Chapter 3: Religious Fervor

After a while, the embers began to fade, and Bevan had run out of songs to sing. His throat was growing sore, and the pots of stew and soups had been all but emptied. The moon was high in the sky, peeking through the leaves of the forest canopy as the wind rustled the treetops. Gharol stretched her arms out, then stood, scratching her neck idly.

“Right, time to turn in I reckon. Some nice songs those were, Bevan. I don’t regret carting ye out here with me.” Bevan stood too, waiting expectantly. “What, ye comin’ with me are ye?”

His face began to burn again.

“N-No, I just ... where do I sleep? Back in the cart?”

“Ye’ll catch yer bloody death if ye sleep in that fuckin’ cart Bevan, and we ain’t got any spare tents for ye. Not enough Orcs to carry the gear of the ones yer Paladins killed.”

He waited, not knowing what else to do.

“Oh alright ye sod, ye can sleep in me tent. I got the biggest one, after all, bein’ the leader of this here band.”

“But where will you sleep?”

She leaned down to eye level with him, and he tried to keep his gaze away from her cleavage. He could see straight down her tunic, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

“Bevan, I ain’t sleepin’ outside and ye ain’t got anywhere else to go, so come along now. I promise I won’t sully yer honor or whatever it is that makes Paladins swear off doin’ the nasty. Not unless ye want me to,” she added with a wink. She chuckled as he looked away, his face red.

“Fuckin’ hell Bevan. We won’t need to start a fire next time we camp, I can use yer bloody face to heat the food, now follow me.”

She walked off into the darkness and Bevan trailed after her, jogging a little to keep up with her longer strides. The tents were set out in a circle around the campfire, towards the edges of the clearing. As they approached, he realized that Gharol’s tent was indeed the largest, and it had decorations and furs sewn into the fabric. Was this how the Orcs lived their lives? Bevan couldn’t imagine sleeping without being surrounded by stone walls and the security they conferred. Gharol led him forward and raised the flap to the tent, Bevan walking inside, not needing to crouch due to its size. The Orc entered behind him, fastening the flap shut and bending double in order to move about in what to her was a cramped space.

There was a large pile of pelts on the ground that obviously served as her bed, bear or wolf maybe. He ran his fingers through the material, enjoying the sensation of the silky fur on his fingertips. It was a far cry from the straw-stuffed mattresses he was accustomed to sleeping on at the monastery.

He heard clanking metal and turned to see Gharol removing the iron plating that protected her legs. Each slab of hammered metal looked to be as heavy as his shield. She piled them in the corner, now wearing only her underclothes much as he was. She had an imposing figure, and her clothing clung to her, patched and sewn in places where it had been cut or torn. Her wide hips were supported by thick, muscular legs and her weighty breasts hung in her tunic as she crouched.

“Pick a side kid, there should be room enough for the two of us.”

She shuffled over next to him and began to spread out the pelts, then lay down on her side, leaving just enough room in the tent for Bevan to squeeze in next to her. There was a chill in the air, and the ground was cold even through the layer of soft furs, but Gharol’s body radiated heat. After hesitating for a moment he lay down with his back to her, feeling the warmth of her breath in his hair. She smelled vaguely of honey, probably because of the mead.

He began to tremble, partly because of the cold night air and partly because of Gharol’s proximity to him. She made him feel ... odd ... confused. He hadn’t been around any women at all really, not since he had come of age and joined the Paladins. They were very strict about that kind of thing in the order. As Gharol pulled a pelt over them to serve as a blanket and he felt her large breasts press against his back, he began to understand why. He felt an unfamiliar ache in his loins, and he closed his legs on it, trying to block out the strange agitation that was rising in his belly.

“It’s fuckin’ cold, but it’ll warm up in a minute. Yer shiverin’ like a scared dog, Bevan.”

“I’m fine, I’ve slept in worse places,” he muttered.

“Well that’s a fine compliment, y’know a lot of Orcs would give their left nut to share a bed with Gharol for a night. Then again maybe mankind doesn’t like tough girls, ye like ‘em scrawny and covered in frills, ain’t that so?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course ye know, it’s written in yer blood. No amount of hittin’ yerself over the head with old books can make ye forget it. Yer body knows kid, has a mind of its own.”

Her breath tickled the back of his neck, making him shudder.

“Yer gonna catch a cold, ain’t nobody gonna buy a sick slave. Come ‘ere.”

Gharol wrapped one of her strong arms around Bevan’s upper body and pulled him closer to her, making him sink into the cushion of her bust through the fabric of her tunic, the weight of her heaving breasts spilling onto his shoulders and cradling his head. She breathed warm air down the back of his neck, and he started to feel dizzy, oddly weak. Was she right? Was he getting sick? No, it was something else...

“Be honest Bevan,” she whispered, her lips naught but a hair from his ear. He shut his eyes tightly as if it might somehow block her out, trying to ignore the softness of her bosom as its weight leaned on him. “Are ye really ready to die without ever knowin’ the touch of a woman? I could make ye feel good, I could be gentle. It wouldn’t hurt.”

His heart pounded like the hooves of a galloping horse, and she must have felt it through the hand that she had placed on his chest. She could see through him, he couldn’t hide anything from her. It was as if she knew everything about it him at a glance, like she knew him better than he knew himself.

Bevan didn’t know what he wanted, his erection rubbed painfully against the coarse fabric of his leggings, his breathing growing heavy and ragged. He felt Gharol’s hand crawl slowly down his body, brushing the growing hardness that strained against his clothing. He jumped, and she chuckled at his reaction.

“Told ye, ye body has a mind of its own. It knows what it wants, even if ye don’t.”

Her hand closed around his bulge, her touch gentle despite her strength, Bevan arching his back and pushing against her warm body beneath the blanket that enclosed them.

“Sounds like an invitation to me,” she whispered.

The Orc pressed her puffy lips to his neck, and he felt her serrated tusks rake his skin as she kissed, the odd contrast of sensations making him squirm in her grasp. She caught his ear in her teeth, tugging gently, and he brought a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. His brain was full of fog, he couldn’t think straight, the touch of her hand on his groin was overriding his senses. Gharol began to tug his pants down, and he made no move to stop her, wincing as his member bounced free of its prison and her fingers wrapped around it. Her skin was soft like velvet, and her grip was firm, the warmth of her palm permeating him to the core. He felt blood pumping through his organ, making it jump and pulse in her hand. He tried to buck, to drive his member deeper into her fist, but she held him still as if enjoying his fruitless writhing.

“Ye ever touched yerself, at least?” She waited for a reply, but he gave none, the power of coherent speech now a lost art form to him. She bit him softly on the neck, pinching his skin in her teeth, then chuckled as she felt a shiver run down his spine. “Oh, I am gonna have some fun with ye.”

She squeezed his erection in her hand, and Bevan cried out, covering his mouth in embarrassment as Gharol laughed, her heavy breasts bouncing against him with the motion. She began a slow, torturous pumping, not enough to satisfy the maddening itch that was growing inside him but just enough to keep him frustrated and wanting. He felt as if he might go crazy. Gharol knew exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how fast she should go to avoid giving him the relief that craved. Although she was gentle and considerate of his smaller stature, her intentions were cruel and selfish, yet somehow that thought made it feel all the better. What was wrong with him? Was this what the priests had warned him about? This creeping, cloying feeling that made stars dance before his eyes and made his legs go numb?

“W-What are you doing to me?” he whispered between pained gasps, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Yeah, this is what ye priests are so afraid of. Right now, I’m yer only God.”

Blasphemy, but it did nothing to slow the feeling that was gradually rising from deep within his loins.

“How does it feel?” Gharol whispered, nibbling at his earlobe as he twitched and rolled his hips in a futile effort to get more of whatever it was she was subjecting him to.

“I ... I don’t ... it feels ... good...” He could barely form a coherent sentence, every motion of her hand sent a pulse of white light through his head that blurred his vision and dulled his mind.

“Can’t believe ye never got off before, ye poor creature. No wonder yer so stuck up. Don’t worry, we’ll make up for lost time.”

She began to pump her hand faster now, and Bevan’s hips started to move in concert. He pushed out to meet her downward thrusts as he felt something rising within him, an electricity that tingled through his muscles and forced a low moan from his lips. Gharol pulled him closer to her, snaking her other arm under his ribs and holding him in her powerful embrace as she drove him to orgasm. He convulsed and whined in her grip, waves of pleasure rolling over him, each more powerful than the last as he sprayed thick ropes of his emission into her waiting hand. She stroked slowly now, delicately, milking what was left from his sensitive member as aftershocks pierced through his brain like hot knives and sweet afterglow drowned him in its bliss.

He felt dazed, as if he were floating on a cloud as Gharol rolled him over to face her, feeling the velvet fur of the pelts on his bare skin. She wiped her hand on the top of the blanket, then gripped his hair in her fist, pulling him closer for a deep and lurid kiss. Her tusks pressed against his lips as she forced her thick, slimy tongue into his mouth, she tasted of honeyed mead and metal. He relaxed into her arms, the sensation of her roving tongue exploring him somehow draining his will to resist her. He had read about kissing in books, a symbolic act performed to cement the vows of marriage, but this was different. This was obscene, indecent, and it felt wonderful. He tried to meet her, wrestling her clumsily in his mouth and she tightened her grip on his hair as if to say let me handle it. He went limp, letting her do as she pleased with him, her erotic kiss mingling with the pulsing glow of his dwindling euphoria.

She eventually broke away, their lips parting with a wet pop, a solitary strand of their shared saliva linking her mouth to his. He gasped, breathing heavily as she pushed his face into her cleavage, now slick with her sweat. Wet skin cooled his burning cheeks, the taste of salt on his lips, her heaving bosom engulfing his head as she drew him in. They were as large and as heavy as two sacks of grain, bulging from beneath the coarse fabric of her tunic as if trying to escape its confines. He breathed in her feminine musk, delving his hands into the soft meat of her breasts, her fat spilling between his fingers as he filled his palms.

That couldn’t be all there was, he needed more.

“Slow down kid, ye’ll be good and hard again in a few minutes, yer young. It’s my turn.”

Her turn? What did she mean? She raised her arms, pulling off her tunic, her bare breasts dropping heavily as she robbed them of their support. They bounced enticingly as they settled, her discolored nipples engorged, the two weighty globes hanging from her chest and swaying back and forth as she moved. She shuffled out of her leggings, and Bevan slid an explorative hand down her torso, her now nude body concealed by the pelt. He was greeted by two rows of chiseled abdominal muscles, tight and firm, bulging from beneath skin as smooth as polished metal and wet with beads of her sudor. He traced the contours that her abs cut into her stomach with his fingertips, passing her navel and reaching a tuft of curly hair.