Chapter Text
The orcs poured from the breach in numbers incalculable, forcing the party to turn and run in a desperate bid to escape the ambush. It was clear that they’d been deliberately sent into a trap, as their portal mage Azazel promptly disappeared at the first rumbling quake. This was no route to treasure that lay at the mountain’s core, as Shaw had promised their motley crew; rather it was a hidden path to the heart of the orcs’ underground kingdom. Shaw had sent them merrily to their doom, he and Erik and the others – gods, his sister – and Charles knew they were mere moments away from being overrun.
“Erik,” he shouted, even as he flung another shield spell around his lover, ensuring that blades and arrows bounced off his flesh as he carved a swath through their enemies. But even with Erik’s affinity for metal and Logan’s berserker rage, Raven’s formidable combat skills and Hank’s wards and traps, there were just too many orcs converging on their position. Charles made his choice without any thought or hesitation, gathering every bit of his magic inwards to weave one last, massive spell.
Go. Run! he ordered, and the party moved as one, their minds overtaken by Charles’ will as he pushed them to flee and not turn back. Simultaneously, he reached out and stopped the horde midstride, holding their minds and bodies hostage with his power. He could not keep the orcs still forever with his spell, but it would slow them enough for the others to get away. So long as he breathed he could ensure their safety, and he would hang on until every last spark of his magic had been completely and utterly spent…
The arrow whizzed through the air and hit him just below his right shoulder, breaking his concentration and sundering his control. All around him the orcs surged to life as he sank to his knees, poison flooding through Charles’ veins. He could not move or feel his limbs as he fell and lay prone on the ground, his eyes clouding until the orcs were nothing but dark blurs pressing in on all sides.
The last thing he saw was the hulking form of a horned beast – an ogre, resistant to magic – with a bow in his hand, and the guttural growl of his command, as discernable to Charles as if it had spoken the words in the common tongue.
“Bind him. Take him to Kuurth.”
Charles jolted awake shouting from the pain.
It was excruciating, like the blood was boiling in his veins, every inch of his body wracked with dark magic that threatened to tear him apart. Something like tendrils writhed and shifted within him, radiating from a single spot low in his abdomen. Pain like knives sliced through his gut and pierced him in his groin, the agony so acute that he screamed – for minutes, hours, days – until he blacked out once more.
The next time he woke, he knew he’d been utterly transformed.
He had been stripped and bound to a breeding rack, his legs spread and his hips clamped in a brace. There were wards painted on the ground and on the walls to suppress his magic, and no lights but for the small fires that dotted the length and width of the cave. He knew instantly that he’d been brought deep underground, somewhere inside the giant mazelike structure of the orcs’ stronghold, Cyttorak. Alive but captured and alone, surrounded by a sea of violent, bloodthirsty monsters.
His blood curdled when he looked up and spotted the giant orc on his throne, watching him with what seemed like wry amusement on its face. It was twice the size of most orcs – or the average human male – with shoulders as broad as the ogre that shot him. It watched him with none of the hatred and wanton cruelty of its kin, though Charles did not doubt the savage brutality that lay behind its sharp gaze.
“You’re awake,” the orc said as he rose from his seat, thick muscles rippling beneath his clanking armor as he approached his terrified captive. Paralysed by fear and by the chains that bound him, Charles could only grit his teeth and brace himself for the pain.
Instead, he felt the orc touch his cheek with a clawed fingertip, and shivered to feel its breath against his ear when it rumbled, “I know you speak Orcish, little mage. It is but one of your talents, your benefactor says.”
Startled, Charles stammered “What?” before he remembered his Orcish and said, “You know Sebastian Shaw?”
The orc laughed, an ugly, booming sound that made Charles’ skin crawl. “He sent you to me, to be my mate. A powerful magic user to bear many children. I am pleased with his offering.”
His blood turned to ice as panic flooded his veins, the thought that this was a plan to turn him into some sort of prized broodmare for the orcs—
“Please kill me,” he begged, bile lodged in his throat, “I have no womb; I cannot bear you any children.”
“You can,” the orc said with seeming patience, running its rough palm down Charles’ spine to rest at his buttocks. He gasped as the orc spread his cheeks and prodded him with two fingers, keening when they found their mark and slid in — into an opening that was new and unnaturally made.
“My sorcerers do not wield your exquisite mind magic,” the orc explained, “but they have their uses. They gave you a womb to receive my seed, and the means to bear my offspring.”
“No! No!” he shouted, even knowing it was futile. Charles could feel the changes to his body, wrought by foul magic; could feel it responding to the orc’s touch as he was primed for breeding. “Please, don’t do this.”
The orc did not answer as he disappeared from view, circling to settle behind his spread thighs. Charles braced himself and turned inward to escape, but the first thrust of the orc’s cock dragged his mind and his senses screaming to the surface. He was torn in two, impaled and split open, the beast’s member akin to a stallion’s length and girth. And yet his flesh yielded to the orc as it hammered its hips, his insides leaking fluid to ease his own violation. Whatever magic crafted his entrance had designed it well, for pain dissipated after only a dozen strokes. Then it was pleasure upon pleasure as the orc plundered his sex, until Charles was moaning and gasping to each rhythmic stroke, shuddering through his own release as the orc spurted inside him with a howl.
He had barely come down from his climax, before it started all over again.
For days the orc bred him almost non-stop, taking only the shortest of breaks for water and stale bread. Miraculously, Charles’ body did not break from overuse, managing somehow to keep pace with the orc’s heightened stamina. His womb was so full that it bulged outwards and hung low, but the orc did not stop fucking and filling him with seed. It was endless torment, the humiliation and forced pleasure, until the orc’s cock seemed permanently fixed to his body.
He was grateful there was no audience to watch his defilement, or to witness his slow descent into madness and despair.
When it was finally over – when Charles’ skin was covered in bruises and orc spend, his womb so loaded that seed cascaded like rain down his thighs – the orc released him from the rack and clasped a jeweled collar around his neck. What little hope he had dissipated as he was sundered from his gift, leaving him defenseless and unable to breach the distances for help.
In the end, Charles could only weep when the orc proclaimed his womb fertile and that its seed had taken root. Cursed to spend the rest of his days in the bowels of the orc kingdom, Charles would never again see sunlight, or lay eyes on his friends and his family.
“I am Kuurth, Lord of Cyttorak. And you shall be Gharzhorak, my mate.”