Illustration by Chiba @chibavu1401

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter Fourteen: The Black Crystal

 

The altar on the platform was otherworldly in its beauty. Carved out of a single slab of marble, its surface gleamed like white moonlight. Dalthu swiftly walked over to it and set Samson down, the cool edge of the table hitting the backs of Samson’s legs. “Lie back, little tiger.”

 

Not breaking eye contact, Samson obeyed. Dalthu stepped in between his legs and grabbed his ankles, swiftly pushing them back until they were up next to Samson’s own head and his buttocks were raised high up in the air. 

 

“W–wait!” Blood rushed to Samson’s head and his cheeks flushed bright red. He hadn’t expected this, to be posed so lewdly, his legs spread open for all to see. 

 

“Be a good pet, and reach up.” 

 

“But—”

 

“I won’t ask again.”

 

Samson heard the growl of warning. Gritting his teeth, he followed the orc’s command.

 

“There you go . . . now, use both hands and open yourself.” 

 

Trembling, Samson obeyed, peeling back his fleshy globes. 

 

“Wider,” Dalthu urged. “That’s right, show me your cute little star.”

 

Any more and I’ll split myself in two!

 

That was what Samson wanted to scream; instead, he chose to hiss at Dalthu like a stray cat getting a bath. Unfortunately, it only succeeded in egging his captor on.

 

“Looks like we need to open you up a little more.” Dalthu waggled his thick green fingers playfully. “Remember what these feel like, little tiger?” 

 

Samson did remember and, to prove it, aimed a kick at the orc’s smug face. Dalthu easily avoided the kick and wrestled Samson back into position. Samson glared up at the golden-eyed warrior, who dipped his head down.

 

“I promised that you would not be hurt,” the orc whispered. “Please . . . allow me to keep my word.” 

 

Dalthu peeked up at Samson. The orc’s expression was the picture of innocence. His sad, wide eyes were framed by raised eyebrows that pleaded desperately. 

 

Samson bit the inside of his cheek. 

 

That . . . that isn’t fair.

 

He’d almost given in immediately when Dalthu mooned over him with those big puppy eyes. Samson turned away, hiding from the orc’s earnest gaze.

 

“Little tiger?”

 

Samson closed his eyes and shook his head.

 

Nope. Nuh-uh.

 

"It will be quick."

 

Lies.

 

“I’ll be gentle.”

 

Shameless lies.

 

“I’ll build you a private bath.”

 

There was a pregnant pause. Samson pursed his lips together. “Y-you promise you’ll be gentle?”

 

Grinning, Dalthu nodded and held up a small jar. He dipped two fingers in and covered them in a slimy substance.

 

“Relax.” Placing his fingers on both sides of Samson’s asshole, Dalthu stretched the skin tight. Samson jerked as the cool jelly was applied to his entrance. “Shhhh, it's just cold. Now, take a deep breath . . .” 

 

Samson sucked in and Dalthu slipped his finger inside. 

 

“Hngh!”

 

A muffled gasp escaped from Samson’s lips as his orifice swallowed the tip of the orc’s finger. Dalthu twisted his finger, rolling Samson’s pink ring tightly around the first joint. Samson yipped.

 

“Another deep breath,” Dalthu ordered.

 

This time his captor’s finger pushed in hard, forcing itself down Samson’s anal tract until the knuckles banged against his sphincter. Samson flailed, nearly knocking them both over. 

 

How could I ever forget . . . such a brutal presence. 

 

The orc’s finger moved out, then pushed back in again, corkscrewing inside him. Samson tried to suppress his moans, but Dalthu was relentless, pressing and rubbing against his most sensitive spots, driving him crazy. His toes fanned out, and he flexed his feet trying to escape the familiar warm sensation building in his belly. 

 

Dalthu pulled his finger out completely with a wet-sounding squelch and smeared more lubricant over his hand. “Let’s add another finger . . .”

 

Samson barely had time to brace himself before Dalthu impaled him with two thick, wet fingers. “Ooooh!” he cried out as they turned and twisted inside him, not stopping until they were deeply embedded. He pumped them in and out, working up a froth of the juice he had smeared on it. Samson tried to muffle his voice with his hand, but it was useless as the orc stirred his insides. 

 

Now I know what a butter churn feels like. 

 

“Still so tight.” Dalthu’s voice trembled in reverence. He spread his fingers inside Samson’s cavity, stretching the walls to accommodate. “Open up and accept it. Accept me.”

 

Samson’s legs trembled under the orc’s ministrations. Sweat pooled on his skin and his cheeks were flushed with color. The next thrust brushed against a certain spot that sent a bolt of lightning through his body. 

 

“AHH!”

 

Thwop, thwop, thwop, thwop— 

 

Dalthu plunged in and out, again and again, opening up his mate with his invading fingers. The fluid overflowed, coating Samson’s genitals and running down his back and stomach. Samson was mortified. He couldn’t contain his moans anymore and writhed with abandon in Dalthu’s arms. He was being pushed closer to the edge. There was nothing he could do, with his body bound at Dalthu’s disposal. His nipples and cock throbbed as the blood pulsed through the engorged flesh. Samson whimpered.

 

Why—why does my body do this?! And with HIM?!

 

Dalthu, however, was oblivious to Samson’s plight. He was staring between Samson’s legs, entranced. 

 

“Your tiny mouth is glistening, pet. It’s like it is drooling.” The orc rolled his gaze up to meet Samson’s, his breath heavy and erratic. “When it’s inside, you grip my finger so tightly, yet when I take it out, your hungry little hole gapes open begging for more.” He lowered his lips to the back of Samson’s leg and kissed it gently. “Should I feed you . . .” He kissed him again, this time on his bare cheek. “Give you more to swallow . . .” Another kiss. “Fill you up until you burst?” This time there was no kiss. Instead, three fingers burrowed into Samson’s unsuspecting ass. 

 

Samson choked on a scream as the orgasm ripped through his body. His core pulsed deliciously, sending streaks of lightning up and down his nerve endings. Low whistles and murmurs filled the chamber.

 

“By Luthic!”

 

“He came from the back . . .”

 

“—blessed by the goddess—”

 

“Did you see his face?”

 

“—a natural.”

 

Strength fled from his limbs and Samson sagged against Dalthu. His captor lowered him carefully down onto the altar and picked up something long and dark. It was a black crystal with bursts of white. The obsidian stone glittered mysteriously in the orc’s large hands. Samson, still reveling in the sensations coursing through him, lazily considered the obelisk.  

 

Huh. It’s the crystal Dalthu showed me earlier. Maybe he’s going to rub it all over me?

 

Dalthu grabbed the same jar that had helped lubricate his fingers and poured the rest of the oil over the top of the crystal.

 

. . . No way. 

 

Samson scrambled back on the altar, but it was no use. Wasting no time, Dalthu caught Samson’s legs and pushed his tender inner thighs apart. 

 

“W–whoa, wait—” Samson’s breath was fast and shallow as the bulbous head of the crystal was placed against his entrance.

 

“It will be over soon,” Dalthu said as he readied the crystal. “Blessings to the goddess.”  

 

At the first push, Samson’s asshole spasmed. His sphincter clenched tightly, but Dalthu was relentless. He continued to push the thick object into him. Samson whined helplessly, but his hole finally relented, opening lewdly to accept the crystal. 

 

“Gaaahhgh!”

 

Samson bucked as the thick, hard, unyielding crystal continued its journey inside him. His legs bowed out, hoping to relieve some of the cramping.

 

“Pleaseeeeee,” Samson begged and, with an oath, Dalthu shoved the crystal all the way in.

 

It was instant relief. Samson looked down at his belly. He couldn’t see any sign, but he could feel the hard crystal’s presence filling him inside. As Samson reconsidered the capacity of the human body, the ancient orc came and stood next to Dalthu, holding a bowl. The old orc dipped two leathery fingers into the vessel. When he pulled them out, they dripped bright blue. Samson recognized it. It was the same liquid he’d seen from the cave walls. 

 

What had Dalthu called it? The light of the goddess?

 

The white-haired elder leaned down and traced a circle onto Samson’s lower belly. Lifting his head, Samson watched as he added squiggles surrounding the circle. The orc set the bowl aside, raised his hands, and took a long, rasping breath.

 

“Shok . . . arash . . . vrashaathe . . . shok . . . arash . . . vrashaathe—”

 

“Shok . . . arash . . . vrashaathe . . .” Dalthu joined in. His voice was low and slightly hoarse. 

 

In moments, the whole cavern of orcs took up the call, stamping their feet in time as they chanted the strange words. Over and over they sang, until the very walls of the cave seemed to vibrate with the incantation. 

 

“Shok . . . arash . . . vrashaathe . . . shok . . . arash . . . vrashaathe . . .”

 

A pricking sensation danced across Samson’s skin. It chased along the lines of the symbol like hundreds of tiny pins and needles stinging him. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t comfortable either. 

 

Samson opened his mouth to protest when a burst of light flashed brilliantly in front of his eyes. He looked down at his stomach and gasped. It was the painted shapes. They were glowing, no, shining! And with each moment, the pattern grew brighter and brighter. Samson squinted against the glare. He could still make out Dalthu’s face. The blue light cast shadows across the orc’s expression, making the warrior appear in one moment as an angel and in the next a demon.

 

Wait . . . 

 

Something was wrong. Samson clutched his stomach.

 

“Da–Dalthu?” His belly throbbed again. Something was shifting inside Samson’s body, twisting and turning in a strange and terrifying way. The chanting grew louder and the swirling vortex inside his body quickened. “What are you doing to me?”

 

His thighs quivered as he fought to control the urges in his body, but a need was overtaking him, rising in his groin. Heat. It was heat. Pure liquid fire, igniting his soul and coursing through his whole being. He was burning, burning in sinful desire, consumed by the sensations of his body. It was exquisite and excruciating. He blinked through tears up at Dathu.

 

The orc was stumbling through the chant, but his breath was ragged and his eyes were out of focus. It was clear where the golden-eyed warrior’s mind was. Dalthu’s enormous cock had been standing up for as long as Samson had been laying down. Pre-come was beaded on the engorged tip like morning nectar, threatening to spill over and drip down the thick shaft. As he fought the urge to lick his lips, a small voice entered Samson’s head.

 

“Mate.”

 

His core tightened as a wave of lust washed over him. Samson gasped.

 

“Give in and mate.”

 

The voice was growing more and more insistent. So was the ache between his legs.

 

“Hurry!”   

 

Samson propelled his hips up which was met with a sharp curse from above. 

 

“Are you trying to kill me, pet?”

 

Samson shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. His body was no longer under his control and his mind was slipping away. He threw his head back, panting like an animal. 

 

Dalthu’s face was becoming fuzzy, but Samson could still hear the orc. Heavy breaths punctuated by impatient growls had replaced the orcish chant. The warrior grabbed Samson by the hips, lifted him up, and pressed against him. Samson keened and arched his back, grinding his pelvis further against Dalthu, embracing the delicious friction. They immediately fell into a rhythm, humping against each other’s naked bodies. 

 

Feels so good . . . 

 

“Little tiger?” Dalthu’s voice was like flax rope; rough and coiled tight. The orc was teetering, hovering on the edge. 

 

Samson knew what the orc was asking. He knew what he desired and, gods alive, Samson wanted it too. Needed it. Nodding, he reached up to embrace the orc just as the chanting suddenly ended. Silence surrounded them and, frozen with his arms outstretched, reality came crashing down on Samson.

 

I almost . . . with him . . .

 

“Samson?”

 

Samson covered his face with both hands, refusing to meet the orc’s gaze. The back of his neck burned hotly and he shook his head. 

 

There was a pause, then Samson heard a small sigh. 

 

“Do not hide from me.” 

 

Something about the orc’s voice caught Samson’s attention. It almost sounded . . . sad. Samson peeked through spread fingers and was met by two twinkling golden eyes. Dalthu leaned in closely.

 

“You don’t have to worry, pet,” the orc whispered suggestively, “we can take our time.” Dalthu stole a quick peck on Samson’s cheek and, dodging Samson’s backhand with an infuriating smirk, stepped back from the altar and stood alongside the ancient orc who was nodding and stroking his pruney chin in approval.

 

I must have imagined it. Of course, that brute wouldn’t be concerned. 

 

The white-haired orc raised his hands and croaked brokenly, “Luthic . . . spoken.”

 

Dalthu and the rest of the congregation replied, “We thank the goddess for this blessing.” 

 

Samson looked down at his stomach. The glowing blue light was completely extinguished, leaving a flat black mark. Samson ran a finger over the lines. Nothing happened. He rubbed harder at the design, but it didn’t come off. It didn’t even smudge. He was about to try using his spit to wash it off when a loud shout jerked his attention to where Dalthu and the elder were standing.

 

The old-ass orc was shaking his head emphatically and gibbering furiously in orcish. Meanwhile, Dalthu couldn’t have looked calmer. Exasperated, the ancient orc turned to their audience and screeched. 

 

“Afar vadokanuk mal karash!”

 

Samson was lost, but whatever the elder had said had a profound effect on waiting orcs. The crowd shifted anxiously and hushed angry whispers slithered through the crowd. Dalthu stepped forward and addressed the cave. 

 

“I have invoked the Skok’malkog.”

 

If he’d thought that his words would be enough to soothe the peanut gallery, Dalthu was very much mistaken.  

 

“Copulation in the temple is tradition, Dalthu Hellfang,” one of the orcs shouted. 

 

“Would you risk the wrath of the goddess?”

 

Dalthu crossed his arms and turned to the wizened orc on the platform. “Elder, you say the goddess sees all, dath?”

 

“Eh?”

 

“I’m saying Luthic has already seen our coupling. Many times. Does once more or less matter?”

 

“Laga’shon!”

 

“The Skok’malkog is also sacred.” Dalthu’s voice was hard and immovable, but when he turned to Samson his expression was soft. “My mate’s wish is my will.”

 

Before the elder orc could reply, the door to the ceremony room burst open, the intruder howling in rage. The orc’s face was a bloody mess, but even from a distance, Samson recognized the cold gray eyes.

 

“Baronk.” 

 

It was barely a whisper, but the orc whipped his head toward him. Samson’s blood turned to ice. Baronk’s eyes trained onto him like a falcon in the dive, merciless and full of death. A savage finger pointed at Samson, pinning him in place.

 

“Get away from that breeder,” Baronk snarled. “He is mine.”

 

The elder orc shuffled forward. “Snaga nar baj lufut?”

 

“I mean,” Baronk’s lips curled into an evil smile, “I am claiming that breeder as my mate.”

 

To be continued . . .