Page 12 of Shackled to the Orc

“Got my jaw broken two months ago. Strong fighters.”

“That wound under your left arm. It’s still new, within the last week. I’ve got something to stop infections, even if you won’t take stillroot.”

“From today. I heal fine on my own.”

I grit my teeth. I’m used to men trying to refuse medical treatment.

One farmer left a cut so long he nearly lost his hand, the stubborn old bastard.

“Peter brought clothes.” I grind my teeth in annoyance, but open the bag and take out a vestment, just like the ones the gladiators were wearing. There are two of them, in different sizes, and I grab the one that might just fit the best. As well, there are a couple pairs of well-worn sandals and some socks.

I take it and walk to the small door, aware of his eyes on me as I go into the bathroom. There is a toilet with a wooden cover, a sink with faucets, a window which gives fresh air and a large wooden bowl of crushed mistwood, which kills bacteria and smells, next to sponges. The orc is exceptionally clean. Next to the sink is a bowl of freshmint. I wash my hands, then grab a piece, chewing on it, freshening my breath, and drop the huge horse blanket. It’s been a long day, and I yearn for a hot bath, but there’s no way I am going to be naked in front of him.

I saw how his cock throbs for me. I know why I was bought. But I’ll delay it as long as I can. I pull on the strange clothes, made for a man, too big for me, a rough tunic that grates against my skin. It hangs off my body loosely, but I always liked loose clothes.

I hold my hand over the doorknob, hesitant. Through that door is my new reality. I draw myself up and open it, stepping through.

He is running his right hand through his hair, putting in soap, while his left, injured arm hangs loosely over the edge. The cut under it is a murderous red, but he’s right—it does seem to be healing well. I can’t believe he got it today. I heard that orcs were quick healing, but it takes seeing it to believe it. If he was a human with that wound, I would have expected it to be at least three, four days old.

“Throw the blanket outside. It stinks,” he says, his hands stroking through his thick hair. No please, no thank you, justdo what I say.

I take the blanket from where I dropped it and put it in the hallway outside, looking out longingly, knowing that there’s nowhere to run.

And back I go, into the orc barbarian’s home. He finishes washing his hair, and grimaces, his lips curling back and showing his twin sharp fangs as he grinds his teeth, in obvious pain.

I push down my fear. If I am going to have any chance of getting out of a lifetime of slavery and ever seeing my village again, even for a moment, my only chance is with the orc as my ally.

“If you won’t take stillroot, at least let me relieve your headache with my hands.” His black brows furrow as he looks at me with irritation.

“Your voice…” He winces, even speaking hurting his head. “It’s too loud.”

I roll my eyes in frustration. This brute is infuriating. “I’m serious,” I whisper. “I can help. Let me.”

“I believe you.”

“So what, you like feeling shitty?”

“I accept it.”

“Well, I don’t.” I try to imagine that he’s nothing more than another unruly patient.

I walk up behind him, and my hands shake as I bring them up to his neck. He remains still, his shoulders the only thing above the steaming water, so broad he fills the massive tub. I bite my lip and put my hands on his neck, gently, feeling for knots.

The whole damn thing is one big knot!

He’s holding more tension than anyone I’ve ever felt. I slowly slide my hands up towards his jaw, and when he doesn’t protest, I find his masticators, and press in, gentle circles that can reduce tension and aid in blood flow. I stare straight forward, not wanting to accidentally look down and see his over seven-foot-tall, muscle-bound, very naked body.

He groans, in deep satisfaction, sinking deeper below the water as my touch soothes him. I slowly move down his jaw, to his neck, working at the knots, then knead his shoulders, applying deep pressure that makes him sigh.

See? What did I tell you?

I look down at him, in triumph, and it’s a huge mistake. Oh fuck, but he’s attractive, in this overpowering way.

He is this jade behemoth, carved from rock, curly black hair thick against his huge slabs of muscle, scars crisscrossing their way down his tattooed length. The runes are intricate and detailed, each one a work of art, but they only seem to enhance his power. He’s got more abs than I thought possible, his shoulders broad and tapered down to his powerful waist, and I can’t help but keep glancing downwards, until I start to get distracted, finding it difficult to focus on the movement of my fingers as I see that hugethingbetween his legs, floating upwards in the water. I hope it’s a trick of the light and the refraction of the water, because flaccid, it looks about as long as my forearm.

And the pitmaster bought me to breed with him.

My eyes widen as I imagine the stretching, brutal pain as he would press that enormous thing into me, losing himself in his lusts, brutally ruining me for any other man, and a frisson of the darkest, shameful lust rushes through me. His nostrils flare as he lays back, and his cock stirs, throbbing, slowly growing with each beat of his heart, and I remember with humiliation the rumors that orcs can taste your emotions, that unless you control yourself, they know exactly what you’re thinking.

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