Part 1: Prisoner of War
Fire. Screams. It had all happened so quickly. One minute, a quiet, sleepy hamlet filled with restful, hard working people. The next, a cauldron of fear and death. No one could have known it was coming; Feldir Village had little need for guards these days.
Frankly, no villages in these parts had much need for protection these days. There had been peace for over a decade, and the King’s armies had all disbanded and marched home. No one was eager for another war, and it seemed that no war would come. Peace had been prosperous, but it had also left the people of Feldir Village and beyond complacent.
Until last night, when the Orcs had raided.
Varden had been, as usual, asleep in the late hours of the night when the raid began. It had not taken long to get him roused from his sleep, as the smell of smoke and sound of screams pierced the night. He had run outside in his night clothes, seeing a nearby roof aflame in the night. Wishing to help, he and a number of his fellow villagers raced to the well with buckets in an effort to stop the blaze. The Orcs had prepared for exactly that, he later surmised, for he and his fellows did not even make it to the well before they were snatched up, chained, hooded, and dragged away by the raiding party.
They were marched through the night, hoods obscuring the path so they would be unable to find their way back, should they escape. Anytime he or his fellow villagers so much as coughed, an Orc fist would greet them to shut them up. The path was not an easy one, and Varden judged them to be heading into the high hills from the steepness. He kept quiet, as was his way, and listened to glean any information he could from his captors. Alas, they spoke in the harsh language of Orcs, and soon he resigned in his attempts.
Mercifully, by dawn the march ended. Varden was separated from his neighbors. He was pulled by the wrists into some sort of dwelling, the warm air indicative of a fire or hearth. His feet and hands were monstrously cold, so he whispered a prayer to the gods for the small mercy of this warm interior. His comfort was quickly shattered, however, as he felt his arms lifted over his head, his restraints hooked to something above him. He could still stand, thankfully, but he was no longer able to move.
The danger Varden was in finally caught up to him. He was more than likely going to be tortured by his captors in an attempt to gain some useful information. He sighed, for he did not possess any. He was Feldir Village’s blacksmith, nothing more. Whatever these Orcs wanted, they would not get it from him, although he would end up paying the price for it regardless. Varden was not at this moment ashamed to think of how frightened he was. Aye, he may have been a rather large fellow, as blacksmiths tended to be, but he was no fighter. Everyone in Feldir knew him as a kindly lad, albeit a rather quiet one who kept to himself. If these Orcs derived any pleasure from watching their prisoners attempt to escape or fight, he thought, then they’d be sorely disappointed with him.
A gauntleted hand seized the bag over his head and yanked it off. The flickering light of the hearth was harsh and glaring to his freshly exposed eyes. The dwelling he was in, he could now see, was a tent of some kind, with thick fabric walls that kept the cold away. He was hitched to the central, supporting post of the structure, a small, debarked tree by the looks of it. In front of him stood the large form of the Orc that had un-bagged him. It was taller than Varden by at least half a head, and it wore black-iron plate mail and chain. He couldn’t help but inspect the craftsmanship of the pieces, and was surprised by its rather solid construction.
“V’rlaz unus” a voice said beyond the hulking creature to his front. The Orc stepped back, bowing to the one who had spoken. Varden was unprepared for what he now saw.
Standing by a large, oak table, in the process of removing a helmet, Varden saw that the Orc who had spoken, who indeed appeared to be the owner of this command tent, was a woman. She was maybe seven and a half feet tall, her finely crafted armor making her appear far larger. She stripped the skull cap from her head, and Varden now saw tightly bunched braids of thick, black hair upon her head. Her skin was a verdant green tone, forehead a slightly darker shade than the lower part of her face. Her face was, to Varden’s surprise, very fine to look upon. She possessed strong features, but they contained a hardened grace to them. Varden was certain Orcs were quite ugly creatures, as that was what everyone had said all his life. But the one who stood before him was quite comely indeed. She could have been quite the human beauty, were it not for the two tusks jutting from her lower lips. Although, the lips were quite nice as well…
The Orc woman unlaced a leather cord from her braids, and at once her hair sprang forth, curly and voluminous, cascading down her back and shoulders. In places her hair was fastened with charms and fetishes, small pieces of bone, silver, and gold.
She interrupted his staring. “What?” she snorted. “Never seen an Orc before?” Gone was the harsh throatiness of her voice when she had issued the gruff command in her native tongue. Her voice was, again to Varden’s surprise, a rather easy thing to listen to. Varden had not met many well-to-do folks, but the few that he had met spoke in a similarly well-refined accent to the Orc in front of him. It was perplexing—
Her hand whipped out and slapped him across the face. He was too stunned to react. “I asked you a question, human.” She growled.
“I-I,” he stammered. “No, no I haven’t.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “Really now?” She considered his answer for a moment. “You look old enough to have fought in the war.”
“Aye,” he grumbled in reply. The stun from the slap had worn off, and he realized that he wanted to speak as little to his captor as possible.
The Orc woman continued to take off her armor, starting with her left gauntlet and some of the extraneous pieces. “Not a talker, then, eh? A shame. This could make things difficult.”
“I’ll never talk,” Varden said, mustering what little courage he felt he had left. “I’d rather die!”
She stopped her doffing, and looked at him. “Oh?” Her voice was dripping with venom.
Before he could utter another word, her hand was at his throat. Her grip was crushing, far more than his own, and he was used to swinging hammers and holding iron bars for hours at a time. The chain and metal of her gauntlet dug into his windpipe, crushing it. She squeezed, and he found his vision swimming as she denied him even a wisp of air. Terrifyingly, it looked as if she was exerting very little effort. Varden was gasping, gurgling, grunting with effort to find air. But there was none.
She released her grip, and he heaved ragged lungfuls of air. “See?” she said. “You don’t want to die after all.”
Varden could not offer a retort, and she smiled as she continued to remove her armor. “I know you aren’t a warrior, so please, cease the act. I don’t want to hurt you, you know. I’d really rather everything be copacetic between the two of us.”
He managed a halting “What do you want of me?” between breaths as he hung there, still reeling from her assault.
“For the nonce, I’d like to know a bit about you. If you answer me truthfully, I promise to be gentle.” She smiled again, and Varden could not help but notice that it came easy to her. She must have been at least his age, or whatever the equivalent for Orcs was, as her face was marked by smile-lines. “I’ll start. My name is Z’a’Lorel Twice-Blessed. Lorel for short.”
He sighed. There seemed to be no choice in the matter, so he relented. “My name is Varden.”
“No surname?” she plied, but he could only shake his head. “And what do you do, Varden the Nameless?”
“I am a smith, by trade.” She was done with her extremities now, gauntlets and greaves and the in between bits laid out on the great oak table.
“A worthy profession.” Lorel tugged at a strap and her entire breastplate came off at once. Varden was surprised; from what he knew it was typically a two person job to don and doff an entire breastplate, yet she had done it in one pull. “Are you married, Varden?”
“Aye, once,” he grimaced. Varden’s marriage was a touchy subject.
“I see,” Lorel said with an inquisitive look. “Children?”
“No. My marriage was…lifeless, to say the least. My late wife didn’t appreciate living above a smithy, so she spent much of her time with her family away from my village. We didn’t have much time for…”
Lorel chuckled at his timidity. Her platemail was fully removed now, and she lifted her coif and hauberk from her person with one sweeping motion, the metal whispering softly as she piled it on the table. She began unfastening her gambeson as she spoke. “You said you didn’t fight in the war, yes?”
“I did not,” he replied. “I was still a smith’s apprentice, at the time. I made the swords, I didn’t use ‘em I—.”
Her gambeson fell away, the quilted leather thumping on the table, and his voice caught in his throat. Even without the armor, Lorel carved a striking figure. She now wore naught but the underclothes of a knight, but they did little to mask her appearance. Her legs were thickly corded with muscle, at least twice the size of Varden’s own. Her arms, too, looked immensely strong. Her torso…
Varden glanced away in shame. Orc or not, he felt it wrong to stare, which was quite difficult when Lorel’s breasts were so free under her shirt. They had swung back and forth ever so slightly as she had yanked her gambeson off, and Varden had felt…aroused?
Gods! He thought. An Orc? No, no, he must push these feelings aside. Lorel was the enemy. He could not…
Lorel issued a bellowing laugh that shook Varden from his own thoughts. Her bosom heaved as she did, only making him more ashamed. “You humans are so strange, all your rules. You’ve never seen a pair of tits?”
“I have, it’s just…” he searched for words. “You Orcs, you’re supposed to be hulking monsters who eat people and live in squalid huts. Not only that, you’re all supposed to be dead!”
“Your king did a number on us, that’s for certain. But he didn’t kill us all.” Lorel walked over to the hearth, tossing a log that looked all too small in her hand on the blaze. “Most of our male-kin died, to be fair, aside from a few gray-hairs and cripples. The women run the show now.” Lorel paused for a moment. “Well, I suppose I run the show, to be precise.”
Varden was in disbelief. He was in the tent of an Orc Warchief. What did she want with him?
As if in answer to his thoughts, Lorel sighed and spoke. “Of course, our male-kin dying has posed a major problem in the realm of progeny.” She flashed a wicked smile in his direction. “That’s where you come in.”
Varden’s eyes widened. “You…I…” he could not find words. “That’s why you took us from Feldir?”
“Well, yes,” she spoke, very matter-of-factly. “We need breeding stock. You humans know so little about our crafts that you make horrid slaves in the traditional labor sense. But you make fine donors.”
Lorel moved away from the hearth and towards a small chest at the foot of her bed. Bending over, Varden couldn’t help gazing as her large breasts swung underneath her shirt with the motion of her bending over. She rummaged for a few short moments, then produced a tin of some kind. “Now, you human men are often quite reluctant the first time around, so we have to make things work.” she started towards him.
“Please! Please Lorel, don’t do this. I’ll smith for you! They say I’m quite good at it as well! Armor, weapons, horseshoes, nails! Whatever you need I’m sure I can manage!” He squirmed, but he was bound too tightly by the wrists to move at all, and if he lost his footing it meant putting all his weight onto his arms with no support, which hurt immensely. It was all he could do to turn his head away from this towering woman.
“Relax, it will wear off.” She opened her little tin, and he saw a blood-red powder sparkling within. “Eventually, at least.”
Lorel pinched some of the powder between her fingers and blew it in his face, stepping away and covering her mouth. Varden tried to hold his breath, but the powder lingered in the air for so long he had to take a breath in. The powder was drawn to his nostrils and open mouth at surprising speed. It left a spicy, burning sensation in his nose and throat. He began to cough, and as he did he saw his vision tunneling. He thought he was going blind, so he howled in anguish.
The tunneling ended, leaving only a small diameter of sight left. Perhaps more concerning was Varden’s vision, or what little was left, was glazed over red.
Lorel smiled, gazing into Varden’s glowing red eyes. “An Orc virility concoction. To us it simply heightens lust, but to humans…” She placed the tin on the table. “It brings you up to Orc standards.”
Varden could not control himself. He struggled against his bindings like a wolf in a trap. He was salivating, he felt, and the logical part of his brain found this odd. But this logical part could do little but watch through his red-tinted vision as the animal side of him took over.
Lorel lifted her shirt from her body, exposing her belly and breasts. Gods, they looked good, Varden thought. He could do nothing about his impure thoughts anymore; they had taken over. He noted the intricate tattoos that lined her arms, the designs and sigils foreign to him. Lorel continued, unlacing her pants and dropping them to the floor. Fine black hairs obscured what lay between her legs, and Varden lost any remaining semblance of control he thought he might have upon seeing the curve of her hips. And, by the Gods, he could smell her, the pheromones steaming right off of her.
And she smelled good.
“My my, I knew I picked a good one,” Lorel said, her voice dripping with intent. She stretched out a hand and touched him.
It was only then that Varden even became aware of his own…reaction. He whipped his head down to where her hand now rested, and he saw his pants desperately trying to contain his growing manhood. Lorel’s hand deftly undid the laces on his own pants, and out sprang Varden in his full glory.
Lorel gasped.
The rational side of Varden’s brain thought back to his marriage, and why his wife had been… reluctant in their evening pursuits. While he took no pride or bluster in the size of his manhood, she had complained the few times they had coupled of his size.
Now, with the virility powder pounding away in his veins, he could see what she had meant. His cock, it was at least ten inches, thick around as a stout axe handle, and right now it was throbbing, pulsing with his own heartbeat. The bestial side of him was pleased at the clear virility he was displaying, but the quiet, rational voice in his head scoffed at it.
Then again, that rational side was getting more quiet by the moment.
“Well,” Lorel said in a voice that dripped with honey. “I must say, you’ve exceeded expectations, dear blacksmith. Most of the men we capture serve a function; it’s hard to take pleasure in the act when there isn’t much to work with. But you…” Her hand moved to her own crotch, fingers moving around her clitoris, parting the fine curtain of hair. “You’re going to be very popular.”
Lorel approached, full breasts bouncing gently as she walked. He focused on the nipples, a dark shade of green, and the veins he could just see under the skin. A pink, wet tongue flicked across her moistening lips in anticipation. As she reached him, she turned around, arching her back and using her hands to spread her ass apart.
Varden saw through his red tinted vision two verdant labia part, revealing a glistening, soaking tunnel of wet, pink flesh. It looked as if Lorel’s hands struggled to keep her buttocks spread, fingers sinking into supple flesh.
Varden was gone. The animal took over.
He needed to fuck her now.
As if responding to his thought, Lorel backed her glistening hole onto his throbbing erection with perfect accuracy. He slid in without the slightest bit of resistance, feeling with every inch the perfect ridges of her pussy sliding against his cock. She plunged to the hilt, his balls gently slapping against her as she thudded to a stop. He heard a soft moan escape her lips, but she still felt entirely in control.
“Fuck me, slave,” she commanded, voice lusty and firm.
And he did.
He did not even think about what he was doing. His hips began thrusting, toes digging into the rug covered earth for leverage as his cock worked in and out of her warm pussy. Gods, it gripped him so well. Her ass slapped against his own hips, stroke after stroke, and it drove him wild. He was grunting, panting, howling with pleasure as he rammed into her over and over.
And Lorel was loving it too. She grunted as well, but they were lustful and passionate sounds, not animalistic. He could see between strokes glistening juices running down her thighs, a pale white cream forming around the girth of his cock.
It appeared he was doing a good enough job, by the looks of it.
Lorel was indeed enjoying it.
She could feel the head of his cock tapping her cervix, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through her with each repetition. Saliva from the mouth of the slave was dripping onto her asshole and pussy, lubing his strokes time and time again.
Her warriors had chosen well.
However, she was getting bored of this position, so as the man-slave pulled back, getting ready for another ram, she leaned forward, dismounting herself. He shrieked and howled at her move, but she simply laughed.
“Oh, relax. I’m not done yet.”
She turned, then kicked her massive leg up over the head of the slave to rest on the support beam, performing a standing split. Her muscles flexed as she did, and she lowered herself so that she was on the same plane as the human. Her pussy was poised directly in front of his throbbing manhood, precum dripping from it already. Her own hole was dribbling juice down her thigh, the firelight of the hearth dancing in the glistening surface.
She frowned at the dribbling precum. “Oh, already? No worries.”
She lifted her hand, and the tattoos on her forearm glowed a deep red as she muttered her incantation. “Au’koren.”
A ring of red sigils and glyphs appeared around the base of the man-slaves cock, cinching tight. It would not hurt him, but he reacted as if it might have. “It’s only a temporary blockage, dear,” she said seductively. “Once I’m done, I’ll let you have yours.”
With the spell in place, she smiled, then plunged.
She went down to the balls once more, and felt the warm length of the man-slave deep in her own body. If she flexed and bent just the right way, which she was basically doing in this position, she could just see her belly bulging as he achieved full depth. She grinned madly. It had been so long since she’d had a good cock like this. The Orc men she had once shared beds with were the only thing that compared, and if she was being honest, only a few had been as large as this new slave. She remembered one, a young man, just recently blooded, who had fucked her with such ferocity she thought she might pass out…
But that was a long time ago. Since then, she’d only had the pleasure of Orc women lapping at her cunt and the disappointing thrusts of regular men.
Hmmm, she thought. Suddenly, she had an idea.
“Shel!” she yelled toward the door. “In here!”
A few moments of savage cock-pounding later, a young Orc woman emerged from the
tent flaps. She was a pretty thing, and one of Lorel’s favorites.
“Yes, Warchief?” Shel inquired.
Lorel dismounted once again, this time the slave too tired to howl in disappointment. She strode over to Shel, who was already blushing. Putting her hand around Shel’s neck, she pulled her into a kiss, lifting the maiden to her toes. Lorel could tell some of the virility powder had got into her system as well.
“Shel, be a dear and help me lower the slave.”
She nodded. “Of course, Mistress.”
Together, they unhitched the man-slave and lowered him onto his back. He struggled against them, but two Orc women were a far greater match than one sex-crazed blacksmith.
“Now, undress for me, dear. I want to see those perky tits,” Lorel commanded.
Shel did as she was bid, and Lorel could see wetness between her thighs as she lifted her shift over her head. Her gaze was pulled to the soft, fleshy mounds of her young breasts as they dropped from her clothes. Her nipples were puffy and inverted, but Lorel knew how to change that.
“Come, kneel before me as I ride this slave.”
She mounted the slave once more, facing outwards, her ass in his face, and lowered herself onto him. Pleasure pulsed through her once again, and her passion flared as Lorel knelt before her. She pulled her in closer as she slammed her considerable weight down again and again onto the slave, knees to the floor, and began to suck on Shel’s perfect tits. Immediately, she could feel Shel shiver, and her nipple emerged from hiding.
She rode the slave like this for at least ten minutes, covering Shel’s bare chest with spit as she switched between nipples and mouth, her own tongue clashing with Shel’s passive, accepting mouth. She now felt it was time.
Leaning back, using her arms as support, and without letting the slave’s cock out of her wet cunt, she was now on all fours, but facing up. Her own clit was exposed, and she urged Shel forward. “Shel, be a good girl and lick my cunt. Taste of your Warchief and her sultry juices.”
Shel looked intoxicated, lust overpowering her, as she crawled forward and latched her mouth over Lorel’s pulsating clit. Pleasure exploded within her as she continued to pound her man-slaves cock all the way to the deepest reaches of her pussy. Shel was magical with her tongue; not a fierce pleaser, but a lazy, soft, meandering one who inadvertently teased Lorel with every motion.
The combination only took so long to overcome Lorel’s will. With a hand wrapped around Shel’s head, she began to feel her orgasm building. Legs trembled, her body clenched, and it was all she could do to keep from crushing Shel between her thighs. She felt it now, her whole body shaking.
And then, the floodgates broke, and she released the spell.
Varden felt Lorel’s cunt tighten around his cock as she came, body shivering. She let out a scream of pleasure, the sound like music to Varden’s lusty mind.
Her cunt was pulsating, so tight he could barely move. Gods, it felt so good, so good he could—
The red ring of magic dissipated from around the base of his shaft, and all of a sudden he felt the weight of his balls, filled with cum, as they tightened upwards. The magic, it had held his seed back like a levy.
And now, the levy was broken.
He grunted like a beast as he thrust upwards one last time into Lorel’s sopping, death-grip cunt. He felt his hips buck as he came, huge pulses of cum deep within her, reaching the end of her pussy with each thrust. He had never in his whole life experienced pleasure like this. Gods, but he was cumming like crazy. No dribble of seed like when he was with his wife; this was a torrent.
By the divines, it felt like her pussy was sucking it out of him. He could feel the walls rippling upward, squeezing on his cock and pulling it up into her womb. After what felt like over a minute of hip-bucking and cock-pulsing orgasm, Varden settled to the rug-covered ground once more. His chest heaved as he struggled to come to rest, the virility powder still infecting his body, though the sensation had left his cock. It now hung limp and soft over his thigh, tip red and still dripping white cum.
Lorel carefully dismounted, keeping her cunt as tilted as possible to keep the precious seed from spilling out. With the other breeding slaves, she was never careful, for a part of her was reluctant to bear their lesser children.
Not so with Varden. She would be proud to bear a man-slaves half breed after such a performance.
Holding her legs back, Lorel commanded Shel once again. “Get your sweet hole over here, and use those little fingers to push that seed in. I’ll let you lap up the dregs, clean my asshole if you’re a good girl.”
Shel was delighted to oblige. Now caressing Shel’s soft hips, Lorel got to work tonguing the young Orc woman’s pussy. Shel eagerly pushed two fingers into her Warchief’s still-tight cunt, making sure the seed was as deep as it would go. Lorel knew that the man-slave’s size had already ensured much of it was already crowding around her cervix, but Shel loved the responsibility.
“All done, mistress!” Shel proclaimed proudly, though her voice quivered with pleasure as Lorel worked on her young cunt.
“Good job, Shel,” Lorel said in between mouthfuls of hot, wet pussy. “Now, get on your knees, and start rubbing while you clean my asshole.”
Shel hopped to it without question, on her knees and already fingering her pretty pussy. Lorel leapt to her feet, then firmly planted her cum- and pussy-juice laden asshole onto Shel’s tilted-back face. She felt the young woman’s tongue lap around her tight hole, then plunge into it like a snake for good measure. This was Shel’s favorite part, cleaning her up. A lot of the maidens derived pleasure from this part of the act.
Within moments, Shel was a quivering mess, and she collapsed to the floor, twitching, her fingers still deep within her own cunt. Lorel smiled. She’d let Shel fuck her man-slave soon. Hells, she’d have to get all the maidens lined up for breeding with this new batch sooner or later. But that was then, not now.
Right now, Lorel planted herself in her chair, looking upon the two bodies in her tent. The man-slave was asleep, the virility powder having worn out. He’d be exhausted, probably sleep for a whole day. He had done better than many she had tried over the years—one bastard had even keeled over dead, she had fucked him so hard. Shel was stirring, only half-awake, her mind clouded with pleasure, absentmindedly fingering her dripping cunt as she lay in a half-sleep.
Lorel smiled, and prayed to her deities that this man-slave’s seed would quicken, and she’d be with child soon.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/10vhk6p/the_prisoner_part_1_prisoner_of_war_ffm_20s30s