Darknest: A Dark Fantasy Erotica Anthology

by J. M. Keep

  My blog is a repository of my progress as I attempt to become a successful indie writer. Other than posting about my writing process and troubles, I post a chapter of an unpublished short story every Friday.

  THE MASTER

  Kaye Skellington

  There was a fading whisper throughout the gathered crowd eager eyes turned towards the dual thrones at the head of the room. The Orc General moved deftly to his seat, one made of bone and ivory, curled and carved magickally to make this special piece of royal furniture look like a welcoming cage of teeth that accepted only the highest ranking orc of the kingdom. The throne next to his was smaller, much more diminutive, but more reminiscent of a civility orcs could only mimic. It was of gilded gold and bands of jewels that glimmered in the oily lights of the torches set on the adobe walls of the long throne room. The figure that followed the hefty bulk of the orc was equally his opposite, and as he settled into his rightful and hard-won place before his people, he reached out a hand to take that of his bride's.

  Few people were as yet in awe of the delicate fingers that held the war-scarred grip of their General and king. Most of the orcs and trolls and goblins present had already become accustomed to the strange female their lord had chosen to take as his mate. They were not foolish enough to question his judgment, but that aside, she was an exquisite beauty, and they all envied him his position as well as his prized possession.

  The Orc General turned his fiery yellow gaze from the face of his wife towards the newcomers to his court. They were elves from the outlands; by the look of their gear and the weapons at hip and in hand, these were not even primary soldiers. They were scouts, anyone with a brain could tell that; anyone, that is, except for his own outriders who had assured themselves and his advisors that they had caught a whole elven army.

  "Bah!" the General said loudly, waving a hand dismissively. "Find the rest of them. This is but a scouting party for a bigger movement!"

  "Yes of course, General. What shall we do with these scouts?"

  "Kill them," the General said, adjusting in his seat to turn towards his bride.

  As he did so, her pale hand came to rest against his bare dark green wrist. The bracelets of finely worked metal on her own slender wrist jingled as she touched at him gently. It was a signal, a cue, and one he had learned to trust. Looking into her eyes, he lifted a hand towards the guards that surrounded the stern-looking elves, staying their blades before they spilled fresh blood on his throne room floor.

  The General didn't need to ask a question of his bride and mate. She would speak when she was ready, and he knew her voice would be so soft and subtle, only he would hear it. Well, perhaps the pointy ears of those present might as well. And maybe his mother, who sat in a backless and armless chair behind the two thrones so she might bear witness to the court without truly participating. She liked to listen, and when the General's lovely wife spoke, his mother listened very intently.

  Turning his head so he might hear his wife better, the orc gave a nod when she was done. He didn't need to say anything to her. She returned to sitting prim and straight in her chair, statuesque as always and looking as if she hadn't moved a muscle or said a single word. But if not for the words she had indeed whispered, the elf party before the Orc General would be dead.

  "Let them go," he said with a wave of his held-out hand.

  "…sire?"

  "You heard me. Let them go. And clear my throne room."

  Snarling angrily, the disgruntled guards glared for a moment. Not a single one would turn that awful and ugly orc stare towards the dais upon which their leader and his wife sat. No, they were angry but that anger didn't make them any more brave than they had been moments ago.

  The prisoners were shuffled out of the hall, no doubt heading towards the front gate of the high walls of the orc capital city. They would be most unceremoniously shoved out into the desert sun, left to find their own way back to the savannahs they'd been found on. Being elves, they would stand a better chance than most at actually getting out of the orc lands the General had claimed a decade or so ago as his own. Other races would leave their bones in the sand and on the sun-baked red rocks, curled up pathetically in fetal position as they waited for time to turn them to dust.

  The Orc General turned his eyes on his wife's perfect profile, the elves already forgotten, if only temporarily. The audience who had hoped to see the deaths of the elves, or at least a good fight, moped out on bare feet to the city's open grounds, leaving the hall empty. Even the General's mother had taken her leave; no one disobeyed the mighty orc, not even the woman who had raised him to be so.

  For a long time, all he did was stare at her face, the face of his wife and slave. Her nose was a gentle slope from bridge to pert tip. He thought she might be getting freckles, despite his efforts to keep her out of the sun and maintain the perfectly pale colouring she had been born with. A freckle here and there, though, would not flaw her natural beauty, not one bit. He had to fight with his own muscles to keep from reaching out and stroking the raven black of her silky tresses, to not drag a calloused finger down the even line of her jaw.

  She was trembling, albeit ever so slightly. He could see it in her face, even though her fawn-coloured lips held that mysterious and eternal smile that never seemed to fully fade. The fact that she was afraid said much to him, though she hadn't yet been given permission to speak. Leaning back in his throne, the General forced his eyes away from his mate's face and stared at the open door far down the length of the hall, trying to think of something besides her mouth.

  It was his own cue though, his own signal to her, she who knew him ever so well. He heard more than saw her move out of her chair, and soon she was swimming in his vision again, the flowing material of her see-through gown swaying and billowing before coming to rest around her. After a brief pause, the gorgeous creature knelt before her husband, her lord, her saviour, and bowed her head.

  "Master," she dared to say, her voice tremulous and shaky.

  The Orc General turned his head away, staring at the flickering flames of a torch. Black tar had melted around the post the torch was set in, and some of it dripped almost lazily onto the dirt floor of the throne room.

  Fragile fingers lifted up and came to rest like birds alighting for the night against the General's kneecaps. He couldn't deny her presence now, her need for permission to speak to him. He could have swatted her touch away, but he knew how awful that always made her feel. Despite his power over her, she too had power over him. Despite his ownership of her body and soul, she owned his heart and he knew it. He would not reject her subtle request without good reason, and though he was somewhat confused by what she had whispered to him earlier, he was not angry at her.

  Staring down at her with his beady yellow eyes, he waited for her to carefully glance up at him, to see if he would permit her use of her own voice. He didn't need to nod. She understood that if he looked at her directly like this, she was expected to do 'something'. What that something was would be up to her, as would the consequences of whatever it was she chose. If she wished to speak, now was the time, and they both knew it.

  The woman didn't speak. She didn't part those beautiful lips and let her accented and lilting voice, so like the song of birds in deep forest trees, issue forth and ensorcel him as it always did. She said nothing, instead pressing against her lord's knees until he allowed them to part. The General took in a soft breath and looked around the room once, before returning his gaze to his wife's face. Was she really going to pleasure him here? Once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared how she felt about it. But since making her his wife and mate, ceremoniously and legally, they had taken to making love only in the expected places. To have her sliding her fingers along the insides of his thighs now, in the middle of the day, with the open door far away but open none-the-less…

  Her eyes were looking up into his, and the Orc General watched as the fear slipped away. This was when she shone. This was the girl he had seen years ago, t
he young and dainty vessel into which he had once poured all of his anger and rage and hate. She had borne everything he had given her, in those early years. She had taken everything he brought to her, bravely and boldly. And why?

  Because taking it made her stronger. Surviving it grew her spirit. And making him want more gave her power. Even now, looking into the small and pretty angular and heart-shaped face of the maid-like female between his knees, he could see her power growing. She was as strong as any shaman or mage he had ever known, though he had never allowed her to utter a single spell-crafting word, or even touch a wand or book of the arcane.

  The orc parted his thighs, his posture still slightly tilted to one side. He had an elbow resting on one arm of his throne, the rough fingers of that hand rubbing at the bristles on his chin. He'd been interrupted this morning by the clarion call of his outriders as they brought their 'elf army' into the courtyard of the city. He hadn't had the time to finish his morning routine, and the stubble on his chin was evidence of the dark hair that would grow into a silky long beard if he ever let it - which he never would. He despised facial hair, unlike his predecessors who had thought it manly and a sign of strength. For the Orc General, his youth had won him many a campaign, and a beard would make him look old. It would encourage his officers to challenge him eventually, and that was a moment he wished to hold off as long as possible.

  His wife's hands reached for his waist, seeking the gold clasp that held his tightly wrapped loin cloth around his groin. He grunted and wiggled, allowing her to unfasten the material and draw it completely away. Now he was naked on his throne, the loin cloth tossed to the foot of the dais, almost landing where the elf scouts had stood. His eyes tracked it as he forced himself to ignore what was coming next. He wanted to pretend it was like the first time.

  "Do you recall it, girl?" he asked, and she looked up at him and smiled, nodding.

  She knew exactly what he was thinking of, what memory had been awakened in him with her touch, with this setting.

  "You were there, dressed in rags, if dressed at all. And you were filthy. So filthy," the orc breathed.

  Then he bit his finger, his wife bowing her head down low and letting her hands rise up around his hips. He wasn't bony at all, though his muscles were hard and thickened and corded. Like a pack of animals, he ruled with a shout and a spear and sword and shield, and he always had first bite, always had first choice of food. No one ate until the General ate, and so he was thicker than his clansmen.

  "So filthy, my master," the woman whispered, lifting her head upwards.

  As her face turned up towards him, she leaned forward, chin pointing towards him. Surprising him, she slid the point of her face under his ballsack, letting the soft orbs within rest for a moment on her chin before they slid off. The orc gasped. How could he not love her? From the first moment he had seen her, he had cherished her, and it was this sort of act, this sort of intimate debauchery that other females shied from, that endeared her to him all the more.

  "You were shy," he murmured.

  "Inexperienced, my master," she whispered, looking up at him and licking her lips.

  "You are not shy now."

  "And very…very…experienced, my master…"

  The Orc General groaned and sat up straighter. "Show me."

  Her tongue instantly lashed out at the base of his sex, where his ballsack almost seemed to drip down in hairless wrinkles from his growing erection. She knew just where to press it into the softer parts of his flesh, and where to drag it over the hardened ridges. It was because she knew him so well now that she was able to deliver flick after electric flick over his dark green cock. It was insanely wonderful, and his eyes threatened to roll back in his head if she continued it.

  For a moment, he couldn't help himself, his hand shot out and he ensnared it in her hair, tugging and making her wince. She didn't fight him, she had never fought him. But he remembered her fear back then, her confusion and terror. She hadn't known what to do with him, years ago. Now she knew exactly, and rather than making him feel weak or vulnerable, it made him feel privileged.

  "Do you remember," he hissed, forcibly dragging her mouth up and down his shaft slowly, by the grip of his fingers in her hair.

  "Yes, master," the woman breathed.

  The panting of her breath wasn't from the pain of his fist in her hair, and it wasn't from the tug of the dark strands on her scalp. No, he knew that breath. It was arousal, pure and unadulterated arousal. Lust. For him.

  Slowly his grip relaxed, and he let her go, moving his hand instead to the arm of his throne. He was known for his brutality, for his ability to kill. Yet this wisp of a girl had bested him. How had she done it? By giving in to him so perfectly and completely, by giving of herself, giving all of her self, to him.

  He was her master, and he had been from that first moment she had been tossed at the foot of this very throne. He had been new to being king, though he had been the Orc General for quite some time, having slain his father and other elders when the time for a change had come. He knew how to command an army and how to route the enemy, how to win on the battlefield. But in the throneroom he was untested. Unsure of himself.

  To please him, to show their devotion to him, troll ambassadors had brought this delightful and pale feminine form to his city, and given him to her on the promise that she was a virgin. Had she been? Yes of course, and he'd found out himself personally. First, however, he had made her suckle him before all of his people that had been gathered at the time.

  He had wanted her to know her place. He had wanted her to have no doubt of where she belonged, at his feet and at his command, mouth open, voice quieted, eyes only for him. And from that moment on, that is exactly where she had been, whenever he wished it.

  The orc didn't know if it was her submissiveness that first made him fall for her, or if it was her eternal, near-immortal beauty. Her hair had somehow glistened, despite the mud that had caked it. Mud and other offal from being dragged through the streets. She hadn't worn a single piece of jewelry, though he had noticed her ears had once been pierced, and a single band of even whiter skin circled her left index finger. Was that not where humans wore their wedding bands? He knew enough about the enemy to know their strange ways. Why was this woman missing her wedding ring?

  Her clothes had been elven in design, despite where she had been abducted from. They were torn and tattered when he first saw her, as if someone had ripped them from her body. When he asked the trolls if they had fucked her yet, they pretended great insult. As if they would sully their grand gift to him, they had said with nearly scorn-filled voices. So who had torn her clothes so?

  Then her story was told. Then it all became clear. Then he had known he owned her, and would forever. A heart and spirit as broken as hers could only be owned or die. He knew enough about life in his short years to know at least that much. The sort of woman she was, and what hells she had been made to endure, she had to have a master. And it so happened he was looking for a slave.

  The Orc General had relied on his mother all of his life. But she was getting old and crabby, and difficult to be around. He loved her in the way that a brutish subspecies like the orcs could love each other. He owed her his life, literally, as she had saved him from his father's blade time and again, sometimes with her own blade, sometimes with her own body as a shield. He owed her, and he would not put her aside, despite the advice his council gave him constantly. They thought she was getting in the way of his decisions. They couldn't know that she had supported and advised him before most of them had cut their teeth on their first kills.

  The orc wouldn't put her aside so easily. She was his mother, and he would be damned if he would forget all she had done for him just because she was old and becoming forgetful and ornery. So instead he took the gift of the troll ambassadors, making the fresh piece of virginal meat not only his 'meal' for that night and a few nights to come, but as his possession.

  It had been one of the best choic
es of his life. Better than the murder of his 'betters' at their council table. Better than his ambush of the human commanders in their tents that one night. Oh, having this woman kneeling before him was better than any of that, and she was reminding him this very instant of why that was so.

  Her careful fingers drew up his ballsack and held his hidden treasures high as her tongue delved behind. He moaned loud and low and long as her tongue sought for secret and dark places, tasting him there before slowly letting his balls drop back down and hide the now-wetted dark flesh. Looking at her, the Orc General scowled at how easily she made the precum rush out of his testes and into his dick. Some of it was already beginning to ooze, and he hated that. But before he could give a slap of complaint to his slave and wife, she was moving her mouth intuitively towards the flared glans of his sex.

  She was perfect.

  In the beginning, especially on that first night, her efforts had been fumbling and clumsy. She'd almost bit him several times as he had attempted to ram himself into her tiny mouth. He'd grunted and groaned as he gripped her dirty hair in both fists. The members of his makeshift court had turned their heads to keep from showing how they were laughing at the girl's efforts to please their king. That had made him angry, and he hated being angry out of turn for no good reason. There were plenty of slaves and willing orc and troll women around the court that could have fellated his prick much better than this. But he wanted to dominate this woman for what she was, for what she represented.

  It had taken work to fuck her face to the point of being able to cum. In the end, he had pulled back and shot his thick white seed all over her wonderful little face, jerking himself to make sure every drop shot out hard and fast.

  Now, years later, she wouldn't have cared if he did that to her. In fact, she sometimes begged him to, in a voice so quiet that a mouse would find it hard to compete with her silence. But he knew. Her green almond-shaped eyes screamed for defilement some nights, some days. She didn't have to say it so much as express it with those gorgeous eyes of hers, and he would feel himself starting to rise. That was why he made her start wearing a dress.