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Chapter Text

Djen's lip curls up over her tusks as she looks around, taking everything in. It all seems to be in order. Not that she would know. Still, the basic structure looks solid enough.

As if. She snorts as she continues to survey her surroundings, trying to ignore the growing unease. It's not as if she's been dreading this all her life. On the other hand, it's not something she's been looking forward. If anything, she's done her best not to think about it.

Truth be told, she's nothing special. Marked and Blooded before her sixteenth year, made youngest of the Nine before her twentieth. Trusted in council despite her tender years. But at some point, sooner or later it's every orc woman's duty to lose her cherry. To make man child.

It's not her job to like it. Generally, her people live separate lives. They've done so ever since long before her time; ever since the curse that nearly wiped them out, the miracle that brought them back from near extinction. Only on these rare occasions do men and women of the orc race come together, and only for this singular purpose. Even if it seems one-sided, it's up to both parties to make the best of it.

She wanders through the rooms, noting the privy out back, the dedicated rooms for cooking and for eating. And mating.

Her stomach curls in a sour twinge as she stares at the bed, the decadent softness of its sheets and pillows. Her people generally don't bother with custom dwellings of their own. In this case, their recent expansion east has brought them to the foot of the drow mountains. The usual strategy is to burn any human buildings to the ground, but the few cabins they've found this close to the mountains are all made of stone. It's nothing fancy like in the city, but impressive nonetheless to someone who's spent her life sleeping in caves and trees.

Her assigned stud should be here soon. As youngest of the tribe's warriors, Djen's always known she would have no choice of partner. Except Toru - her mentor and leader of the Nine - always had a soft spot for her younger broodmate. It had been the only thing that saved Djen from being torn to pieces before she was old enough to leave the communal creche.

But Toru knew better than to lay any claim. Not before Djen had done her duty to her people. So the older orc had swallowed her pride, offering all of her wisdom and advice as the day of reckoning loomed closer. She'd sent Djen to the city to pick up a suit of armor, resulting in the younger orc receiving her first blowjob from an eager goblin apprentice. And she had begun to include Djen in their predations on any stray human that wandered too close to orc territory. Like that peasant girl.

And there was the nun.

Djen shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to reach down and adjust herself. The best she can hope for - all she can hope for - is that her position, however minor, will garner some measure of respect. Not to mention a decent slave.

Don't get too comfortable. Toru had warned her of the dangers, stressing the importance of maintaining absolute mastery. To never show weakness - to a man or a human. And anyway, slaves were strictly temporary. No more than a brief distraction to sweeten the bitterness of having to submit to a man. Growing gravid and useless for months before squeezing out his spawn and returning to battle.

One of the small side rooms has a round copper tub full of steaming water, as long across as Djen is tall, in height halfway up her thighs. She's baffled by the the thin pipes that run through the wall until she steps out back and sees the fire-box at the end of the line. Stoke a flame inside that metal, and the pipes move that heat into the tub like magic. If she didn't know better, she'd think it was for making an army's worth of soup. As it is, she's seen such luxuries in both human homes and dwarven tunnels. It actually looks kind of inviting. Enough to provoke a flicker of guilt deep in her guts.

More than anything, what she's unaccustomed to is being alone. At least she won't be expected to lose her maidenhead in front of the whole tribe. Like some common sow -

Her ears prick up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy, making no effort to be quiet. She can hear the tread just outside the door as she turns to see it swing open.

"You Djen?" The stud doesn't bother waiting for a reply as he hunches over, squeezing his bulk through the doorway. The figure draped over his shoulder is barely recognizable as a small human woman wrapped in a dirt-stained trail blanket, held in place by one of his massive hands.

Djen watches in silence, taking in the sight. The stud has less than a handspan over her in terms of height, the thick muscle of his body showing only a handful of scars. His black hair is longer than she's used to seeing, tied back in a single braid that reaches down between his shoulders. Judging by the Marks on his skin, he's definitely proven himself in combat.

"For you." The stud punctuates this grunt by shrugging, lifting the squirming body before casually tossing it on the ground at Djen's feet. "Clean up."

Djen stares down at the figure, watching it heave with short and panicked breaths. Slowly she bends down, finding the edge of the blanket, peeling it back.

"We still clearing out drow." The stud sounds supremely bored. "I be back in three days. Make man child."

Djen barely hears his words. She's too busy staring at her prize. It's a woman, all right: A decidedly plump, definitely middle-aged human female; completely naked, awkwardly bound with rope at the wrists and ankles behind her back. Her belly and hips are more generously proportioned than her breasts, her chest heaving, her nipples looking painfully stiff. At first glance she looks as small as a goblin, but she's more between Djen and a goblin - short even for a human, making her generous body appear even more ample. Her tangled hair reaches down to her shoulder, a mix of brown and red with a few streaks of silver to match the crow's feet around her eyes. Those hazel eyes are wide and panicky, staring up at Djen over a bit of black cloth stuffed into her mouth.

Djen can feel her own eyes growing wider as she takes in the full sight. A clean and recent brand is burnt into the woman's left hip, the circle and double cross of Clan Filo. And as she reaches out and roughly grabs the human's shoulder, rolling her onto her side, Djen can see fresh whip marks across the pale skin of her back. A lash that hit hard enough not just to draw blood, but to leave bruises.

"What in the -" Djen's mouth works silently for a moment as her outraged brain tries to process. "What in the fuck is this!?"

An annoyed frown ripples across the stud's craggy features.

"What?" His annoyance is only matched by his confusion. "What you problem?"

"I'm supposed to - get a fucking maiden!" Djen's heart is pounding fit to leap from her chest. The worst part is, it feels like as much fear as it does anger. "Look at her! She's probably had a whole fucking - litter of whelps -"

"Whatever." The stud's grunt brings Djen's diatribe to a halt. He doesn't even sound mad. "She free. You lucky - get one at all."

So much for rank having privilege. Djen is seething inside as she continues to stare at her matronly captive.

"Train her good - have you fun. I come back - we have more fun. Make man child." The stud chuckles, reaching down with one massive paw to give his balls a casual scratch. "I take you - we take her. Together."

An image flashes through Djen's mind, a combination of her own imagining and the one tribal orgy she'd managed to spy on. A tantalizing one, to be sure. But hardly enough to counter her righteous fury at being reminded of her low status as youngest of the Nine.

"Three days." The stud frowns absently, raising his fingers to his twitching nose for a curious sniff. He's not looking at Djen as he turns and squeezes back out the door, not even bothering to shut it in his wake.

Djen stares at his dwindling figure as it blends into the trees. Then he becomes one with the growing shadows, disappearing from view.

Her gaze falls slowly to the floor. Looking silently down from her full and commanding height at the trembling figure, lying at her feet.

Staring into terrified human eyes.

Chapter Text

It seems an eternity has passed before Djen gives vent to a resigned and disgusted snort.

The woman flinches at the sound, quailing as the orc reaches out. She's squirming in her bonds, trying to crawl away as razor sharp claws slice through the rope that binds her wrists. Her resulting cry of pain is muffled by the wad of black cloth still jammed into her mouth.

Djen watches, impassive and silent as the human struggles to cover her breasts and groin. Her arms are moving awkwardly from being held so long in restraint, her fearful gaze flickering back and forth between Djen's face and crotch. The growing bulge is already peering out from under the orc's leather loincloth, showing an increasing interest in the proceedings.

The human is still trying to crawl away when Djen grabs her by the ankles and frees her legs. Those terrified eyes are widening further, the panicked breath growing more rapid through the impromptu gag as the woman fights to keep her thighs pressed tightly together. One of Djen's comparatively massive hands easily holds both arms overhead, and a muffled cry rings out as Djen pulls the bit of cloth from her mouth.

She grabs her captive's jaw and squeezes, just hard enough to hold it open for a good look all around. Her first thought is good teeth. Better than one's used to seeing on any random peasant. The thought of having a noblewoman at least is enough to elevate Djen's opinion of her prize. And the human seems healthy despite her extra weight. The plumpness is in fact rather enticing, the overall jiggle adding considerably to her appeal.

She's also covered in travel dust. Smudged with dirt, marred by the occasional bruise and scrape. And those wounds on her back will need attention before they begin to fester.

The human draws in a breath as Djen grabs her under the arms, lifting her up like a child. She remains silent as the orc carries her into the adjoining room, but her body is trembling more violently as they approach the steaming tub.

Djen watches the woman's face as she lowers her in. There's a quiet hiss when the water passes her hips, a slight whimper escaping before the woman clamps down deep in her throat, deliberately muzzling her pain.

She's still trembling as Djen releases her and stands up. The woman immediately sinks to her knees, both hands gripping the side of the tub and crouching close in an effort to preserve her modesty. She stares up in silent terror, as if awaiting execution.

Djen shakes her head as she grabs a clean cloth, dunking and wringing it out with unnecessary force. The woman's hands are shaking like the rest of her body, her knuckles white with tension as the cloth makes contact with the worst of the welts across her back.

It does make her wonder. The sight of human fear is a familiar one by now. But there's something different here, in these eyes that keep reluctantly straying to hers. Something Djen can't name or even put a feeling to, beyond simply the great unknown.

The greatest fear of all.

Her snort this time is one of bitter amusement. As if she has anything to fear from this - craven little thing.

The human is biting down on her lip. Still, her breath remains steady and slow as Djen continues to clean her wounds. The pale curve of her buttocks is slightly distorted under the water, but it's still an appetizing sight. More tantalizing for what it leaves to the imagination.

An additional quiver runs through the woman's body as Djen runs the cloth down to the unmarked small of her back. The orc pauses, relishing the trembling of those generous hips.

"Look -" Her voice sounds rusty in her own ears. "I know you can talk."

The woman inhales sharply at the first word out of Djen's mouth. She's still frozen as the orc completes her sentence.

"...h-" The woman's eyes slam shut, her body tensing in anticipation. She seems nearly unable to breathe.

Djen goes back to cleaning the wounds in silence. Her eyes roam over the freshly burned Mark on the human's hip, the rolls of flesh as she hunches over in a futile attempt at concealment. Mostly she's congratulating herself on managing the more awkward human tongue.

"Ha-" The word cracks apart before it can finish. The woman sniffles and swallows and clears her throat, her voice a whisper. "H-how do you -"

"Saw your back."

Another sharp intake of breath greets her blunt response. Djen inspects her work with a critical eye, checking the cloth for blood and pus. Not much of the former; none of the latter. A good sign.

"Are y-" The woman swallows again, barely able to form the words. "Are you... going to eat me?"

Djen blinks. Then she throws back her head and laughs, for what feels like the first time in years. Maybe ever from the way it rolls on out of her, low and long like thunder before dying away, tapering off into a chuckle.

"Well." The human is still cowering in the same position, staring at Djen with something more than fear. "I'm glad - one of us...finds this amusing."

Djen isn't sure how to respond. It doesn't seem to warrant any sort of discipline yet.

"I - I feel like -" The woman's voice is cracking again, dropping back to a whisper. "Like - you're going to make - soup out of me."

"I will do - whatever - I want." Djen punctuates the authority of her statement with quiet emphasis. "And the first thing I'm going to do - is clean you up."

The human winces as though she's being physically prodded with each word. It makes Djen feel like she's carving the human words out of her mouth, pulling them bleeding from the Orcish tongue inside her head. It makes her think of poor Shaman, her own tongue removed at birth, condemned to Speak only through others.

She runs her cloth once more over the lacerated flesh, producing another faint whimper.

"You talk too much."

The woman bows her head at Djen's casual pronouncement. Her eyes are shut firmly, the tension still present all throughout.

"But..." The woman gathers her courage. "I can...talk - to you?"

"If you don't piss me off."

Djen watches with a mixture of satisfaction and guilt. The human remains silent, hunched over and huddled in, avoiding her eyes.

"I won't -" Djen swallows a growl. "Beat you...just for speaking."

The sound that emerges from the woman almost resembles a chuckle. A low, desperate and slightly crazed one, to be sure.

Djen wrings out the cloth with a bit too much force, and the human flinches at the sound of tearing fabric. The orc pauses, suppressing another growl before returning to cleaning the wounds.

"May..." The woman's brief pause becomes a longer hesitation. "May I have some water? To - drink?"

For a moment, Djen considers making this entitled bitch drink her own bath water. Then she grabs the skin from the pouch at her waist. She holds it aloft over the human's head, raising an expectant eyebrow.

The woman's hand twitches, as if about to reach. Her eyes are fixed on Djen's as she slowly opens her mouth.

Djen nods, giving the skin a gentle squeeze. She can feel her lips threaten a smile as she watches the woman awkwardly drink what's being offered. It's not until she's lowered the skin that the human moves her hand to her lips, wiping her mouth with an almost delicate gesture.

The orc nods and rises to her feet with a grunt. She doesn't bother to look back as she walks out of the room, out the front door of the small dwelling. If the human does try to run, Djen will hear. Won't get far.

Not that she herself has far to go. Thanks to Shaman's training it's easy to find suitable plants, with no need to go searching in the deeper forest. Djen stuffs all the leaves in her mouth and chews them all the way back, then finds a bowl in the kitchen to spit everything into. A hefty glug of cooking oil and some rough mixing results in what looks like a decent ointment.

The human is rinsing her hair when Djen walks in. Her ears apparently full of water, it's not until the orc is nearly upon her that the woman notices her and freezes, like a deer catching the scent of a stalking bear. She remains unmoving until Djen grabs her hand and gently pulls, providing just enough obvious encouragement to cause her to rise from the bath almost gracefully, her cheeks crimson with shame, that tiny pink body all glistening and wet. It makes Djen's mouth water just to look at it.

The human remains compliant and silent, holding both arms over her chest while Djen dries her off. Her shoulders are rounded and tense as the orc spreads a double handful of the medicinal oil across her back. Djen pauses to admire once more the meatiness of those plump and aging thighs, the swell of her rump and the mysteriously inviting crevice between. It almost feels spoiled by the recent brand on her hip. As if such pristine flesh was never meant to be Marked.

It also makes Djen wonder how old this human really is. At least as old as she appears at first glance, but definitely in decent shape despite her weight, the fleshiness only slightly concealing firm muscle underneath. Doesn't seem like the flab of a noblewoman who sat around growing fat and lazy after popping out a few heirs. And that pink skin, however pale, shows the signs of regular time in the sun.

"May I -" The woman's eyes are downcast, her voice hesitant. "Please - have some...clothes?"

Djen just stands there silently looking her quarry up and down, relishing the sight of increasing embarrassment. The woman's cheeks are near scarlet. And those are the ones up above.

"No."

The woman's expression falls further.

"Move your hands," Djen orders. She reaches out with a gentle slap. A token gesture, barely a tap. "Let me see."

The human's face is twisted in misery, eyes clenched shut as her hands fall twitching aimlessly to her sides. Her nipples are dark and crinkled, more than slightly engorged.

"Look at me."

The human's eyes practically fly open. It takes a moment for them to find Djen, blinking furiously as she stares up at the orc. Her expression is one of equal fear and confusion, her eyes seemingly unable to focus.

Djen wants to say something more. Something that will really strike fear into the human's heart. Except it feels like she's growing lost in those eyes. Unable to form words even in her mind.

Her mouth is watering again as she stares back down. Imagining those eyes growing even wider as she hauls out her prick. Slapping it between those nice fluffy pillows, those swollen lips parting just a little further -

"What -" Djen frowns, trying to discern yet another unknown. "What is wrong?"

"I -" The woman swallows again, fingers twitching at her sides as she forces herself to stand up straighter. "I...can't see. Very well."

Djen knows of this problem. Just another inevitable part of growing old.

"I mean -" The plantive admission somehow carries a hint of defiance. "Without my glasses."

Djen frowns, again unsure.

"I - wear them. On my face?" The woman's hand moves further this time, almost rising to chest level before quickly returning to her side. "Two...pieces of glass. In a metal frame?"

It sounds like something Djen has seen before. On a drow sorceror. The one she had sliced nearly in half with her double-headed battle axe.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know. They were - taken from me. Along with all of my clothes," the woman quickly adds, with no attempt to hide her bitterness. "So I can't see you - very well," she concludes. "Unless you...come closer."

It seems like an obvious trap. On the other hand, Djen is hard pressed to see any potential threat. She stares a moment longer, then puts both hands on her hips and bends down, her chin thrust slightly forward with a hint of challenge.

The human swallows, but doesn't look away. While fear is still in the lead by a comfortable margin, it seems as though confusion and curiosity are neck and neck.

"What..." The woman's quiet voice is full of wonder. "What are you?"

Djen doesn't answer. She can feel a smile tug at the corners of her lips at the awestruck tone.

She continues to stare, taking her sweet time running a gaze of blatant enjoyment up and down the woman's trembling body. The longer she indulges her desire to look, the more Djen is finding to like. At least her prick seems to like it.

She reaches out to brush a lock of hair from the woman's eyes. Shoulder length and reddish brown, it's mostly dry, if a bit frizzled. The tangled and wild look only adds to her nymphlike appearance. A fat little fairy grandmother.

"What do you -" Somehow the woman manages to keep her eyes open, her voice from cracking. "...want?"

Djen blinks. Her lip twitches, curling up and over her tusks.

"Are you simple?"

The woman's gaze is falling, reluctantly returning to the bulge in Djen's loincloth. She slowly shakes her head in disbelief.

"This is -" The woman's jaw works silently, her eyes flickering back and forth between the orc's face and her crotch. "Insane -"

"Your - only purpose -" Djen struggles to retain control over herself, to keep her growl from growing too loud. "Is my pleasure. Is that clear enough? Or do you need a fucking map?"

She can't help the viciousness in her last words. The woman quails, breathing heavily, seemingly fighting to keep both eyes on her owner.

"Then - are you..." The woman draws a deep breath. "Going to...take care of me?"

To say Djen is confused would be an understatement. It must be obvious on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean - are you going to take care of me? Or are you going to...use me up - wear me out...and -" The woman swallows, her eyes remaining fixed on Djen. "Throw me away...when you're done?"

Djen's nostrils flare, her lip twitching as understanding begins to dawn. "I should be your slave."

"I - didn't say that. But...if you want me to - l-last a - a long time..." The woman abruptly lets out a barking laugh that half sounds like a sob. "God! This is -"

Djen continues to stare. It feels like the only thing she's capable of.

"I mean - one minute I'm - I was home -" The woman draws a heavy shuddering breath. "On my farm. It was just another - I was feeding the goats. And the chickens, and - there was this - explosion, without a sound. And suddenly I'm surrounded by...strangers - people like I've never seen before. With grey skin - silver hair, and eyes - p-pointed ears, like yours -"

"The drow." Djen manages to keep from actually spitting. Still, the word is a curse on her lips.

"What?" The woman's confusion is back, stronger than her apprehension. "What are -"

"The dark elves," Djen returns flatly.

Now it's the human's turn to blink. As if she's looking at a sheep giving birth to a cow.

"Elves."

"Yes." Djen frowns, unsure how much to reveal. "We are at war. My people, and -"

"Elves," the woman repeats. Her voice is dull and flat, her eyes staring at nothing. A shaky laugh emerges from her lips.

"And how - do you even -" She falters momentarily before refocusing on Djen, her expression bordering on an angry glare. "Speak - English?"

"Angl..." Djen frowns. "What is -"

"The - the language." The woman looks like she's trying not to start shouting. "That we're speaking! Right - now -"

"You mean -" Djen's doing her best to make sense of this. So far, it's a lost cause. "Common?"

The woman shakes her head, suppressing another high-pitched laugh. For a moment her expression is one of calculation, her thoughts seemingly racing at lightning speed as she bows her head. When she looks back up at Djen, she seems like no more than a lost child.

"I've never...seen anyone - like you."

Djen doesn't buy it. No way in the nine hells is such a thing possible. Except it has the ring of truth.

"Never."

"Never." The woman's hands are curling into fists at her sides. From the sound of her voice, the look on her face, the gesture is one of of frustration rather than imminent violence. "Please - just tell me - what are you?"

"I -" Djen isn't sure what the question is. Even if it seems straightforward.

"I am...orc. I mean - I am..." It takes her a moment to find the right phrasing. "An - orc."

This earns another brief pause.

"Orc." The woman's skepticism is more than apparent, with no effort made to contain her growing irritation. "You are - kidding me."

Djen raises an eyebrow. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

The human is back to that look of intense and rapid thought. Djen suppresses a growl.

"Finish." She doesn't hide her impatience, the tone of warning in her voice. "The drow -"

"They - I couldn't understand them. And they wouldn't listen, and they - put me in a cage -"

Djen almost laughs aloud. The sheer outrage is - what's the word? Adorable.

"And then - I heard fighting. And shouting, and - dying - and then a man came in. A man like - like you. And he pulled me out of the cage and - tied me up, and - branded me like some animal - beat me, when I screamed -"

Djen contines to stare in silence. She wants to tell the human she's lucky to be alive. Except that doesn't seem quite true.

"And - here I am - and I don't know where I am. Or who - any of you people even are -"

Another brief sob. The woman's hands rise to wipe her face, quickly returning to her sides.

"And now...I guess I - I'm a slave." The woman bites her lip, staring up once more at Djen. "So...do I just call you - master?"

For whatever reason, Djen doesn't like the sound of it. Especially not on those lips.

"Or - what...name, do I - call - you..."

"I am - Djen."

She says it more to keep the human quiet. To curb that awkward stammer, to put a stop to the flow of nervous babble before it can strike a chord in her own.

"Djen...Koh Na." She watches closely, searching for the slightest clue to her ever-growing mystery. "Of the Filo clan."

"Oh."

Again the mystery. Any human in the valley should know enough to have some reaction to that name.

"Well - Jen..." The woman is turning an even brighter shade of red, somehow managing a dignified curtsey in her state of nudity. "My name...is Margaret."

Djen continues to stare down in silence. Mystified, like never before in her young life.

Completely and utterly enthralled.

"Margaret...Elizabeth...Cannery."

Chapter Text

Of all the ways Margaret Cannery might have imagined spending the rest of her evening, it's safe to say that none of them would have involved any of the events that have taken place in the past eight or so hours. She would have predicted chamomile tea. Cream of chicken soup. Working through the roadblocks in her latest manuscript, trying to reconcile authorial instinct with the mandates of her editor and publisher. She certainly would never have dreamed of the possibility of being instantly transported to some alien realm, terrifying in its primitive and casual brutality. And under no circumstances would she have imagined ever becoming a slave.

Especially this kind.

The worst part - aside from the obvious - is not even knowing how long it's been. She certainly hasn't slept. Not since she'd been taken from her home, her life and everything she'd ever known. A perfectly normal day had been turned upside down, her world disappeared and replaced by an incomprehensible nightmare. One that has only continued to grow worse.

She can't say how long she was in the cage. The pale grey strangers were shouting at each other in their own language, ignoring Margaret as her pleas grew in volume and hysteria. From the smell and feel of the air, the little she could make out by the pale light of white stones embedded in the walls, they seemed to be deep underground. The tang of smoke was strong in the air, the smell of burning herbs and sulfur.

Then a great trembling had risen in the earth, growing in strength as if the mountain above were about to crumble and fall on their heads. The strangers had ceased their argument, immediately drawing their swords

(swords?)

and charging out of the room. They'd left her alone, staring helplessly, clutching the bars of her cramped prison. And then -

Right now it's all she can do to remain upright. To stand up straight, hands at her sides like a good cow. No fidgeting. It doesn't help that she hasn't eaten since breakfast. And she'd been given no time to pack even the smallest of travel bags. Her pockets had been empty, her only material possessions the clothes on her body, the glasses on her face. Even those she'd been quickly deprived of. And after this abrupt and unexpected opening of the floodgates of conversation - after painfully learning to keep her mouth shut, only to be granted even partial reprieve - Margaret's thoughts are threatening to spin out of control. Each time she feels like she's beginning to understand, suddenly she's presented with something new. Another thing that surpasses or defies her understanding.

But she's regained the power of speech. Even managed to tell her story. It may do no good in the end. Maybe as far as her fate is concerned, it won't make any difference.

But more importantly - she has spoken her name. Aloud, to someone other than herself. Affirmed her identity. And even if she knows nothing else - at least Margaret has one thing to hold onto. She knows who she is.

And who she's talking to. Jen - or so it sounds. Like it should be short for something. Except even now that she's standing, staring up at the enormous figure that towers overhead - all the more imposing for its savage, almost animal appearance - Margaret finds herself hard pressed to imagine it short for anything.

She keeps returning to that single familiar word. The one she remembers now so well from that new fantasy novel written by that kindly British professor. Her own publisher had given her an advance copy of the American edition. And that word is the same thing that Margaret's new - owner, this - being - has identified herself as.

Orc.

Except it's fiction. Has to be. Couldn't be anything else.

And yet here it is, in the flesh. Seven feet tall if she's an inch; dark green skin, pointed ears like an elf and if that weren't enough on its own there are actual tusks, almost cute the way they stick up and over her upper lip. The sides of her head are clean shaven, a shaggy strip of dark hair running down the middle with a trio of braids dangling in back. Her broad hips and shoulders are adorned with patterns of black ink that appear embedded under the skin, applied over the muscle with a needle rather than a branding iron. Her clothing is the crude simplicity of a pure barbarian, consisting solely of a ragged piece of fur barely large enough to cover her sizable breasts, and a long leather loincloth that keeps trying and failing to cover what lies beneath. It only makes her face even more disturbing in Margaret's eyes, the youthful features bearing a hint of what she still thinks of as baby fat. And it makes her wonder not for the first time how young this

(girl?)

truly is.

Even if that seems to be the least of her problems.

From the little she remembers of that single reading, she ought to be reassured. Had she identified these beings at first sight with the creatures in her British fantasy fiction, Margaret would have expected only torture and death. And it would have to be said that ever since being rudely unwrapped like a birthday present in her new home, she's been at least somewhat surprised at her comparatively humane treatment. Actual conversation; a warm bath, even reasonable care of her wounds.

But it hadn't been enough to allay her fears. And that was before Jen had explicitly announced her dishonorable intent - that Margaret's new and sole purpose in life was essentially to be her concubine. It brings into sharp focus the seeming incongruity of the orc's anatomy, the obvious and very male organ barely concealed by the thin strip of leather. She certainly doesn't remember any mention of that from the good professor.

Jen gazes down, her lip curling slightly. More than a smile or even a smirk, it borders on a sneer.

"So tell me - human."

Jen's expression is one of disdainful calculation. Already Margaret can feel her heart sinking.

"At your...tender age -" The orc licks her lips with an audible smack. "Are you still a maiden?"

"You -" Margaret can't help the injured tone creeping into her voice, the unavoidable impulse as always to cover up her nakedness. "You are mocking me."

Jen gives a quiet snort through her nostrils.

"A little." The orc doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "Now answer."

"I..." For a moment Margaret flounders, unable to focus. "I thought...that was a - rhetorical question."

Jen frowns. "What do you -"

"It's not important," Margaret hastily interjects. Now that she's trying to formulate an actual response, her hands are back to doing that nervous and aimless twitching, fighting the natural impulse to cover herself. To hide from that ravenous gaze that somehow makes her feel even more unclothed.

"If you mean...am I - virgin -" She manages to get out the word without blushing any worse. "I was married. Briefly, but - we..." Margaret can't help a brief nervous swallow as she searches for a suitable euphemism. "Enjoyed relations."

Jen blinks, her face screwing up in a twist of puzzlement. Then her expression clears as she lets out another snort. It sounds like what Margaret would call grim amusement.

"We - only had...a few months. Together - before..." Margaret pauses for a shaky breath. "He was...sent off to war. And - was killed. That was...ten years ago," she concludes softly.

Something flickers in Jen's eyes. The orc shakes her head with a glare.

"And how many whelps have you dropped?"

Margaret blinks, momentarily taken aback. The rudeness of the question seems almost nothing compared to its blunt directness.

"You're -" She fumbles again for the right words, searching for the most diplomatic phrasing. "Mistaken. We...never had children."

"Really."

Margaret tenses as the orc steps forward. She can already feel the presence of that swelling flesh, more so as Jen reaches down for a double handed grip on her too-wide hips, pulling her in close.

"Well - you may not be a maiden."

A dizzying flush runs the length of Margaret's body as the orc leans down, pressing her lips to the delicate curve of a human ear. Her voice is a devilish whisper full of dark promise.

"But trust me. When I take you?"

The tickle of hot breath is only matched the point of a tusk nibbling on her earlobe. Margaret's mouth is falling open, her breath coming shorter as she pictures the size of the organ pressed against her belly.

"You're damn well going to feel like one."

"What - are you?" She can't help the plaintive beseechment. "You said - the one who brought me, was - a man -"

"Yes," Jen murmurs. One of those massive hands is rising from her hip, cradling the back of her head as the orc continues to gnaw daintily on her ear, breathing heavily.

"And - are you -" Margaret barely feels like she's standing on her own feet. It's as if Jen is lifting her up with the tiniest exertion of effort. "Woman? Or -"

"You - are human woman." Jen's growl has taken on a more impatient note. "I am - orc woman."

"And...do all - orc women - have..." Margaret's doing her level best to keep from laughing at the same time she strives for diplomacy. "Man...parts -"

"Tired of your talking." Jen's voice has dropped to a guttural snarl. "Take hold of it."

Margaret freezes in place. "What -"

"My prick." The orc trembles, gently grinding her hips against Margaret's stomach as she continues to hold her in place. "Pull it out -"

Her brain is overloading. Stimulus and stress, novelty in proximity to the familiar. Even as her body betrays her.

"And take it -" Jen's growl drops another register, her fingers still at Margaret's hip beginning to work their way around to the rear. "In your hand -"

Matthew - She suppresses a sob at the thought of his name. Forgive me -

"Did you do this...for your husband?" Jen groans in satisfaction. Her breath is growing deeper, her tongue curling out to roam around the curves of Margaret's ear.

At this precise moment - and the next, and the one that follows - Margaret is incapable of answering. Almost beyond any sort of thought, certainly the descriptive power of mere words. All she can do is try her damndest not to faint. To cling to what she remembers.

She swallows another whimper, gazing down at the fruits of her labor. The considerable difference in their respective heights, along with the orc's generous endowments, results in the head of Jen's erection lying almost directly in the center of Margaret's bosom, the shaft like a hot iron bar throbbing in her encircling fingers, pushing against her stomach. She's always been heavy in the bottom, and it only made her breasts appear smaller. Compared to the orc's cleavage, it makes Margaret feel like a flat-chested teenager.

As for the appendage currently in her grasp, it's sufficiently larger than Matthew's to be intimidating all on its own, with no other context. Certainly the thought of it going inside of her is enough to inspire dread far more than arousal. On the other hand, it does at least seem plausible that she'll survive the experience. And of course that depends a great deal on her new master's restraint. In which case, the inexperience and eagerness of youth may be her undoing.

She stares at the enormous piece of meat, feeling it throb and strain in her trembling grip, growing stiffer by the moment. The shaft and scrotum beneath are a lighter green than the rest of the orc's skin, while the part pushing out of the foreskin is somewhat darker, the swollen head almost purple.

"What?" Jen's gruff query sounds equally amused and annoyed. "Why are you dancing?"

"I -" Margaret clenches her pelvic muscles, her realization growing along with her despair. "I have to -"

"You have to piss?" Jen growls, grinding her hips in subtle encouragement. "I don't care. You don't need skill. You can finish me - quick - and easy..."

It's not helping. Her motions are feeling more forced, almost fumbling -

"Stop." Jen is lifting Margaret's hand, almost gently, guiding it away. "Don't move."

Her heart is a lump in her throat as the orc walks out of the room. It's only a moment before Jen returns, clutching a brown glass bottle in one hand.

"Kneel," Jen commands, raising the bottle. "Hold out your hands. Together -"

Her bladder is threatening to cramp up. The cold stone of the floor feels even rougher on her knees than on the soles of her tender feet. But the oil is warm and soothing, a strong and pleasant smell. It fills her nostrils as she rubs it all over, coating her fingers and palms until they glisten.

"Now," Jen breathes. "Both hands. Milk it...tighter when you go down - make it feel like I'm - shoving it in you -"

Margaret's face is ablaze with shame, the painful awareness of conflicting emotions. Bad enough to be sharing in this pleasure, but she can't help a sense of pride in being able to coax such passion from her captor, to reduce this powerful being to a weak-kneed and starry-eyed schoolgirl. A more vain woman might think herself fortunate to still inspire such ardour at her age. But after nearly ten years leading a classroom, it's not the first time she's had to deal with inappropriate attentions from the younger crowd. Merely the first time it's gone this far.

"Kiss it." Jen sounds like the hero in a spy movie, getting ready to cut the red wire. "Right under the crown..."

Margaret can't help a little humiliated moan as she obeys. Another involuntary whimper creeps from her throat as she inhales the overpowering animal musk. Her senses are aflame at the unfamiliar scent, the tang of salt in sweat. God knows how she must look. She can imagine it all too well. But she remembers too, the one time she had dared to do this for Matthew; his amazement and obvious pleasure at the touch of her mouth, so much that he bade her stop nearly right away, flashing a boyish and rueful smile. It's that memory that gives Margaret the strength to grip harder, to mash her lips against the underside of the swollen purple head as she levels a defiant stare up at her supposed master.

"Put your other hand - right there..." Jen grits her teeth. "Cradle the balls - that's it -"

Even combined, it feels like her amazement and confusion haven't quite overtaken Margaret's fear. As her fingers envelop the taut sack of flesh, gently tugging at the tight skin with its two enormous orbs, she's fighting the sudden urge to grab onto that very vulnerable piece of anatomy and throw caution to the wind. Anything to seize a literal advantage, tip the balance of power. Though it seems a desperation move, doomed to failure -

"What -" It feels as though confusion has overtaken all else on her face. Her hands are still working away, her face flickering in astonishment as she strives to discern the anomaly. Something she felt just now, beneath the scrotum -

She cries out. Jen is wrapping a fist in her hair, sinking in deep and tight, claws touching her scalp. Hard enough to keep her from pulling away, soft enough to be called - not kindness. Mercy -

"Look at me -" The orc sounds like she's chewing rocks, crumbling them into gravel. Every muscle in her body stands out in sharp relief, shuddering like a high tension cable in the wind. Her face clenches and twists, her panting breath coming shorter. "Keep - jerking it - wiggle your - fucking tongue - right under the tip, don't - DON'T - STOP -"

A deafening roar splits her ears. The monstrous shaft clutched in her right hand is expanding, fighting against the force of her punishing fist. Margaret has an instant to go from complete panic to sudden realization as another roar greets her pinnacle of frenzied milking and a jet of fluid rockets across her vision, landing in a hot stripe from her forehead to her chin. It already seems the most obscene thing she can imagine, far beyond even the thought of being forced to consume this no matter what the amount, and it isn't stopping oh God the sheer mess - three shots now and counting, right across the bow, so thick they just hang from her lips in ever lengthening strings and it's all Margaret can do to try to aim lower, as though she's trying to restrain a fire hose. Her face already feels like it's covered in a mask of fluid, some tiny rational part of her estimating the amount of ejaculate must easily have passed half a pint - astounding - disgusting -

Her brain has just enough time to register shock as Jen shoves forward. The still spurting head slips between her slack and swollen lips and the orc's bellow becomes a soulful wail, devolving into a long groan, tapering off to a series of grunts. Each grunt is accompanied by another spurt, helped along by Margaret's still-pumping fist, swallowed on sheer reflex. The taste is scalding, less bitter than anticipated and she can't think about it, can't stop thinking about it as Jen heaves and convulses above, continuing to empty herself. Margaret stares up in silent frozen terror, feeling the thick strands of semen working their way down her throat, inside and out, sliding over her teats. The fear in her eyes only seems to lend additional firmness to the already rock-hard flesh quivering between her lips as Jen lets out another groan, a sound of triumph and encouragement and Margaret groans right back, shaking and gurgling, damn near choking as she allows herself to be used, obedient to the very last drop. The smell, the taste - so strong -

Jen grabs herself at the base and pulls out, her still rampant erection leaving the human's mouth with an audible pop. Margaret has only a second to gape in surprise before Jen rears back - or rather, rears back her

(prick)

and slaps Margaret with it right in the face. Even after everything she's been through it's a shock, a soft thick club landing across her cheek with a loud smack and enough force to send droplets flying, to turn her astonished face to the side, her drooling mouth hanging open in astonishment. Her groan this time is one of utter humiliation, matched only by Jen's deep growl of satisfaction.

Margaret's knees are trembling, her throat and sinuses burning with salt. She's desperately trying not to wonder if she's about to throw up. Too afraid to find out - what might - what if -

Jen is reaching for something. The leather skin, at her waist.

Some of the - mess - is getting in her eyelashes. Margaret doesn't dare wipe it away. Jen holds the skin overhead, again raising an expectant eyebrow.

She obeys in silence, horribly conscious of her frightful appearance. To drink now what's being offered, in the aftermath of her subjugation and degradation by a complete stranger - it makes it even worse. As if no amount of water will wash away the memory of what she's done.

Jen is still staring down at her, utterly fascinated. Margaret forces herself to return the stare, painfully aware of not just her own nudity but the mask of semen covering nearly her entire face. It's thick enough it's taking forever to move, dripping and and sliding down her skin like so much melted syrup.

Jen frowns. "Are you cold?"

"I -" Margaret doesn't look down. Her nipples feel almost painfully stiff, standing at strict attention. "No."

"Do not lie to me." The softness of the orc's voice doesn't hide the steel of her words. "Ever."

"No." Margaret gives in, wrapping both arms around her chest. "And - yes."

Jen frowns. "You are not making sense."

"I am - cold. And I'm - scared - I'm...embarrassed -" She barely holds back another high-pitched laugh. "And I am - very - confused -"

"None of that matters." Jen's voice is still soft, one of quiet and perfect authority. "You are mine. That is all that matters."

"And I still - have to -" She's practically dancing on her knees, gritting her teeth to contain the growing flood.

"Outside." Jen nods toward the back of the house. "Go."

She hauls herself to her feet with a complete lack of grace, trotting awkwardly for the door with still less. The warm sting of tears is rising in her eyes, blurring her vision further as she fumbles with the latch and stumbles outside.

She doesn't know what she was expecting. But the light of the sun is nearly gone, the sky a deep and darkening orange. The little stone cabin with its flat roof sits on the edge of a clearing, across from which lies a thick and nearly impenetrable forest. And behind the dwelling a literal mountain rises up into the evening sky, a huge black shadow in the gloom.

The shiver that runs across her skin is less from the temperature and more her complete lack of clothes. In any event her first priority is the privy, whose use will be delayed no longer. The crisp cool air lends additional speed and urgency to her footsteps. It's all she can do to tread carefully, watching for thorns and thistles. Or snakes, or - God knows what. Lions, dragons and bears, oh my -

Thankfully, the facilities - such as they are - look and function like any other outhouse. Her skin is flushed and burning from her forehead on down as she relieves herself. Much as she wants to wipe her face clean, it seems like yet another liberty she doesn't dare exercise.

The sole blessing is the well at the back of the house. The water has a bit of a mineral smell, but the taste is fresh and clean. Washing up is as awkward and embarrassing as anything else she's endured here. Still, it's a small comfort to manage a bit of basic hygiene. She rinses her hands with extra care, taking care to check under her nails. At least those are freshly trimmed.

Her heart sinks again as she surveys her surroundings, the mountains rising to one side, in every other direction the forest all around. It only drives home the hopelessness, the magnitude of her predicament. It seems like the same time of year, but there's no telling how far from the equator she might be, how far the temperature might drop after sunset. What sort of poisonous flora might be growing between each and every blade of grass.

No. Even if she had clothes - it's too dangerous to run. Not when she knows so little about this world.

Margaret takes a deep breath, then turns and trudges back to the cabin. She's so busy staring at her feet, watching every step for maximum safety, that it's not until she's shut the door and turned around that she sees Jen standing in the middle of the room, looking almost awkward.

She allows herself to be taken by the hand, led into the room with the bath where Jen hands her a towel, unable to meet the intense and constant scrutiny of the orc's gaze as she finally wipes her face clean. Another giggle is threatening in her throat at the notion of a high-end spa treatment giving a new meaning to facial.

"You did well." Jen sounds hesitant, if only mildly so.

"Well." Margaret manages a shaky laugh. It doesn't seem too deranged. "I suppose I'm...glad to hear it -"

A loud growl echoes off of the stone floor and metal bathtub. Margaret freezes, clutching the towel to her chest, feeling the rumble in her stomach die away.

She dares to glance over. Jen looks startled, then chuckles.

"Still hungry?"

The heat is returning in full force, from her face to her neck and all the way down to her chest. A muscular arm encircles Margaret's midsection, a clawed hand coming to rest on the rounded swell of her belly.

"I will go and hunt, before dawn. For now -" The orc reaches into a pouch at her belt, pulling out a handful of brown sticks.

The meat passes a basic smell test, but one attempt at gnawing the end is all it takes to dissuade her. Margaret heads for the kitchen without a word, finds the kettle and fills it with water, hanging it over the fire as Jen watches from the doorway. She keeps waiting for the orc to ask what she's doing, but Jen merely continues to watch. With a start, Margaret remembers she's still naked.

She finishes her preparations in silence, watching steam begin to slowly issue from the spout. Luckily there's a pair of fired clay goblets on a nearby shelf next to an empty wineskin. The knife on the wall by the fireplace isn't quite as big as the one Jen carries at her waist, but it's perfect for a small human hand.

She slices the jerky into shorter pieces, filling up the goblet and letting it steep - like tea, as she explains to the fascinated orc. The taste of the broth is somewhat odd, but the softened meat is rich and satisfying. It's the perfect combination, soothing her overwraught digestive system. Between an empty bladder and a full stomach, at least her basic needs are being taken care of.

She tries to ignore Jen crouched on the floor, leaning back against the wall, still watching her every motion. It's not until Margaret goes to wash up that the orc breaks the silence.

"Look -" Jen clears her throat. "I admit - I was hoping for something...a bit younger. But there's...nothing wrong with you."

"Well." Margaret's gentleness does nothing to disguise the bitterness. "I'm certainly...glad I meet with your - approval."

"But you need to be careful." Jen's voice takes on a more subtle note of warning. "How you talk."

"You mean...around -" Margaret's heart is beating faster as she dares another glance across the room. "Other people?"

Jen returns her stare, expressionless.

Margaret's cheeks are burning again. She sets the goblet back on the shelf by its mate, ignoring the flutter inside at the notion of those eyes devouring her entire back side. It's a blessing the shelf doesn't require her to stand on her toes.

"Are -" She can't help it, though she doesn't dare turn to face her jailer directly. "Are all - humans...slaves?"

She has to know. Not just this, but everything. All there is to know - whatever might mean the difference between survival and death.

"More trouble than they're worth." Jen's reply is dismissive, almost bored. She rises from her crouch with a grunt.

"Then - do your people..." Margaret remains unmoving, watchful and wary. "Keep slaves?"

"You mean -"

"I mean - " Margaret watches the orc's face, searching for some sort of understanding. "Keep."

"No rule - says I can't." Jen shrugs, turning and lumbering from the room, ducking as she squeezes through the doorway.

Margaret's stomach is feeling unaccountably nervous again. She follows the orc at a quick trot, nearly bumping into the broad green backside.

"I mean - after I -" Jen isn't looking at Margaret. She stands with her hands on her hips, gazing around the comparatively tiny human room. Her muscles are sharply defined in the dim light from a pair of paper lanterns, appaarently filled with luminescent larvae. Margaret looks away before she can really see them moving.

"After I - go back to war..." Jen's face is unreadable as she glances over her shoulder. "I can't just - carry you into battle."

"It does sound -" Insane, Margaret thinks. "A bit dangerous."

"You shouldn't worry." Jen shakes her head, setting her braids to briefly swinging. ""Don't worry. About any of these things."

"I can't -" Margaret tries not to sound too plaintive. "I can't stop thinking about them."

"Don't think." Jen's annoyance is beginning to overtake her patience as she turns to face her human, both hands still on her hips. "Sleep."

"Um -" The orc's eyes are red, Margaret realizes, the crimson iris flecked with gold. Only this close in the dim light are the colors apparent. "Where -"

"I don't care." Jen sounds genuinely exasperated, her voice dropping to a growl as she stalks away. "On the damn floor."

Margaret decides discretion and tact are the better part of valor. And anyway, it's too hard to keep coming up with smart remarks with her poor addled brain, deprived of sleep - but no. It still feels like the very same evening she left. On any normal night she might even still be awake at this hour, sipping tea and contemplating affairs of the heart. A fictional world of romance and adventure.

Her expression is sour as she retreats to the bedroom. The bed is covered in thick blankets that appear hand-quilted, but with only two rough pillows whose contents feel and sound like coarsely chopped straw. At least the glowing stones in the walls make the atmosphere less foreboding.

She's certainly not about to complain. Nevertheless, Margaret is feeling a growing hardness in her heart. She curls up on the floor at the foot of the bed, vainly attempting to find some lower level of discomfort. It stings more than almost anything else so far. Being treated like a literal pet.

The hard stone is already causing her back to protest. Margaret tries to be grateful for the blanket as she rolls onto her side. Her emotions are still prickly and raw, the memory like burning coals too close to the skin. She can still feel it. That ungodly and unending amount of hot slime, covering her body, dripping down her face -

"You are not sleeping."

Jen stands overhead, a shadowy figure. Her eyes are barely visible, her tusks glinting in the dim light of the glowstones.

"I told you," Margaret whispers. "I can't stop - what -"

Jen's already lifting her up, in the same manner as before; hands under her arms, with no apparent effort. As though a fat old widow were no more than a child.

She doesn't move a muscle as Jen carries her over to the bed. She's expecting to be dropped like a sack of laundry. Instead the orc sets her down with actual care, a surprising degree of gentleness.

Margaret watches in silence as the orc bends over and grabs up the blanket. She quickly looks away as Jen pulls off her loincloth and fur chest covering, dropping both to the floor.

"Here." The orc spreads the heavy blanket over her trembling form, then crawls beneath it as well. Margaret is still frozen as Jen wraps one arm around her belly, pulling her in with a quiet grunt.

"Are you cold?"

"Not any more," Margaret whispers. It's not a lie. Though she can't help the shivering.

"What is wrong?" Jen sounds more sleepy than irritated.

"Nothing." She stares into the near darkness, feeling the nervous rhythm of her heart slowly thumping away in her chest. "Everything."

"I told you." The orc nuzzles the back of Margaret's neck. The throb of her organ is a solid presence, almost comforting in its half-erect state. "You are mine."

Margaret blinks.

"I will let no harm come to you."

Margaret can feel tears well up as she blindly reaches out for Jen's hand. The orc's breath is deep and regular, her own heartbeat slow and relaxed.

The last thing she remembers is the terrible comfort of that rough embrace. The healing welts across her back, made both more and less painful by the heat of the orc's body, those great big youthful breasts that men would kill for pressed up right against her. And the gentle pressure between her buttocks, that rude flesh insistently pulsing with silent need.

She doesn't know how long she lies there, unable to relinquish control of her consciousness. And when she does wake up, nothing has changed. It's still like a dream.

But maybe a little less of a nightmare.