Scene 1 –
Priscilla is taken by, and from, her bath.
The evening strengthened as Priscilla stepped out from the drinking hall and into the quiet township of Quakestir. She’d arrived at the tavern earlier than expected, and felt thankful the residents from the last village overexaggerated the distance. On a journey as long as this, it was the small things to say the least.
Arriving early meant she got to a hot meal and a fiery drink (or nine) sooner, but it also meant she tapped out sooner. Leaving for the inn before true night fell meant the barmaid she’d been eyeing up all evening, the one with the dark, hawkish eyes, wouldn’t be accompanying her. However, rising upon first light would jumpstart the final day of travel before she reached the mountains. Even from a 10 hour’s walk away, the peaks smudged the skyline.
Adjusting the leather strap of her heavy dragongun, she rolled her dusky green shoulders in anticipation of a warm bath and a cozy bed. These were unheard of luxuries on the road, but Priscilla was accustomed to treating herself to the finer things. She deserved to, anyway, when she was between contracts. When as skilled as she, her type of work paid handsomely. However, there was a type of debt simple monarchs couldn’t fix. That was why she was eager to pray directly to the Vulture of Blood for forgiveness when she was within the mountains.
The innkeeper barely blinked at the size of her weapon or her stature. They wore an unreadable expression, but their short, thin, upwards tusks belied their shared ancestry with her.
“A room is 20 dukes.” They announced in a smooth, lilting way, without any prompting.
“I’d like a bath, too.”
They gave her a once over, and perhaps the faintest glint lit their eyes.
“The only room with a tub large enough is 50 dukes.”
Priscilla frowned. She understood the premium related to the cost of water and the maintenance of the inn’s energy grid. It was likely both would be in short supply in a town like Quakestir. However. She had a pilgrimage no one was paying her for, and she had finery to indulge in. How else could she convince herself to sleep in a leaky tent the rest of the time?
“40.”
They matched her frown, but only with their eyes. “How could I say no to a person of your caliber.”
She was unsure about whether or not she should be offended as she placed the preserved wooden coins into their palm. However, she decided they were referring to her renown as a pest controlling warrior saint of the Vultures.
“Thank you,” she smiled while receiving the key.
“Enjoy your stay,” they intoned flatly.
As they shifted from a straight posture to leaning back over the show on their flatscreen, Priscilla heard the jangling of many metal keys. It was a pleasant sound in her drunkenness.
She glanced at her key; it was for Room 12. Finding her room was easy with the arrowed signs, and soon enough she was dropping her weapon and rucksack on a luscious bed. Her travelling half-pants and loose fitting cotton shirt were next. She slipped off her boy shorts and walked out onto the patio where a personalised hot-spring bath was steaming under a dim electric lantern. Sighing, she eased herself in.
The water had yellow and pink petals floating in it. Thoughts of fields of chamomile and wild roses were invoked by the colours and scents. But there was another scent hidden beneath the heavy florals; it was maybe jasmine or maybe allspice. Priscilla shook her head. She was there to relax and enjoy herself before bed; she was not there to care about what flowers she bathed in. The fact she was bathing in flowers was enough, she told herself.
Finally dispelling her anxieties, she stretched out her arms, tucked them behind her head and relaxed against the side of the tub. Yawning, she looked up at the stars. They brightened the sky even as the last light of day was still fading.
It wouldn’t be long until she would finally ease her karmic burden by speaking with her favoured Vulture. Her thoughts spun until the lantern cast a shadow over her upturned face. Before she could move her numbed arms, her assailant wrapped a metal cord around her neck. This would’ve been her end had she been a being of thinner skin. As it was, Priscilla choked and gasped at the sharp, burning pain. A gag was slipped over her wide nose and over her lower jaw tusks. Once secured, it took two attackers to hoist her from the water.
The cord around her neck remained tight as one of them bound her wrists behind her back and the other pulled a hood over her head. She tried to speak, to wiggle the huge rubber ball out of her mouth, but her words came out as unintelligible grunts.
One of her captors barked out a laugh. Stars exploded in the darkness of the hood as someone landed a heavy strike across the side of her head. Priscilla groaned.
“Remove the garrotte,” said someone with a flat voice. A voice she recognised. Keys jangled. “They don’t give a shit if it’s roughed up, but they do want it alive.”
Shame blossomed in her stomach when the wire was loosened because she sighed with relief. But her breath gave her strength. She tested the restraints but they didn’t budge.
“Another double one.” Stated a deeper, gruffer voice she didn’t recognize. “And so well endowed.” A thumb ran across one of her nipples before it received a hard twist. She gave a muffled cry. Less than a second later, a thumb stroked the head of her dick and multiple fingers caressed her lower lips.
“That’s why our colleagues specialise in them.” The innkeep replied. “If too many bitches die, they switch a bull in. And vice versa.”
Gritting her teeth against the gag, she felt herself growing, dampening–despite her terrifying helplessness. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to dragonslayers, to a killer of bandit lords.
Warm, soft skin brushed against her ass and breath danced across the back of her neck. “You’re gonna love bein’ a sow.”
She felt the warm head of their dripping cock rubbing on her inner lips, but her body wouldn’t listen to her. Her thoughts kept escaping before she could take the next logical step; never had drunkenness caused such weakness of body and mind. Something else, she thought while grunting through the gag and sounding very much like a pig.
The attacker plunged their thick dick into her and growled so deeply she knew the innkeep was not the one violating her. Who was, she couldn’t guess. She hadn’t noticed other guests or staff. Whoever they were, they were heavyset with rough textured skin—perhaps scales? She purposely focused on sensing any of the person’s identifying traits, if only to distract herself from the disgust building in her core.
They pulled the gag strap and forced her head up with it. As they changed the angle at which they were humiliating her, they punched up against the outside of her cervix with each thrust. Priscilla’s scream echoed despite the rubber gag and the hood and the attacker cramming their shaft into her cunt stilled. Something more stifling was squeezed over the hood on her face and pressed in hard enough to hurt her nose.
“Carry on,” the innkeep chuckled, though they were more muted now.
The captor inside her bent over her, gripped her tits, and continued with a faster, shallower pace. Her vision flashed white beneath the hood as their dick scraped against her most-sensitive inner spots repeatedly. She was gasping and suffocating under the gags and their weight. Drool dribbled over her chin from around the gag and mixed with her snot and tears.
She felt their pace become frenzied, but her resulting sob was lost amidst their low but fast breathing. Her captor let go of her breasts and gripped her hips. They slammed hard against her a few more times and stars exploded behind her eyelids from the pain. After what felt like hours, she felt their warmth gush into her and their weight pressed down upon her heavily as they caught their breath.
Vulture of Blood, she prayed while her attacker lifted their weight off of her. They let her rest against the cool stone tiles of the outdoor bath. A tiny bit of air reached her lungs with each gasp through layers of fabric. All her spinning mind could think of was her unprotected womb. Protect me, she thought to the deity she hoped was listening. Pregnancy was out of the question; she had a pilgrimage to complete. She couldn’t reach the inner mountains to atone for her crimes if…if that were to happen.
Keys jangled again. “I’ll assist with loading it into the wagon.”
Two sets of hands, one sleek and sharp while the other was wide and rough, hoisted her mostly off the ground. Her bare feet slid across tile and then wood, though she still barely felt her extremities. She heard a door open and close, and then another. All the while, keys jangled. Next, her feet dragged across gravel. They tossed her into something and she presumed it was the aforementioned wagon.
Scene 2 –
Lead Farm Hand welcomes Priscilla.
The wagon creaked and heaved dramatically. Its shuddering and rocking sent Priscilla crashing into one of its walls every few moments. Sometimes, the jolt made her cry out in pain as her already aching body collided with wood. Whatever drug they’d given her was still causing drowsiness and her brain felt like spikes were being driven into it. She needed every little granule of determination she had to keep herself from vomiting.
Priscilla didn’t know how long she’d been out and she couldn’t tell how long she’d been awake. The wagon was moving, but the ability to accurately guess how fast they were travelling was not one that belonged to her. Without her sight and her movement heavily restricted, she felt horribly disoriented and defenseless.
She wriggled, only to again be slammed against a wall as the cart went over what felt like a particularly large obstruction. And then, mercifully, it stopped.
“What we have here?” A deep, throaty voice asked, just loud enough for her to catch.
A response came from a slightly different direction.
The first voice reached her again, but it was much quieter. She strained her ears, but she couldn’t make out what it said. Her stomach tensed with nerves.
With a rumbling lurch, the wagon began moving once more, but they were clearly on a groomed path now. Priscilla heard the screech and then keen of metal on metal, hinges perhaps. After that, the ride was finally smooth enough to use her core muscles to sit up and lean against a wall. It took everything in her to breathe deeply and try to sit in a way that didn’t hurt her vagina. Everything hurt.
Unsurprisingly, the smoother ground was a drastically shorter experience than that of the broken road. When the cart stopped moving, the sounds of a heavy door thudding open and metallic boots stomping up a wooden ramp reached her ears. From immediately above her, a person with a voice both commanding and cocky said:
“A fine catch, Driver. It already looks as though its breasts were enhanced. You think they’re natural?”
“Felt natural to me,” the Driver laughed. “Great handholds.”
The second person snarled. “Your beastly ‘hands’ better not have damaged my property.”
“N-no Sir. Of course not.”
Priscilla tried to twist her wrists apart, but instead she simply irritated her already raw skin. Undaunted, she let it show by attempting a growl through the drool-soaked gag and hood. Dragons had died by her hand. So too had beasts so dangerous they did not speak the same tongue as her captors on principle. No longer would she sit quietly and let these assholes discuss her like a piece of meat. But what escaped from beneath all the fabric was a pathetically muffled noise.
“Here is your gold.” The sound of metal falling loosely in a sack. Priscilla’s chest tightened at the non-reaction of her captors. Her feeling of being de-personified. “Ensure the innkeeper receives their share. I will hear if they don’t and you will be a dead scaley.” Her new captor,the ‘Sir’ said in a voice leaking poisoned caramel.
“Yes Sir.” The Driver answered. “L-let me—”
“I do not need your help.” Pure distaste. A grip as strong as any orc warrior’s curled under her knees and then she was assumedly over the man’s shoulder. The sudden upside-down motion stirred nausea in her stomach.
The change of air pressure on her skin as he started walking tipped her off to him taking her indoors. Perhaps she even had a vague sense of their direction and when he changed it, but she couldn’t remember those details clearly moments after experiencing them. The aftereffects of the drug on her brain meant easily escaping on her own was likely out of the picture. Priscilla needed allies.
The man dumped her unceremoniously onto a hard surface. “For your health and safety, I’m going to give you a shot.” She felt a prick in the top of her left arm.
Before he removed her hood or her gag, he methodically untied her restraints, only to strap each limb down to below the cold, flat platform beneath her. This was as good a chance as any, but it seemed as soon as she tried to snatch her hand away, whatever was in the needle already made her arms feel so heavy she could barely lift them. However much she felt like stone, he manipulated her body with ease.
He pulled the hood from her face and she gawked around the gag. A massive minotaur was staring back at her, with a smirk on his face and delight shining in his dark eyes. Although most of his body was that of a giant bull, his forearms resembled a brown, furry orc’s more than a bovine’s. She tried to growl, but her ability to speak was again heavily altered by the drug he’d injected.
Priscilla tried not to appear graceful when he removed the gag from her mouth and instead placed a glass of cool water to her lips. Some of it missed and he traced the wet trail from the corner of her mouth, down her neck, curving along her chest and around one of her breasts before falling off past the side of her ribs. He squeezed most of her breast in his hand and then slid his grip out until he was lightly pinching her nipple. He let go and then gently rubbed it until it peaked under his touch. Another smirk as she glowered at him.
“You wouldn’t be the first warrior priestess of your kind I have broken, you will not be even remotely the last. Although it is easier to train a bitch from a less demanding occupation.” The massive man in front of her explained in a tone that said what had already happened to her was nothing more traumatic than a routine shopping trip. He toyed with her other breast and peaked its nipple. At the same time, she noticed a fire smoldering to the side with long iron poles sticking out of it. “I can’t wait to see how big these become, once you start bearing mine and my clients calves.”
Her eyes widened, but still, she could do nothing useful.
He checked the straps, then inspected all of her body the current restraints allowed. “You have many scars. Clearly, you were once a great warrior.” There was a long moment where he went about the inspection. She noted a brightly coloured piece of plastic, a needle, and a metal ring resting on a smaller table adjacent to her hip. While she continued to try and get clues about where she was and how to get out of there, he added with amusement: “I appreciate my new dragongun.”
When she didn’t react, he untied and rolled her onto her stomach. A sob bubbled up and wedged in her throat and she choked instead as she was refastened to the table. Her muscles otherwise remained slack and useless. The minotaur caressed her shoulders, spine, and massaged her butt cheeks with his large, calloused hands. Her chin was stuck under her and discomfort shot in waves through her jaw and neck. She grunted, hoping beyond hope he would finally listen to her.
“Ah, sorry my new little heifer.” He adjusted her neck and she shifted her entire body slightly. All she could really see was the table, an empty space to her left, and his pelvis to her right, but she heard his frown. He tapped a cloven hoof on the stone floor a moment before relaxing when she did not move again.
After rubbing her butt again, the minotaur washed it with lukewarm water and soap. He rinsed and dried her skin before he applied a cooling gel. It smelled of mint and felt like aloe. In the silence of him preparing her, the fire roared and the wood within crackled. His hooves clopped against the stone as he moved away from her.
She couldn’t tell by sound or smell what he was doing. And then he said: “Welcome to my herd, my little heifer.”
The delicious smell and sound of sizzling meat hit her nose at the same time as the pressure against her left butt cheek. And then the agonising, searing agony slammed into her nervous system and she let loose a near silent bellow. Her muscles spasmed against her restraints, despite the strong relaxer given to them. Tears rolled down her cheeks and pooled onto the unforgiving metallic table just beneath her face. Slowly, he pulled the branding iron away from her charred skin and she heard it set against something. More cool, minty gel was spread on the wound.
Before her pained gasps had stopped, he ran a massive hand down her exposed ass and up to the base of her dick. “We’ll take care of this for you eventually, but for now…” And he plunged three of his gel-coated fingers into her.
Her mind whirled. The combination of the pain and drugs had her stunned. Had she not been restrained, she probably wouldn’t have fought him when he straddled her on the top of the medical table. She could feel his minotaur-sized cock resting between her ass cheeks, perilously close to where the brand still smouldered. He continued to use his fingers to stretch her the way one might to bread dough and not another person. There was no pretense that his actions were for her; he was readying his beast for breeding.
She moved her lips and pitiful sounds fell out. While her pleas were too formless to carry her exact meaning, he chuckled. “So much for a warrior priestess.” He lifted her hips, pressed the head of his cock to her mint-tingling lips, and sheathed his full length inside her. The pain of his dick pressing against the wall of her cervix was nearly matched by the way she’d been stretched all at once around his girth.
He waited for her cries to lessen and then pulled her off his dick. A sob tumbled out of her numbed mouth along with the drool and snot and tears she had no control over. The minotaur bent and pressed his fuzzy jaw against her ear. “You took it once, you’ll handle it again.” And he slammed his entire cock so hard the slapping of his balls between them echoed in the room.
As he continued to pound her he did not remove himself completely, but his steady crashing against the gates of her womb laced her body with the most intimate agony. All the while his unimaginable girth grinding up against the internal structures of her dick filled her with intense pleasure. Her vision started whiteout as he kept up his maddeningly slow but destructively powerful rhythm.
Her captor grunted, suddenly breathless. “Good heifer,” he panted. “Such a good. Heifer. Take my seed. Give me calves. Fuck. Your milk is. Gonna taste. So good.”
His disgusting comments and his maddening, maddening, maddening girth, it was all her body needed. She started to tremble as she succumbed to her orgasm. She’d already been tight for him, and when her canal uncontrollably contracted, she unintentionally milked his balls dry. He told her so as he lay on top of her, his cock twitching and pulsing as he gathered himself.
Still immobile, Priscilla laid beneath him with her eyes closed. Shame echoed through her with each heartbeat. How was she going to get out of this mess? Her eyes had run dry by the time he pulled out of her and got off the table. She heard the rustling of fabric and thought he must have been fixing his pants, in stark contrast to her nakedness.
“Now that you have been branded and proved, my little heifer, it is time to show you the enclosure you will spend the rest of your life in.” He explained while untying her from the bed and retying her limbs together. Her head fell limply against his back when he tossed her over his shoulder once more.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/s2dndz/save_a_cow_milk_an_orc_part_1_cnc_mf