A story inspired by the CG artist Thew: Elf Captive 2013
Revised Filthier Version 3/14
Strange to say, but she was quite good-looking, for an orc. In fact Meyone wasn't certain she was truly an orc at all—at least not a fullblooded one. Sarlaicha, she called herself, though Meyone still wasn't clear what her title was. Did the loathsome orcs consider her their queen? If it were not for her green skin and pointed teeth—as well as her outlandish, ghastly costume, with that wicked looking horned helmet, adorned on the front with a skull—she could have been an elf. She had the same slim, light build as Meyone herself. The same pointed ears, slanted brows and elegant features. While the hideous, lumpy warriors surrounding her—all males—all of them were at least two or three times her size, and bulk. In another context, the sight might have amused Meyone—
... were she not chained at Sarlaicha's feet—
... were she not, herself, entirely naked.
With brutal contempt, they had flung her to the stone floor, flat on her face. She knew she had to get on her feet, to defy them. Her honor both as a soldier and as a princess demanded that she stand proud before these treacherous monsters, despite her state of undress, and the utter hopelessness of her situation. To prove they had not broken her spirit. They would kill her soon, no doubt. She must face her end bravely, if she could do nothing else. They had done their best to shame her—but she must not acknowledge the shame. Dignity was the only weapon she had left to use against them.
But it was difficult. It was very difficult. Meyone tried her best—but she couldn't quite bring herself to stand. Her courage failed her, sad to say. If she had not been naked—but she was. Being a prisoner, her wrists shackled with heavy, oversized manacles, that in itself, bad as it was, she could have borne better—if it had only been that. But they had taken things further. So much further than she would have imagined, in her worst nightmares. She never would have expected anyone to be so cruel and indecent—not even orcs. No doubt she had been naïve. She had fought in many battles—but always her previous opponents had been honorable. Because they had all been elvish warriors like her, from rival realms of Faerie. To disgrace a defeated foe was to disgrace oneself—that was what she had been taught. That was what all elves believed. But these orcs felt no shame in what they had done. None at all. Only malicious gleeful delight.
She could only lift herself a little, bending up at the waist. Then she found herself petrified with shyness—she could raise herself no further. It was too hard. She could not completely expose her torso. It would make her start to cry. That was ridiculous and weak, but there was nothing she could do about it. These disgraceful feelings were too strong. She could not suppress them. Her cheeks were burning with humiliation. And she felt an agonizing urge to urinate—she was terrified that she would not be able to keep her body from yielding to that impulse. Her toes curled tight, at the strain of holding the tickling pressure inside.
Even just to be shoeless, in fact—even were it only those parts of her alone that had been unclothed before her enemies in this place—that little thing by itself would still have utterly mortified her, thanks to the code by which Meyone was brought up. Simply to be barefoot, yes, like a child or a peasant or a barbarian. Only a small trivial matter, but nevertheless painfully unseemly. Both as royalty and as a soldier, the proven champion of her realm, she was obligated to maintain the highest standard of decorum at all times. It was a sacred duty. Elves were higher beings. Embodiments of enchantment, and its guardians. They must never allow the manifold imperfections of the mortal mundane world to weaken and corrupt them.
And now this. This! It wasn't only her footwear she had lost, oh no ... but everything. Every single thing she'd been wearing. All gone. Torn away from her writhing body by the lusty leering monsters. It was so dreadful it was almost funny. Too horrible to be real. Like a bad joke or a bad dream. But she wasn't dreaming—this was really happening, somehow. Impossible to accept, yet this had happened, and it was continuing to happen. No end in sight, no chance of escape nor of rescue. Goddess of the Skies, how could she survive this? The answer was, she couldn't. How could anyone? No one could.
Sarlaicha and all her dreadful soldiers were mocking her, laughing at her. No one else had ever seen her entirely naked like this—no one outside her family, since she was a child. She had never yet taken a lover. Only in the last spring in fact had she become of age, for such matters. It was so unfair that destiny had turned against her like this, so that it was orcs of all creatures that got to be the first to gaze upon the private treasures of her matured form. Goddess of the Skies, this was so unjust! It was unendurable! She shielded her breasts with her arms and elbows as much as possible, and shifted up one of her knees in a forlorn effort to better screen her sacred vale, without just pressing herself completely flat to the ground again. For to let herself do that, as much as she yearned to, would be too much of a giveaway. She must hide her weakness and terror as much as possible. But was it possible, at this point? Or wasn't it already too late? Couldn't they all see the truth, from the woeful expression on her face, and her inability to stand?
"Why have you done this, Sarlaicha? Why have you broken our terms?"
The orc princess shrugged. "Because it pleases me. And it pleases my soldiers. Why else?"
They were supposed to face each other in a fair combat, just the pair of them. That had been the agreement. Meyone, the champion of her people, had issued the challenge, and Sarlaicha had accepted—or pretended to. One duel would have decided the fate of this land, rather than an all-out war. But when Meyone stepped forth alone to meet the orc princess, outside the gates of her city, Sarlaicha had cast an enchantment. A purple cloud had enveloped the pair of them—and when it dispersed, they had both been instantly transported a full day's ride away, to the orc's encampment within a ruined mountain stronghold, long abandoned until they had taken possession of it.
Surrounded on all sides and hopelessly outnumbered, Meyone had still not surrendered. She had drawn her twin swords, and fought as long as she was able. She had slain many, fully expecting in the end to be slain herself. But they hadn't killed her. They'd brought her down by throwing nets over her head. She'd cut through the first few, but they kept throwing more and more until finally the ropes were layered too thick for her blades.
Perhaps she should have taken her own life, rather than allow them to capture her. But the thought had never crossed her mind, until she had been disarmed and it was too late. They put her hands into shackles, and then she expected them to lead her to a cell. But they had not. Instead they stripped her of her armor, and then they stripped away everything else had she worn beneath it, until she was finally naked as a newborn. She had struggled as much as she could, but it hadn't done her any good. They got everything. It only took them a few minutes. Perhaps that was the most humiliating part of it—how easy it was, in the end, for them to do. Before, she had been a princess and a warrior. But now no one would think that, seeing her like this, with nothing. In her nudity, she was reduced to a mere frightened girl. Small, thin, weak and frail looking. Just a captive—she would not even appear to be a valuable one, except perhaps—a horrid thought—as a plaything for the orcs' bestial pleasures.
And the ones that had stripped her, three orcs working together, they had indeed played with her afterward in a dusty, gravelly courtyard for a good long while, before they brought her to Sarlaicha's throne room. (The orc princess had taken some time to refresh herself alone somewhere, after that difficult spell she'd cast.) They hadn't gone as far as they might have, thank the Goddess—but they indulged in countless demeaning liberties, with her person. Small things, and silly things, but that hadn't meant they were easy to put up with. They had fondled and pinched her exposed breasts and her bottom, inevitably ... Then her vulnerable nipples were subjected to teasing, though it was done carefully and with surprising gentleness, until they had swollen and stiffened so much they both ached and throbbed shamefully ... After that they had licked and nibbled the sensitive points of her ears, which was even harder to bear. Forcing her to squirm and whimper. Then she was made to stand on one trembling leg with her other bare foot bent up behind her. One of them had held it there in his huge green hands, as high as she could stretch, and then he'd jabbed at the sole of her foot and underneath her defenseless wriggling toes with a sharp pointed fingernail. Sometimes he'd done it hard enough to sting, other times it had only tickled her. Either way it made her squeal and curse. "Damn you! Filthy beasts! How dare you torment me without cause in this wicked manner! I vow, you shall all answer dearly for this dishonor, one day soon. I swear it, on my name."
Of course this only made them laugh at her. "Cute little thing, aren't you?" the one at her back kept muttering. "Cute little ears. Cute little bum. Cute little feet." He stopped using his claw to jab her, but what he had done next was far more horrid. For he'd produced his ghastly cock from under his loincloth and rubbed its sticky tip upon her foot instead, mashing the thing as hard as he could against the arch and then the ball of it, and then against her toes, squeezing on them from below with his hand to make her clench them on him. It was a dreadful sensation. Like clutching her toes upon a muddy stinking snake from the poisonous depths of some foul swamp. Made her feel like her foot would be dirty and polluted forever. Like it would turn green and rot off her leg.
"You are disgusting!" she had cried, "You are vile and obscene!"
"Yes," the monster had replied, "Feels nice."
Then he gave out a roar in her ear, while his muddy snake had squirted out steaming slime all over the bottom of her foot, and then sprayed more of it across her buttocks as well, and the small of her back, before he finished, gasping and giggling. She was appalled, she was rendered speechless. Couldn't react at all. It was too terrible to process. She felt the slime oozing down the backs of her thighs, while another trickle higher up streamed directly into the cleft of her rear, and dribbled over her clenched passage.
Then it had happened again. Another of them stepped close and pumped more of the gunk from himself on to her belly, sizzling hot as it clung to her skin. He rubbed the head of his vomiting appendage in circles around her navel, painting a thick white ring around it, smearing the slime in hard as he could press. "So soft, you are," he panted, "So smooth and silky and nice."
She could only boggle at his sweaty sheepish face with her mouth hanging open. She'd never felt such revulsion and fury in her life. But plain bafflement above all, blanking out the rest. Blanking out everything. The world made no sense anymore. She nearly swooned from the feelings. Thought her skull would burst from inside. Almost wished it had. She would be safe in the darkness now. All her trials ended.
The third orc, smaller and scrawnier than his brethren, had not pleasured himself upon her, in that same way—instead he had cleaned their filth from his flesh, but using his long purple tongue to perform the job. It was awful, a much worse sensation than the others spraying her. Because again, it had tickled ... especially when he did her sole and her toes, of course, but then it turned out just as bad on her bottom and her belly, and he had taken his sweet time about it, scrupulously lapping away every glob and smear and speck, large and small, so the agonizing business went on and on and on. All the while, she could only stand there in their clutches and tremble and moan. And suffer.
"Ohhooh Goddess! Ohhuuggnnhh! You cannot treat me this way. You cannot befoul my body." But they could, actually. And they had. "You have no right! Uhhhuurrhh! You have no honor!" They didn't care. It meant nothing to them.
It had made her feel so grotesque and so ruined and so small. So desperate. At least they had never touched her sacred vale. Their hands and claws, as well as their appalling tongues, had wandered dangerously close to it, of course, right to the brink—so close several times she had been petrified with terror. Clenching inside—she had feared she might piss herself, like an animal, or a child. But they never touched her on that place. They never went so far. No doubt only because they'd been ordered not to, by their princess. Even so, she knew she could not have stood up to much more of that treatment. They had been only toying with her, and she wished she'd done better at ignoring their efforts to humiliate her. Yet she'd failed. The humiliation was too strong, too severe. Absolutely none of Meyone's training through her entire young life as a princess or as a warrior had prepared her to any degree for such an ordeal. It was simply unthinkable that things of that nature could happen to a person of her rank and power—but now somehow they had happened, regardless. It seemed almost a relief, when the game ended, and she was finally taken to Sarlaicha and hurled to the ground before her throne ... For a new game ...
"Were you too great a coward to face me in combat, Sarlaicha?"
"Only too wise to waste my time with such a contest. I prefer other sports. Games better suited for the needs of adults. I shall have one of my soldiers teach you how they are played."
