Illustration: @C0FFINATED

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter Thirteen: Panic

 

Dalthu’s words echoed in Samson’s mind: “It’s our turn.”

 

Samson’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. The door they’d entered through was less than ten feet behind him. If he was going to make a move, it would have to be now. Samson tensed his muscles, preparing for a burst of energy to escape when something hard gripped the back of his neck. It was Dalthu. 

 

“Trying to disobey me already?” 

 

His captor’s voice rasped erotically against his ear, tickling his skin and sending a pleasant shiver through Samson’s body. 

 

The orc quirked his eyebrow in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you forgot the rules already?” 

 

Samson bit his lip and silently recited the warnings that Dalthu had given before entering the cavern. Do not leave his side, do not speak, and keep my eyes on him. If he did all this, Dalthu promised that Samson would be safe.

 

Well, no, he promised that everything would be ‘fine,’ Samson argued with himself. Who knows if his definition of ‘fine’ is the same as mine?

 

“I didn’t—” 

 

Dalthu pressed a finger against Samson’s mouth, shushing him. ”We will discuss your memory lapse later but for now,” He gave Samson’s neck a gentle squeeze, “just follow my lead.”  And with that he steered Samson forward.

 

“Keep your eyes on me.”

 

Samson remembered how fervently the orc had uttered those words. He remembered how sincerely his captor’s golden eyes had shone when he’d asked to hold hands. How his battle-hardened face had melted when Samson had praised his crystal.

 

Stop it! You shouldn’t think about that.

 

Samson shook his head, but instead of knocking his thoughts aside, it only made him lose his balance. He threw his hands out to save himself as his body pitched sideways. But before he hit the ground, a force yanked Samson backward, and he flung his outstretched arms around the next closest thing. That thing, again, happened to be Dalthu. 

 

The orc’s arm immediately looped around him. “Careful,” he said and pulled Samson even closer. “The ground here is uneven.”

 

Is he actually worried about me? That feels . . . nice.

 

Samson’s heart drummed against his chest. The warrior’s body wrapped around him perfectly, cradling Samson in a protective embrace. He knew he should object (“I’m fine!”) and push Dalthu away, but for some reason . . .

 

I can’t. 

 

“Sha! Did you fuck the legs out from under him?” The heckler, a brown-speckled orc, waggled his hips at them suggestively, eliciting snickers from the onlookers. Samson flinched. He’d forgotten they had an audience. 

 

“Can you blame me?” Dalthu replied coolly, stroking his thumb against Samson’s arm. 

 

“Now we know why you were so late,” another member of the horde chimed in.

 

An older orc wearing a gold nose ring scoffed. “No patience,” he tutted. “In my day we had discipline and restraint.”

 

“Ha! Your ‘restraint’ made your mate permanently bow-legged,” a familiar voice quipped. Samson glanced over Dalthu’s muscled arm. He recognized the speaker pushing his way toward them immediately. It was the braided orc, Shakil. The massive orc winked at him as more voices joined the fray.

 

“Yeah! I remember she couldn’t walk straight for three months!”

 

“Hmph, I don’t remember it being that bad.”

 

“Well, they say that with old age your memory is the first to go.” 

 

“Tell that to Bradran’s hair!”

 

“At least I can still hold an erection, you son of an elf!”

 

The titters from earlier transformed into thunderous guffaws and Samson couldn’t help himself from joining in. It was ridiculous. These big, mighty warriors were just grumpy old men, quibbling and needling each other over something silly like the price of milk. He buried his face into Dalthu’s waist, trying to muffle his snorts of laughter, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. The orc’s chest hitched. 

 

“Are you trying to test me right now, little tiger?”

 

Still giggling, Samson lifted his head to apologize for using the orc as a tissue, but froze when he saw the look in the warrior’s blazing eyes. Dalthu inhaled sharply as he stared down in wonder at Samson’s mouth. Gently, he raised his finger and caressed Samson’s lips. Then, when it seemed like no protest was forthcoming, he continued along the path, tracing their curve, seeming desperate to commit their shape to memory. Groans from the peanut gallery, however, interrupted the orc’s reverie. 

 

“Hurry up and get on the altar!” 

 

“Some of us want to spend time with our mates, too.”

 

Dalthu performed an exaggerated sigh before hauling a startled Samson up into his arms, cradling him like a newlywed bride. Flashing Samson a lop-sided grin, the orc called out, “On’Davo!”

 

The reply was instant.

 

“Aka’Magosh! Aka’Magosh Dalthu Hellfang!” 

 

The cacophony continued as Dalthu carried Samson through the throng. More cheers of ‘Aka’Magosh’ and other blessings rang throughout the cavern. A small group started singing a song in orcish that had the same melody as a wonderfully dirty song Samson had learned from his uncle when he was thirteen. When the song fell apart into raucous laughter, Samson became suspicious that it might actually be the same song.

 

Their parade ended a few moments later at the base of the platform. Dalthu set Samson back on the ground and nodded at the white-haired elder who was now waiting next to the stairs. The skin around the old orc’s blood-flecked eyes was parchment thin and it cracked into a hundred lines as he squinted down at them. He frowned and mumbled something quickly in orcish. Samson stared back blankly. 

 

“Shed your vestments,” Dalthu translated, “and leave all worldly possessions here.” 

 

‘Vestments’ . . . does he mean—

 

Before he could puzzle it out, a nearby rustling grabbed his attention. Samson followed the noise and squawked. The ‘rustling’ in question turned out to be the sound of one particular yellow loincloth being ripped off and flung aside leaving the former wearer, Dalthu the orc, completely naked. 

 

Samson sputtered. “W-why—why are . . . what—” 

 

“The goddess wants us as we came into the world,” the orc explained simply, his large member proudly on display. The ancient orc muttered something again, pointing vigorously at Samson.

 

“Looks like it’s time for you to show off your charms, little tiger.”

 

Samson though wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring. Dalthu’s cock was already at half-mast and still growing. Samson couldn’t help but notice how thick his prick was. It bobbed up and down in front of the warrior’s hips, a brutal, unmerciful tool to deliver pleasure or punishment. The skin covering the head of the orc’s cock was stretched smooth by the engorgement. One long vein ran up the underside of his shaft. Samson remembered how he had run his tongue tip along that vein during their nights on the journey. He remembered how it tasted and how it filled his throat when Dalthu had buried his length inside him. He swallowed unconsciously and squeezed his legs together, shifting on his feet, but the front of his tunic betrayed him. He was hard.

 

Samson heard it then. Low laughter. Whispers. Samson looked up. Every single orc’s gaze was transfixed. They were waiting. Waiting to see him. All of him. On display like an animal. They would see his shame and know the truth. The pressure grew in Samson’s chest, strangling his heart.

 

“Little tiger?”

 

They can’t see. They mustn’t. Don’t let them see!

 

“Samson?”

 

I am dirty, lower than a beast. 

 

“Samson. Look at me.”

 

Baronk was right. I’m a filthy whore. A breeding sow to be used. Just a hole.

 

The ancient-looking orc gestured impatiently for Dalthu to help him undress, but Samson slapped at the orc’s hands, fighting hysteria. “WAIT—”

 

Dalthu grabbed Samson’s wrists firmly and pulled him close. “Look at me, Samson,” he growled. “It is just you and me. Others may look, but I will never allow them to touch you. You are mine. Only mine.” And Dalthu’s mouth crashed against his in a savage kiss. 

 

The rush of helplessness Samson had felt moments before gave way to a surging tide of warmth that left him limp. The leering faces of the horde blurred to nothingness. The intensity of the kiss made him cling to the warrior like a drowning man. The orc’s insistent mouth parted Samson’s shaking lips, sending wild tremors along his nerves, and before he knew it he was kissing him back. 

 

They broke apart with a gasp, and Dalthu breathlessly whispered two terrifying words. 

 

“Trust me.”

 

Samson’s eyes fluttered open and molten gold poured over his world. The cave disappeared. So did the old orc with weathered skin. The lusty stares of the crowd were gone, leaving Samson in a rapturous daze, with only the hot presence of Dalthu’s hands against his skin to remind him of reality. 

 

Funny, Samson mused, those hands that hold me prisoner . . . at the same time, lure me ever closer. 

 

Locked in the yellow-eyed warrior’s gaze, Samson's hands dropped to his sides, yielding to his captor’s touch. Slowly and deliberately, Dalthu stripped the tunic off Samson’s shoulders, letting it slide down his body and pool at his feet.

 

Appreciative murmurs echoed in the hall and an enraptured Dalthu scooped Samson into his arms. Following the now-satisfied elder orc who beckoned, they ascended the stairs to the altar.

 

To Be Continued . . .