim to its absolute limit, making him gasp and clutch at the edges of the stone block.
Krag worked it in with steady pressure, twisting it slightly, until finally the flare popped past Erik's sphincter and the plug seated itself inside him.
Erik lay there, panting, his belly still bulging—now with the shape of the stone plug instead of Krag's fist. He felt impossibly full, impossibly stretched, and when he clenched around the plug, the pressure sent a fresh jolt of pleasure through his spent cock.
"Keep that in," Krag commanded. "You're going to wear it for the rest of the day. I want your hole kept open and ready."
"Yes, Master." Erik's voice was hoarse, wrecked. "Thank you, Master."
"Don't thank me yet. We're not done."
Krag unclipped the chain from Erik's collar and hauled him off the stone block.
Erik's legs barely held him; the plug shifted inside him with every movement, a constant reminder of his stretching.
Krag sat on the edge of the pallet, his massive thighs spread, his cock now fully hard and jutting upward.
"Throat training," he said. "You've sucked my cock before. You've gagged on it. But today, you're going to learn to take it properly. All of it. No gagging. No choking. Your throat is going to become a second cunt, and you're going to learn to breathe around my shaft."
Erik dropped to his knees between Krag's thighs. The orc's cock loomed in front of his face—thick as his forearm, the foreskin already pulled back, the glans slick with pre-come. He opened his mouth, and Krag guided his head down.
The first few inches were easy. Erik's jaw had learned to stretch, his tongue had learned to flatten. But when the head hit the back of his throat, his gag reflex kicked in—a violent, convulsive clench that made him choke and pull back.
"No." Krag's hand fisted in his hair, holding him in place. "You don't pull back. You breathe through your nose. You relax your throat. You take it."
Erik's eyes watered. Spit bubbled around the shaft.
He forced himself to breathe through his nose—short, sharp inhalations—and focused on relaxing the muscles of his throat.
Krag pushed deeper, and Erik felt his throat opening, felt the cock sliding into his esophagus, felt a fullness that rivaled the plug in his ass.
"Glrk—" The sound was wet and strangled, but he didn't choke. He breathed.
"There you go," Krag growled. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
He held Erik's head down until his nose was pressed against the thatch of coarse hair at the base of Krag's cock.
Erik's throat was completely impaled, the shaft filling him from mouth to collarbone, and he could feel Krag's heartbeat pulsing through the flesh.
He swallowed—a deliberate, muscular contraction—and Krag groaned.
"Fuck. Do that again."
Erik swallowed again. And again. Each swallow massaged Krag's cock, made the orc's hips twitch, made pre-come slide directly down Erik's throat. He couldn't taste it—his taste buds were useless at this depth—but he could feel the heat of it, the slickness.
Krag pulled him back, letting him breathe for a moment, then pushed him down again. They repeated the motion—slow, methodical, relentless—until Erik's gag reflex was completely suppressed, until his throat opened as easily as his ass, until he could take Krag's full length without a single choke.
"Now lick my balls while you're down there," Krag commanded.
Erik's tongue, trapped beneath the shaft, couldn't reach.
But Krag pulled back just enough to let the head rest in his throat, and Erik tilted his head, stretching his tongue out to lap at the heavy, sweat-slicked sac pressed against his chin.
He licked the wrinkled skin, sucked one massive testicle into his mouth alongside the shaft, and Krag's groan vibrated through his entire body.
"Perfect. You're perfect. Now let's show the clan what you've learned."
He pulled Erik off his cock—a long, wet slide that left Erik gasping and drooling—and clipped the chain back onto his collar. Then he stood and walked toward the chamber door, tugging the leash.
"Crawl."
Erik dropped to all fours and followed.
The stronghold corridors were lit by torches, their flames casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls.
Erik crawled behind Krag, the stone floor cold and gritty beneath his palms and knees, the plug shifting inside him with every movement.
His cock, still hard, still leaking, swung between his thighs, leaving a trail of pre-come on the stone.
They passed orc warriors—massive, tusked figures who paused in their conversations to watch. Erik felt their eyes on him, on his naked body, on the collar around his throat, on the way his ass was stretched obscenely around the base of the stone plug.
"Look at that," one of them jeered, a scarred brute with a missing tusk. "Krag's pet is all stretched out. You could fit a whole fist in that hole."
"I already did," Krag said, not breaking stride. "And tomorrow, you might get to try."
The warriors laughed—a chorus of deep, guttural sounds that echoed off the walls.
Erik felt his face flush, but it wasn't shame.
It was pride. He was being shown off. He was being admired.
He was Krag's prized possession, and these warriors—these massive, terrifying orcs—were looking at him with hunger.
They reached the great hall, where a long table was laid with the remnants of a morning meal. A dozen orcs were still there, drinking from horn cups, gnawing on bones. They turned as Krag entered, and a hush fell over the room.
"My clan," Krag announced, his voice booming in the sudden silence. "You've seen my pet. You've smelled him. You've heard him moaning from my chambers. Tomorrow, I'm going to share him with you."
A roar of approval went up. Horn cups were slammed on the table. Fists pounded the wood.
Krag tugged the leash, and Erik crawled forward, positioning himself at Krag's feet. He looked up at the assembled orcs—at their tusked faces, their massive bodies, their hungry eyes—and felt a thrill of anticipation run through him.
"You'll all get a turn," Krag continued. "His mouth. His ass. His throat. He's trained for it. He's ready for it. He's been begging for it without even knowing he was begging." He looked down at Erik, his golden eyes blazing. "Isn't that right, little whore?"
"Yes, Master." Erik's voice was clear, steady, eager. "I want to serve your clan. I want to be used by all of them. I want to be the clan's hole."
Another roar. Another round of pounding fists.
Krag smiled—a slow, terrible, beautiful smile. "Tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow, you will be."