Better Opportunities

Work in the port was hard indeed. There were different groups among the carriers, and neither welcomed him. Still, he got the job, and survived his first days obeying commands in languages he could not start guessing. Hand signals were all he needed to do that job, he realized. He could be deaf and it would make no difference.

About one in each five workers were orc lassies. Bigger and bulker than most human men in the job.

Those are fairly beautiful women, if you like the type. Light grey skin most of them, little rough to the touch, not as much as elephants are, but something between that and human softness. The Iconic tusks, tiny compared to those of the males, but still, something to right home about if you compare them to human tusks, which in the proper sense of the world we don’t have.

Our hero was on the fence about those lassies, as far as sexual attraction goes. They were good workers. Always talking to each other, laughing out loud, and saying things to the local human males. Who represented about two in each five workers, and avoided eye contact with the girls, seldom answering their pleasantries. What was a rude way to treat coworkers, by our hero’s standard.

Religious differences, probably. The orcs seem to be a bit overzealous in their devotion, making devotional gestures with one or two hands often. Sometimes between each other, but mostly directed to the human men. As some effort of conversion, one must assume.

Another one in five was made of other obviously non-humans who were not orcs. Except for a few larger individuals the orc lassies ignored them. Most local humans did the same. They talked to each other, for most part. Except for the centaurs, who were treated with cold hostility by everybody and reciprocated that treatment. All those centaurs were males, incidentally.

The rest of the workers was male humans too, but from other nations. Most seemed to go along with the local men, but a few subgroups were surrounded by more hostility than the centaurs even.

There was a predominance of foreigner humans among the clients, but not by much. More than one third of them were evidently non-human. Easily, two thirds of those crews were women, human or not. Our hero was wondering if it had something to do with the gifts, somewhat balancing the scales between men and women. Since physical strength and size was less important, or at least a less guaranteed advantage that it had been on Earth up to the popularisation of pistols and the invention of revolvers.

Contradictorily, they teach in the temple that women are very rare as soldiers, in warfronts. Supposedly that’s why there are so many women for each men in their society. Those were mainly merchant vessels. The military ships should be somewhere else.

One day, short before lunch time, a orc college blocked his path when he was alone in the deposit.

She said something, and made one of those religious gestures of them. One closed first hitting the open palm of the other hand. Followed by one finger of that hand entering a closed hand. Tu-go-go-Gru!! She said.

Our hero tried to explain his agnosticism, and inclination towards atheism to her.

_Look, I respect your religion, but…

She pressed his head against a crate, repeating the short prey. He was able to breath because his nose was between two of her massive fingers. Still, that was uncomfortable. If she pressed a little more fervently his head would crack like a chicken egg.

Our hero could not say with certainty, but his impression was that the pants he had earned after the first day in work had somehow felt down to his knees.

Orc religious baptism seems to involve some contact between the tong of the officiant and the genitals of the person being baptised. Our hero had never heard about any religion like that, but the idea sounded vagally like shamanism in his mind.

This work college had a big mouth, and a tong that was hotter than any tong has right to be.

Still, he was uncomfortable with the whole violation of his freedom of non-religion. And his body was not warming up, despite the heat source.

Even when she stopped holding his face, and instead lifted him up, without stop the sacrament.

His lack of cooperation was not primarily voluntary, but our hero started wondering about the consequences. His balls literally entirely inside her mouth, consequences could be unpleasant and long lasting if her frustration didn’t stopped in silent treatment.

From this consideration he decided to change strategy. Not sure if it would not make things worse. Slowly, he managed to move one knee over her shoulder, in a movement that gave him the chance to take his sex from her mouth for one moment. On the same time, it allowed him the freedom of movement to reach her pocket for a small iron bar he knew to be there.

He hit the side of her head once. With all his strength.

Was enough for her to lose balance, and led him go.

They turned, and now she was with her back against the crate. On her knees. Still recovering. With a murderous look on her face.

He threatened to strike again, and she hesitated. Middle defensive gesture.

To his own surprise, his cock was harder than ever. And he exposed the college’s breasts with an angry imperative gesture.

She was already on her knees, and he entered her cunt without realizing what he was doing. Or think if he wanted to do that or not. “Just happened!” we would say to himself in future times.

The orc woman fought back, them. However, it was a confuse and unarticulated fight, where neither side could find its balance, of breath easily.

When it was over, our hero was unsure about who had won.

The shaman proselytizer stands up and says some other pray to him. In what sounded to his years as a somewhat less abrasive tone.

That day, after lunch, our hero felt his body changing.

His muscles didn’t grew before his eyes, but he felt them becoming somewhat denser. On the same time, he felt a kind of anger, furious rage in his bones and stomach. Like nothing he had experienced before. A desire to hit, torn, strangle everyone and everything that moves. **** every person around to choose between submit or be eaten.

He resisted the urge, and instead only attacked a stone wall. Many times, punching it as if his life depended on it.

No one paid the incident particular attention.

People just seemed to ignore him a bit more.

After that day, the work became a little easier. He was definitively stronger, and tougher now, a bit of that supernatural heaviness orcs have had been passed to him. He didn’t grew fangs, changed colour, or anything like that. He was still human. There was just something a bit orcshy about our hero, now.

Orc lassies noticed it too, and they were the only ones who did not avoided him because of that.

That one who talked to him must have reported the incident to the others. Because after that conversation in the warehouse they started to speak with him. Making those same religious gestures. Perhaps she said he was interested in their shamanic tradition. Or maybe they where angry and determined to seek vengeance for their insulted shamans. You must forgive our hero for not being sure with one was the case, since orcs sound so angry all the time they speak, regardless of the subject, that is difficult to be sure.

Specially when you don’t understand one word they are speaking.

Only certainly in our hero’s mind what the confessional nature of those gestures.

There was more than that happening, although, our hero didn’t realized a drop of it.

There was a battle about to happen, in the long silent war between the Carriers Guild and the Merchant Houses in possession of exploration rights to the Port. The centaurs and a few others were pretending to be normal workers, but positioning themselves to attack and kill all the Guild Leaders in one strike. While preventing new leaders to emerge in the after match.

And latter that day, unrelated to that, a ship bringing the favourite daughter of some important merchant house arrived. Her nation was facing troublesome times, and her father decided to sent her away, supposedly to improve her education in the court. Really, to make her **** less likely.

Plicia accepted the travel gladly. She didn’t realized its hidden meaning, but had no interest in the declared one either. To her, being away from the supervision of her parents was a chance to finally have the time and freedom to improve her personal hobby.

She had been born without the gift her family was famous for, and instead had only a consolation prize. At least she could distract herself with a harmless intellectual game.

Before end up married, and full of noise children demanding her attention all the time.

She noticed our hero, when he came to carry the cargo from the ship.

He was just what she had been thinking about, for her art exercises. The men in charge said he could barely understand any civilized language. “Too stupid”. What was not an issue from her point of view.

Miss Forx, her body-guard, protested a little. Leaving her in change of arrange the details was enough to settle the matter. Fortunately. The big warrior in full plate looked severe, but she was really sweet with Plicia. And malleable, whiting limits of reason. As long as the situation didn’t seem stupidly dangerous.

Few days later, the harbourmaster selected our hero along to some other fellows, mostly centaurs, to carry some crates to a house in the city.

This was the first time his work took our hero out of the Port.

They took the cargo from the carts fast enough, but then one of the centaurs hid our hero with a club in the back of his head.

It should have knocked our hero down, and defenceless. He barely felt it.

Another centaur took the initiative to kick him in the chest with his back hooves. What was enough to send him flying several meters. But he went back to his feet fast, ratter angry than shaken.

The large bodyguard woman in full plate armour was watching from a stair in front of the house. Arms crossed in front of her body.

It was a mean but short fight. Our hero was strong and though but lacked combat experience, training, and cunning. Someone with more common sense would focus in run away and try to escape back into the streets, where perhaps someone would intervene. By curiosity, if nothing else. Instead of remain in the internal patio, where his enemies had complete control over all directions.

Soon enough someone managed to hit him with just the right strength to put him to sleep, without killing him.

Our hero was only half aware of being carried inside the house, through corridors, and down stairs. To me tied to a heavy wooden armchair.

Last thing he saw was someone forcing something into his mouth, to gag him. And then he lost conscience. Someone passed in front of him, seemingly holding a syringe.