Reinhard and the Broken Amazon Crown
Copyright© 2026 by Depraved_Angel
Chapter 20: The Iron Whisper and the Black Brood
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 20: The Iron Whisper and the Black Brood - Exiled prince Reinhard, a runt in stature but blessed with an enormous cock, ritually defeats and breaks the Amazon queen, seizes her throne, and uses the deadly Amazon women to forge a savage empire. His massive cock and potent seed corrupt elves, priestesses, and proud noblewomen alike, turning defiant queens and bloodthirsty savages into dripping sluts begging for more. Nations fall through relentless sexual conquest and magical subversion until every cunt on the Continent bows to him.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Blackmail Coercion Consensual Mind Control NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Magic Demons Cheating Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Father Daughter MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Orgy Interracial White Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Facial Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Body Modification Clergy
Thalindra’syl hung in the chains like a broken doll, wrists and ankles raw from weeks of suspension. The chamber deep in Kal’Yax’s largest ziggurat had become her entire world, torchlight flickering on damp stone, the stench of spent seed and sweat thick in the air, the endless mechanical pounding of the two Eisenfaust prototypes.
Alpha gripped her hips with clawed digits, spikes pricking just enough to draw thin lines of blood as its massive alloy cock pistoned into her pussy, eighteen inches of flexible black metal, ridged and segmented, stretching her walls obscenely wide. Beta raped her throat from the front, shaft bulging her neck with every thrust, flared head pulsing against her gullet.
“Vaginal depth maintained,” Alpha boomed in its flat, grinding voice. “Internal temperature elevated. Target walls fluttering. Arousal peak detected. Elf whore cunt gripping harder.”
“Affirmative,” Beta replied, thrusting deeper. “Oral cavity lubrication sufficient. Gag reflex minimized; target adapting to repeated use. Slut throat milking shaft efficiently.”
Thalindra’s mind floated in a haze of forced pleasure. Weeks, how many she no longer knew. Days blurred into nights of relentless breeding. The golems had flooded her womb with load after load, different mixtures each time: some thick black standard seed, some thinned with Miriam’s clairvoyant nectar, some spiked with Crimson Prince essence, some laced with corrupted heartwood sap. Her belly had swollen rapidly each cycle in grotesque, rapid growth that stretched her skin taut, veins black beneath pale elven flesh. She had felt the things inside her kick and writhe, alien and wrong.
But every time, miscarriage. Black blood and tissue gushing between her thighs, the golems withdrawing to analyze failure while Hexenzirkel witches adjusted spells. Four initiates circled now, naked save for leather harnesses and Totenkopf piercings, bodies gyrating lewdly, hips rolling, massive tits bouncing, fingers tracing runes in air that glowed crimson. They murmured low occult phrases in corrupted Yaxkiná:
“Vita nigra in utero ... Fructus Reich surgat ... Uterus elficus aperite, accipe!” Black life in the womb. Let the fruit of the Reich rise. Elf womb open, receive. Their dance amplified the torment, magic sinking into her flesh like hooks.
“Seed mixture variant seventeen failing to implant,” Alpha reported, pounding harder. “Recommend adjustment: add more Schwarze Harpyien spore essence for hybrid adhesion.”
“Agreed,” Beta intoned. “Target fertility indicators stable but insufficient. Elf bitch body rejecting pure iron seed. Increase aphrodisiac concentration to force acceptance.”
Thalindra moaned around Beta’s shaft, shame burning even through the fog. She hated how her body responded, her pussy clenching greedily, clit throbbing against Alpha’s spiked plating, orgasms ripping through her despite everything. The false memories had merged with reality; she saw herself leading Reich legions through Sylvana’Lyr’s groves, betraying wards while golems raped her sisters. The thought made her cum again, squirting hard around Alpha’s cock.
“Climax registered,” Alpha noted with synthetic glee. “Intensity high. Target squirting; optimal lubrication for deeper penetration. Dumb elf whore loving machine cock.”
She wanted it to end. Wanted the swelling to stick, the thing to take root. Anything to stop the endless cycle. Serve the Reich. Be the vessel they needed. Her resistance had cracked weeks ago; now only desperate submission remained.
The door groaned open slowly and Mei’lin’zhu strode in, wrapped in thick winter furs, a sable cloak over her sheer robe, a fur hat capping her flowing obsidian hair. Her gorgeous form radiated fresh triumph, cheeks flushed from northern cold.
The golems paused mid-thrust, cocks buried deep. Mei’lin smiled at the scene; Thalindra impaled front and back, belly slightly distended from the latest load, black cum dripping from stretched holes.
“Apologies for the absence, moon-rat,” she purred, shedding her furs to reveal her lethal curves in a slinky robe that clung to her massive tits and her round ass. “The Rus’kiev front demanded my attention; we’ve made delicious progress there. But I’m back now. Ready to finally knock you up properly.” She turned to the lead Hexenzirkel witch, a raven-haired Oberhexen with tits like pale moons and runes writhing on skin. “Report.”
The witch bowed, voice husky. “Seventeen cycles. Abdominal swelling achieved each time, with rapid gestation. But we get consistent rejection at week three equivalent, or roughly twelve hours. The enchantments tried are primarily Vita-Nigra Binding, Fructus Runeweaving, and Gebärmutterhex or variations on those. The seed variants have all been logged and the post-miscarriage fluid analyzed. The target’s body is still resisting full implantation.”
Mei’lin tapped her leather-gloved fingers against her golden chin, her almond eyes raking Thalindra’s suspended form. “Obviously,” she said finally. “It’s the Schwarze Gebärmutterbindung we need ... the Black Womb-Binding.”
She stepped closer, beginning a rhythmic chant in Reichdeutsch, voice rolling deep and commanding: “Schwarze Gebärmutter, öffne dich weit. Nimm das Eisen-Samen auf, lass es keimen. Elf Fleisch wird Reich Frucht, ewig gebunden ... Sieg Reich! Blut und Boden!” Black womb, open wide. Take the iron seed, let it sprout. Elf flesh becomes Reich fruit, eternally bound. Victory to the Reich! Blood and soil!
The words sank into Thalindra like brands. Heat exploded in her core, her womb clenching, opening, becoming receptive in ways it never had before. She felt her fertility surge, her ovaries throb, her walls softening hungrily. She moaned loud around Beta’s cock, hips bucking desperately.
“Indicators skyrocketing,” Alpha boomed in its monotone, though somehow infusing its words with excitement, resuming thrusts with brutal force. “Breedability increasing three hundred percent. Target womb priming perfectly. Elf whore finally ready for knocking up.”
“Confirmed,” Beta replied, resuming the pounding of her throat. “Fertility spike extreme. Slut body is begging for seed now. Dumb moon-bitch is desperate to serve the Reich’s will.”
They fucked her savagely, Alpha slamming balls-deep into pussy, ridges grinding her g-spot; Beta raping her throat until her neck bulged. Claws savagely raked her tits, pinching her thick nipples; spikes pricked her ass cheeks as Alpha spanked her with mechanical violence. “Take it, elf cunt,” Alpha growled. “Your forest hole was made for iron breeding. Pathetic race-traitor whore ... finally submitting.”
Thalindra came instantly, violently, her pussy spasming, squirting around the iron shaft as her womb ached for filling. Pleasure overwhelmed her; resistance shattered. She needed it, needed pregnancy, needed to serve.
Mei’lin continued chanting, her voice rising: “Keim des Blutes, wachse stark ... Reich Erbe in elf Bauch ... Sieg Reich!” Sprout of blood, grow strong. Reich heir in elf belly. Victory to the Reich.
Thalindra’syl’s body jerked helplessly in the chains as the Eisenfaust prototypes resumed their savage assault. Alpha, the one buried in her pussy, gripped her plush ass cheeks with clawed digits, spikes digging in just enough to prick blood while it slammed its massive iron alloy cock deeper, segments flexing to grind every ridge against her oversensitive walls. Beta raped her throat relentlessly, flared head pulsing against her gullet, stretching her neck obscenely as it forced her to swallow inch after thick inch. They abused her without mercy, mechanical precision turned to calculated cruelty.
Alpha’s free claw raked her heavy tits, pinching thick nipples between serrated tips, twisting hard until she shrieked around Beta’s shaft, pain lancing straight to her clit. The spikes pricked areolae, drawing pinpricks of blood that only heightened the fire in her core. “Tit abrasion test: moderate torque,” Alpha boomed flatly. “Target response: sharp spinal arch, vaginal tightening. Elf whore nipples highly responsive; perfect for prolonged torment.”
Beta’s claw clamped her throat lightly, choking just enough to make stars burst behind her eyes while its cock pistoned deeper. “Choking protocol: partial occlusion,” Beta reported. “Breath restriction amplifying pleasure centers. Slut throat fluttering; gag reflex converted to milking action.”
Alpha swung its palm, the metal impacting Thalindra’s plush ass with a sharp crack that echoed through the chamber, leaving red handprints blooming on her pale skin. “Spanking escalation: increased force,” Alpha noted. “Gluteal impact yielding hip thrust; target presenting cunt greedily.”
They beat her tits next, their claws slapping the heavy orbs, making them bounce and jiggle, nipples hardening further under the abuse. Thalindra’s muffled cries vibrated around Beta’s shaft, but Mei’lin’s Schwarze Gebärmutterbindung chant thrummed in her blood, turning pain to ecstasy, her womb aching hungrily. She came nonstop, orgasms crashing one into another, pussy spasming wildly around Alpha’s invading cock, squirting slick juices in arcs that splattered its spiked plating. Her body betrayed her utterly; clit throbbed against grinding ridges, walls clenched in desperate need.
“Multiple climaxes detected,” Beta observed, thrusting harder. “Intensity escalating. Dumb moon-bitch cumming like a broodmare in heat.”
Thalindra shuddered, her silver hair whipping as another wave of ecstasy ripped through her. She hated it, hated the pleasure, hated her submission, but weeks of breeding had broken something deep inside her. She needed filling, needed the seed to take. Serve the Reich. Be the vessel.
Alpha slammed deeper, its claws smacking her ass again harder, leaving welts. “Impregnation response activated,” Alpha announced in its monotone. “Target cunt massaging shaft, trying to milk maximum load. Pathetic elf whore finally accepting purpose as Reich breeding mare.”
The words burned into her soul, mingling with false memories. She came harder, her pussy clenching greedily, her muffled shriek vibrating Beta’s cock. They choked her again, Beta’s claw tightening as Alpha beat her tits, claws slapping swollen orbs until they reddened, nipples throbbing. Pinches twisted cruelly; smacks echoed wetly. Thalindra’s world narrowed to nothing but the invasion and abuse, her pussy cumming endlessly, her body a vessel of need.
Finally, Alpha buried itself to the hilt, its cock throbbing larger inside her, segments locking as its internal reservoirs primed. “Optimum depth achieved,” Alpha boomed. “Commencing full ejaculation. Reservoir output: initiating flood sequence, pulsed injection.” The golem held her firmly, claws digging hips as the first thick jet erupted, hot, viscous machine seed pumping deep into her womb. Thalindra moaned in desperate need, belly sloshing tangibly with the volume, swelling slightly already. “Load volume: twenty percent discharged,” Alpha reported clinically. “Target womb expanding; accepting seed greedily. Feel it, elf bitch, your forest cunt filling with superior machine cum.”
Another surge caused her belly to distend further, the sloshing of fluid audible. “Forty percent. Uterine indicators: receptive peak. Slut body drinking it down.”
Thalindra came again, her pussy milking the iron cock desperately, her muffled cries pleading for more. “Sixty percent. Flood continuing; womb capacity stretching. Dumb whore moaning for breeding.”
The machine jerked once at eighty percent and then again, its final surge emptying its internal reservoirs. “Full ejaculation confirmed. One hundred percent discharged. Target womb flooded; seed sloshing internally.” Eisenfaust Alpha withdrew slowly, its metal cock sliding free with a wet pop, thick black cum gushing from her gaping pussy in dribbles, its viscosity keeping it mostly contained within her swollen womb. Thalindra moaned emptily, her body trembling.
Mei’lin snapped her fingers impatiently. “Report.”
Alpha’s ruby eyes flared. “Reporting full ejaculation inside elf womb. Monitoring for impregnation signs.”
Mei’lin tapped her foot impatiently, watching cum drip from Thalindra’s abused cunt while the golems ran fingers over her body, extending various probes and sensors from their fingers, taking blood samples and checking vital signs, their voices relaying overlapping data.
“Indicator one: elevated core temperature. Breeding heat detected; subject’s body heating to optimal gestation temperature.”
“Indicator two: flushed complexion; skin vascular response indicating high seed acceptance.”
“Indicator three: uterine contractions. Womb massaging residual seed deeper, increasing implantation likelihood.”
“Indicator four: hormonal spike. Fertility enzymes binding iron essence, welcoming the injected seed.”
Mei’lin interrupted sharply. “Is the bitch knocked up?”
Alpha paused, still moving its sensor-studded fingers over Thalindra’s body. “Likelihood: ninety-eight percent. If successful, gestation will be accelerated, with three months equivalent to full term.” Thalindra quailed inwardly. The thing ... or things ... inside her would be growing fast. Then she felt it and saw it, her belly swelling visibly, skin stretching as something took root. Mei’lin noticed, smirking.
The golems confirmed. “Embryos viable. Scans detect litter of eight healthy fetuses. Rapid cell division commencing.” Thalindra shuddered, feeling the creatures kick already, eight alien things writhing in her womb, claiming her completely.
Alpha turned its head to face Mei’lin, the two Eisenfaust still holding Thalindra. “Query: inject subject vaginally with incubation nutrient broth to accelerate gestation and improve fetal health, vitality, and aggression?”
Mei’lin smirked. “Of course. Flood the bitch with it. Make those babies of hers into mean motherfuckers.”
Thalindra shuddered as Alpha turned its face back to meet hers. “Confirmed. Beginning injection sequence.”
Beta’s voice echoed behind her. “Confirmed.”
And with that, the two massive metal cocks slid into her again, Alpha’s shaft muffling her scream of agony, the two Eisenfaust golems beginning the process of raping more fluid into her, this time to make her already-gestating children stronger and rougher. She trembled in terror, unable to stop what was being done to her body.
Kargath Thunderheart stepped from the copse of wind-twisted ironbark trees, the last echoes of the morning spirit communion still humming in his tusks. Dawn light, thin and red through the perpetual dust haze of the Ashen Badlands, painted the gnarled trunks the color of old blood. He paused on the trail, letting the silence settle. The spirits had spoken softly today, only the low rumble of thunder-beast ancestors and the dry rustle of grass-ghosts, but their message had been clear: The wind carries a new scent. Guard the balance. Guard the young.
At sixty-two summers, Kargath was old enough to remember the last time outsiders had come with gifts that glittered too brightly. His father, old Thargun One-Tusk, had traded three thunder-beast calves for steel axes from Eisenmark merchants. The axes had bitten deep, yes, but they had also bitten the hands that swung them, giving them splinters of rust that festered, followed by fevers that took half the hunters who’d used the axes. Thargun had died coughing black phlegm, whispering that the metal had tasted wrong. Kargath had been twelve. He had carried the memory like a stone ever since.
He adjusted the bone-and-feather fetishes woven into his braid, then started down the dusty trail back toward the tribe’s camp. His bare feet, broad and green, scarred from a lifetime of walking the Badlands, left deep prints that the wind would erase by midday. The air smelled of baked clay, creosote brush, and the faint musk of the herd grazing three canyons over. Home smells. Honest smells.
The camp came into view as he crested the low ridge: thirty hide tents arranged in the traditional half-circles around a central fire ring, smoke curling lazy and gray. Thunder-beast pens of woven thorn fenced the open eastern edge. Females tended cook-fires or stretched fresh hides. Males—usually lounging, telling stories, or carving bone flutes—were all clustered at the southern perimeter.
Kargath’s brow furrowed. Four large human wagons, canvas tops bleached pale by sun, stood parked in a neat row. Mountain goats, shaggy, patient beasts, chewed their cud in the wagons’ traces. A dozen human traders in dusty leathers moved among the caravan, unloading crates stamped with dwarven runes. The Ironspine clan mark. Strange. Dwarves rarely traded so directly anymore; they usually sold to Eisenmark middlemen who repackaged their goods with a markup before trading them to the Badlands orc tribes.
But it wasn’t the provenance of the goods that froze Kargath’s blood. It was the reaction of his tribesmen.
Young hunters, males he had known since they were knee-high, crowded around the opened crates like wolves scenting a fresh kill. Their eyes gleamed. Their tusks were bared in grins too wide, too sharp. Grash Longfang, barely twenty summers and usually gentle enough to braid his sister’s hair, hefted a massive two-handed axe of black metal. The blade was a nightmare of jagged teeth and backward-curving barbs; the haft bristled with spikes. Runes, twisted and angular, nothing like the flowing earth-script of Eisenhammer or the rounded letters of Eisenmark, glowed faintly red along the blade’s edge.
Grash swung it experimentally. The air hissed. Dust exploded where the blade bit the ground. He laughed, a sound Kargath had never heard from him, harsh and hungry.
Nearby, Dren Blacktusk tested a hooked mace. The head was a cluster of serrated flanges designed to tear, not crush. When he spun it, the dark shaft sang a high, angry note. Others brandished swords with saw-toothed spines, spears whose tips split into three barbed prongs, and daggers that looked more like torture tools than weapons.
Even stranger, the prices the humans called out were absurd. A barbed longsword for two thunder-beast hides. A spiked flail for a single obsidian knife. Weapons that should have cost a year’s worth of pelts and ivory were being snapped up for mere handfuls of trade goods.
Kargath’s stomach tightened. He had seen eagerness before, when new flint arrived, or glass beads from the river kingdoms, but never this fevered gleam. Never this sudden, bristling aggression from the young males.
He wove through the crowd toward the lead wagon. A stout human with a graying beard and shrewd eyes stood atop the tailgate, arms folded. His leather coat bore the faded sigil of an Eisenmark trading guild. Kargath recognized the face from years ago: Gunter, the caravan master who had once brought spiced mead and stayed three nights telling bawdy stories around the fire. The man had seemed decent enough then.
Gunter spotted him and raised a hand. “Kargath Thunderheart! Still talking to the wind, old friend?”
Kargath inclined his head. “The wind still answers, Gunter. Though today it speaks of caution.”
Gunter chuckled, hopping down with surprising agility for his bulk. “Caution never filled a warrior’s hand. Come, shaman. I saved something special for you.”
He led Kargath to a smaller crate lined with black felt. Inside lay staves and totems unlike any Kargath had ever seen. One was a gnarled staff of the same black metal, topped with a cage of barbs that cradled a fist-sized chunk of blood-red crystal. Runes crawled across the shaft like living veins. Another was a bone rattle bound with black iron rings; when Gunter gave it a shake, the bones clacked with a sound like breaking teeth. A third was a curved ritual blade with a hilt wrapped in cured skin. Human skin, by the texture.
“These are for spirit-speakers,” Gunter said, voice low and conspiratorial. “Dwarven masters forged them from a new vein. Deep, old metal. They say it drinks anger and gives it back tenfold. Your ancestors will roar through these, shaman. Choose any. For you, only five pelts.”
Kargath lifted the staff. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. The crystal pulsed faintly, like a heart. When his fingers closed around the shaft, a whisper brushed the edge of his mind—not the familiar rumble of thunder-beast spirits, but something sharp, needling. Take. Dominate. Breed.
He set it down quickly.
Across the clearing, raised voices cut through the morning air. Grash Longfang and Dren Blacktusk faced each other, weapons in hand. Between them stood three young females—Zorga, Mira, and lush-hipped Valla—who watched with wide eyes and nervous tails of braided hair flicking. It was clear what was going on, but usually mating disputes were settled with wrestling, boasts, and gifts of carved ivory, with the winner earning a night of shared furs and laughter. Never blood. But Grash’s knuckles were white on the haft of his new, shiny black axe. Dren’s black metal mace swung in slow, menacing arcs.
“She chose me last moon,” Grash snarled. “You think your new toy changes that?”
Dren bared tusks. “New toys cut deeper than old promises. Step aside or bleed.”
Others closed in, friends taking sides, their black weapons glinting. The circle tightened. Those not involved hustled away. Elders shouted for calm, but their voices were drowned by the rising growl of the swelling groups of young males.
Kargath pushed forward, interposing himself between the two growling gangs. “Enough! Grash, Dren, calm yourselves. These are your brothers...”
Grash rounded on him, eyes bloodshot, lips flecked with spit. The axe rose. “Mind your spirits, old one. When we finish this, I’m going to fuck the shit out of those females until they forget every gentle word you ever taught us.”
The words struck Kargath like a physical blow. Grash, the boy who had wept when his first thunder-beast calf was born, now radiated murder. The black axe trembled in his grip, eager. Kargath stumbled backwards, getting out of the way of the violence he now knew he couldn’t prevent.
Steel rang on steel. The first clash erupted.
Kargath made one final attempt, even knowing it was in vain, screaming at the top of his old lungs. “Stop! Brothers, stop this madness!”
But his words faded like dust in a hot wind. Grash swung his barbed axe in a vicious arc that caught Dren’s raised mace with a shriek of metal. Sparks flew. The impact jolted both males backward, yet neither yielded. Their eyes, once warm amber or deep brown, now gleamed with a feral red sheen, pupils dilated wide as if drunk on nightshade.
Around them the circle widened, then tightened again as more young hunters joined, choosing sides with guttural shouts. Six on Grash’s side, six on Dren’s, twelve weapons in total, all forged from that black, rune-etched metal. The weapons seemed alive in their hands, humming faintly, the crimson runes pulsing in time with the fighters’ heartbeats.
Kargath’s throat closed as he watched in horror. These were boys he had guided through their first spirit-walks, males who had wept at the deaths of their grandsires, who had shared meat and stories under starlight without a single raised fist. Now they snarled like cornered jackals, tusks bared, shoulders rolling with unnatural aggression.
The first blood came quickly.
Dren feinted high, then drove his serrated mace low. The spiked head caught one of Grash’s allies, young Throgg One-Eye, in the thigh. Barbs tore through hide and muscle with a wet, ripping sound. Throgg screamed, a raw, animal howl that carried across the camp. He staggered, but did not fall. Instead he laughed, a thick, bubbling laugh, and swung his own jagged sword in retaliation. The blade carved a deep furrow across Dren’s chest, parting leather and green flesh alike. Blood, bright and arterial, sprayed across the dust.
The scent of it hit the air like a drug. Kargath saw the change ripple through the fighters. Nostrils flared. Eyes rolled. Beneath simple loincloths, cocks stirred and swelled, pushing against hide with insistent, visible throbs. Grash’s shaft in particular strained the leather ties, the outline thick and heavy, a bead of moisture already darkening the fabric at the tip.
Kargath’s stomach lurched. Orc males took pride in their bodies, yes. Rutting was joyous, open, and consensual. But it was never like this. Never fused with violence. Never with that glazed, hateful hunger.
Another clash rang across the circle. Blades locked. Bodies slammed together. The fighters grappled chest to chest, their tusks clashing, hot breath mingling. Kargath saw Grash grind his hips forward deliberately, rubbing his swelling cock against his opponent’s belly as he drove a knee upward. The opponent grunted, but the sound was half pain, half moan.
The weapons sang louder now, a low, thrumming note that vibrated in Kargath’s bones. The runes glowed brighter, the crimson glow turning to an angry scarlet. Grash’s side pressed an advantage, and two of Dren’s allies went down in seconds.
The first, a broad-shouldered hunter named Kresh, was caught across the throat by Grash’s axe. The barbed edge bit deep, tearing the flesh wickedly rather than slicing clean. Blood jetted in a hot fan. Kresh clutched at the ruin of his neck, eyes wide in shock, before collapsing to his knees, the blade still lodged in his flesh. Grash did not withdraw the blade gently. He twisted it, savoring the wet grind of metal on cartilage, then yanked it free with a sucking pop. Kresh toppled face-first into the dust, heels drumming once, twice, then still.
The second kill was worse.
Dren himself overextended, swinging his mace in a wide arc. Grash ducked beneath it and drove upward with a short, spiked dagger he had taken from the traders’ crate. The blade punched under Dren’s ribs, angling cruelly upward. Grash leaned in close, tusks grazing Dren’s ear as he whispered something too low for Kargath to hear. Then he twisted the dagger, sawing sideways. Organs ruptured with soft, wet sounds. Dren’s eyes bulged. A gout of blood bubbled from his lips. Grash shoved him backward. Dren fell, legs kicking, cock still grotesquely erect beneath his loincloth, a dark stain spreading across the hide.
Kargath screamed again, this time at the remnants of Dren’s group. “Yield! In the name of the ancestors! Yield!” No one listened.
The remaining three on Dren’s former side faltered, but rage overtook fear. They charged in a ragged line. Grash’s group met them head-on. The clash was deafening—metal screaming, bodies thudding, grunts turning to roars.
Blades rose and fell. One orc lost three fingers to a downward chop; the severed digits twitched in the dust like pale grubs. Another took a barbed spear through the shoulder, the jagged, serrated spearhead bursting out his back in a spray of gore. He kept fighting, using the impaling shaft as leverage to drag his killer close and bite through an ear. But he was on the now-outnumbered side, and a vicious flail-head crushed his skull a moment later.
Through it all, the arousal of Grash’s group, the obvious victors, mounted visibly. Loincloths tented obscenely. Cocks throbbed in time with each heartbeat, each killing blow. Precum soaked through hide in dark patches, dripping in thin strings to the dust. The air grew thick with musk, sharp and acrid, but smelling to Kargath somehow ... wrong.
The old shaman stumbled closer, hands raised. “Mercy! Grash, please, show mercy! These are your brothers!”
Grash laughed over the din. “Mercy is for weaklings, old one. Watch how strong males claim what’s theirs.”
He brought his axe down in a butcher’s stroke. The blade caught an opponent across the belly, barbs hooking intestines. With a savage yank Grash spilled the male’s guts in steaming ropes. The dying orc folded around the wound, trying to hold himself together, cock still rigid even as life fled.
The next orc to fall had his groin savaged, a barbed mace crushing his cock and balls to pulp, the victim’s scream rising to a piercing shriek before a second blow silenced him forever.
The last opponent, a youth named Vorn, barely seventeen summers, backed away, his black-metal weapon shaking. Grash advanced slowly, savoring it as his comrades spread out around the boy, cocks dripping openly now, shafts jutting from torn loincloths, thick and veined and angry.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.