“All orc females are prized beyond precious jewels. They live as queens of the North Pole, second only to the elves, of course, and Mrs. Claus. Our females created these rules.”
I’ve heard enough. “Don’t tell me. You keep them all pregnant and barefoot in your little orc huts, where they cook and clean and do the laundry and raise the orc children, and pine after your giant dicks while you’re out hunting.”
Grak blinks at me. “I would not tell you that because it’s not true. Females are smarter, that’s why they are in charge of making the rules. Child raising and domestic duties are shared.”
Okay. As a made-up society goes, I hate it less.
But wait, I got him. “What about two male orcs that want to be together? Or two women? Or, what if you have an orc that doesn’t fit any of those norms? What do you do then?”
He shrugs. “It is up to them individually to prove their worth. The only tradition that matters is that. Strength and sexual prowess are prized above all things, no matter what category. Well…”
“Well what?”
“I left one thing out. Even above those things, the most important thing to an orc is family. If you have a family, even if you never find your mate, you will never be alone. Families are extremely important when finding a mate.”
Grak has me feeling guilty about that one. “But wait,” I say. “What about you? Won’t your family miss you?”
He sighs heavily and looks down. “As I’ve said, I have no family.”
Clearly, this man is tortured. So tortured that he has blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. So much so that he’s crafted an extremely elaborate and convincing costume, from the tusks in his mouth to the fur boots he wears on his feet.
Well, I’m going to help him. Somehow.
“Okay,” I say. “I believe you.”
His sad face transforms into a hesitant, hopeful smile.
“But first things first. You need to take off that costume and show me the real you.”
He blinks at me, appearing surprised. “Is that a ritual of humans? You examine…everything?”
“Yes. We have to be real with each other,” I say.
His tusks gleam in the low lights as he smiles.
Slowly, Grak comes to standing and turns away to face the wall. He pulls his feet free of the furry boots. Wait …wait just a damn minute. His feet. They are huge. Bigger than Dad’s. Way bigger than Thomas’s. There’s no way…
Next to go is the leather belt and satchel he wears over his kilt, and then the kilt itself.
And there’s nothing underneath.
Not a seam, not a zipper, not a stitch or a hook or anything to indicate that this is a costume.
“Uh…” I babble as my brain short circuits.
Grak looks at me over his shoulder, and my eyes finally accept the whole picture. The white tusks, the dark eyes full of longing, the pointy ears, the heavy brow, the ridiculous thighs, and the broad, muscular back. And the backside. The orc has a jiggly, jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly ass. I mean, there is a real live orc in my room, and he has a dump truck back there.
Oh…my god.
I swallow and try to speak, but my throat is a desert.
Grak turns around to face me, and holy mother of yule logs.
“Should I begin the feats of strength now?”
“This can’t be real life,” I rasp.
It just can’t be. There’s no way I’m looking at a real orc in my basement apartment. There’s no way that I’m staring at an orc’s cock, and that it’s even bigger and better than I imagined in my pervy little brain, in all of its mesmerizing, veiny, ridged green glory.
