“Ach, I ken,” he crooned at her, low and mocking, as his other hand joined the first in her hair, and drew her slightly forward. Just close enough to lick, now, her frantic tongue furiously reaching, dipping into his slick, dripping slit.
“What ought I do with her next, Kalfr?” Joarr asked as he watched, his eyes alight, his voice infuriatingly cool. “Grant her leave to suckle your Seer dry? Or tend her throat as she wishes?”
The bastard. Gwyn’s disbelief was surging, soaring, and she felt herself glaring up at him, and betraying a sharp, frustrated growl. Even as her shameful, humiliating tongue kept licking at him, seeking for more, twisting as deep as it could go, his sweetness sparkling as it spluttered out to meet her…
“Do both, I ken,” came Kalfr’s breathless reply, with a low laugh. “But let her suckle first. See how hard she shall work for her sweet Bautul seed.”
Joarr’s smile was sheer vicious wickedness, his eyes on Gwyn so insolent, soproud. “Ach, you hear him, my witch,” he murmured, as his hands promptly released her hair, and dropped easy back to his sides. “Suck me.Showme.”
Fuck. The hunger was everywhere now, everything, thudding into the core of Gwyn’s being — and she felt herself lunge straight toward him, driving him deep into her mouth. Earning a half-groan, half-laugh from above her, more bare approval in his watching, dancing eyes.
It meant he liked it, he wanted it, wantedher— and suddenly all that mattered was showing him, swallowing him. Lavishing him with her eager tongue and lips and throat, sucking as hard as she could, caressing him with hungry, fervent fingers. Ignoring the lurid slurping sounds she was making, ignoring the approving murmurs of the watching orcs, ignoring the shocking dissipation in what she was doing. Her eyes fixed only to Joarr, only this, only his…
But he was giving her another wicked, impudent smile, and he casually raised his hands to his face. And then beganstraightening out his bloody nose, calm and collected, as if he’d fully forgotten the woman still desperately sucking him, choking herself on his heft.
“Is this yet bent?” he asked Kalfr, his voice utterly cool, his hand waving at his nose. And while Kalfr must have given some reply, Gwyn surely didn’t hear it. Not with the heat rushing in her ears like this, her mouth sucking even harder, her lips tightening on the silken skin between them.Rewardinghis rubbish, gods curse her — but here was her own reward, with the way his hardness leapt against her, his liquid pulsing faster, his breath hitching in his chest.
“Ach, I no forget you, woman,” he finally said, his voice hoarser than before. “You now wish me to use you? Tend you?”
And in this instant, with the flashing flying hunger, with her orc so blatantly stretching her mouth, prodding at her throat — Gwyn could only nod, again and again. Holding those glinting, dangerous eyes as he studied her, as one of his hands again slid into her hair, the other curling around her neck. The movements so careful, so gentle, at unnatural odds with the intensity in his gaze, the deep, guttural growl in his throat…
His drive forward was everything, ecstasy soaring and swelling, skittering with pain and power and purpose. With her orc’s hand now caught in her hair, holding her head still as he slammed into her throat again and again. Filling her, using her with devastating single-mindedness, hurling the tension higher and hotter between them. His sharp claw-tips nudging at her scalp, dragging against the sensitive skin of her neck, his sweetness steadily pulsing, leaking into her mouth, taunting her with its promise —
And with a shudder, a bark, a final fierce yank at her hair — he drove in one last time, and fired. His invading heft wildly spasming as it spurted, spraying its bounty deep into Gwyn’s mouth, pouring it down her throat. Holding her firmly in place while he tended her, filled her, showed her his care…
And as she gulped and swallowed, her own hunger twisted and turned, wrenching between her clutched-tight thighs — and then exploded too. Flashing her full of sharp, throbbing pleasure, pulsing in time with Joarr’s gasps, with his spurts deep into her belly.
And then, finally, it was still. Still, and also strangely silent, with Joarr’s slowly softening heft still parting her lips, oozing onto her tongue. With the way his hand carefully released her hair, even as the other kept hold on her neck, and his finger trailed down her hot, sticky cheek with a gentle, quivering reverence.
But he didn’t speak. Didn’t offer any kind words, any approval. And after a heavy exhale, he tugged himself out of Gwyn’s mouth with a lurid-sounding pop, and then yanked up his bloody trousers, hiding himself away.
“On the morrow,” he said to Kalfr, his voice light and cool again. “But no too early, ach?”
Kalfr gave some kind of affirming answer, only partially audible over the ringing in Gwyn’s ears. Gods, what had she just done. How many orcs had just watched that. And she couldn’t even raise her eyes to look, but she couldfeelthem, feel their prickling gazes on her hot face, on her swollen, sticky-feeling lips.
“Come, woman,” said Joarr’s quiet voice, his fingers circling her arm — and there was nothing for it but to nod, and oblige. Stumbling up to her shaky feet, and allowing him to usher her up and out of the room, back into the corridor’s close blackness.
Joarr still didn’t speak as they walked, as he guided her left, right, left again. As the shame kept rising higher, pooling on Gwyn’s cheeks, in her blinking eyes. Why had she done that. Why had she given this manipulative orc that, when —
When without warning, he swerved before her, his long fingers grasping at her arse — and in a smooth flush of movement, he snatched her fully off the ground. Parting her legs around his hips as he hoisted her up against him, and then pressed her back to the corridor’s solid stone wall.
And before Gwyn could speak, think, breathe, he was —kissingher. His mouth hard and desperate on hers, his long tongue slipping between her lips, his hand spreading wide against her cheek. Tilting her head so he could take her deeper, taste her, pour her full of his… reassurance. His…approval?
“You,” he panted, as he slightly pulled away, his lips just brushing against hers. “Kind witch.Kindredwitch. Withwondrousmouth. Ach?”
Oh. The tension that had been gripping Gwyn’s shoulders suddenly seemed to release, escaping in a choked, shaky laugh. Which abruptly broke into silence as Joarr caught her lips and kissed her again, strong, thorough, deep.
When he pulled away, they were both gasping, and she could feel his sweaty forehead settling against hers, his still-wet hair tickling at her face. “I… thank you,” he whispered. “For honouring me thus, before them. Honouring mytriumph.”
His triumph. And yes, yes, that was what Gwyn had meant to do. To help him. To support him. To recognize his strength, his confidence, his cleverness. His force in the face of defeat.
“You deserved it,” she whispered back, into the darkness. “You were” — she huffed a shaky laugh — “extremelyimpressive.”
Joarr chuckled too, low and husky, and she felt him shake his head, his hair again brushing her face. “I near suffer defeat,” he breathed. “To Silfast.Silfast!”
Gwyn’s trembly hands had fluttered up, stroking at his bare shoulders. “But you hadn’t done that before,” she said, her voice inexplicably certain. “Fought them like that before. Have you?”
There was an instant’s stillness, and then another shake of Joarr’s head, slower this time. “No. I knew this should only flaunt my… unlikeness. How I no belong.”
