Lamentations of the Turnip Farmer
Copyright© 2026 by Snekguy
Chapter 9: Run Ragged
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 9: Run Ragged - 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
Rian spent the rest of the day preparing for the festival. He dug more of the bonfire and began to chop firewood to the right lengths as demonstrated by Sharog, and he perused the storehouses to build a mental inventory and think up ideas for the feast. It might be his one chance to prove himself to the other villagers, so he wanted to make sure it all went smoothly.
What Sharog had said about Urami in the bath stuck with him as he completed his chores. Maybe her disdain for him wasn’t because of any personal dislike. At least, not in the sense that he had done anything to offend her. Rather, it was due to her religious beliefs – ones that placed him in a lowly position within their society. To Ghorza and Sharog, the laws were more flexible and more open to interpretation. He could be a keesahn, but still be useful and valued, even liked. But Urami treated the laws as ... well, law. If Krak’tul or Raz’kal said that he was an honorless dog, then it was so, and there was no arguing with her.
She had softened to him somewhat after their hunting trip together, when he had hit the wolf with a rock, so maybe there was still some chance of reaching her. He would have to embody Orcish customs and religion and become the Orciest Orc who ever Orced, short of painting his skin green and filing his teeth into tusks. Sharog would certainly teach him more if he asked. She had plenty of rituals planned for him, no doubt.
When the sun began to set, he prepared one of the meals he intended to serve at the feast. He took three fresh chickens from the storehouse and plucked them, then butchered them and fried the meat in oil over the firepit. He took fennel, parsley, and almonds, and diced them finely. Those were cooked in the leftover oil from the chicken to impart some of its flavors, and the dishes were served together. The Orcs ate heartily, and with Sharog’s approval, he marked it down to be served at the feast. She seemed so lively and content after their encounter in the shaman’s hut, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Maybe the Orcs really had been feeling lonely after their months isolated from the rest of their people in the colony.
“So, how did ritual go?” Ghorza asked as she bit into a piece of fried chicken breast. “Is turnip boy cleansed now?”
“His body and spirit are cleansed,” Sharog replied. “Keesahn has submitted to Orcish Gods and affirmed commitment to our ways. He is now fit to serve us during festival.”
“You are certain of this?” Urami asked skeptically. “I do not think he even understands our ways.”
“He shows willingness to learn,” Sharog insisted. “Rise, keesahn,” she added with a wave of her hand. “Show them your markings.”
Rian set down his plate by the fireside and stood up, unfastening his jacket. He tried to ignore Ghorza’s obvious smirk, the Orc leaning her elbows on the table and taking another bite as though he was putting on a show just for her. He unbuttoned his velvet jacket and then slid off his silk shirt, showing off the pigment that still stained his skin. It was the same that the Orcs used as their war paint, and unless their skin was very different from his own, it would probably linger for weeks.
Urami made no comment, so he had to assume that she was satisfied, while Ghorza’s grin only grew wider. She extended a pierced tongue, toying with her carved tusk as her eyes wandered up and down his painted torso.
“It suits you, keesahn,” she giggled.
“It’s practical, too,” he added as he glanced down at himself. “If I ever forget how to write your names, I can just take off my shirt.”
“Let it be reminder of who you belong to,” Urami added, taking a pointed swig from her tankard.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of me forgetting that,” he muttered. “Can I put my clothes back on now? It’s chilly in here.”
Sharog gave him a nod, and he quickly put on his shirt and jacket, returning to his meal.
“He is now fit to help prepare festival of winter moon,” Sharog continued. “I already task him with digging pit and cutting wood for great fire. He will cook dishes for the feast.”
“It is good that he is making himself useful,” Ghorza added. “There is much work and much hunting to do if we are to be prepared for more snow. It will free up Orcs for important tasks.”
“Festival of winter moon is also important,” Urami complained, scowling at her counterpart from across the table. “We must not shirk spiritual duties. The Gods expect fealty regardless of snow.”
“And they shall have it,” Sharog replied. Her tone reassuring. “Do not fret, Urami. We have performed all necessary rites. And after all, as laws of Raz’kal state, is highest purpose of keesahn not to serve captors?”
That seemed to satisfy her well enough, and she argued no further, sparing Rian a glance as she drank her ale.
“You will draw baths for us when we are finished eating,” Sharog continued, spearing another piece of chicken on her knife. “There will be much work to do in coming days. I suggest you rest well, turnip boy.”
“What is for breakfast?” Ghorza asked, stretching her arms above her head and yawning as she walked over to the firepit. She was wearing her nightgown, the linen garment hiding her slender figure. “It is cold today,” she complained, raising her hands before the flames to warm them. “We should perhaps have settled further South...”
“I haven’t made you breakfast yet,” Rian replied as he stoked the flames with a poker. “I only just woke up myself. What are you in the mood for? Eggs? Ham?”
“You are going down to storehouse?” she asked, perking up a little as he donned his boots. “I will come with you.”
“It’s pretty damned cold out there,” he warned, cocking an eyebrow at her as he buttoned his jacket. “Sure you don’t want to stay here, where it’s warm? I’m perfectly capable of fetching a dozen eggs without help.”
“Wait while I dress,” she insisted, vanishing behind her privacy screen again. When she returned, she was clothed in a fur jacket and leather pants, a wolf pelt cloak thrown about her shoulders.
The pair left the hut, emerging into the crisp morning air. The sun was only just starting to peek out over the valley, and most of the snow had not yet melted, so they followed the trails he had dug out the day before. The large pit he had toiled over was visible in the center of the courtyard. It would make for quite the bonfire when it was piled high with firewood. It might have seemed like a waste of fuel with the jaws of winter already closing, but the Orcs had certainly collected a large stockpile to see them through the season.
Rian took the familiar route to the storehouse, his towering companion following. The village was still sleeping, but that wasn’t unusual. As a serf, Rian was accustomed to rising before the crack of dawn to feed the animals, and he was usually the first to wake.
Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he stepped into the shack, perusing the shelves. The wooden slats and daub provided no insulation from the cold, but that was a good thing. It means that the food would keep longer. Ghorza closed the door on her way in, plunging them into shadow, pushing past a few hanging deer and sides of ham as she followed him.
“Are you after something in particular?” Rian asked. “Perhaps I could try making some pies. Those would probably go down well at the feast.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Ghorza turned him around, her yellow eyes looking down at him. Before he could ask what she was doing, she cupped his face in her warm hands and leaned down to kiss him, her tusks scratching his cheeks as their lips met. In his surprise, he could do little other than hold onto her wrists, returning her embrace as her pierced tongue probed his mouth.
“I need you, keesahn,” she whispered as she broke away. She was breathing heavily, each puff misting in the cold air.
“Here?” he protested, glancing around as though afraid that someone might be watching. “We’re not the only people in the village who will be wanting breakfast, Ghorza! What if someone catches us?”
“Then we had better be quick,” she giggled. “Come, keesahn. You serve me, do you not?”
She placed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to kneel, fumbling with her belt as her excitement grew. What she wanted was obvious enough. Already feeling himself growing firm beneath his breeches, he watched as she unfastened the clasp and slid her clinging leather pants down a few inches, revealing that she was wearing nothing beneath them. He was greeted with her familiar tuft of red hair and her vibrant green skin, her lips pink and inviting in the cold.
“I have your breakfast right here,” she purred, sliding a finger between her puffy lips. She withdrew it to create a glistening strand, the sight of it setting Rian’s heart racing. He should have been annoyed by her presumptuousness, but the sight of her was captivating, the golden piercing in her navel and the beginnings of her abs just visible beneath her jacket. Her belt hung low on her wide hips, and she cocked them, pushing out her nethers in invitation. She took a handful of his hair, tugging him closer, and he buried his face between her thighs.
He was practiced now – he knew what she liked and where she wanted to be touched. His agile tongue and lack of tusks soon had her gasping quietly, leaning back against a shelf of clay pots and making them rattle as her legs grew unsteady. Her familiar taste was intoxicating, as was the scent of her soaps and perfumes, even more apparent in the storehouse. She arched her back as he painted her vulva, letting his nose rub against her bud, his hands wandering across her thighs and reaching behind her to cup her rear.
“You are my favorite possession, keesahn,” she purred as she rolled her hips. Her grip on his hair was tight, keeping him close, encouraging his dutiful licking. “To think there was a time we did not value your talents. Cooking,” she said, her voice low and sordid. “Cleaning, bathing, warming my bed.”
Rian paused to pepper her thighs and belly with kisses and gentle bites, his desire starting to overcome his caution. He knew better than to drag out the encounter, but having her hot skin beneath his lips again left him feeling drunk, and he could think of nothing more than wanting to please her. He wanted to see that lean, athletic body twisting and bucking again, and he wanted to hear the little noises she made when she came. He burned to unbuckle his own belt and take her up against the shelves – feel her inner muscles gripping him once more, but he resisted. There would be ample time for that later. For now, he needed to get her off and get her out of the storehouse before some poor villager looking for a side of ham walked in on them.
“More,” she growled, the clay pots on the shelves clattering as she bucked against his face. She tugged his hair, sending a jolt of pleasure shooting through him, her movements growing more desperate. “There – right there!” she stammered, throwing back her head as he plunged his tongue between her lips. Only now did she release her hold on him, her green fingers seeking out her bud and rubbing it vigorously, the practiced motions telling him that she had satisfied her own needs many a time before. “I am nearly...”
A few more licks choked off her words, and she sucked in a moan, one hand covering her mouth to stifle the noise as the other continued its frenzied rubbing. With her honey on his lips, he kept up his slow licking, dragging the flat of his tongue along her vulva with an almost apologetic pace. He prolonged her pleasure for as long as he dared, gazing up at her beautiful body as her abs flexed and her spine arched, her flushed face contorted into an expression of rapture. Slowly, it became one of bliss, the Orc’s breathing growing calmer.
“Good keesahn,” she cooed, biting her lip as she gazed down at him through half-lidded eyes. “I awoke with need for you, and could not have you. It is enough to drive even a warrior mad. Fret not,” she added, taking his face in her hand and caressing his cheek. “I will have my fill of you again as soon as we have time together.”
She gripped him by his jacket and lifted him upright, keeping a hold on his collar as she subjected him to another kiss, slow and passionate. He found that he loved the way she embraced him when she was satisfied, all tenderness and affection. She broke off with a smack, releasing her hold on him, and began to dress hurriedly as he admired her.
“What will it be?” he asked, watching her adjust her fur cloak and buckle her belt. “I can think of a few different pie fillings you might enjoy.”
“Why you so red?” Urami asked as the pair entered the hut.
“It is cold,” Ghorza replied, her cloak wrapped tightly around her. Across her shoulder was a large leg of venison, the Orc holding it by the ankle. “Chill wind makes the blood rise.”
Urami exhaled through her nose in what might be acceptance, then went about her business, already at work polishing one of her prized weapons at her workbench. Sharog approached, already dressed, and Rian offered her the sack of ingredients he had brought.
“Pies,” he explained.
“What is pies?” Sharog asked, leaning over to look inside.
“You’ll like them,” he insisted, moving over to the table and emptying the bag. “I thought they might make a good snack to serve at the festival.”
“Your mind is on your work always,” Sharog mused. “This is good.”
“Keesahn is dutiful,” Ghorza added, giving him a knowing smirk as she dropped the meat onto the table beside him with a thud.
Rian got to work, dressing the leg of venison and separating the large cuts of muscle. He then brought a pot of salted water to a boil over the fire and tossed the meat inside, letting it cook for a time while he prepared the other ingredients. He mixed pepper, salt, and some spices in a pestle, then asked Sharog for a large wooden bowl.
“What you doing?” she wondered, watching with a frown as he measured out flour from a bag using a cup.
“This is wheat flour,” he explained, using a spoon to dig some butter from a pot and adding it to the powder. “We would grow wheat in our fields during the spring, and it would be ground in a mill until it became like this,” he said as he sifted some of it through his fingers.
“You eat this often?”
“No, not back home,” he added with a chuckle. “It was used to make expensive bread, pies, and tarts for the Lords and Ladies. It’s considered very fine and valuable. I know how to work with barley flour, so it shouldn’t be too different.”
He used his fingers to knead the butter and flour together, then added some eggs, his hands coated in the sticky substance by the time it was mixed. He turned out the dough onto the table and kneaded it some more, adding a little water here and there to keep it moist. After forming the dough into disks, he retrieved the venison and chopped it into smaller chunks, using it as the filling along with the spices he had prepared. They turned out more like pasties than pies, Rian folding them over and crimping them closed to seal the fillings inside, but the Orcs weren’t any the wiser.
His hosts watched curiously as he set the pasties to bake on the hot stones by the firepit, as hungry as they were curious, and it wasn’t long before breakfast was served.
“Something like this should be taken with ale,” he said, carrying over three full tankards from the keg. He set them down beside each woman, Urami leaning over to sniff her pasty suspiciously. “I doubt I’ll hear any complaints,” he added, standing back to watch. “You might want to let them cool for a couple of minutes more – they’ll be rather hot inside.”
Rian knew the Orcs well enough by now to guess that sweet, buttery pastry and spiced meat would go down a treat, feeling that odd swell of contentment and affection again as they began to wolf it down. He dug into his own pasty, sitting on the stone rim of the firepit beside their table, already thinking of some ways he could improve the recipe. He’d have to make them some nice bread, too. They ate a lot of it, and he wasn’t sure that they knew how to make it, having seen the odd grain porridge that the Orcs made when left to their own devices. They wouldn’t even need a mill. Urami could probably grind the grains into flour with her bare fists.
It was a hearty start to the day, and they were soon ready to begin their chores.
“Keesahn,” Sharog began, getting his attention as he cleared the table. “You will work on festival bonfire until midday. Cut logs and stack them as I showed you. When sun is highest, you will come with me into valley.”
“Oh?” he asked, pausing as he stacked the wooden boards. “It’s still very snowy, and it’ll be hard going. There’s also the risk of getting caught in a storm again, like what happened with Ghorza and I. We wouldn’t want to spend the night in another cave.”
“I need more medicine for winter,” she insisted. “You can find and identify herbs.”
“Alright,” he conceded, wondering if this was just another excuse to get him alone.
“I love your scent when you have been toiling,” Sharog growled, burying her pierced nose in his neck and letting her tongue graze his skin. She gave him another hard, vigorous thrust, the tree that she had him pinned against creaking under the strain.
They had only trekked a short distance from the village and collected a few token herbs before she had made her intentions known. They were both nude from the waist down now, save for their boots to protect them from the snow. The tree trunk was scarcely wider than Rian was, and Sharog was able to hook a long, muscular leg around the both of them for leverage. He rested his hand on her bare thigh, standing on his toes to reach her, his other arm wrapped around her hourglass waist as far as it could reach. A cold wind rustled the leaves above them, but they were warm and snug beneath the fur cloak that she had draped over them, the heat of her body drawing him in as surely as a campfire in a blizzard.
She gave him another punishing thrust, her pace deep, slow, and heavy. Rian could do little but lean back against the mossy bark and let her have her way with him, her warm breath washing over him with each groan and sigh. In truth, ever since Ghorza had left him wanting that morning, he had needed precisely this. Not that he could tell Sharog as much. He still feared that he hadn’t drunk enough ale at breakfast to wash Ghorza’s taste from his lips.
As if to prove otherwise, Sharog trapped him in another deep, greedy kiss as she swung her hips into him like a war hammer. He felt a few flecks of snow rain from the branches above, settling on the shoulders of her furry cloak.
“You are mine, keesahn,” she hissed as she placed a possessive bite on his throat. “You submit to our law, and law says I may take you whenever I please.”
“That’s what Raz’kal says,” Rian conceded, wondering which of them she was trying to convince more. She wanted so desperately for their sordid encounters to be lawful and proper and right, and it was adorable to watch her wrestle with her lust, those yellow eyes watching him so intently. It made his belly flutter to be wanted so badly – to be such a focus of her desires and her affections. “If the Gods say it, then it must be so.”
“That is right,” she panted, another swing of her hips driving him to the hilt and robbing him of his breath. It felt like a horse was backing into him in a stable. “That is good. You are my spoils, and I will enjoy you as I please...”
She was close now, gripping him tighter, her impressive frame starting to move faster beneath the furs. His hands slid on her wet skin, and his face plunged into her inviting cleavage, her stature giving him little choice in the matter. Beneath her open jacket, she wore only her leather sling, that freckly shelf of pillowy flesh rocking into him with each thrust.
“I need this,” she growled, cradling his face in her hand and kissing his neck. He could feel her tusks leaving pink trails on his skin – more branches that he had carelessly run into, so he’d have to tell the others. “I need you. You are my loyal keesahn, and you will stay by my side, yes?” She was rambling now, close to release, dripping with exertion in spite of the cold. “Do you belong to me? Say it!”
“I am yours,” he replied, gazing up at her red face. His own pleasure was mounting, and the words came out so earnest that he couldn’t tell them from a lie anymore.
Just like in the bed, he had no choice but to let her lead, each stroke squashing him between her wide hips and the unyielding tree trunk. There was no poison running through his veins to enhance his pleasure and lower his inhibitions this time, but being clear-headed and alert gave the experience a wholly different quality, and she soon had him clawing at her meaty hips for purchase. She seemed to grow tighter as they went, gripping him more fiercely, her thrusts taking on a desperate and hurried quality. She finished him up against the tree, the two of them remaining locked together until he’d given her every last drop, the Orc continuing the slow gyrating of her hips as she rode out her bliss.
They must have stayed that way for minutes, Sharog pinning Rian to the bark beneath her heaving frame, her smoldering afterglow leaving her infatuated. She locked him in slow, drawn-out kisses, each probing lick a testament to her desire. She peeled open the collar of his velvet jacket and gave his neck and shoulder the same treatment, Rian welcoming the pinch of her tusks now, his mind already associating the sensation with Orcish affection.
For all her talk of owning him as spoils and of his lost honor, Sharog treated him with such tenderness. None of the farmer’s daughters he’d tussled with in seclusion had ever spent minutes just kissing him, running their fingers through his hair, or covering his neck in gentle bites. He could feel how much she wanted to be close to him – how much she coveted him. It was soaked into her every touch and glance like wine into a linen. That feeling was more intoxicating than any spirit or potion, and he found his mind turning to it whenever there was quiet. He still had to maintain the illusion of being held against his will, under duress, but a frown was sometimes even harder to force than a smile. At least here, in her arms, she expected him to be content. A man was a man, after all.
She finally released him, and they sat at the base of the tree for a time, enjoying the calm that followed their lovemaking. Logic might suggest that they should dress if they wished to be warm, but skin-on-skin contact beneath the fur cloak was far more inviting. She curled an arm around him, letting him rest his head on her chest, the sound of her breathing hypnotic.
“We should not stay here too long,” she said with a reluctant sigh. “The others will miss us.”
“And we should probably collect a few more herbs for appearances,” Rian chuckled. All of the cloak-and-dagger stuff was starting to get silly, but he didn’t have a solution to offer her.
“Perhaps it is because of cold, but I do not wish to move,” she murmured softly.
“Will you teach me some more words?” Rian asked, glancing up at her expectantly.
“What words you need to know?” she chuckled.
“If I am to adopt Orcish ways, I must learn Orcish words,” he insisted. “So I can better serve you.”
“Then ask,” she conceded with a smile.
“What’s the Orcish word for kiss?” he began.
“Suula,” she replied. She whispered it to him – a soft and pleasant-sounding word in contrast to the harshness he had come to expect of the language. He repeated it, working it into a phrase to ask her for a kiss. “Very good,” she purred, leaning down to reward him with an indulgent embrace. “And you remember word for desire?”
“Rhul,” he replied, captivated.
“Tell me that you desire me,” she insisted, keeping her hand on her cheek.
“I desire you, ” he said in Orcish, and was rewarded with another kiss. “Teach me more,” he added. “All the words to do with making love.”
“I think there is time enough,” she chuckled, drawing him a little closer beneath the cloak.
And so went the routine over the next several days, Rian working on his household duties and the preparations for the festival both. He bathed the Orcs, washed their clothes, and tidied their hut while they went about their business. He cooked them a new dish for each meal, taking inventory of the ingredients and supplies, slowly building a list to be served during the coming event. His tasks varied day by day, fresh snowfall requiring him to do some shoveling, or the women needing to be squired prior to their sparring matches. They trained regularly, snow or rain be damned. He tended his little herb garden, finding that some of the hardier plants were starting to come in as he had hoped. Soon, he would have a self-sustaining supply for cooking, regardless of what the Orcs chose to sell or keep.
The bonfire was finished, the lattice of logs stacked thrice as high as a man, and Sharog now had him erecting totems around the courtyard. Perhaps it was one of the reasons he had been cleansed so vigorously, as they were made from tall poles that were lashed with decorated skulls and carved with runes, which Sharog explained honored their different Gods. A reluctant Ghorza had been conscripted to be his assistant during the feast. It was a big job, and having an extra pair of hands would be helpful. The trade caravan was scheduled to return in the days before the winter moon, and all that remained now was to prepare the seating.
He practiced his Orcish as he worked, always keeping an ear open for conversations that he might overhear, and practicing his phrases when anyone would listen. Most of the villagers seemed to see it as an amusing oddity, like a child who has learned to curse without understanding the meaning of the words, but that was the way he wanted it. He was becoming quite adept now, and his ability to eavesdrop required some discretion on his part.
His work kept him rather busy, and the Orcs made good use of their keesahn in more ways than one. Ghorza was insatiable, pulling him away for a quickie at every opportunity, sometimes more than once in a day. Twice more, she had taken him in the storehouse, and she insisted that he accompany her on hunting expeditions to the point that even the least perceptive Orcs should be growing suspicious. It was a miracle that they got any hunting done at all, as most of their evenings were spent on the floors of caves in the cliffside, tangled together beneath her cloak. It was fortunate that Ghorza was as skilled with a bow as she was with her hips, and she was always able to bag a deer or some rabbits to keep up appearances.
Sharog supervised him throughout much of the festival preparations in the mornings, often giving her ample excuses to get him alone. While Ghorza could often be sated with a tongue or a hurried rut atop the grain sacks, Sharog was more indulgent, and she liked to take her time. Like a fine wine, she wished to savor their encounters, and her interpretation of the word quick could mean an hour or more spent on one of the beds in the shaman’s hut. Even without the rakka poison to enhance his senses, the incense and flickering candles of that place gave it a dreamlike quality, and spending time there with Sharog was like stepping into another world. They always found their way into the bath by the end of it, and he looked forward to that almost as much as the sex. Bathing one another with soaps and oils while their post-coital bliss still lingered was a taste of heaven.
Between Ghorza’s youthful vivacity and spontaneity, and Sharog’s long and doting sessions, Rian was being run ragged. They expected him to be weak, and attributed his fatigue largely to his chores, but being shared between both of them was like trying to keep pace with a horse. Whether they realized it or not, they were both treating him differently, too. Longing glances across the dining table, excuses to be close to him, a hand lingering on his shoulder just a little too long, all the smiling – they might as well be screaming it from the rooftops.
The Orcs were direct and blunt. They were not adept at lying or subterfuge, and he thanked his stars that they were no more skilled when it came to perception. The two women might be too distracted to know what the other was doing, but Urami surely knew that something untoward was going on. She knew her companions better than he did, and even he could see the changes in their demeanor.
It didn’t take many days of such goings on before his suspicions about her suspicions were confirmed.
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