Meet your fate

The Orc-Chief's heavy hand closes around the shorn back of your head, stroking the nape of your neck and touseling your hair - a breeding-buck's short, stiff shock, not a whore's slutty mane! - and draws your face up agaist where his cock strains the greasy leather pouch of his loin-clout, so that you huff the musk of his sticky pubes. Your lips part to graze along the thickening swell of him with teasing tusks. You hardly notice other hands fitting you with a heavy collar of studded leather and locking it in place.

Your sleek, eager, Orc body seems possessed, betrayed by the Elvish stain on your soul, and from the gloating grin on the Orc-Chief's face, you know your urge to surrender, to give over all of your masculine Orcish pride, to be utterly crushed into a mire of cum-sodden shit if that will half-earn his approval, is one he is prepared to indulge. You watch up close as a chain attached to your ****-collar is fastened to the matching cuff of studded leather that circles the thick root of his sex, and your eyes look up, pleadingly. He nods permission and gives the command. "Kiss the ring."

You bury your face where his loin-clout hangs low, your own cock leaking the sap of your need as your weighty Orc sack churns, heavy with pent-up cum, but before your tongue can do more than slide into his pouch, he hauls you up by the collar. "You'll taste it when I am done with your quivering slut-hole, boy. Not before." You feel a guilty shiver, unable to recall when you'd last washed there, or even wiped. With the way his eyes hold your own, juat as his grip holds your collar, dragging you back down to breathe his demanding, domineering scent, you hope you haven't.

His knowing leer broadens as he reads the hope in your eyes, and your sticky butthole squirms where your raging arousal draws your filthy loincloth rough against it in an insistent wedge. "Forget your worthless clan, slut. You belong to real Orcs, now." He jerks you to your feet with a tug of your leash, and steers you to his tent with a rough hand on your ass, tugging where the bunched fabric teases. You spread your stance for balance, and stumble along where he leads.