Try to shrug him off.

"Geeze, Dad! A little space." You flinch at his hand on your hip, blushing. None the less, the chain joining your collars only allow you so much room, and you can't escape at least some contact. Even after your father releases you, your senses are filled with his scent, that of a mature, Orcish, breeding stud-bull. What you should have been, in turn.

This other fate is something your tribe hardly had hinted at. Something adolescent Orc-lads whispered about in the dark of the tents, as they waited to be old enough to take proper mates. Some even practiced with each other. Your brothers had tried to show you, as well, but you had refused. They were not nearly as masculine as your father, and anyway you were destined to be a breeding-bull yourself, weren't you?

"Listen to me, son." Your father allows you what space you can make, but his voice is insistent. "I know what we must do..."