“Mmm,” Targi moaned, showing his appreciation of that vision with his lips and hands.
Lysa cried out. She grasped his head, pulled it flush against her tit. “My kiiiing!” she cried out as at last that wall within her broke. Her milk spurted from her nipple, and into the gertling’s hungry mouth.
Targi moaned as that sweet, warm cream burst onto his tongue. He sucked hungrily from his favorite bride’s breast, drowning himself in her thick cream. Relishing every drop with the delight that only a life of denial could bring.
Lysa’s legs gave out. She fell against the bulk of her getling king, her curvy frame pressing against his portly size. She panted and moaned, holding his head adoringly against her tit. “Ooooh my king! Ah, yes, my husband. My chief. You’ll have… have your castle. You’ll be a true king. A master. A power reckoned with. I’ll make it happen. You will be the greatest!”
“Then we should start planning at once.”
Lysa lifted her head and smiled at the sight of Alia. The warrior had entered without a sound, but her eyes were riveted to the debauched scene unfolding before her. Lysa tittered. “Mmm. Do you have a plan?”
“I do.”
“Hmm. Then, maybe I should leave you and… and my king to discuss it… privately…”
Alia chewed on her lip for a moment, then nodded. “I… I think that would be good.”
She blushed at Lysa’s knowing look. Gently, and with a bit of reluctance, the sorceress pulled her milky teat from Targi’s hungry mouth. The gertling gave a whine of disappointment. “Now now,” Lysa giggled, rising to her feet. “Alia has something to say.”
Targi huffed but nodded. The sorceress smirked and moved away, her bottom swinging like a pendulum. She touched Alia on the shoulder as she passed, a glance between them saying much. Then Lysa was gone, her footsteps fading down the passageway.
Targi shifted his bulk as Alia watched him. “Targi,” she said, slowly approaching.
“Yes?”
“You are a disgusting brute.”
Targi blinked. “Hm?”
The warrior stopped before him, her eyes wandering over him. “You’re a disgusting creature. Hideously fat. You claim the most beautiful women you can find as your personal wives. Having them service this.”
“Hng!” Targi gasped as she cupped his warty shaft.
“Make them suck it,” Alia breathed, her fingers exploring the warty thickness of his cock. Slowly moving up and down him. “Make them take it. You fill them with your filthy seed. Make them swallow it and take it in their wombs. Breed their beautiful bodies with your foul spawn.”
It had been quite some time since Targi had been talked down to like this. But he couldn’t exactly retort. Especially not with her hand running up and down his cock. Teasing the tip with her thumb. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but decided to simply let things take their course.
“Mmm. It true. Me want… want breed lovely women,” the gertling moaned.
“Gods but you’re so disgustingly fat,” Alia said, her cheeks warm, her eyes riveted to his bulk. Her free hand stroked his swollen stomach, running over it. “Gorging yourself between every battle until you are hideous. Disgusting.
“But… you’re a creature of your word.”
“Hmnnn?”
Targi’s eyes widened as Alia took her hands from his bulk and his cock and began to remove her armour. Piece by piece that hard steel clattered to the floor, unveiling her gentle curves. A body of feminine beauty toned with muscle and the strength of a warrior. Targi had taken many women like her since he had bred Lysa that night in the cave, forging his harem guard. And yet there was something about the warrior’s bronzed flesh that drew his eyes, and engorged his cock with heated desire.
She moved over him, straddling his bulk. Targi squeaked as she rested her firm curves atop his swollen form.
“You’re a monster, Targi. But this is the way of this world. So if I must be the thrall of a monster, at least it should be one I can serve.”
“Eh? You wan-“
Her lips captured his in a hungry, desperate kiss, and Targi decided talking was really overrated. Instead, he showed his appreciation in a more direct way. As they kissed heatedly, his hands moved up, running along her toned sides before cupping her modest breasts. Alia gasped as his fingers fanned out about those firm orbs, finding the tender buds of her nipples, his thick thumbs rubbing those hardening nubs.
“Mmm. Mnnnn,” Alia moaned as he stroked her breasts. The months had given Targi ample time to practice those skills. Dozens of women who came to worship at the altar of his cock. Eager to suck and service him. To take his warty little cock in their fertile, branded depths. To be filled by his oily seed. Their bodies instruments to his skilled hands. Pleasuring his innumerable wives until they surrendered, panting, and gave themselves to him.
But he hadn’t bred another anew since Lysa. Hadn’t been the first to claim their womb, cursing them to be the breeding slave of a monster since the busty sorceress.
Until now. Until Alia descended onto his cock. Until his warty shaft filled her fertile depths.
She threw back her head, her voice rising in a cry of purest pleasure as his cock stuffed her. “Oh fuck! Your… your tiny cock is… is inside me! Mnn! Ah. Ah,” she panted, bouncing atop his cock, his bulk rippling with the impact. “Ah… How… it’s so pathetic. So small. Why? Why is… how is it soooo gooood!”
“Mnnn!” Targi moaned, giving a token effort to thrust into her clutching pussy. “Me want… want breed! Me want fuck!”
“Yes!” Alia gasped. “Yes! Breed me, you disgusting little creature. Fill me… ah… ah… with your seed. Take me! Claim my womb! Fill me! Make me your bride! Your slut! I’ll fight for you. I’ll… ah… make you a king! I’ll make you a kingdom! But only… only if you seed me!”
Now there was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Targi grasped her hips, moaning as his warty cock thrust again and again into her cunt, his belly wobbling. His voice rising as his peak drew near. “Oooooh!” Targi moaned as he at last came, his warty cock quivering, pulsing into Alia’s fertile depths.
“Yesssss!” Alia screamed as his oily cum filled her. As it seeded her desperate womb. Her orgasm surged through her as red light pulsed above her mons, burning the symbol of the eye upon her. Branding her as his.
She pushed him down beneath her, Targi grunting as she continued to ride him, desperate for more of him. For so long she had resisted. Denied herself. And now, now that she had at last crossed that final gulf, she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t resist her body urging her to continue. To fuck him more. To mate with this hideous, pathetic creature who had claimed her friends. Who had bred her. Who would take her again and again. Whose pups she would grow heavy with, her tits engorged with milk.
And she wanted it. Needed it. A thirst she never knew existed and which could only be slaked by another pulse of his cock within her. Her head thrown back as he filled her with another load of his oily cum.
“Yesssss!” she screamed, her hands tight on his hips, her voice rising in a cry of pure ecstasy. “Yessss! Oh master! My chief! My king! Yesssss!”
She remained atop him, impaled by his cock, her hips moving weakly, sloshing his cum in her drooling cunny. At last she lowered herself a last time, falling against Targi’s bulk, her firm breasts pushing against the gertling’s gut, aftershocks of her orgasm twitching through her muscled frame.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh gods. That… that was…”
Targi petted her hair, grinning down at the amazon. She moved her head, her mouth opening and taking his fingers between her soft lips. Her eyes were cloudy with desire, meeting his own as she tenderly sucked on his fingers. Targi tittered in delight.
“Me wanted make bride so long,” the gertling said.
“Mmm. I know,” Alia said, his fingers popping from her mouth. She crawled up his bulk, her cunt drooling a thin trail of mingled cum along the gertling’s gut before she reached his head. “And you’ve been
such a… good king. Waiting until I was ready. And I am, Targi. I’m ready to bear your pups. To win your wars. To serve you, my ample chief.”
Her hands moved along his bald head, her eyes smoky as she gazed into his adoringly. “I’m yours, my king,” she whispered, and kissed him hard.
Targi moaned and returned her kiss willingly, his hands moving over her firm bottom, squeezing it happily.
The Castle
Things had been difficult for Gorus.
The orc warlord prowled the upper levels of his castle, hands fisted behind his back, head bent forward in thought.
Things had been difficult indeed.
The scale of this difficulty was amply demonstrated by his current lack of focus and the utter ruin of everything around him. In the last few months every piece of furniture in the towers; every stitch of cloth; every frilly pillow and occasionally the head of those unfortunate enough to encounter him, had been destroyed. Rent and broken. Shattered and smashed.
Normally this would be enough. Some satisfying smashing. Maybe killing a few gertlings. Then a rough fuck with some of his favorite sluts and he’d be good to rule over his kingdom with brutal benevolence.
But the problems had usually passed when he’d done those things.
But not this time.
In fact, things had become progressively worse for him, and when your cultural hierarchy is based on who can kill someone in the most brutal fashion, it doesn’t foster creative solutions. To make matters worse, the raids and attacks on his caravans and orcs had made him seem impotent. Gorus wasn’t used to feeling impotent. It was unwelcome and wholly alien.
To make matters worse, it had made his orcs question him. The number who had begun to desert his castle had almost become equal to the numbers those bitches in the mountains had killed. Between the two fronts, he was at less than half his forces. So he’d tried being proactive. Trying to recall what he ‘d used to do to raise himself in the esteem of his clan. In the old days, that had meant raiding some human settlements, capturing women and booty, then going home to an orgy of food, drink, and breaking in the newest sluts.
At first this had encouraged Gorus. Until he remembered that every human town in Istanov had already been overrun by monsters, and in fact the largest collection of human women was in his harem.
The problems swirled in the orc’s head, the moon staring through the tower window, his form flicking against it each time he paced the room.
What was he to do?
Gorus snarled and threw back his shoulders, straightening to his full, awesome height. This had gone on long enough! It was time for him to do what he should have done long ago. He’d personally take his raiders straight into the mountains, find those women and that gertling shit, and show them where they belonged in this new world.
“Tarrak!” Gorus bellowed as he marched down the steps, adjusting his crude cape. “Kirn! Fetch warriors! We ride for mountains!”
At the bottom of the stairs the orc slowed, his brow furrowing. “Tarrak?” he barked.
Silence greeted him.
The orc’s nose twitched. He scented blood. He curled a lip, growling low. He moved, a heavy bulk through the castle. His footsteps echoed off the walls, the guttering torches flickering as he passed them.
He slowed as he came to the first corpse.
The orc guard slumped against the wall, his throat an open wound and eyes glassy with death. Gorus’s frown deepened. He grabbed the dead orc’s sword and kept moving. The smell of blood grew stronger the nearer his throne room he drew. Putting a shoulder to the door, he heaved it open, bursting inside with sword at the ready.
He gaped.
Women filled the throne room. Strange women. There might have been a hundred, all branded with the mark of the eye, yet these were no busty sluts desperate for even a taste of monster cock. Many were in armor or in flowing robes. Steel glittered in hands and haughty contempt filled their eyes. They were gathered around the pedestal of his throne. A throne not empty. The only male in the room sat there. A gertling whose tremendous gut spilled over the throne. Necklaces of gold and silver draped his neck and sloping chest. A crude crown of dark metal was on his brow, and a lazy smirk on his lips as he saw the imposing orc arrive.
“What doing on throne!” Gorus snarled.
“My throne now,” Targi said.
“My king,” Lysa crooned from the gertling’s side, stroking her master’s arm. “Let me explain in words that this idiot will understand.”
A vein pulsed on Gorus’s brow. “What you call me, slut!”
Lysa smirked, leaning against the throne casually, idly rubbing her gravid stomach. “It’s simple, Gorus. Your orcs are dead or joined my king. Your castle has been seized. Your slaves freed. I’m afraid your pathetic little rule has come to an end.”
Gorus’s mouth twitched. With a howl he surged towards the throne.
He never made it ten steps before one of the women smoothly drew an arrow from a quiver, pulled it back, and fired. The arrow struck the orc’s leg, and Gorus fell mid stride to his hands and knees. Laughter rang out in the room as the orc struggled back upright.
“None of that,” Lysa said, gesturing.
Chains of light seized the orc’s arms, legs, and throat. He choked as the spell bound him, kneeling to the floor, all his great strength helpless against the grip of such sorcery.
From her king’s right hand, Alia smirked. The warrior woman tossed her hair and stroked Targi’s shoulder. “My king,” she murmured. “Shall we show this wretch the true value of your cock? How mighty it is compared to his pathetic efforts to conquer women? Shall we show him how eager any woman is to be your bride?”
Targi grinned and spanked her firm bottom. “Yes! We show!”
Alia giggled fondly and looked aside. “Bring them in.”
Bertia entered the room, the warrior woman smirking as she pulled on an iron chain. Gorus’s eyes widened and he struggled fiercely against his bindings as his two favorite slaves were led in, the busty pair looking about vaguely with the dim incomprehension of the cursed.
Lysa clicked her tongue at the sight of the two beauties. “Such a waste.” She strode down the podium and before the pair, looking them over. Gently, she touched the iron collars around their throats and spoke a word. Locks clicked without the need of a key, springing open and falling to the floor with a metallic clang. Her hand slid down further, touching those heavy chastity belts. Another word. Another clatter as the steel fell from their shapely hips. The pair blinked and looked about themselves vaguely.
“So beautiful,” Lysa murmured, touching the pair’s shoulders, her hands sliding down their arms, to their chests, and their ample, swelling breasts. The pair of girls gasped, moaning softly as they thrust out their ample tits for those admiring hands. “Such a shame you were so abused.”
“Please,” one whimpered.
“Need… f-fuck,” the other panted.
“I know you do,” Lysa said. “And you’ll get it. But you’ll be taking a king this time. And not some pathetic slaver.”
“Mine!” Gorus snarled. “Mine! Those my slaaagk!”
The orc gagged as the chains around his throat tightened, choking off his howl. Lysa smirked down at him, then guided the two beauties to the throne.
“Targi,” Lysa crooned, her arms wrapping around the pair’s shoulders. “My king. Would you be pleased to have these two lovely women serve you? To be your wives? To carry your pups and fight for you?”
Targi nodded eagerly. “Yes! Me want as wives. Me be king and they brides.”
“Then let them know the love of their new king. Here, girls,” Lysa said, gently pressing the pair to their knees, easing them forward towards the rotund gertling’s crotch. “Serve your king.”
The muscles of Gorus’s arms bulged with impotent fury as the two women cooed and awed as their delicate fingers found the gertling’s stunted, warty cock.
“Mmm. Nice, isn’t it?” Lysa giggled as she watche
d the pair daintily lick his cock, tonguing his musky balls with the eagerness of true devotion. “So much better than Gorus’s, isn’t it? So much tinier. Pathetic really. But you love it. You love his tiny cock so much. Don’t you?”
“Yessss,” the two moaned in chorus.
Targi moaned as the two worked, their plump bums swaying almost in tandem as they greedily slurped and kissed his warty cock, his fat almost smothering them against his prick. Finally, Lysa touched one of the girls, easing her to her feet.
“There there,” the sorceress crooned at the slaves weak moan of disappointment. “You’ll get far more soon…”
The girl gasped as she was turned around. Alia took her other arm, and together, the warrior and the sorceress eased the slut back until Targi’s cock teased her dripping pussy. The girl gasped, stiffened as the head of his twitching cock teased at her slick entrance. Her whimper sang through the air as gently, so gently, the two brides of the gertling king lowered her, and filled her with his cock.
The girl cried out in delight. Spacious as her cunt was, the curse flared upon her mons, sending a shock of purest pleasure to her core as the gertling’s cock impaled her. To say nothing of when her companion’s tongue slid up from Targi’s balls, along the root of his cock, and up her twitching cunt.
“Gooooooods!” the girl moaned as she began to ride Targi’s cock, her ample breasts bouncing, her ass pushed back against the gertling’s swollen gut.
“So good,” Lysa whispered, nibbling on the girl’s ear.
“So fine,” Alia purred, engulfing a bouncing tit in her hand. “So much better than that orc could ever have been.”
“Yesssss!” the girl screamed. Her eyes met Gorus’s, the orc’s face purple with rage and a lack of oxygen. But she didn’t see the one who had first claimed her. Broken her. Bred her. Her thoughts were consumed with the sensation of the warty nodes of the gertling’s cock as they stroked her inner walls. As her pussy shuddered around that twitching shaft.
The Pillaging of an Empire Page 79