Page 10 of Shackled to the Orc

I have the feeling that if they looked in and saw the orc holding a knife to the guard’s throat, they would let him die rather than let the orc go free.

I hold the horse blanket firmly around me. “Come,” says Khan.

“Where to?”

“To my quarters.”

I gulp and follow behind him. We pass by an open door where stone floors stretch beneath rows of wooden bunks, the stink of unwashed flesh and beer assailing my nostrils, lanterns hanging as men stay up late, playing cards and drinking, until one catches a glimpse of the orc.

“He’s back!” The game is paused, and two men get up, striding to the door as the orc stops. The rest continue as they were, but I can see the respect in their eyes, the twenty or so men nodding or lifting glasses. Most are human, but I catch sight of three half-orcs, huge, big brutes of men who would look like giants if it wasn’t for Khan.

Of the two humans who approached, one is in his forties, a scar running down his cheek, with short, thinning hair and an unkempt beard. The other is young, thin, and grinning from ear to ear, his cheeks flushed from drink.

“I didn’t think I’d be alive right now, Khan, I didn’t think I’d fucking be alive right now,” he says, wonder in his eyes, and starts laughing. To my shock, he starts to do a jig, until the older man pushes him.

“Go get another drink, Peter, you’re way behind.”

“On it, boss!” he says, and stumbles off, dancing his way to a huge wooden keg.

“Just one lass for you, Khan? Bastard Shug, said he’d buy you a dozen.” He looks me up and down and drinks from his tankard. The other men looked at the orc with a mixture of respect and fear, but this grizzled old warrior looks comfortable. He’s probably been in this compound for decades, and stopping an orc warrior in the stone hallway is as comfortable for him as me getting a cup of tea in my kitchen.

“You got taste though. Looks like a healthy young lass.”

“Tell the men that any disrespect to her is a disrespect to me.” Khan growls it out, and the old fighter raises his hands apologetically.

“Hey, hey, don’t get angry there, big guy, I’m just saying she looks healthy. Want me to send over some fresh clothes? They won’t fit for shit, but it’s better than a horse blanket.”

Khan nods. “Leave them outside my door.”

The old warrior turns to the bunks. “Hey! Peter, get some fresh linens over to Khan’s, leave it by the door. You two greens, boil some water for his bath!”

Khan strides down the stone hallway, and I follow, until we get to another set of wooden doors. He opens it and ushers me in.

“You get your own place, huh?” I say, trying to make conversation, anything to release the tension of the moment as I find myself in the room, alone with the orc gladiator. He strides in, his limp more prominent, groaning as he sits down on the wide, low cot against the stone wall. It creaks under his heavy bulk. At the base is a fur blanket, neatly folded. The huge tub, big enough to fit his over seven-foot-tall bulk, is against the wall, and I look at it with yearning. Baths are my weekly luxury back in my village, and I love nothing more than sinking beneath the warm waters with fragrant herbs and mineral rocks from the mountains that soothe my body and soul.

There is a small window, with bars, looking out at the mansion. The room is spartan, with a small wooden table and a huge, sturdy wooden chair, all lit up by a single oil lantern hanging from the ceiling and casting a soft glow that dances over the walls and over the orc’s huge body as he sits on the bed, his head down, black, tangled hair falling over his broad features. There is a hearth, with a few logs in it, and I shiver, wishing there was a roaring fire. Next to it is a wooden chest, and on it is the first hint of his presence, a rune carved into the top.

There is a small door that is open ever so slightly, leading to a bathroom and to a sink that to my surprise has faucets and must have running water.

The neatness to it, that surprises me, from the clear table to the folded fur blanket. A small bedside table has nothing on it except a jug of water. The smell of him permeates the room, musky and masculine, and I’m intimidated by how he dominates the room, this huge, wounded beast of a man, worn down by decades of fighting, yet still alive and vital.

My mouth goes dry when I realize there is only one bed. Unless I want to sleep on the cold stone floor, I’m going to have to curl up with him.

“Sit, if you want,” he grunts out, when he sees me standing awkwardly. I pull out the chair, turning it so my back is to the wall, and pull myself up. My legs dangle. It is made for his over seven-foot-tall bulk.

He leans back, opens the bedside table, and takes out a flint. Khan pushes himself up, moving heavily, and squats by the fire, his huge thighs flexing as he strikes the flint and blows, and in less than a minute, the logs have caught, the warm, hot light dancing over his muscled body.

Then he stands, towering to his full height, nearly touching the ceiling, this monstrous, imposing presence that dominates the room. The firelight illuminates the contours of his rugged features, his strong brow, his wide, thick jaw, the twin emeralds of his eyes that glow, as his nostrils flare and he tastes my scent. He steps in closer to me, and I push back against the chair, staring up at the mountain of his being, his chiseled abs, the broad pectorals, his huge trap muscles and neck thicker than my legs.

One finger and he could hold me down. He’s so tall, that when I sit, I’m nearly eye level with his huge bulge, and I can smell this deep, thick musk, and I shiver, but it makes a frisson rush up and down my spine, my senses overwhelmed by the monstrous creature. His cock thickens, his bulge growing, pressing against his black loincloth, and he reaches out, his thick, callused finger stroking my cheek. I am frozen, petrified in fear, as I stare up at his emerald eyes, feeling his rough touch as he traces my face.

“Why…why did you pick me?” I gasp, but I already know the answer. It is written in his hungry eyes, his obvious lust, his ravenous hunger that will ruin me.

His finger traces to my lip, and my heart pounds as he slides it past them, forcing his fingers into my mouth as I sit, frozen and terrified.

7

MAYA

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