CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter Five: Gratitude

 

“DALTHU!” Samson screamed as the orc’s finger slipped just inside his asshole.

 

It burns!

 

Dalthu leaned down to Samson’s ear. “Can you feel my finger opening up your hole?” he whispered. “Soon you will learn to take my cock in your ass. I will enjoy teaching you how to pleasure me.”

 

“That hurts! It’s too much, please, gently!” Samson begged, gasping in pain as he was stretched. “Please, it hurts.”

 

 Dalthu paused, then slowly removed his finger. Samson sighed in relief. 

 

Dalthu laughed. “Don’t worry.” He placed his hand under his still-bleeding arm, allowing his blood to run over it. “I have every intention for you to enjoy the pain as well as the pleasure.” 

 

And with that he returned his wetted digit to Samson’s opening, this time easier than before. Samson hissed at the slick intrusion, but . . . 

 

It does not hurt as much . . . 

 

Dalthu pulled out, just enough to let Samson’s anus close, then pushed back in again, forcing a gasp from Samson as his hole was once more opened wide. Again, the orc pushed in deep and then pulled out. This time, when he entered, he added another finger. Samson bit his lip to keep his cries from escaping. Dalthu leaned forward and kissed him roughly.

 

“Let me hear you, let me hear your voice,” Dalthu groaned. “Gods, I can feel you clamping down on me.”

 

Samson felt the orc’s two large fingers thrust deeper inside of him. When they hit bottom, he spread them, forcing Samson open further than ever. Dalthu’s fingers were twisting inside of him when they brushed against something that made Samson shudder.

 

“Stop!”

 

“Does it still hurt?” Dalthu’s voice was hoarse.

 

“It . . .” Samson didn’t know how to describe it. “It feels strange.”

 

“Strange?” Dalthu chuckled. “Could it be that you do not know what true pleasure feels like, little tiger?”

 

He brushed against the spot again, and Samson bucked his hips.

 

“Wait!” Samson did not want this. Did not want his body to react. Did not want the humiliation of falling any lower into depravity.  

 

“No,” Dalthu growled. “I vowed to tame you, little tiger. Now submit.”

 

And with that, the orc mercilessly thrust against the spot. Samson’s body was not his own. He was out of control. A heat he’d never known exploded in his core and coursed through his body. He could hear his voice screaming out Dalthu’s name, and lightning danced from his toes to the top of his head. It was a pleasure that was poised on the border of pain, it was so intense. Dalthu released his hold of Samson’s wrists and pressed him against the tree, claiming his mouth in a desperate kiss. The orc’s tongue slipped into his mouth, and Samson flung his arms around the orc’s shoulders and clawed at him, whether to draw him closer or push him away, Samson was unsure. As each wave of pleasure pulsed through him, Samson opened his mouth wider for Dalthu, who greedily accepted the invitation.

 

Finally, after what seemed like a whole season had passed, Samson was able to pick up the pieces of his mind and come back to the present. His mouth was dry, but he felt damp all over. He looked down and saw his body covered in sweat and come. 

 

Dalthu stood back. They observed each other for a moment in silence. Samson was glad to see that gold was slowly returning to Dalthu’s eyes.

 

“Are you hurt?” 

 

Samson sniffed and shook his head. He wasn’t hurt. Just sore. And confused. 

 

Why did I react like that?

 

Dalthu lowered him to the ground and Samson yelped, having forgotten about his injured ankle until a bolt of pain reminded him.

 

“So you are hurt. Another lie.”

 

“It wasn’t a lie!”

 

Dalthu growled and Samson quickly shut his mouth. The orc scooped him up into his arms and marched back toward the main camp.

 

A bridal carry?!

 

Samson was about to struggle out of his orc cradle when he noticed Dalthu’s face. It was busted open. A deep cut oozed blood down his cheek, and it was clear his nose was broken. Samson realized the orc must have gotten that way from fighting the trolls before coming to find him. 

 

I wonder how long it took him to realize I was gone.

 

He looked over at the body of the fleshy horror that had attacked him earlier and shivered. If Dalthu had only been a few seconds later, Samson probably would be dead. The erotic pleasure of what he’d just experienced was gone, and now he was left to face the guilt and fear of what had happened. Samson began to shake and tears flooded his eyes. He sobbed helplessly in Dalthu’s arms. The orc squeezed Samson tighter to his body and carried him away from the bloody scene.

 

Neither of them said anything on the walk back toward their camp. Samson’s sniffles slowly calmed and he listened to the branches snapping underneath the orc’s feet. Samson could hear voices and knew they must be close to the main camp. He knew, but was still startled when a voice called out to them from the darkness.

 

“Seems you are properly bloodied tonight, brother.” A pale green orc strode up to them. He was smaller than Dalthu and had a red band tattooed around his arm. “Did you find the other one?”

 

Other one? Does he mean . . .

 

“I didn’t find the other breeder,” Dalthu glanced down at Samson. “Was he with you?”

 

Samson recalled his companion’s terrified face before he’d been killed and trembled. “H–he didn’t . . . he didn’t make it,” Samson whispered.

 

“Ah,” the other orc sighed. “Baronk will be displeased.”

 

With that, the tattooed orc turned and marched back into the darkness. 

 

“What did he mean?” Samson asked. He noticed that Dalthu’s brows were knitted together in concern. 

 

Dalthu shook his head. “Do not worry. Bin mog g'thazag cha.”

 

They returned quietly to their campsite. It was a mess. Whole bushes were torn up, branches were scattered on the ground, and the earth was trampled. Dalthu set Samson down gently and went to work clearing a space for a fire.

 

“What happened with the trolls?” Samson asked. If their campsite looked like this, then the main area was probably demolished.

 

“They were dealt with.” Dalthu didn’t look up from his task, continuing to collect twigs and kindling. “The wolves will eat well tonight.”

When Dalthu finally had a fire going, he pulled some cloth from his satchel and tore it into strips. 

 

“Give me your leg.”

 

Samson obeyed, too tired to fight against any of the orc’s commands. His ankle was swollen and he hissed when Dalthu squeezed it too tightly. 

 

“Not broken,” Dalthu murmured. The orc swiftly bound Samson’s ankle with the cloth strips and braced it with some bark he stripped from a nearby tree. It was rudimentary, but an effective splint. Dalthu leaned back to admire his work. “This will do for now.”

 

“What about you?”

 

When the orc didn’t seem to understand, Samson leaned forward and grabbed his arm. The bleeding had stopped, but several teeth still remained lodged in Dalthu’s arm. He gently grabbed the tip of a protruding one and pulled. A long, jagged piece came out, and Samson was appalled at how deep it had gone.

 

“You’re lucky to still have an arm.”

 

Dalthu huffed. “This is nothing. Once I broke my father’s favorite axe. Let me tell you, that monster never came close to what I experienced that day.”

 

Samson smiled. He knew the orc was lying for his sake. Still, he appreciated the kindness. He pulled another tooth shard out.

 

“Thank you . . .” It was barely a whisper, but Dalthu looked down at him with wide eyes as Samson spoke. “For saving me.”

 

“You’re . . . welcome,” Dalthu rumbled. After a pause, the orc cleared his throat. “What is your name?”

 

“What?”

 

“When you disappeared, I wanted to call for you,” Dalthu’s brow furrowed, “but I didn’t know your name.”

 

“Samson. Samson Cartwright.”

 

“Samson . . .” the orc repeated, testing the sound of it. “I am Dalthu, son of Kilug Bloodhand, son of Tarod Shatterbone, son of Baluth Madteeth, son of—”

 

“I get it,” Samson interrupted. “And your mother? Mrs. Bloodhand?” 

 

“Her name is Rachelle.”

 

Samson laughed, earning an offended glare from Dalthu.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just . . . Rachelle is such a regular name for an orc.”

 

Dalthu shook his head. “She is not an orc. There are no females of our kind.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since the beginning,” Dalthu said simply.

 

“Then why bother taking menfolk? If you just need us to reproduce, then it doesn’t make sense. I can’t give birth.”

 

Dalthu chuckled. “Are you still concerned about that? It warms me to know you care so much.” He patted Samson’s belly. “Don’t worry, I will plant my seed deep in you as many times as it takes until you give me a son.”

 

Samson had finally pulled the rest of the teeth out and used the remaining cloth scraps to wrap the orc’s arm. 

 

“If . . . If I give you a son, will I be allowed to leave?”

 

Maybe I could swipe one from another prisoner. Or make one out of a cabbage . . . 

 

“I am sorry, Samson,” Dalthu said. His expression was serious. “Forget about your past life. The sooner you give that up, the sooner you can be happy. Your future is with me, our children, and the horde.”

 

Before Samson could retort, Dalthu rolled him into a blanket and pulled him into his embrace.

 

“Sleep,” Dalthu commanded gently.

 

Samson, grateful for once for the comforting weight of the strong orc’s arms, clutched a rag filled with bloody teeth. Every day since his kidnapping was so uncertain. “What awaits me tomorrow?” he mused quietly.

 

“Tomorrow we will reach the village,” Dalthu’s voice was so close to his ear, Samson could feel the orc’s hot breath tickling the fine hairs on his neck. “Tomorrow . . . I will mate you.”

 

To Be Continued . . .