Make a run for it

As the Orc Chief wastes time gloating over his kill, you take the slim chance his distraction offers and scamper away. But before you can even find your feet as you scrabble desperately on all fours, you are brought up, face first, against the greasy leather loincloth of one of the foreign Orc tribe's warriors, who catches you with one rough hand at the nape of your neck.

"Good catch, Brogar," says the clan Chief somewhere behind you. "Cub's yours, if you want him. Stinks of Elf-slut in heat, like half these Soft Springs half-breeds. Decide what to do with him, while we run off the rest of these vermin. And have this carrion thrown to the swine." You hear a meaty sound as he kicks your father's stiffening corpse scornfully.

You struggle, but with capture the urge to fight is dwindling. Worse, an unfamiliar impulse stirs somewhere within you at the warmth of thin, stained leather and barely-contained brute Orcish maleness swelling against your cheek. Your own urgent need is undiminished, your sack seething with unspent, potent Orc-seed demanding release, and your cock chubbing and sweating in the confines of your own scanty loincloth as you gaze up at your captor.

Brogar meets your stare with a nasty grin. "Half-breed, hunh? Probably after a mate, for your first rut. Too bad." He chuckles evilly as you give out a protesting moan, your panting lips still held against the thickening swell of his filthy leather loin-clout, and takes something from his belt with his free hand, the other securing you in place. You fear a knife, but instead it is a heavy, studded, leather collar which he brusquely locks around your neck.

Attached is a chain, not very long but of heavy iron links, the other end secured by a ring on the wolf-head buckle of Brogar's thick leather belt. He hoists you by your collar, chain rattling, drawing you close so your half-hard, captive cock brushes along his own. "You're mine, now, half-breed," he gloats. "Behave yourself, and I'll see that you learn to enjoy it, like a good Elf-boy slut. Make this difficult, and you'll wish you hadn't. Understood?"

You don't like your options at all, but his bulk, his battle-hardened strength, and the sheer masculine scent of him stirs a part of you that you had never suspected. The hand not holding your collar grasps your ass firmly, sliding a callused finger down the top of your cleft where your inadequate loincloth leaves it exposed. To your horror, you find your body betrays you, parting your legs instinctively, as your hips buck to slide your stiffening sex against the much larger endowment straining Brogar's leather pouch. Your butthole quivers.

As he hauls you away, one hand gripping your collar and the other ominously circling your clenched, sensitive pucker with a sly finger, you struggle to decide how to meet your impending fate.