The Valley

The moon re-emerged and he was taken with their beauty, full and ripe and seemingly made, his mind belatedly reflected, to tempt the lowest impulses of men. Then their lips pressed into his, soft and yielding yet demanding. He could feel their breasts pressed into his chest, firm and full, demanding his attention. The head of his member brushed against their thighs, and he gave a soft groan into their mouth.

The kiss broke for a moment and he panted, trying to get his racing heart under control in these brief moments. They shifted, sabotaging his efforts with the feel of their hot, urgent sex against his shaft. He bucked his hips reflexively at the touch, grunting in need. Rob's meaty paws reached for them, only to fall through the air impotently. He was a young man once again, fumbling to doff Marine Djoznak's dress in the hayloft.

And then he was falling, landing in the soft moss of the forest floor. He wondered how they'd gotten there, seeing mountains thrusting high above the trees. Wolves howled in the distance, and they howled back as they climbed atop him, lowering their hungry gash towards his mast. They pressed him into their sex while he mewled in need and shame and wordless terror.

For a moment he was transported, the physical proximity less important than the intimacy of the act in ripping him free of time and space. They rode him savagely, impaling themselves on his tool so roughly he'd find bruises on his pelvis in the morning. He knew that because he was finding the bruises, waking sore and alone on the bare stone floor of the brothel's basement.

They were still riding him though and he gasped for air as they rode up his length, now glistening with their juices, wisps of raw aether evaporating as they were exposed to the world and then they were crashing down on him again. He was sitting at a corner table in the Brothel, his ears keen as he listened to the slap of flesh on flesh, the soft moans of elvish whores, the thump of music from a Jangle-crate. Beneath the table one of his whores was busily servicing his cock with her oh-so-skilled mouth, hoping to win his favor, and two muscular men with prison tattoos stood by him idly, waiting for his word to move.

He was ripped backward in time as they pulled upwards and he seized his moment, gripping their hip and shoving them over so he could loom over them. Lowering his head, he suckled at their nipple and drank in the rich aether that slipped from them to the chorus of their moans. Then he thrust his hips and time itself bent to his will. He was on a ship, cradling an elvish woman. She was bleeding badly from a wound in her belly and the air was filled with screams and the clang of steel on steel. He didn't understand why, but he knew he had some obligation to her, to keep her safe. Checking that none of the others on deck were looking his way, he shouted a command to the young man nearby, sending him scurrying off across the deck. Then he raised his hand and found the path. Golden light coiled, brightening to white as it rippled down his arm, the words forming on his flesh. They were ancient prayers and catechisms, inciting the bearer to the virtues of the Orcish people, honor, clan, diligence, duty, and sacrifice. The elvish woman gasped, the wound healing, not entirely, but enough to give her a fighting chance, and without knowing how he knew, he know she was a fighter. He bent down and kissed her forehead gently.

Then he was pulling back, sweat pouring off him as he looked into their eyes, mumbling incoherently "Who?" before they bucked up against him, slamming him into the future. Shots rang out as he barreled down the length of the caravan. A haphazardly dressed man, perhaps a bandit of some kind, was throwing the contents of a wagon to his fellows below. Rob landed in the wagon with a rattling impact and slammed his fist into the bandit's chest, caving it in and sending the man crumpling off the far side. He glanced down, right into the barrel of a flintlock. A shot rang out and the bandit jerked, half his skull disappearing as a large caliber round ripped it away. He crumpled bonelessly and Rob looked over to see the elf, dressed in a long, dusty coat and firing rounds from a bolt action rifle, smoothly cycling rounds from a belt of them into the ****-maker in her hands. He gave his thanks, and she nodded.

He gave a groan, feeling his orgasm coming as time and space ripped away from him. They cried out in endless orgasmic pleasure as well, grinding against his tool while he shot his load inside them. Then the darkness took him.