Age of the Orc - End

Now
24 Mar 2019, Fourth Age
11:20:14

The Black Arrow convertible zipped down the two-lane blacktop towards Barad-dûr. At the gas station on the way out of town, Eevin had bought the lottery ticket. The pair wore only the spare change of outfits that they had left for themselves in the tunnel. They had walked down the road to the house, but dared not wake their sleeping other selves within as they used the spare key to ease it out of the garage.

They were together. They had each other. It was enough.

Just the open road, the wind in their hair—and freedom. To be together. To be themselves.

"I'm thinking of a new name," the Orc said. She was wearing a skirt. Panties. A bra. The first time she had ever worn them out in public.

Eevin smiled. She reached over and pulled up the skirt. The cock flopped free.

"Oh yeah?" The Hobbit said, as she began to stroke her lover hard.

"Rebeorca—it's from one of the Orcish dialects near Rohan. It means 'One who is reborn.'" she said.

"Rebeorca," Eevin tasted the word. Then she undid her safety belt. "Alright, love."

The word was almost as thrilling as the hot tongue that swished around Rebeorca's glans. The Orc's fingers tightened on the steering wheel for a moment, and then she pressed a button on the dash, to put the car on automatic. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Relishing the sensation of her lover's tongue as it slid along the side of her prick. They would find somewhere they could live together, openly.

Once, long ago, the Orc Zoch had left Barad-dûr. They had carried with them not just the weight of the past, but the crushing expectations of a future that Zoch had not really wanted. Orc supremacy was an old, ugly idea. A vision of war and bloodshed and toxic masculinity, generations of ****, and kids raised in dormitories.

Rebeorca was free of that now. Free to make her own future.

As Eevin's fingers tickled the Orc's balls, she paused to look up at her smiling lover and asked:

"Would it have worked? If Morgrir had lived?"

Rebeorca let one hand play with Eevin's ear. She knew the Hobbit liked that. It could drive her wild.

"When you told me about the Music of the Ainur," she said, speaking loudly against the wind. "When Morgoth disrupted the music, Eru Ilúvatar incorporated it into the melody. It made the music more complicated, but didn't destroy it. Maybe the universe has a mechanism to resolve disruptions, prevent paradoxes. I don't know. All I know is, I wasn't going to let that asshole define who I'm with or who I get to be."

Eevin's nose crinkled. She rose and eased herself into Rebeorca's lap. Guided herself down onto the Orc cock. No condoms this time. No cage or teasing. There would be time for that later.

"Good answer," she said, before their lips met.

Tomorrow, it would be on the news. The industrial accident at Mordor Cybernetics, which claimed the lives of top executives and lead researchers. The brownout in Barad-dûr, the winning lottery ticket bought just hours before. Twenty million credits. More than enough to live comfortably.

Maybe someday, an archaeologist would excavate the rock beneath the crushed time chamber. They would find a skeletal arm, laced with mithril, and be unable to explain the serial numbers etched into it. Someday, maybe someone would try again. Ideologies die hard.

Rebeorca didn't care. She was more interested in traveling to the future than the past. And as she clung to her lover...as the wind carried off their cries...and something hot burst deep inside of the Hobbit, an exclamation of love and commitment that they no longer had to hide...she thought the future was something well worth fighting for.