by Nunn, PL
The forest, Mother said, was easy to borrow from, which was why healers went through a great deal of training, to know how to not take too much. What he’d done had been pure survival reflex. He’d taken from the forest to heal his death wounds, but he wondered—had he taken from other sources as well? Had he, perchance borrowed a little from the ogres that had slept in that clearing as well? Could a healer borrow from another living soul and use that energy for their own purposes? Mother had never said, but then many of the healer’s arts were held secret among the healers.
His train of thought was broken, his wandering thoughts scattered as Bloodraven’s voice barked out a command, and the answering voices of his closest cronies boomed in response. This gathering had reached its limits. The ogres that had shared his fire, his feast and his roof, were apparently not going to spend the night. They shuffled out amenably enough, chortling among themselves and in high spirits after such a well-prepared meal. Bloodraven’s hand on Yhalen’s arm urged him up. Yhalen blinked, trying to orientate himself. How long had he lain there upon the ogr’ron’s leg, drifting?
Long enough for his joints to stiffen. He got a hand up. A surprisingly gentle hand on his arm, that patted him afterwards on the shoulder. The ogr’ron went to the basin then, and washed his face and his hands, pulling off his tunic and running the cloth quickly over his chest before tossing it into the water. He then unlaced his breeches and stepped out of them, laying them and his tunic over the armor rack.
Yhalen stared, eyes drawn magnetically to the sleeping flesh between Bloodraven’s legs. So large. So very large, even inert. And when it came to life—Yhalen felt his face go hot and was eternally grateful for the hair that hid it.
“Yhalen.” His name again, uttered softly on Bloodraven’s tongue. It was time. He’d known it would happen—he had merely held the irrational hope that tonight would be like the last one, chaste and safe under the watchful eyes of half the camp.
He couldn’t make his feet move. Wetness made his lashes clump together. He balled his fists to keep them from shaking, feeling Bloodraven’s presence rather than seeing it as the halfling moved towards him. He thought he’d be hit or shaken for his disobedience, but the ogr’ron simply grasped his chin and tilted his head up to see his face. Bloodraven studied him for a moment, one thumb caressing Yhalen’s cheek, then he slid his large hand down Yhalen’s neck and shoulder to his arm as he pulled Yhalen towards the cot.
Bloodraven sat down, positioning Yhalen as standing between his knees. His fingers trailed over Yhalen’s ribs, splaying out across his chest, hesitating at the frantic thud of Yhalen’s heart.
Bloodraven’s lips pulled back somewhat in a smile and he leaned forward, running his tongue across the cleft between Yhalen’s collarbones. Then across one flat nipple, taking it between his teeth and lips and stretching the flesh out from Yhalen’s body. One hand snaked behind Yhalen’s back, keeping him firmly in place, while the other slid up to the unattended nipple, fingers rolling it between them, pulling it, twisting it until it was hard and sensitive. Yhalen bit his lip at the hurt, but at the same time little tingles of— response—shot outwards from those tormented points.
Bloodraven shifted, moving one knee between Yhalen’s legs, and pulling him closer to suckle. His legs were spread wide and his scrotum pressed firm against Bloodraven’s hard thigh. The big hand roamed the length of his back, firm pressure against tense muscles, up his spine and down to slide within the band of his loincloth and fondle the round curve of one buttock. Back up again to press his chest even closer to the ogr’ron’s demanding mouth. The suction began to hurt in earnest and Yhalen reflexively began pushing at the broad shoulders. All he managed to do was make the halfling transfer his attention to the other nipple, leaving the one red and swollen and bruised. It throbbed in time with his pulse, so distended that it protruded oddly from his body.
“Please—please. You’re too rough—it hurts,” he gasped. It might have been the tone of his voice, the sheer panic and the pain—but Bloodraven paused, looking up at him past long, dark hair. The halfling tilted his head curious and thoughtful, then looked down to Yhalen’s abused flesh. He frowned a little, the fingers of the hand on Yhalen’s back curling against his skin. The other hand he brought up and carefully brushed against one swollen nipple. Yhalen winced. They would both be badly bruised come the morning and he’d wear the mark of Bloodraven’s most intimate attentions for some days to come.
“Skaevv nor, Yhalen,” Bloodraven murmured and leaned forward again, this time placing his lips gently upon one nipple, then the other. An apology? Yhalen hardly believed such. Perhaps the ogr’ron was only upset that in his eagerness, he’d marred his toy. Much more likely, that.
The big hands drifted down his sides and pulled at the ties of his loincloth, freed them and tossed it aside, leaving Yhalen completely naked upon his thigh. Bloodraven brought his other leg close, imprisoning Yhalen’s thigh between his own, keeping him firmly in place as the hands began to roam his body again. But more careful this time, more cognizant of frail human flesh. Large, deft fingers found the flesh between his legs and stroked it, working loose flesh back and forth, fondling Yhalen’s balls beneath it until, despite his unease, blood began to fill his member.
He grew rigid and receptive in Bloodraven’s hands, his hips thrusting a little forward of their own accord in time with the ogr’ron’s ministrations. When Bloodraven leaned in and ran his velvety rough tongue across one bruised nipple, bright lights danced behind Yhalen’s eyes and sparkling sensation raced the length and breadth of his limbs. He moaned. Heard the sound issue from his throat and could have cried because of it, but did it again when Bloodraven’s hand enclosed the entirety of his manhood and he found himself tightly encased in heat. A moving, almost painful heat.
“Oh…Goddess…please….”
He was having problems putting coherent thought together. He was having problems not wrapping his arms around Bloodraven’s neck and digging his nails into ochre flesh.
He was swung about suddenly, the hand that encased him never loosening its hold, and his back hit the furs of the pallet as Bloodraven crouched over him, his rigid member lying hot and firm against Yhalen’s leg. Bloodraven’s body was inches away from his, held up only by the halfling’s free hand, pressed into the furs by Yhalen’s head.
Bloodraven’s mouth came down upon his, demanding and engulfing. Yhalen opened his lips and let the invader come, let the thick tongue plunder the inside of his mouth, let it force his own into submission, let it caress the slick roof of his mouth and the wet, fleshy inside of his cheeks. His mind blanked completely and his body arched up, wanting more, wanting that hand to pump harder and faster—wanting to open his legs in that fraction of an instant and be taken by the half-human that loomed over him, because he knew that along with the pain there was pleasure to be had—and that pleasure was never so intense as when it danced hand in hand with pain.
He came, sticky and hot against his belly and into Bloodraven’s hand. The halfling smiled and lifted the hand to his face, licking the clear liquid from his fingers. Yhalen body lay strengthless and limp under Bloodraven, his mind slowly coming back from the place where heightened senses had taken him.
Oh, Goddess—he hadn’t begged, had he? He couldn’t remember clearly. In his mind he had. Had he voiced the plea? Please, no. But, what Bloodraven had done to his body—the hurt was nothing to the other sensations. The hurt had heightened them. Yhalen had…he had wanted it.
If he’d had the strength, he’d have lifted his hands to cover his face in shame. He didn’t. So he lay there and let his eyes leak wetness while Bloodraven carefully unstopped his jar of scented grease in preparation of taking his own pleasure.
As ever, he was careful of Yhalen. Sliding a greased finger in first, after he’d spread Yhalen’s legs and lay between them, his body warm and heavy, smelling of the potent brew the ogres had been drinking during dinner and the subtle tinge of sweat, of leather and of s
ex. Yhalen’s sex, which clung to them both like a faint musk. Yhalen simply shut his eyes and let Bloodraven arrange his limbs to his liking, and tried to open his body to allow entry to save himself some small measure of pain.
It was easier this time, with his own body sated and languid. Easier to relax as Bloodraven’s slick finger worked its way inside him, whirling about and twisting to loosen him in preparation for larger things. Another large finger and Yhalen winced, body jumping reflexively, legs trying to clamp together—but Bloodraven moved his other hand to Yhalen’s lower belly, gently rubbing, massaging quivering flesh, gaining a concentric rhythm that mimed the passage of his fingers.
It was gentle. So very gentle and soothing. The edge of Bloodraven’s palm grazed Yhalen’s flaccid member with each concentric arc of his movement. And what was soothing—from the fingers that stroked him on the inside, that his body had stretched to accommodate and now accepted, to the firm pressure of the hand that touched his flesh on the outside—now stirred the heat in the pit of his gut.
Whore, he railed at himself from some distant part of his brain. Some part that could stay sane and rational amidst the sensation that flooded his body. If you learn to like it, then you’re nothing better than a whore and you’ll hate yourself come morning.
But his hands moved regardless, skimming over Bloodraven’s fingers, grasping that huge hand and bringing it down to cover the twitching flesh between his legs. The ogr’ron let him guide him. Let Yhalen’s slender fingers mold his bigger ones around his organ. Yhalen threw his head back, moaning, opening his legs wide and thrusting his hips up, impaling himself deeper upon Bloodraven’s fingers.
“Do it. Just—do it. Please.” He hardly recognized his own ragged voice.
The ogr’ron complied. The fingers withdrew and Yhalen’s hips were lifted as the heated head of Bloodraven’s erection nestled between Yhalen’s cleft, pressing hard and tight against his greased opening. It forced itself inside, slow and sure, and Yhalen’s mouth opened in a silent scream of agony/ecstasy, self-hate/hatred towards his rapist. Could it be called rape, when he ached for it?
When he’d asked for it?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t fathom a great many things at the moment, focused instead upon the huge member that filled his body, stretching him, conquering him from within and forcing his flesh to shift to accommodate it. Every time he accepted it within him, it was incomprehensible to him that his body could stretch so wide and not split. Every time Bloodraven began to pound into him, ramming the length of that great fleshy weapon home inside of him, Yhalen was astounded that his organs were not bloodied and bruised and mashed to a pulp.
It had never caused the pain that Kragnor Deathclaw’s invasion had caused—but it never failed to make him aware of how small he was and how large the half-man that rode him. Of how pitifully weak and frail he was compared to the ogr’ron, who could crush his bones in his hand and rip him asunder with that fleshy weapon if he so chose. But he never did. Never once had Bloodraven lost his control to the point where injury was incurred. Never once, even in frustration and anger, had the ogr’ron made the blood flow down his legs. Oh, he bled, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t on purpose and it wasn’t life’s blood.
Yhalen came again, tight in Bloodraven’s fist and the halfling made a sound as Yhalen’s muscles contracted with the orgasm. He finished himself, after a few fast motions of his hips and spewed liquid heat deep into Yhalen’s bowels. He collapsed afterwards, heavy and limp atop Yhalen and lay there content until Yhalen began feebly to try and get him off to save himself from suffocation. With a grunt Bloodraven rolled to his side, his limp member slipping out of the smaller body under him and trailing a few droplets of his seed. The rest slowly seeped from Yhalen’s swollen, gaping hole.
He could let the tears fall now that it was over, aghast at his wantonness, at his weakness, at his humiliation as Bloodraven urged him over onto his tummy so that the ogre could spread his cheeks and clearly see the testament of his thorough bedding. Yhalen buried his head in his arms as he was spread wider, and a finger gently circled the swollen flesh of his anus. He caught his breath on a sob of purest shame when the ogr’ron lowered his head and inserted his tongue into the loosened ring of muscle.
There was nothing left at the moment to deny entry and the halfling’s fascination with what he’d wrought seemed limitless. He spread Yhalen’s thighs wider and knelt between his legs.
“I hate this,” Yhalen sobbed into his arm. “This is disgusting and you—you’ve done enough for one night…and… ohhhh….”
But the soft, rough prodding of Bloodraven’s tongue inside his abused body felt excruciatingly good.
Better than his finger. Most certainly better than his cock. But, his body was too used, too exhausted to respond with more than a tingle in the pit of his stomach and eventually, since the ogr’ron’s attentions were gentle and his hands warm, Yhalen almost drifted into slumber.
He woke abruptly, half lifted in the embrace of Bloodraven’s arm as the ogr’ron swept the top layer of soiled blanket from the pallet. The ogr’ron had a particular taste for cleanliness, a strange enough habit, considering his fellows and their perpetual stench. He was laid back down and Bloodraven settled his large body next to him, curling Yhalen close in the crook of one arm. It was an agreeable enough position, with Bloodraven clearly sated and drowsy himself. There was no threat in it and Yhalen shut his eyes, body limp and comfortable and warm against the ogr’ron, no thought on his mind save much needed sleep.
It might have been hours later that he woke, pressed against Bloodraven’s side, head resting against the ogr’ron’s shoulder, his hand splayed out over a rock-hard belly, and remembered what he’d promised to the girl. He lay, listening to the sound of Bloodraven’s soft breathing and feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under all that muscle and bone. Yhalen shivered. He was to take a life tonight and flee. He was to save the lives of his fellow humans—of innocents caught up in the ogre’s incomprehensible migration southward. He was to do all this to warn the human forces that might be able to stop them. And all he could do was lay staring at the rise and fall of Bloodraven’s chest against his cheek. The enemy. His master. His captor. His rapist.
But it needed doing. A great many lives depended on it. And of all the human captives here, he had the most latitude to accomplish it. With a shaky breath he slid off Bloodraven’s shoulder, carefully removing his hand from the halfling’s stomach, silently slipping off the edge of the cot and crouching on the floor next to it. A fit of trembling overtook him and he clutched at the furs, pressing his forehead against them. He regained control of himself and crawled around the cot, snatching his discarded loincloth before making his way to the hearth where he’d hidden the knife.
He clutched the bone handle so hard his knuckles whitened, and held it close to his chest. He’d never drawn human blood—but Bloodraven wasn’t human. Was he? Did a human father make him so?
If this was the start of a war, then did it matter? An enemy was an enemy and there was no such thing as murder in war. Was there? The Ydregi had never joined in any of the wars that took place between humans around the great forest. He didn’t know if any of the people had ever looked upon war as a good enough reason to take a human—or a half-human’s life. He’d never thought to ask.
He crept closer to the cot and the sleeping form upon it. He was sore from the night’s activity and the ache in his bottom made him press his lips together and gather confidence in what needed doing. If it were Kragnor Deathclaw, he’d plunge the knife into the beast’s chest without a second thought. He’d have killed any of them without hesitation—so why cringe now, when it came to the one who tormented him the most? The one that made him crawl and beg and participate in his own shame.
Yhalen lifted the blade, wondering if that bright edge was sharp enough to slice through an ogr’ron’s skin. Bloodraven’s skin didn’t feel as leathery and thick as that of the other ogres. It was smooth
and soft and warm—but still, the knife wasn’t a skinning one, but merely one to peel vegetables. Perhaps he should plunge the tip into the halfling’s chest and hope he put enough pressure behind the blow to pierce bone and muscle. If not, he’d be in for a nasty retaliation. He thought he could, in his need, find the strength. He tested the tip and thought it sharp enough. He raised the blade, hands shaking and rose up off his knees—and stayed there, frozen, staring down at the sleeping face. Not a hideous face by any means. Quite absurdly handsome, truth be told, with high angled cheekbones and a sharp, straight slash of a nose, sweeping brows and full, sensuous lips. The ears were incidental, an aberration beside an otherwise strong face. He could have been human. Had his father held those same features?
Features that even an ogress might find appealing?
Yhalen tasted the tears trailing down his face before he realized that he was crying. Fool. Twice a fool, for being swayed by—by what? Pity? Morals? Guilt? Mercy? He almost laughed out loud at the last. What mercy had he been shown?
None. Save maybe a soft touch instead of a brutal one. Save concern in a set of golden eyes when a creature twice his weight realized he’d been too rough.
“Oh, Goddess,” he murmured, the words a bare whisper on his lips. “I can’t.”
He could only pray to Her that Bloodraven slept long and hard and gave him ample time to slip away and flee with the village captives. There would be organized pursuit with Bloodraven alive, but there was no help for it.
Yhalen crept to the back of the hall, looking for the hidden entrance that Meliah had told him of. He found it and slipped within, shutting it behind him and casting himself into pitch blackness. He felt his way by touch, passing through the cool damp air of an underground passage. And finally he came to an end of it, and a ladder leading up. He found himself within foliage at the back of the village and wondered why, if they’d had this escape, they had not taken it. They had been fools to stay and defend against an overwhelming enemy when the weakest of them could have fled.