And you know what they say about big hands.
My experience with orcs was fairly limited, but I do know one thing—and that’s men.When a man comes sniffing around the red lantern, I can tell which ones would just as soon show me the back of their hand as flash me their dick.I can tell who wants me to simper and preen and play the innocent, and who’s hoping I slide a finger up their chute while I suck them dry.But most of all, I can tell which ones really want me.
Given how the young shaman froze the moment our eyes locked, nostrils flaring….
Maybe I could finagle a way out of these chains after all.
Taruut had told me lots of things during our weeks together—but the topic of conversation never turned to sex.It never occurred to me to ask whether orcish shamans were expected to be celibate, like the clerics who rode with the Blood Nomads.Or if they were presented with virgins to ceremonially deflower, like the brutal priests of the Wastelands.
I supposed I was about to find out.
I slumped back against the cave wall as the irons were pried off my neck, drawing the first good breath I’d been able to manage in ages, as I considered just how much flirtation I could get away with.“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Droko the Sage.”Orcs get a big charge out of it when you use their name.I knelt, more or less, as much as my manacles would allow.“And I suspect you will find me very…useful.”
I let my eyes linger on the new shaman for a fraction of a heartbeat before I cast my gaze downward in a deliberate display of respect.Though before I did, I noted the shaman’s nostrils flared again.
Just goes to show, I thought, that deep down inside, men are more alike than different.Even the green, tusky ones.I straightened and put my weight on one leg, canting my hip, displaying my assets to their best advantage.
“Unchain him,” Droko said simply, and his guards set to work freeing my hands.
Gargle stepped forward, clearly disapproving.“Archie belongs in the workroom, not roaming through your chambers.In fact, once you’re through with him, he should go right to the slave pit.”
I had no intention of ending up in a slave pit.Not when a whole different kind of servitude awaited me.But Droko had other plans.
“Archie is to remain with me,” he said firmly, his gaze bored deep into my eyes, as if searching for some sort of kinship.I like sex well enough…but after so many years of turning tricks, it’s a rare treat to anticipate getting down and dirty with someone.
Had I really ever dreaded getting orced?Silly me.Now I was actually looking forward to it.
And then the shaman hit me with a cold, hard slap of reality when he added, “The human is of no use locked up in here if he is to help me prepare Taruut’s body.And give him something to wear.There’s frost on the ground.”
I’d thought we had a thing between us, Droko and me, but he turned from my holding cell and strode off without a backward glance.
One of the guards tossed me a woolen cloak, so long it dragged on the ground.I headed out of the cave behind Droko, flanked by his guards…including Gargle, of course, who made it very clear by the glares he was leveling at me that he’d just as soon toss me in some pit.
My eyes were sensitive from my weeks in the cave.It was overcast, but I squinted against the haze anyway as we walked the path to the village square.I stole a curious glance at the goblin marching along beside Droko.He was about my height and gangly, with a short body and arms as long as his legs.The last time I’d seen a goblin, he’d been attacking us by the flickering light of a campfire.This one clearly wasn’t about to attack anyone.Not only did he have a slave brand on his cheek, but his fingers ended in squat stumps where his claws used to be.
Judging by the scar tissue, the wounds were hardly fresh.In fact, I’d wager they were years old.The finger-stumps were sound and the slave brand was half-buried in the crease at the side of his mouth.He had on a worn shirt and trousers, both of which had seen better days.The fabric was frayed in places and patched up with scraps of cloth in others.But as far as I could tell, he wasn’t mistreated.
I’m familiar with the way a bedboy will move, a bit too careful and measured, to act like he hasn’t just taken a beating.I’ve moved that way plenty of times myself.No doubt the goblin had been beaten at some point.But not in recent history.
Even though we were of similar height, his stride was sinuous and strange.He’d be quick, that one—if he weren’t shuffling his feet, pretending to be slow.
I hadn’t seen much of the orc village when I arrived, seeing as how I’d been carried in, half delirious and wracked with fever.Now, I finally got a good look at the place.First impression?
Neat.
Not in a cobblestones-after-the-rain way, either.Like…freakishly neat.
I’d come of age at the fringes of the Wastelands, in a sizable outpost called Wildwood.The men passing through the brothel were always sure to make some stupid pun about the name as they whipped out their stiffies…and, yes, I would laugh as if they were clever, in hopes of a generous tip.Doubtlessly, there were some parts of Wildwood that were as clean and austere as this orcish settlement—just not any of the ones I’d ever frequented.
Where I came from—the Red Lantern District—the narrow, winding streets were littered with trash.Buildings leaned on each other, their planks weathered and worn.The air carried the smell of smoke and cheap perfume, and the sounds of music and rough laughter echoed through the night—as well as the grunts and groans of paying men determined to get their money’s worth.
The only grunts here came from a creature dragging a sledge of lumber down the street–a two-legged giant of a bald, fleshy, gray-green man even bigger than the orcs, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a slave brand.
“What’s wrong, little boy?”the goblin chuckled.“You’ve never seen an ogre before?”He lisped out the word “seen” on a spray of spittle.No teeth.“Stupid humans.”
It might be my first ogre, but I was a quick learner.I didn’t gawk like a tourist.But I definitely kept my eyes and ears open.
Though it was kind of hard to miss the slave pit, where a half-dozen unfortunate souls squatted uneasily in the meager shelter of a sheer wall looking leathery, cold, and utterly miserable.
