Chapter Two: Oral Initiation
"Sit."
They had been traveling for days, and Samson's body, unaccustomed to riding for so long, was aching. He shook his head; he wanted to stretch his legs.
"I said, sit. I'm going to build a fire."
Samson cast a quick glance around at their surroundings.
"If you try to run I will catch you, and it will be the belt again."
Samson sighed and lowered himself tenderly onto the ground. He watched as Dalthu moved quickly, gathering dry kindling.
His great size doesn't affect his speed.
Soon a roaring fire heated the chilly air, and the illumination of the flame danced and cast strange shadows on the trees around them. Dalthu handed Samson a small portion of food: some dried meat and half a loaf of bread. Samson ate them both greedily.
Dalthu pulled out a wineskin and, after taking a pull from it, offered it to Samson.
Samson eyed the flask warily. "No . . . thank you."
"Drink," Dalthu insisted.
"I said, no."
"And I won't tell you again, little tiger. Do what I say." His hands strayed toward his belt.
Samson quickly grabbed the wineskin and put it to his lips, letting the strong liquid flow into his mouth. It burned as it went down, but it was comforting in its familiar sting. How old had he been when he'd had his first drink? He remembered his father had bought a barrel of mead from some traveling dwarves, and while his mother was distracted had poured some into Samson's glass. They had giggled together over their shared secret. Tears stung Samson's eyes as he recalled his family.
I swear I will see you again.
Samson held out the wineskin, but Dalthu motioned him to keep it. "One more sip. It will be cold tonight, and it will keep you warm."
Samson took another gulp, a warm glow building up inside him. He and his captor had again positioned themselves a little distance away from the horde. Samson could hear the muffled voices of the rest of their party. There were another ten orcs in the group, and each had grabbed a villager. Samson didn't know who else had been taken.
Samson gazed over at the other campfires. He was just starting to make out the shapes of some other humans when a cry rang out. A woman was struggling as an orc tore her clothes off. She was forced to the ground, and as the orc covered her body with his, a scream tore through the night. Samson could hear sounds of slapping flesh and moans.
He looked away, willing himself deaf to the awful noises.
"Monsters," he whispered.
"It is always painful the first time," Dalthu said.
He heard me.
"Eventually she will accept him, just like you will eventually accept me."
Rage bloomed in Samson's chest, and, fueled by the potent liquor, he forgot himself and screamed at the orc, "Never! I will never accept you!"
A deadly calm settled over their campfire. Samson's chest heaved with his passion. When Dalthu suddenly rose to his feet, Samson could not help flinching. Why had he antagonized him?!
Dalthu stood in front of Samson, his massive body blocking the light from the fire. He pulled at the buckle of his belt, and Samson trembled.
"W-wait, I . . . I'm sorry!"
The orc did not stop, but merely unbuckled his pants and let them slide down his thick thighs. Samson knew what a man's member looked like. However, he had never seen an orc's.
This would explain the screams.
Dalthu's cock was giant. Fully erect it was the length of Samson's arm, but thicker. The shaft was a paler green than the rest of his body, but grew darker toward the bulbous head. The tip of the orc's prick had just the briefest shade of pink at the slit, which was already growing slick with arousal.
