Demand answers

"Brother! What have you done?" Your spine tingles at a phantom caress down your back as you feel your strength drained from you, down the chain to the silver and iron band that the Demon wears negligently as a pinky-ring. Then, voice atremble, as you feel your will crumble, to the arrogant fiend standing above you, drizzling pre-seed over your lips and chin, "Who... who are you? Where is my mate?" The unseen touch strokes lower probing your oily cleft, circling your greasy, quivering ring. You feel your legs spread instinctually as you squirm back to offer your hole to be claimed.

"No, not how this works," says the Demon, slyly. "Who are you, is the question. Give me your name, as you gave me this ring, and I will tell you how you may address me." Your own cock seeps freely, untouched. The churning need gathered in your heavy sack forces the answer from you, unable to even wish to disobey.

"Urag," you reply, and your collar warms. The unseen touch grows less tentative, rewarding you with a surge of pleasure centered on the sticky, brown pucker quivering to be **** to yield to the twitching tool dripping above you. "My name is Urag."

The demon smiles, milking another slow drizzle of sticky sap across your chin, your cheeks, your chest. "It will be Cumrag, by the time I've begun with you," he promised. Your proud, Orcish spirit humiliated, but some new part of you, crushed to submission, wants only to be worthy of the name the Demon promises in its place. "You will call me Lord. Or Master. Or Sir. I'm not picky."

"M-master?" you stammer, and nearly cum as the word escapes your throat. Nearly but not quite. "Where is my mate?" You know already, but can't quite bring yourself to hope, even with the Demon Lord Domitaur tugging the chain of your collar. He twists the ring around his little finger and his phantom touch plucks and plies your own squirming ring teasingly. You know, but need to hear it, to be told your fate.

"I am here, pet. Don't fuss. You need to breed, I understand," the Demon assures, as he might comfort a small, not very bright, child. "You need to breed and that is good. Now that you are mine, I will breed you as often as I please." You shudder, licking his sticky pre from your lips, yearing to taste him - but not, you find, until he has filled you from behind, so you can savor your own taste as well. "I see you understand, now. Thank your brother, and we'll be off."

You turn to where your cunning brother stands, smiling at the sight of you and finally grasp that he's conspired to bargain you away into concubine slavery, leaving him only two brothers as rivals. As Lord Domitaur draws you into his arms and the Gate of Souls claims you both, you hear your own voice say, "Thank you, brother." And then you are gone.