Suddenly, Marcus stopped crying. Darkness set in, and he felt something wet and slippery crawling up his legs. There was a pull on his belly, right where that strange rope was attached. He looked down, mesmerized by this dark passageway swallowing him at the feet, drawing him closer.
He should’ve been afraid, for the woman’s face was gone, and he didn’t know what lay on the other side of this warm sleeve which sucked at his body. Yet, Marcus was totally relaxed. He closed his eyes a final time as it enveloped him completely, sealing him inside.
Esperanza cradled her belly. She was eight months along now. That’s where the regression had stopped. Macy would have just enough time to get comfortable in her temporary home before she was ready to come out again. She couldn’t wait for the day when she would welcome her new daughter into this world. Her bedroom was all ready, and the closet was full of pretty little clothes. Being a single mother would be tough, but Esperanza would have it no other way. It was her only dream.
“Rest now, Macy,” she spoke to her belly. “Mommy won’t let anything happen to you.”
Ms. Blake peered into the crystal ball again. The swirling cloud inside was a mystery to others, but it held endless information. She touched her fingers to the glass and smiled, sensing that three pairs of lives had been fixed for the better. Everyone was happy.
There was no time to reflect, however. A visitor had arrived, and right on time. She stood to welcome the newest client, gesturing for the shadowed figure to take a seat.
“What’s wrong with your marriage?”
###
Orc in the Road
Spring was always wet. Oliver had never seen a year pass without the rains coming, rushing in on the coattails of winter, spreading green throughout the land. Sometimes it took weeks. Other times it happened seemingly overnight, a warm southerly wind pushing out the cold, as if winter itself were a drunken man asleep on a tavern’s front step, driven away by the proprietor for scaring away customers. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a switch was flipped, and the seasons changed. Just like that.
Oliver felt indifferent about it. The warmer weather permitted more time outdoors, but with it came the work in the fields and the trips to the town, real back-breaking work it was, pulling a loaded cart full of crops for two hours with no promise of them being sold. More often than not they were potatoes. Father had been planting them for three years now. They were simple and cheap to cultivate, but everyone was doing it now. So, as a result, Father planted more—and more and more until all the hectares were covered with them, stretching from one end of the lot to the other. You couldn’t walk without stepping on their wide, green leaves.
And with more potatoes came more trips to town, with each one valued slightly less than the year before, or even last month. They filled every booth at the market, potatoes from all over the countryside. It was all because of Father. Oliver had heard him boast of it innumerable times. Father was first to grow the potatoes, and everyone copied him. Father’s were the original and the best. Nothing else could compare.
“Go and tell ‘em that,” Oliver remembered from one of the many business conversations—which were really drunken rambles in thin disguise, of a father to his lousy son, who wasn’t bringing in as much profit each year. “Say they were the first, and the best. Shout if you have to! The original is always the best. Ain’t heard ‘em say any different. The second or the third, or the seventh no. We were the first. Make ‘em remember it. Say it until you can’t say another word. Make signs if ya have to. Everyone else copied us, copied me.”
So, in late spring, that’s what Oliver expected. The potatoes grew, and he hauled them to town to sell as many as he could. If not, then he sold them in bulk to other vendors. He had to set out at dawn and be back by nightfall. That was the rule—Father’s rule. He best not break it lest the belt came out.
With the morning sun touching his cheek, and its warmth surrounding him like an expensive wool coat—the kind he could never hope to afford—Oliver momentarily embraced the change of season before loading the last sack of potatoes into the cart. The first trip was always the most difficult, after months of staying indoors and his strength waning. The task would’ve been easier with a horse, but Father didn’t own one. “A waste of money,” he would say, especially since their farm was small, and the horse would have to be fed and maintained when not hauling crops to the town. The investment simply wasn’t worth it.
Instead there was Oliver, a young boy capable of pulling the cart himself, no matter the weather or the road conditions. He had to. Father didn’t promise honest pay for it, but rather that the belt stayed where it belonged. Oliver couldn’t help but think that a horse would’ve been treated better.
He started for town as soon as there was enough light to see the way, and after the morning fog had cleared out. An overnight rain had turned the road into muck, causing Oliver’s tattered shoes to sink several inches in. Not long after beginning the trip, he could feel the wetness between his toes, the mud squishing as he pushed off it, pulling the cart along. He had to pay careful attention, for the road was already littered with hoofprints and other tracks of carriage wheels. The latter were the best to follow. It was less strenuous if there was already a path for him, a pair of trails for the cart to follow like a steam engine on those fantastical rails. Oliver had never seen one himself, but he had heard of it. Someday everyone would have a steam engine like that, and he wouldn’t have to pull the cart anymore. Father had laughed at that idea. “Worse than a horse,” he’d said. “Won’t last but a few days before you have to buy another.”
Half an hour had passed, and Oliver had broken out into a sweat. His legs and arms burned as they always did on the first trip, but he pulled. It was all he could do. The cart shifted in the mud as if it had a mind of its own, the flank of it dipping this way and that, the wheels sinking further into the slop. Once, Oliver thought he was about to get stuck, but he pulled hard and kept the cart from stopping completely. You couldn’t let that happen, not in mud. Once the cart was stopped, you were stuck there for good until a kind gentlemen came along with a horse and helped pull you out. More importantly, that meant time wasted that could’ve been spent at the market selling potatoes. The cart was loaded full, and Father wanted at least half of them gone when he returned. But really that meant most of them. Only half sold would get him a scolding when he stepped foot in the house again, as sure as the sun was gold.
The road weaved through the forest, under dew-covered boughs and branches covered with green. Birds sang in the distance. Droplets sprinkled down from above, though the day was cloudless. Oliver glanced up and saw the canopy, high and thick. The shade was welcoming, though the thickest part of the forest didn’t permit any wind stronger than a light breeze. Oliver felt the clothes sticking to his body, sweat separating the skin and threads. The day could’ve been in the middle of summer, and he wouldn’t have felt a difference.
Up ahead was an incline, and the mud persisted. It was a grueling climb in the dry, but made worse by the conditions. The path was a mess of wheel tracks and a mixture of hoof and footprints. Others had gotten stuck by the look of it, which made Oliver’s stomach turn. The image of the belt entered his thoughts again.
He pulled with all his might, getting a jogging start at the base of the hill. At that speed, the cart became erratic, almost violent like a wild animal. It veered sharply left, and Oliver pulled to the right to straighten it. He had already lost the momentum. The mud was deeper than expected, and his feet slid without the traction. He relaxed for a half-second and pulled hard again, but it was no use.
The cart was stuck. Looking up, he saw he hadn’t even reached the halfway point of the hill.
“Bollocks,” Oliver cursed. “Rotten bollocks.”
After catching his breath, Oliver pushed the cart down a ways and tried a new path. He had trampled over any clear tracks, but it was worth a shot. Still, the cart would not pass the deep mud, which completely swallowed up h
is feet. The wheels would sink in, and that was that. It was like the ground was clinging to the cart itself, pulling it down with its sticky fingers, stopping it from going on any farther. Oliver cursed at it.
Not long after, a horse and carriage rode up. The man at the reins was white-haired and stern-faced, glaring at Oliver until the two carts were abreast. The horse struggled in the mud, but made it through without stopping. The man’s eyes went back to the road ahead, while he urged the horse to move quicker. The cart was loaded full with sacks of carrots, beets, and other vegetables which Oliver could not see. And potatoes. Lots and lots of potatoes.
A girl his age sat on the back, her feet dangling over the edge. The breeze toyed with her red hair, though never hard enough to fully conceal her youthful face. Her gaze caught Oliver’s, and he stared at her bright green eyes, admiring their beauty. Her dress had been untouched by the mud.
“Pa, there’s a boy there—”
“I saw him,” the man said.
“He’s stuck.”
“We don’t help people like him. Someone else will come along and help him out. Don’t fear it, dear.”
Oliver watched them until they were out of sight. The girl continued to stare at him as the cart bumped along beneath her, not saying another word.
Then, Oliver was alone again.
There was nothing to do but rest, take a quick drink of cool water, and picture the day ahead. This setback would shorten the time spent at the market, which meant less potatoes sold. Oliver knew that well enough. He’d arrive home before nightfall to an angry face. Father would see the mostly full cart and go retrieve his belt. Oliver was sure of it. They needed the money to survive. Father needed the money. When the money didn’t come, he became upset. It was supposed to be easy—grow potatoes and sell them, same every year. When Oliver returned without selling most of the crop, there was only one person to blame, one to punish.
With that familiar pain flashing through his mind, Oliver heard a noise like feet stepping on twigs. He looked both ways, but no one was coming. It happened again, and he realized the sound was coming from somewhere in the forest, among the trees. There was more than one person, he could tell. And they were close. He scanned his eyes left and right, looking as far as the horizon, but not seeing a soul out here. It sounded like they were right there, so close they could breathe on his cheek.
Oliver reached into the cart, setting his fingers on a hidden dagger. It wasn’t common that anyone on the roads got looted, but it happened. He had heard stories of smelly men appearing from the woods with beards so thick you couldn’t see their mouths. They lived out here, or something like that. They stole whatever they could carry, killing if they had to.
Father had explicitly told him to defend the cart with his life if he had to. Nothing was more important than the crop.
The bushes at the side of the road moved, and Oliver found himself staring at a pair of eyes. That was all he saw, behind the thicket. Everything was quiet for another minute as those brown eyes never seemed to blink. They were clearly human, but patient. Oliver stared back, his hand on the dagger, waiting for the worst to happen.
Someone grabbed him from behind.
“I got the little boy! Oh look at him squirm! He’s so weak and tiny. Bet he ain’t never seen anything like us before.” The voice was right against his ear. “Go on, fight all you want. You ain’t breaking free of me.”
Oliver pulled the dagger, but his attacker saw it before he could turn the blade and thrust his arm. Pain shot through his wrist, and his fingers loosened around the weapon, dropping it to the mud. From the corner of his eye, Oliver saw red marks on his skin from where the nails had dug into him, great sharp nails as brown as bark, as dirty as he had ever seen.
Odder yet, the hand they were attached to was green!
Oliver struggled to free himself, but the forearm against his neck wouldn’t budge. The bushes at the side of the road parted, and another green figure stepped through, a woman. She was as naked as the other beasts in the jungle, more than a head taller than him, and sporting a large set of breasts. Oliver’s gaze locked on those immediately. He figured her to be like any other woman except for her strange skin color and height, but then he moved his eyes elsewhere.
Dangling between her legs, out in the open for anyone to see, was a man’s fat cock.
Oliver found his voice. “Hey! I was … I was jus’ passin’! I’m jus’ trying to get to the town. I don’t want no trouble. Just leave me be!”
The one against his ear spoke. “Oh, he thinks we want his food! No, it’s not that we’re after. I got you, boy. You ain’t be leavin’ us until we’ve had our fun with you. Have you ever been with anyone like us?”
Oliver watched as the other looked into the cart. She grabbed one of the potatoes, sniffed it, and then took a bite from the end of it. She promptly spit it out after the taste had touched her tongue.
“What awful stuff,” she said, searching the cart for anything else. “That must be why they’re smaller than us. They don’t eat enough meat.”
Then, Oliver knew what they were. He hadn’t recognized them at first, primarily because they weren’t enormous brutes with the strength of a bull and carrying giant clubs taken from tree trunks. But they were still orcs. He was sure of it. They were green like any orc from the fantasy tales, and they had small tusks sticking from their bottom row of teeth, almost like a hog’s, but not as long nor as thick. The one by the cart was curious to look at, with her head shaved all but a thin row at the center of her scalp. Her ears were pointed at the tips. Her body was like any woman’s, curved in the right places, widest at the hips and full in the bosom. She walked like one too …
… which resulted in that thing between her legs to bounce and sway. Oliver had a hard time not looking at it, for it seemed so out of place with the rest of her femininity. It was easily bigger than his, as thick as his own wrist. She didn’t seem ashamed to have it on display with the rest of her body. Now that Oliver thought about it, she wasn’t wearing any clothing at all—except for a pair of dark leather boots that were probably looted from passersby.
But they weren’t supposed to be real. Orcs were something out of fantasy, great brutes written in the tales from the books. Oliver hadn’t read much—he could only read simple words, and even then some of the language was lost on him—but he remembered them being green and massive and stronger than any man.
Even then, the tales had never mentioned anything about orc women, if he could call them that. The one in front of him had the body of a girl, and he imagined his other captor did too. Her voice was harsh, but feminine. They just had dicks.
“He’s stopped moving,” said the voice by his ear. “Smart boy. I think I like him already. He’s not like others.”
The other touched her cheek, her finger tracing a scar that went from the corner of her mouth almost to her ear. A blade had cut her, Oliver was sure of it. Someone had been quicker on the draw than him. He cursed himself for dawdling. There was no escaping now.
“Let’s see what we have,” the first said.
One arm kept him still. She only needed one, for she was clearly stronger than him. Oliver felt the other snaking beneath his trousers in the back. He squirmed again as the fingers went along his backside, but they didn’t meander. They went farther down, between his legs, up just behind his privates. Oliver inhaled sharply as one such finger grazed against his anus. Natural instinct caused him to clench every muscle down there, but the orc woman was too determined. It slipped inside of him, pushing deep without warning.
“Hey!” he shouted, hoping that his voice would carry and reach the ears of another. “Wait!”
“We can’t do that,” said the one behind him. “This road be busy. Quick and rough is how we like it.”
Oliver fought again, but the orc woman overpowered him, bringing him down to his knees, bringing him down to the mud. He could only look ahead as the finger penetrated him, pushing in and out. A slight pai
n had hit him first, but now it didn’t hurt. It was just awkward. His manhood seemed to have a different opinion of the situation, though. Oliver felt his cheeks blush as the front of his trousers tented out. The orcs were weirdly beautiful in a way like other women, especially with their girlish figures and large bosoms. Yet, he shouldn’t have been excited like that. This wasn’t a time for it.
The first one kept him down, and the second came nearer. Her cock had grown, Oliver saw. It was hard to miss, right there in front of his eyes. He tried to wriggle himself free, for the thought of what was coming next was too terrible to think about. Yet, as firm as ever and with that finger still inside of him, the first held him securely, not letting him escape.
“Shhh, don’t fight,” she said into his ear. “All the boys enjoy this. Every one of ‘em. Ain’t come across one who didn’t. That feels good, don’t it? You like my finger? Just relax and we’ll let you be on your way after we’re finished.”
Oliver grimaced as the cock came for his lips. The second orc girl didn’t say as much, but he didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. They both might’ve been humanlike in appearance, but there was no compassion there. He was a weak little thing to them, to toy with and harass, not much more than that. He kept his lips closed tight.
“No, we can’t have that,” said the first.
Two fingers opened him up, prying his mouth open. The second embraced the opportunity and pressed her fat cock against his lips, the head all swollen and turgid, pink like his own. The rest of it was green like her body, wide and pulsing. It was a tight fit, but she shoved it in, inch after inch, her mouth widening into a grin as Oliver took half of it. It was bigger than it looked, and it felt like it was going to split him apart. When it reached the entrance to his throat, he thought she was going to continue shoving it down, but the second orc woman held it there, halfway in and halfway out. The first urged him to suck on it.
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