Lamentations of the Turnip Farmer
Copyright© 2026 by Snekguy
Chapter 8: Soul Medicine
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 8: Soul Medicine - After his fief is put to the torch, a lowly serf named Rian is taken captive by Orcs. The women cart him back to their stronghold and put him to work cooking, cleaning, and serving them. Little do they know, his new situation is a marked improvement. For the first time, he has a soft bed, plentiful food, and a warm hearth. Will his hosts ever find out that he's only pretending to lament his new role?
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming High Fantasy Humor FemaleDom Light Bond Polygamy/Polyamory Massage Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Big Breasts Muscle Mommy Size
He tailed her out of the hut and down into the courtyard, a few errant Orcs watching as Sharog passed them by in her odd getup. It wouldn’t be odd to them, of course. To an Orc, it was no different from the uniform of a priest or an apothecary, and it probably inspired the same feelings in them. She led him to a hut near the base of the wooden wall, Rian pausing to examine it. He had passed it every day, and it hadn’t stood out to him before now, as it wasn’t any grander than the rest. Equipped with his new knowledge of Orcish customs, he could see that there was a greater abundance of decorated skulls here, along with more runes carved into the wooden posts that flanked its door.
She opened it, and upon entering the shadowy interior, he was immediately struck by the sweet scent of herbs. The hut was a little smaller than the one the Orcs lived in, but it was of a similar style, made from a wooden lattice with a fabric covering. It was rather gloomy inside, but Sharog struck some flint to stoke a fire in a tinderbox that was sitting on a nearby table, and she walked around the room lighting candles. In their wavering glow, Rian could see a firepit in the middle of the room, along with some beds that were presumably for patients. Nobody was sick or injured right now, it seemed. Many of the lattice walls were lined with crude wooden shelves that held all manner of glass jars and clay pots. No doubt these were her apothecary supplies.
There were long, thin sticks sitting in trays scattered about the room, and she lit those as well. As they burned, they released more of that sweet, herbal fragrance into the air. It was already growing a little hazy, the fragrant smoke hanging in wispy clouds near the conical ceiling. As he looked up, he saw that there were more tassels and beads like those on Sharog’s gown hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently as they disturbed the air.
“What are those sticks for?” he wondered.
“Incense,” she explained from behind her bead mask. “We bring these sticks from southern lands. They purify the air.”
“Smells nice.”
“You will start fire,” she ordered, gesturing to a small woodpile. He soon got a fire going in the little pit, watching as Sharog perused her shelves, the dark shadows giving her an admittedly ominous countenance in her horned outfit. She returned with an armful of vials and jars, setting them down on a table that was scattered with mixing bowls and pestles. She began to open the containers, uncorking bottles and removing clay lids, sprinkling dried herbs and unidentifiable powders into the bowls. Her skill was obvious, the Orc moving with practiced speed, but only Sharog knew what she was concocting.
Rian stepped back from his fire, brushing off his hands on his velvet jacket. It was cold inside the hut, so he stuck close to the flames, warming himself.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked, watching the Orc lift a bottle of fluid and swirl it around.
“Making potions for ritual,” she explained.
“I hope you’re not going to make me do anything ... strange,” he mumbled as she dropped a pinch of sparkling powder into it.
“Take off clothes.”
“Of course,” he complained, starting to undo the button on his jacket. “Why am I not surprised? It’s freezing in here, you know.”
She ignored him, focusing on her task as he stripped down to his linens, struggling out of his silk pants. He laid his clothes on a nearby table, crossing his arms and shuffling closer to the fire to ward off the cold. Even the wooden boards beneath his bare feet were frigid, like standing on ice.
Sharog strode over to him with a large clay bowl held in one hand. It was wide and low, decorated with colorful runes that ran around its rim. He stood there shivering as she began to walk around him in a circle, dipping her fingers into the bowl and flicking them at him, showering him with some kind of liquid.
“What’s that?” he demanded, flinching away from her.
“Keep still,” she complained. “I anoint you.”
She began to speak in Orcish – probably some kind of prayer or incantation, the words of which he didn’t know. All he understood were keesahn and a couple of the names of their Gods. When she was done flicking water at him, she drew closer, Rian glancing up at her bead mask as she towered over him. Sharog immersed a hand in the bowl and brought it to his chest, sliding it across his skin. The liquid was some kind of oil, sweet and fragrant, not so different from what they used while bathing. It left a slick, shiny layer behind it.
“This is oil of sacred plant,” she explained, Rian going quiet as he felt her move down to his belly. “It will prepare your body for ritual. Give me your arm.” He extended it as she asked, the Orc running her hand along it and coating it with the sweet-smelling substance. Just like while washing him, she was slow and gentle, her skin surprisingly soft in spite of her rough exterior. This was clearly more important to her than a simple formality, as she was careful to coat every inch of him, even rubbing the oil across his palm and between his fingers. “You stopped complaints,” she mused. “Why?”
“It’s out of ... uh ... reverence,” he mumbled as she gently enclosed his neck in her hand. She roamed higher, using her thumb to anoint his cheeks and forehead, the warmth of her skin so alluring in contrast to the cold air.
“You should shave,” she commented, her expression hidden behind her mask. “I like your face smooth.”
She moved around to his back, then his legs, Rian willing his manhood to stay sheathed as her fingers skirted his inner thighs. Mercifully, she wasn’t interested in anointing what lay beneath his linens.
Once the process was complete, she returned to her table, picking up another small bowl. This one contained some manner of powder, and she dipped her fingers into it, tossing a pinch into the fire like someone seasoning a meal. The fire erupted into a flash of bright green, the flames rising higher, taking on an unnatural emerald hue. Rian recoiled in alarm, but the effect soon faded, the flames returning to their usual color as another strange smell filled the room. Sharog continued her incantations, intermittently tossing more pinches of powder on the flames, leaving Rian with glowing afterimages in his eyes.
“What are you doing now?” he asked.
“I call upon Gods to see you and bless you,” she explained, tossing another pinch and raising her hands to the ceiling. “Do not interrupt.”
Rian watched her move over to the table once more, this time lifting a glass bottle and bringing it to her lips, raising the bead mask. She drank from it, holding the liquid in her mouth, then leaned closer to the fire. Rian recoiled again as she pursed her lips and spat, the flames traveling back along the spray of liquid, the Orc appearing to breathe fire like a dragon. Still holding her beads out of the way, she circled the fire, spraying a few more times and replenishing the flammable liquid by drinking more from the bottle.
It was accompanied by a kind of dance, the swaying of her arms making the tassels swing in time with her movements. When she spun, they flared out, the colorful beads and leather strips skirting the flames. Maybe that was the point. Perhaps part of a shaman’s skill was being able to do these tricks safely without catching alight.
The flames and incense were filling the air with a smoky haze, wisps of it swirling around her as she moved. Rian noted that the hole in the ceiling where it could escape was far smaller than the one in the hut, intended to trap the smoke for longer and create just such an effect. It made the edges of the room melt away, the long shadows cast by the fire adding to the illusion that everything beyond its reach had faded from reality. The beads and little metal disks woven into the fabric of her gown sparkled and flickered, and he found it hard to look away from her.
“I call upon Lor’rak, Goddess of home and hearth, to look upon you,” she said as she spat flames once more. “Bless your works in our house. Bless the food that you prepare, and all that you make. May she watch over your work in service of village.” Another trip to the table, and the bottle was gone, replaced with another clay pot. “I call upon Raz’kal, God of spoils and that which is lawfully taken from enemy. Bless this keesahn, who has no ratul, and guide him in his service. Help him, and through him, help us.”
She threw another pinch of colored powder onto the fire, and it erupted into a flash of bright blue, illuminating the hut for a brief moment like a lightning strike before it faded into shadow again. She was chanting now, her voice low and rhythmic, her deep contralto like the beating of unseen drums. Her dance grew more fluid, the Orc moving her arms in sinuous waves, the beads and tassels swaying along with them.
Along with the clouds of fragrant incense that swirled around her, it was an oddly mesmerizing sight, and Rian found himself wishing that she wasn’t so hidden beneath all of her adornments. Seeing that powerful body in motion would be even more hypnotic.
Another flash of blue fire, and she lifted a familiar pot of pigment from the table, returning to his side. She sank her thumb into the clay vessel and brought it to his forehead. Rian couldn’t see what she was writing, but it felt like a rune or a symbol, her Orcish chanting reverberating through him. It was slow in tempo, and almost calming, his heart quickening whenever its pace increased as though married to its rhythms.
“I call upon Ghru’tak, Goddess of festivals,” she continued as she painted. It was hard to keep still, the Orc smearing some of that pigment on his cheeks. “May she see you. May she guide you in celebration and worship.”
She moved down to his chest, and he could see her drawing runes there, the red pigment staining his skin through the oil that still coated it.
“What are you writing on me?” he mumbled, trying not to squirm and spoil her work.
“Runes purify,” she explained. “Purify warriors before battle, purify homes, purify keesahn before festival. You must be pure, or Gods will overlook you. This is ... like burning candle in dark room.”
“You’re lighting my candle?” he reiterated, trailing off as she drew a swirl on his belly with her fingers. “What does it say?”
“This is symbol for keesahn,” she said, placing a finger on his forehead. “It identify you as our servant.”
“You had to write that on me?” he muttered, feeling his cheeks start to flush beneath the pigment. “Seems kind of obvious. I doubt that anyone in the village needs to be reminded of it.”
“How else will Gods know?” she demanded. “Here are names of those who claimed you. Here, runes of purification.”
“You ... wrote your names on me? I know, I know,” he said as he preempted her. “How else would the Gods know who I belong to?”
“Keesahn learns quickly,” she murmured, pressing close. He couldn’t see her face through her bead covering, but there was something in her voice that made his heartbeat hasten. Was this really about rituals and Gods, or was she enjoying this for wholly different reasons?
“Where’s your name?” he asked.
“Here,” she whispered, pressing a hand against the runes over his heart. She let it linger there a little too long, feeling its steady beat. She drew away again, leaving him feeling oddly warm, and returned to her table.
“What’s that?” he asked as she returned with a bowl.
“This is sacred drink,” she explained, offering it to him. It smelled odd, but not unpleasantly so, as though a dozen different herbs and spices were mingling together. “It is made from poison of rakka thorn that is found only in our homeland.”
“Whoa, hold on,” he stammered as he backed away a couple of paces. “You said poison?”
“It is perfectly safe in small dose,” she insisted. “If it were not, Urami would not be alive.”
“This is the same thorn that Urami used to scar herself?” he asked with a grimace. “And you want me to drink this? Have any other humans ever attempted this ritual?”
“We can stop ceremony if you wish,” she said. “You need only ask.”
“But, if we stop, I can’t cook for the festival?”
“Correct.”
Rian considered for a moment, wondering if he should call it off after all of this effort. He did trust Sharog. She had never done anything to hurt him or torment him, and she valued him too much to put him in any real danger, even if that value might be more in the context of property.
“Fine,” he sighed, reaching out to take the bowl.
“Small sip,” she warned as he pressed his lips against the rim. The smell was strong, and the flavor was even stronger, the aroma of the spices and herbs no doubt intended to mask any unpleasantness. It stung his tongue like a spirit, and he could feel it pass all the way down to his belly, where it settled and began to warm.
“It’s not so different from mulled ale,” he said, a chuckle masking his nervousness. “Kind of tingles...”
Sharog raised the bowl and drank along with him, taking a much larger gulp than he had. At least she was confident – that was reassuring.
“Now, sacred poison burns through us both,” Sharog continued with a flourish of tassels. “It will wash away impurities. Make us ready to be seen by Gods.”
“Oh dear.”
“It will not hurt,” she promised.
“Didn’t Urami say that it was painful?” he asked. He was beginning to feel a little feverish now, that initial warmth that had started in his belly spreading outward, throbbing along with his pulse. He didn’t know what was happening. It was a little alarming.
“Poison of rakka plant enhances sensation,” she explained. “Be it pleasure or pain.”
She reached out a hand to cup his cheek, and Rian’s knees almost gave out. A wave of sensation ribboned through him, as though his nerves had been set aflame with pleasure, just the touch of her fingers enough to make him melt into her. He was nuzzling her palm with lidded eyes before he even knew what was happening, pulling away as his better judgment kicked in.
“That’s ... strong,” he muttered, his heart beating like a drum as Sharog’s quiet laughter emanated from beneath her mask. He could feel the poison running through his veins now, its warmth spreading even to his fingers and toes, Sharog’s momentary touch leaving him unsteady on his feet. “Is this all part of the ritual?”
“Do you feel its cleansing heat?”
“I feel ... something,” he replied, realizing that he had started to sweat. Maybe the abundance of fire and candles had finally driven away the cold, or maybe it was the poison doing its work. Calling it a poison seemed like a misnomer now – it was an ambrosia. He felt as though his very skin had become the surface of a tongue, and it was coated in the sweetest honey.
She took his arm to steady him, and he had to stifle a gasp.
“Concentrate,” she said, her voice as music now. She led him over to one of the beds and sat him down, the distance from the fire relieving some of the heat.
“Why are you so calm?” he stammered, craning his neck to look at her as she leaned over him. She blocked out the light of the fire behind her, all of those beads sparkling as its glow bled through them, her horned mask silhouetted. With her face covered, he had to keep reminding himself not to address the deer skull atop her head. “I feel like I’m going to fall over.”
“I have drunk of the rakka before,” she said. “Many times in my duties as shaman. You are small. Perhaps it is stronger for you than for Orc.”
“Is there more?” he asked, gulping down a breath of the fragrant air. “Is the ritual finished?”
“There can be more,” she said, reaching for his face again. She stroked his cheek, pulses of sensation washing over him. “You are keesahn. By laws of our Gods, you belong to me. You must obey me. It would please the Gods for you to submit to me as you submit yourself to them. To serve me in all the ways I ask. Just as when you first surrendered, and when you drank of the rakka, it must be done willingly. I cannot compel you.”
“What exactly are you asking?”
“Lie with me,” she whispered, bringing her mask in close such that he could feel her breath on his skin. Even that was distractingly pleasant. “Give yourself to me, body and spirit both.”
“Do your laws allow this?” he stammered, already knowing the answer. Ghorza had explained it to him during her own advances in the cave.
“They do,” she replied, hovering close as though she intended to take a bite out of him.
“And what will the others say?” he continued. “Ghorza and Urami?”
“Ghorza already argues that we should take you,” she said, another warm breath washing over his neck and making his skin tingle. “Urami is choosy. This is sacred place. Private place. We will not be disturbed here. If you do not tell them, they will not know.”
“I can keep a secret,” he insisted, flinching as he felt her hand on his thigh. He was tempted to tell her that he and Ghorza had already slept together, but he had promised to keep a tight lip. Maybe Sharog would be angry that she had been beaten to the punch, or maybe Ghorza would be mad at him for telling. Either way, the secrets were piling up.
“Good turnip boy,” she purred, her tongue parting the beads to graze his neck. She began to mouthe and kiss just as Ghorza had, nuzzling his throat and letting her tusks scratch his skin. Her warmth was so enticing, the touch of her lips soft and slick, the sensation of her tongue glancing his neck enough to make him arch his spine. The damned poison made him so sensitive – he could barely concentrate on anything else. Sharog paused, noticing the scratches that were already present. “What is this?”
“Tree branch,” he mumbled. “While I was stumbling through the snow.”
“It is true that you are clumsy,” she chuckled, kissing him as though to soothe them. “You have done this before?”
“N-not with an Orc,” he insisted, trembling as she gently bit his shoulder. “But yes.”
“Do not be afraid,” she said, the bed frame creaking in protest as she rested a knee upon the soft mattress. She drew close, sliding a hand behind him to support him and leaning him back, the hanging beads of her mask tickling his face. “As I guide you in ritual, I shall guide you in this. Obey me, as you do in all things. I am strong, but I will be gentle for you.”
The beads parted as she embraced him, her sharp tusks grazing his cheeks, the intensity and intimacy of it overwhelming him as those full lips joined with his. Her kiss was deep and thirsty, a desire long buried now permitted to rise, each deft stroke and exploratory lick conveying a lust that ached to be sated. The feeling of her willful Orcish tongue licking his inner cheeks and teasing the roof of his mouth left him weak and trembling, the insidious poison doing its work, every sensation heightened tenfold. He became lost in her kiss, surfing the waves of euphoria that washed over him, little spots of color dancing before his eyes. His entire body was on fire, and it felt wonderful.
“You tremble,” she chuckled when she broke off. “Is it rakka, or is keesahn so tender?”
“It’s the poison,” he gasped, his chest heaving from nothing more than her embrace. “If it wasn’t for that, I’d ... I’d be giving as good as I got.”
“There is ... something about you, keesahn, ” she continued, cradling his head in her large hand. The sensation of her running her fingers through his hair was heavenly, leaving his mouth agape. “In Orcish men, we seek strength. He must be strong, powerful, able to match us in sparring. Better yet, best us. Orcish mate must sire strong children. You are small, soft,” she mused as she trailed her fingers across his chest.
“Relatively speaking,” he complained breathlessly.
“Yet still firm in right ways,” she continued, letting her digits linger on his stomach. Their mere presence sent pulses of pleasure radiating out in time with his heartbeat. “You are cute, and funny. You amuse me. It make me want to hold keesahn close, keep him near, protect him. Tell me that you mine, keesahn. Say it. Say you belong to me.”
Her hand gripped the back of his neck now, gentle, but forceful. He realized that he was as hard as stone, his member tenting his linens, throbbing almost painfully. The prospect of being touched there under the influence of her potion was as frightening as it was exciting. If she were to fuck him the way Ghorza had, he might end up a gibbering simpleton by the time he staggered out of the hut.
“I belong to you,” he uttered, the words coming so easily that he wondered whether it was a lie this time. “See? You wrote it right here,” he added as he tapped his chest.
“Always obedient,” Sharog sighed, her voice low and carnal now. “Gods reward obedience, as do I...”
Her hand became more forceful, and she lay him down on the bed, his legs trailing over the side. His feet didn’t even touch the floor, as it was sized for Orcs. He expected her to mount him without delay, but instead, he felt her weight leave the mattress. She knelt, putting her belly level with his knees, Rian hearing the many beads and tassels that she wore clatter against the floorboards. She leaned over him, those antlers swinging, her beads trailing across his chest as she kissed it. The Orc roamed lower, planting kisses as she went, the contrast of her cushiony lips and sharp tusks leaving him squirming on the linen sheets. It was a kind of wonderful torture, and it made him feel like he was floating in warm water, his head spinning with every lick of her tongue. It was though she wanted to devour him and was stopping herself, her soft bites driving him wild.
“You have kept to Orcish bathing rituals,” she sighed, admiring his body as it glistened with oil in the firelight. “Clean and ready for me.”
When she reached his linens, she tore them off with a lack of ceremony, tossing them aside. He could not see her face beneath the mask, but he could feel her hungry eyes on him, Sharog watching his exposed cock pulse in the cool air. She drew close, and the feeling of her hot breath washing over his glans made him arch his back off the bed.
“I wish to see you overwhelmed,” she growled, her powerful voice reverberating through him. “I will test your resolve before Gods.”
“Alright,” he mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at her. At this point, he was almost certain that none of this was part of any ritual. “If that’s what the Gods demand of us...”
“Do not tell Ghorza or Urami I do this for you,” she warned.
Before he could inquire further, she gripped his shaft in her hand, sending a stab of pleasure coursing through him. Just a squeeze was enough to rob him of his faculties, and he collapsed back onto the bed.
He caught a brief glimpse of tusk and tongue behind her beads, then she slid his member past them, lowering her horned head into his lap. Chill air was replaced with heat and wet flesh, the soft cushion of her tongue greeting him with a swirl, painting his skin with her saliva just as she had anointed him with the oil. His senses burned, like the bright shower of sparks when a hammer strikes a hot iron, pleasure like he had never felt trailing up his spine and seizing his muscles.
She held him there for a moment, mapping his shape with her deft organ, so agile that she could have been writing more runes for all he knew. It spiraled around his glans, sliding beneath his foreskin, her soft cheeks pressing around his shaft like a pair of silk pillows when she sucked. He could feel her lips pursing as she drew on him, inching a little further down. Rian had to cover his eyes with his forearm, even the addition of the faint light from the candles and the firepit enough to overwhelm his senses, so flooded were they with sensation.
Sharog was a large woman, to say the least, and she had no difficulty handling him. She forced herself closer, sinking his manhood deeper, until he felt those lips press against the base. The tusks were there too, making him shift his hips, trying to avoid being pricked. Fortunately, they seemed to be just far enough apart that his girth could fit between them, like he was sticking his cock through the bars of a cage. He felt her beads tickle him, along with the cold metal ring on her nose, another shiver rocking him as her throat closed around his tip. She was practically swallowing him, his shaft resting against her tongue, her muscles massaging him as she choked softly.
She drew back, Rian’s eyes rolling as her clinging muscles and teasing tongue slid up his aching length, his manhood joined to her pink lips by a strand of her drool that glistened in the firelight. He still found her headdress a little intimidating, as though some spectral creature was hunched over him, peering back with its empty sockets. Beneath the beads, he could just make out the glimmer of her yellow eyes watching him.
“Impressive,” she purred. “I feared you would finish quickly with the rakka in your blood. You are not as weak as you look.”
“Dirt tending has given me a strong back,” he panted, still reeling from the flurry of sensations.
“Oh, we shall test this,” she chuckled. She kept a firm grip on his shaft, starting to pump slowly, her own bubbling saliva making her touch slick and warm. Captivated by her movements, he went quiet, his eyes following her green fist up and down. Her skin was so soft, the poison leaving it feeling smoother than the finest silk.
“So cute,” she said with a covetous sigh, the tone of her voice conveying a smile. “You make me feel strange, keesahn. Were you Orcish mate, I would subdue you and take my fill of you, like eating until I have full belly. But if I am to enjoy you, I must be slow. I must be gentle so you not break.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” he muttered, shuddering as she stroked his glans with her thumb.
“I can take you any time I please,” she added, her voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Laws of Raz’kal permit this. You are my spoils, to do with as I wish, and part of me wishes to take my pleasure of you whenever desire grows in me. You would serve me in bed just as you serve me in washing, cooking, and cleaning. I would call, and you would answer. You are handsome, pampered little thing...”
“What’s stopping you?” he asked, gasping as she gave him another cruel pump of her fist. “I’m just a lowly keesahn, right? I can never refuse you.”
He didn’t want to refuse her. The prospect of being hauled off to bed whenever the mood took her sounded like a sordid daydream made real, but he couldn’t let her know that. He had to keep playing the part of the downtrodden slave. Along with securing his position, he was starting to think that Sharog liked it that way. He could see how much the prospect of ordering him around got her juices flowing – hear how the tone of her voice changed when she called him keesahn, every syllable an indulgence. To Ghorza, it was a game. To Urami, it was an annoyance. Sharog seemed to take it all very seriously.
“Is easy thing to make you submit,” she replied, pausing to kiss his shaft. “You cannot best me in battle, and you are too weak to escape. Submitting because you accept place in village, because you understand Orcish laws, this different.”
She brought his member close again, sliding it between her tusks, Rian too enamored to flinch away from her. Her lips were full and pillowy, flushed a subtle pink in contrast to the rich green of her complexion, scant glimpses of them visible through her beads. She let his glans rest against them, not drawing it deeper, but letting it pulse and twitch. They pursed as she kissed him, leaving a gentle peck on the underside of his head, her tongue lancing out to send another searing jolt of pleasure through him.
He sucked in a breath as she finally slid them over his tip, her warm, wet mouth welcoming him once more. Her strong, slippery tongue swirled and coiled around it like a snake, leaving a smear of her saliva behind it. She was slow, doting, wanting him to linger on every minute sensation. Though he couldn’t see it, he could feel everything with such clarity, his mind tracking the movements of her agile organ as it lapped at his tip sluggishly. She kept her hand around his base, gripping his shaft between her thumb and forefinger and beginning to bob her head, taking him a few inches deeper.
Those incomparably soft lips crawled down his shaft, stopping about halfway, then rising again to leave his skin shining. Her tongue fought his cock for space the whole while, her mouth not quite large enough for them both, the slick muscle having to wriggle and shift around him. It felt like wet silk given life, warm and ever moving, its every glance plucking at his nerves.
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