Page 45 of The Fall of the Orc

Gerrard blinked, cast an uneasy glance at Olarr, while beside them, Silfast’s expression briefly cleared, before glowering back toward Olarr. “Ach, has this not yet been done, Olarr?” he demanded. “Why have you not first offered this? There is an altar near here, and the goddess now grants us her blessing!”

He’d waved imperiously at the full moon, and again frowned at Olarr — but Olarr was looking at Gerrard again, his hand clenching against his side. His expression gone uneasy, nervous, even pained.

“This is a long-standing Bautul custom,” Olarr told Gerrard, under his breath. “Any mate wishing to join our clan must freely seek the goddess’ favour upon an altar, with their Bautul orc. They must be… bared, and opened, and offered before the clan, and offer a gift of fresh Bautul seed in return.”

Oh. Wait. Olarr sure as hell hadn’t mentioned anything like that before, had he? And at Gerrard’s disbelieving stare back toward him, Olarr winced, and clasped him even tighter. “I did not wish to expect this of you, warrior,” he choked. “Not after all else you have done.”

Right. Of course. More secrets, more important things Olarr hadn’t told Gerrard, ostensibly for his own damned good. And he couldn’t have said whether it was fury, or recklessness, or just sheer fool stubbornness, that made him spin back toward Silfast, his chin lifted, his hand again gripping tightly at his sword.

“Then take us to the altar, brother,” he snapped, “and let’s do this. Now.”

30

As promised, the goddess’ altar was close. Close enough that Gerrard still hadn’t quite digested what he’d agreed to, even as Olarr drew him to a halt before it. As Olarr slowly turned to face him, his eyes uneasy, uncertain, maybe even sad.

The rest of the Bautul had already followed them, now standing in a loose circle around the flat, fur-topped stone. Ready to watch this, to judge this, to weigh Gerrard by another scale he hadn’t even known existed.

Gerrard swallowed, shot another glance up at the moon — and then began undressing, yanking at his uniform’s buttons with numb, fumbling fingers. He’d agreed to this, he was going to do this, he was going to fucking get Olarr out of this, and then…

Olarr’s hand closed over his, warm but firm, and when Gerrard shot a glance up at his face, he was still looking — miserable. His mouth drawn thin, his eyes heavy and shadowed in the moonlight. “Ach, Aulis,” he said, a low rasp between them. “There is no —”

“No reason not to do this, yeah?” Gerrard cut in, fighting to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Goddess knows I could use a good proper pounding, after all that! I need you to put your brilliant Bautul prick to good use, and erase that vile scum from my memory, all right?”

He hoped it sounded like something a lovestruck minion would say, complete with an entirely genuine grimace behind him. Toward where he could just still make out Slagvor’s body, lying with unnatural stillness beneath the silvery moonlight.

Olarr had followed Gerrard’s eyes, his throat convulsing — but then, thank the goddess, he nodded. Nodded, and drew Gerrard close, folding him into his arms.

His kisses were gentle at first, lips brushing soft again and again, but Gerrard could feel the intensity simmering behind them, behind the slow stroking touches of Olarr’s hands. The way he was touching Gerrard as if he was made of glass, or of gold, the reverence whispering without a word through his lips and his fingers.

It did make it easier, better, and Gerrard could feel his heartbeat slowing as he willingly sank into it, into the familiar reassurance of Olarr’s body, his touch. Enough that he only twitched a little when Olarr gently lifted him, setting him down onto the altar, and then began working at his buttons with one hand, while the other cupped his face, slid into his hair. Keeping Gerrard’s focus fully on him, and not on the band of orcs watching them — but Gerrard could still feel them, could still hear them, the shifting feet and breaths, the occasional quiet cough from Thorvald’s direction.

But despite it all, Olarr was still here, still stronger, as his hands gently drew off the jacket of Gerrard’s uniform, and then his undershirt, baring his upper body to the moonlight, to his touch. To where his hands were already stroking again, sliding harder and faster, the hunger bleeding into his fingers, shimmering in his too-bright eyes as he drew away, searched Gerrard’s flushed-feeling face.

“You are yet sure, Aulis,” he whispered, so quiet — and this time, Gerrard groaned his frustration, rolled backwards, and yanked Olarr downwards over him. So they were both lying on the altar, now, Gerrard slightly shivering on his back, Olarr held up on his elbows over him. Still looking at him like that, with all that miserable regret shouting in his eyes, and Gerrard pulled him down further, crushed their mouths back together.

Olarr didn’t protest again after that, just kept kissing and touching and caressing, worshipping Gerrard with his mouth and his hands. As Gerrard’s body kept responding, kept welcoming that painfully familiar touch, his own desperate craving kindling higher and hotter with every breath. Until he was almost grateful when Olarr finally tugged off his uniform’s trousers, and freed his rigid, straining cock into the open air.

There were a few distant murmurs at the sight, enough that Gerrard’s eyes did dart sideways, toward where all these Bautul orcs were still watching, many with unmistakable interest — or even greed — glinting in their eyes. But Olarr was here again, drawing Gerrard’s face back again, consuming his mouth with his own, tasting him with his long, hungry tongue.

“They have only never before seen a man thus, so rich and full with hunger,” Olarr murmured, between kisses. “They only envy me, you ken.”

Gerrard fully expected to hear protests from the watching Bautul, or maybe laughter or mockery, but nothing came. Only more caresses from Olarr’s hands, more heated kisses from his mouth, as he finally kicked off his own trousers, too. Pressing the full length of his bared, heavy body down against Gerrard on the altar, the ponderous shaft at his groin already dropping deep between Gerrard’s thighs, streaking slickness against his crease.

“They only wish to know — the joy of this,” Olarr’s hitching voice continued, as his knees spread Gerrard’s wider, and that slick, delving head swiftly found what it was seeking. Shuddering as it settled there, spurting out more hot hunger against it, into it. While Gerrard gasped and clutched back, feeling it, kissing it — and then… welcoming it. Opening for it, while a dozen orcs stood there, and watched. Watched Olarr’s hard, straining body sinking into him, opening him up with smooth, familiar ease, while he shook and spasmed upon it.

“They only wish to know what it is,” Olarr murmured, between gasps, as he pressed deeper, deeper. “To have a brave, powerful human warrior freely offer up such a gift. Such favour. Suchpower.”

His fluttering eyes had even flicked up toward the goddess again, holding there with palpable gratitude, with worship. As his strength inside Gerrard swelled even fuller, giving Gerrard even more, offering more in return.

And though it should have been humiliating, mortifying, being splayed out, plugged up and put on display before all these watching orcs, Gerrard found himself almost — nodding. Agreeing. Because yes, he could admit now, this was strength. This was a gift. This was him making the choice to do this, to find pleasure in this, and maybe even power. To have a huge, deadly orc worshipping on his knees over him, offering up his body, his fealty, his surrender. Giving it all to Gerrard, freely and publicly, before all his clan, for Gerrard to use and wield however he damn well wished.

“More, captain,” Gerrard breathed, ordered, snapping Olarr’s eyes back to his. “Give me more.”

Olarr’s breath choked, his groan rumbling through his throat, and yes, yes, that was more. His strength inside Gerrard obligingly swelling fuller, sinking deeper, and Gerrard pulled his head down again, gave him a sharp, biting kiss this time. “Told you, I want a proper Bautul pounding,” he breathed. “Want you fuckingworkingfor me on this altar, captain.”

Olarr groaned again, but yes, yes, he was doing it. His hips rocking now, grinding against Gerrard’s arse with compulsive purpose, swirling out swarms of sensation all around it, sparkling it up Gerrard’s spine. And Gerrard was meeting it, clinging to him, spurring him on faster, faster. “Good, captain,” he breathed. “You’re gonna open me up wide for you, aren’t you? Gonna make me swallow up every last drop of that good orc-seed?”

There were a few more murmurs from the watching Bautul around them, but Olarr’s groan was far louder, vibrating into Gerrard’s ear. His body pumping even harder, his hips levering himself in and out, while Gerrard arched and met it, drank it deep inside him. “Yeah, just like that,” he gasped. “You’re gonna fatten me up on you, aren’t you? Gonna make me reek of you, and your good Bautul seed?”

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