The First Red Moon

The moon was a ruptured womb hung low and bleeding, so swollen its edges dripped slow, viscous crimson that hissed where it touched the leaves. The air tasted of iron filings, wet pine rot, and the sour reek of fresh-spilled seed baked into the Earth. Every breath coated the tongue with copper and cunt-heat.

Eight orcs moved like living siege engines, iron-shod feet crushing moss with soft, wet pops that released clouds of black spores and the stink of centuries of rot. Their scent rolled ahead of them like war-smoke: scorched iron, old blood, sour mead, and the thick, unmistakable musk of cocks already straining so hard the leather kilts creaked and glistened with pre-spend.

She tasted them before she saw them. A sudden spike of male heat on the back of her tongue, a brutal clench deep in her cunt that soaked her linen in one helpless, scalding rush. The fabric clung cold and wet between her thighs, squelching with every frantic step.

She ran.

Boots skidded on slick leaves that smelled of crushed nightshade and frost. Breath burst from her lungs in white plumes that tasted of pine pitch and terror. The circle closed like a fist. One heartbeat, the path was empty; the next, a wall of green-black muscle, scarred chests heaving, yellow eyes burning with reflected moon-blood.

Grushnak One-Tusk stepped forward. His chest rose and fell like a forge bellows; the spiral brand over his heart glistened wet and raw, as though the iron had only just been wrenched free and still steamed. When he inhaled, the sound was filthy, deliberate, dragging her scent straight into his lungs like smoke. She heard the wet click of tusks, smelled the sour heat of his breath (smoke, iron, and something darker, the musk that rises from orc loins when battle-lust and rut-lust braid together).

“Little starlight,” he growled, voice a slow grind of stone dragged across bronze. “The moon is bleeding. I can smell your cunt answering it.”

She was drenched. Slick poured down the inside of both thighs in a hot, betraying flood, pooling in her boots, squishing between her toes. Shame and hunger slammed together so hard her knees buckled, and her clit throbbed like a second heartbeat.

They circled. Eight furnaces of breath blasted across her skin, steaming in the freezing air. Fingers thick as her wrists clamped her throat, her jaw, her wrists. One thumb forced her lower lip down and shoved inside her mouth, letting her taste orc skin (salt, smoke, iron, raw cock). When she shuddered, every orc in the ring growled low, a sound that vibrated straight through her clit and made fresh slick gush out of her in a hot, audible trickle that pattered onto the leaves.

They stripped her like tearing meat from bone. Cloak ripped away with a sound like canvas shredding, gown shredded down the front in one violent yank that left red claw marks across her collarbones, linen undergarments torn aside until the night slapped every inch of bare skin with ice teeth. Her nipples drew so tight they burned; every exhale from eight orc mouths felt like a rough tongue dragging across them, leaving trails of steaming saliva that froze into tiny crystals.

Grushnak lifted her against his hip, as a child might a doll. One massive hand splayed across her back, pinning her so close she felt the iron rings in his braid bite into her breast hard enough to bruise and draw blood. The other hand ripped the last scrap of linen from between her legs (wet fabric tearing with a sodden rip) and shoved three thick fingers straight into her cunt without warning.

She screamed (raw, broken). The stretch burned white-hot; her walls fluttered helplessly around the invasion. He curled them, found the spot that made her vision go white, and held her there (impaled, shaking, squirting helplessly down his wrist in hot, rhythmic pulses that splattered his boots and steamed in the cold). The war-band watched her face twist with the first unwanted climax of the night, nostrils flaring at the sharp, musky scent of her release.

The first thrust of his cock was annihilation.

No pause, no mercy: one brutal stroke that punched through her maidenhead and seated him to the root in a single burning split. The stretch was white-hot agony; the ridges along his shaft dragged every raw nerve until pleasure and pain fused into a single screaming wire pulled through her spine. She felt herself tear, felt blood and a slick mix and pour down her thighs in a scalding rush, felt her cunt clench around him like it was trying to swallow him despite the pain. The wet slap of his hips against hers echoed through the trees like war drums.

They used her until the moon crawled pale and sick.

On her back in freezing moss that smelled of rot and crushed ferns, legs forced so wide her hips screamed, every thrust driving her shoulder blades into wet Earth while another orc fed bitter, pulsing cock down her throat until she gagged and drooled and came again just from the humiliation, tears and spit mixing with pre-spend on her chin. On hands and knees, while one split her from behind until she felt herself gush around him in helpless, animal pulses, the wet slap of green hips on her ass loud as war drums, her own slick and blood dripping in thick strings from her cunt to the leaves below.

Near dawn, Grushnak pressed her against rough oak bark that shredded the skin of her back raw, splinters biting deep. He moved slowly now, grinding deep, letting her feel every ridge, every throb, every scalding pulse as he spilled inside her in thick, burning ropes that left her clenching and empty and aching for more even as tears cut clean tracks through the mess on her face.

He left her collapsed in the moss, thighs glazed with blood and spent, and her own slick, cunt gaping and fluttering around nothing, lungs raw from screaming, every breath tasting of smoke, iron, and her own ruined body.

The black iron ring he pressed into her palm was hot enough to brand. When her shaking fingers closed around it, it seared a perfect circle into her skin with a hiss and the smell of her own cooking.

She stared at it through tears and ruined vision, tasting blood and spent on her swollen lips.

Then, legs still trembling, slick still dripping in slow pulses down her thighs and pooling beneath her, she slid it onto her thumb and felt the burn sink straight between her legs like a promise.

She rose on shattered legs and began the long walk home beneath a sky washing itself clean of red (marked, ruined, dripping, and already hungering for the next bleeding moon).

The Second Red Moon

The moon hung like a split cunt bleeding molten light, so swollen its heat turned the night air thick and wet.

She walked barefoot, every stone grinding into her soles like broken glass, every shard shooting white-hot wires straight to her clit. The linen shift was a soaked rag (transparent, clinging to her nipples like wet parchment, the first black ring on her thumb already glazed from rubbing herself raw the entire way).

They waited beneath the hanged man’s tree. Grushnak stood foremost, kilt ripped open, cock flushed black-green, veins like war-ropes, a steady rope of pre-spend dripping from the slit and hissing where it struck the cold ground.

She let the cloak fall like a war banner.

Ice clawed her skin. She smiled.

She stepped forward until her nipples scraped the spiral scar on his chest.

“On your knees,” she ordered, voice low, lethal, soaked in sex. “All of you. Now.”

Nine orcs crashed to the ground as one, cocks springing free, every one leaking like broken siege engines.

She walked the line, letting them drown in her scent (cunt-slick, smoke, iron, absolute ownership).

She stopped in front of Grushnak.

“Open.”

He opened wide.

She shoved four fingers straight down his throat until he gagged, then dragged them out, shining, and rammed them into her own cunt in one brutal thrust. She fucked herself on her own hand (wet sounds obscene), until the first orgasm detonated.

It hit like a war-hammer to the spine. Her cunt clamped so hard her fingers were trapped; her back bowed until vertebrae cracked like green wood on a Fire. A scream tore out of her (raw, animal, tasting of blood and smoke). The first jet shot three feet through the air (thick, scalding, smelling of salt and her own musk), splashing across Grushnak’s tusks and chest with a wet slap that steamed instantly. Another followed instantly (harder, longer), her hips jerking forward again and again, fucking empty air while her cunt spasmed open and shut on her trapped fingers, gushing in rhythmic pulses that soaked the moss in a dark, steaming lake. Her clit jerked so violently it felt like it tore free; her vision whited out and came back red; her thighs cramped so hard she tasted iron where she bit her tongue.

She did not stop. She rode the climax like a siege engine, thighs trembling, lungs burning, until the last shudder left her and she pulled her fingers free with a wet, filthy pop.

“Two cocks in my cunt. Right fucking now.”

Two orcs scrambled forward. She bent over Grushnak’s kneeling form, braced her hands on his shoulders, and spread her legs until her hips screamed.

The first cock slammed home (one brutal stroke that punched her cervix and lifted her onto her toes). The second force is applied alongside it (impossible stretch, burning, perfect). She roared and shoved back, taking both to the root, cunt gaping around double thickness, juices forced out in messy, squirting pulses with every thrust.