Page 3 of Sacrificed to the Orc

His nostrils flare, and he breathes in my scent, and I can almost feel the hunger radiating off him. Some say the orcs can taste your emotions, that the smell of fear makes human meat tastier. His bulge pulsates with a life of its own, his cock surging against the cloth prison, and I kick at the ground, pushing myself back away from him. He growls, low and deep, making a frisson rush up and down my spine as his cockhead fights free of the loincloth, this huge, thick, green member running down the length of his thigh. It is hard as rock, deep green jade like his skin, with huge veins running down the side. The tip is a deeper color, filled with blood, laden with lust. It drips pre-cum, pearly, huge drops that fall to the packed earth.

“Please,” I gasp out, trying to stand, but he pushes me down against the furs with a single hand, keeping me pinned down. I brace myself for his huge hands to grope me, to force my legs open and claim my innocence, but to my shock, he steps away, backing to the cave entrance as if I am an adder.

His green eyes are wary as he sniffs, tasting my scent.

“I will not touch you.” He states the words in deeply accented common tongue, the syllables unfamiliar in his fanged mouth.

“Then why…why did you take me here?” I gasp out, unable to stop staring at his huge, throbbing cock, his endless lust exposed.

He points to the corner. “Food. Not much. Your kind killed the great herds.” Hatred fills his eyes, his lips curling back to show his fangs. He blames me for what the southern Lord Ashburne did. In the corner is a bit of dried meat and a bowl of snowmelt.

“My village didn’t do that, we hunt those herds as well, it was a southern Lord,” I say, trying to find the words that will grant me my freedom, but his cold, hard, green eyes stare at me with hostility.

His hand clenches into a fist. He breathes out, long and slow, fighting against the brutal mating rage of his species. His cock throbs with every beat of his heart, dripping endlessly, a thick pool of creamy white pre-cum forming on the ground. As horrified as I am, even as the panic grips me, a sizzle of feverish, aching need rises up in me, my body reacting to his pure strength and power. “I do not know what you do to me. It is unholy. A test of the old Gods,” he snarls, and his eyes clear.

“You are of demons, woman. But you are no beast. You deserve to know your fate. Your life will not be wasted. Only the blood of a virgin will bring back the herbs. I will not touch you. I will bring you to my tribe. Then you will die, and we will live.”

“No,” I whimper, terror gripping me.

“It is fated in prophecy.” He turns, grabbing a large leather satchel by the entrance and stalking up the tunnel, and I hear his groan before the boulder is pushed back in place, and I am in the pure darkness.

3

ASKAN

My heart pounds so loudly it is drums in my ear as fat snowflakes swirl down from pregnant clouds. I touch the new runes on my chest, thanking the Gods. The snow will obscure my tracks if any of the humans were brave enough to follow.

I have lived my life in accordance with the rituals, each hunt with divine blessing, but now the dark tendrils of demons stir in my body. My fists clench in anger and shame, and I fight the stirrings of desire, but my cock is an iron rod. I slap at it, willing it to soften, hating myself, this starving hunger in me that will not be sated until I have her.

I pull my furs around me. I had planned to spend the night in the cave, watching my prisoner carefully, because she is the key to the survival of over a hundred men, women and children who will starve if I fail.

I do not trust myself around the temptress. Having her over my shoulder, feeling her wriggling against my body, was pure torture.

The shamans tell me that it is a great sin even to lust for one not of our race. That the union is unholy, creating creatures who cannot be seen by the Gods, weak, twisted versions of us that belong nowhere.

The demonspawn worms were built of the excess clay when we were formed, formed of the crumbs of our creation, living out of harmony with the rhythm of nature.

If they are rejects, then why do they have great cities of stone, while we live in the mountains?

I force away the blasphemous thought, but I’m torn. I had never seen a human female before. I’d killed the men of their species before, patrols in black armor sent to hunt us down, hard-eyed men without mercy who would kill an orc child as easily as they would a warrior, cutting you down from farther than even the strongest archer could shoot an arrow with their infernal rifles. They skulk in the rocks, killing us before we can see them, waiting for days for the chance to take one of us out. Our heads are worth a great bounty in the Capital.

I wedge myself in the thick roots of the great fir that marks our hidden cave. We have many of them, spread out through the lands and into hostile territory, that a lone orc being chased by the King’s parties can find refuge, disappearing as if he never existed. I reach up, grabbing a low hanging branch, and strip it of a handful of pine needles, pressing them against my nostrils and sniffing in.

I can’t get the scent of her out of my nose.

Pure. That is what she is. This pure, clean scent I have never tasted before, and it drives me wild, my cock aching, painfully hard. I reach down, wanting to stroke myself to get some shred of relief, but I know that my thoughts would be polluted by the image of her curvy, feminine body in the moment of release, the way her brown hair curls down against her rosy cheeks, the intelligence and strength in her soft brown eyes…

“Damn it all!” I curse, and grab a handful of ice, pressing it against my raging cock. I bite back a hiss of pain.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing can stop the mating rage. Nothing but her. All I ache to do is push the boulder aside, to grab her, to bury myself to the hilt in her creamy heat, to watch the hatred in her eyes turn to pure ecstasy as I force her to become mine, and mine alone.

I tasted it.

Under the terror, under all her panic, there was this tiny tendril of growing lust in her, this instinctive ache for me. She was created for me, and me alone.

I think of the sharp black knives of the shamans as they chant, their green faces nearly black from the runic tattoos that cover every inch of them, and I cannot stand it. To wastethislife…

---