Display submission

The Orc Chief's mocking voice pulls your gaze from the sad sight of your defeated and deceased sire, and you look up at your captor towering above you, legs spread in a defiant stance. Your eyes make it no higher than his waist where a crudely stitched pouch of thin, soft, stained leather strains to contain the prodigious sack and thickening girth of an Orc-cock that shames even the breeding bull-meat that sired you. The swell of victory makes the leather loin-clout gape at the top, exposing the base of the Orc Chief's sex where it springs from the aromatic thatch of his dank, greasy, pubic mane.

You know you should be reaching for a weapon - your own dropped blade or else your father's - but between breathless defeat and sudden bereavement, to say nothing of the urgent need for the release of unbridled Orcish rutting, you freeze in place. An unfamiliar impulse stirs uncomfortably inside you.

You pant for breath, the sight and scent of your captor overriding your cautions, and you find that your mother's Elvish blood betrays you. Instead of making your escape or preparing to defend your honor to the ****, you sink to elbows and knees, chest pressed to the ground in abject abasement. To your shame, you feel your legs spread and your back arch to hoist your scantly-clad, boyish backside high in a display of submission.

A gloating chuckle comes in response to your instinctual gesture, and you finally tear your eyes away to meet the evil, yellow-eyed gaze of your captor, grinning toothily above you. "Half-breed, hunh? I'd heard you Soft Springs vermin mated with Elf-sluts, and now you see what comes of it. Ha!" He gloats above you, one hand moving to squeeze at the root of his thickening sex, drawing your eye ineluctably back to his domineering endowment. "Bet that was your old Pop, hunh, bringing you raiding here to satisfy your first rut? As if you could handle our women." You whimper, unable to form a reply, captivated by the sheer, overbearing, masculine presence of him as he jeers and scoffs.

"Well, guess it's up to me to teach you how a real Orc breeds a hole, willing or not. Brogar!" He barks an order to a nearby subordinate. "Bring me a collar and chain. And as for that refuse," he adds with a dismissive jut of his bristling chin at your father's stiffening corpse, "have it dragged out and throw it to the swine."