Go to meet your promised mate

The unguent your cunning brother has anointed you with spreads with the heat of your skin, and the suggestive scent gives you confidence even as it rouses your mating urge again. As you follow, your sex swells in anticipation, tugging the taut, oily thong that greases your quivering ring. Your demanding Orc-cock throbs and seeps, soaking its sheer, skimpy pouch transparent, displaying your endowment proudly. You rub yourself slowly, glad to know that your mate's first sight of you will show how ready you are to breed. The grim old wizards presiding above no longer worry you at all. You are of the breeding caste, a buck stud in rut, soon to be satisfied. Your brother's friendly hand on your shoulder steadies you as you take the place indicated for you in a circle of ashes.

"Now kneel, and offer the ring in your hand," he directs. "The summoning has already begun."

You kneel as indicated and try not to fidget as you take in the rest of the preparations for the ceremony. Braziers billow with **** smoke, soothing you of any anxiety. Before an empty gateway of rune-carved stone, a butchered sow, gravid with young, bleeds out into a broad, brazen bowl - a sacrifice promising fertility and plenty. When you have taken your place, a low chant resumes.

"Domitaur, we call you forth, to receive that which has been promised," speaks the eldest Shaman in a commanding voice. "The pledge is kept. The way is open. Come!"

Some dim recess of your mind piques in dull confusion. That certainly doesn't sound like a girl's name! But then, your brother had explained that your mate is foreign - maybe not even an Orc! You draw in great lungs-full of herb-scented smoke and steady yourself, one hand assuring that your silk-shod, oiled erection is on proud display, even tugging a bit to tease your own greasy hole with the silken thong eagerly.

The space in the big stone gate darkens, then stirs with a lurid glow. A shape gathers there. Your left hand raises instinctually, offering the ring at the end of your collar-chain as your pledge-price. The form swirls, then congeals slowly out of light and shadow, and steps forward on a huge, hairy, cloven hoof. Smoke gathers, drifts, then clears. The figure of your promised mate is revealed. Your brother smirks. Your jaw drops.

His hairy, clawed hand grasps the ring you offer, slipping it down over the smallest of his fingers as you meet his appraising gaze, dumbfounded. A Demon, ten feet tall, broader across shaggy shoulders and hairy chest than any Orc. He stands with his hooves proudly spaced, gazing down at you as his free hand idles along his huge, hairy, warty cock, as proudly aroused as your own, and he smiles.

"Oh, yes," says Domitaur, "this will do nicely."