Wait for your guards to leave

Neither you nor your father intend to give your jeering captors a free show. "Lie down, and try to rest," your father advises, leaning himself against the post. As you curl up on the ground beside him, he draws you over to cushion your head on his thigh. Sleep is elusive, however, between the watchful eyes of the foreign tribe's warriors and your father's eveloping, masculine scent. In spite of your dilemma, your mating urge is undiminished. Your sack seethes with unspent Orcish seed demanding release, and your cock chubs and sweats in the confines of your scanty loincloth.

You stir restlessly, but your father's hand stills you, stroking down your back. "Do not let them see your need, son." He speaks low, to you alone, his tone confidential, almost conspiritorial. "But do not think you can hide it from me." You shiver, as his vast, warm hand slides to your backside, out of the guards' view. A rough fingertip plies where the slack waist-cord of your loincloth exposes the top of your cleft. "I know the urgency of an Orc breeder's first rut," he continues, "and also the insatiable need of your sluttish, Elvish blood."

"When these vermin grow bored of watching, I will show you," he promises, and you do not know whether your shiver is of desire or of fear. "Save your strength," he advises, shifting so that your cheek is now pillowed against the warmth and girth of the massive Orc cock that sired you on a quivering, willing Elvish womb. "I assure you that you will need it."

Your senses reel at the masculine scent as though you were drowning in it, and you feel your pucker quiver as your father's sly touch teases the cleft of your ass, your need growing ever more urgent until, by ones and twos, the out-tribe Orc warriors depart, cheated of their expected entertainment, to plot who knows what dire ****. When you are alone, your father's free hand closes on the collar at the back of your neck as he spreads his legs, and you look up to meet his stern gaze.