Her breath warmed his neck. A rough laugh rumbled through her chest, vibrating into his bones—no words, just that deep, guttural thunder that shook him to his core, igniting forbidden sparks.

Her pussy walls worked him rhythmically, squeezing in time like a hot, velvet fist claiming every throbbing inch of his cock.

Azrael made a sound between a whine and a whimper, raw and helpless.

'Can't breathe. Her Weight's crushing me. Too intense. I should push her off. I can't move my arms. She's enjoying this. She likes breaking her toys, watching them shatter under her.'

She pulled back, hands clamping his knees for leverage, nails biting like spurs.

She rode him hard, abdominal muscles rippling like coiled serpents beneath sweat-slicked green skin. Terrifyingly beautiful like this raw strength forged into savage lust, demanding he yield his soul along with his seed.

Up and down she hammered, messy now with his thick semen greasing the plunge, turning her tight pussy into a slick inferno.

The sounds were obscene: wet slaps echoing like war drums, punctuated by his weak groans, her pussy farting out globs of his hot load with every brutal, cock-stretching descent.

Time became meaningless. Five minutes? Twenty? She didn't slow, didn't tire, thighs quaking as she chased her peak like a storm devouring the horizon. Finally—a violent shudder ripped through her massive frame. Her eyes squeezed shut. She bellowed, a primal roar that rattled the hut's frame like an avalanche. Her inner muscles clamped down, pulsing wildly around his buried cock.

Her orgasm crashed through her like thunder, no whimper or moan—just that triumphant, earth-shaking bellow. Pure dominance, her pussy gushing hot cream in floods, milking him dry with greedy spasms that sucked at his veins.

Azrael sprawled beneath her, utterly destroyed, limbs jelly. 'She got what she wanted. Good. Maybe now it's over. Maybe now I can rest. Or die. Body's ready to quit either way.'

Footsteps crunched outside. The hide flap twitched aside. A smaller female orc peered in—still built like she could snap him in half, knife glinting at her belt, clutching a steaming pot. The smell of cooked meat flooded in, savory and mocking.

'Oh fuck. Dinner service. And I'm the main course, glazed and spent.'

The orc froze, eyes bulging at the queen's sprawl, then at him. The pot quaked in her grip.

The queen's bellow of pure rage could've shattered stone, a possessive thunderclap. The female squealed and dropped the pot—it crashed, shattering. Hot stew splashed across the floor, steaming perilously close to Azrael's toes.

The female scrambled for shards, babbling in frantic Orcish, terror twisting her face.

A male voice barked from outside, rough with fear—Azrael didn't catch the words, but the gist screamed: "Out! Now! She has claimed him!"

The female orc fled. The hide flap slapped shut. Silence crashed back.

Azrael huffed something that might've been a laugh if he had the energy—delirious, edged with hysteria. Saved by her possessive roar. 'Jealous type? Guarding her new toy?' He couldn't decide if that was better or worse. Wonderful. I've gone from villain to the queen's personal pet, collared in cum and conquest.

She ignored the interruption entirely, leaning down to scrape her tusks lightly against his neck—a teasing threat that pebbled his skin. Her hips stirred again, slow and demanding, grinding with wicked intent.

His body responded despite everything, the goddamn traitor—his cock twitching back to aching life inside her cum-soaked pussy, walls still fluttering like a trap resetting.

'Has it been two hours already? This is endless. This is how they breed. No courtship, no tenderness. Just ownership, branded deep.'

She lifted him easily, like he weighed nothing, and carried him to her throne—cradling his wrecked form against her heaving breasts. Set him down on the furs padding the seat. Straddled him again. Rode him there, the throne groaning under their slick, heaving weight like a beast in heat.

Her breasts bounced in his face, slick with sweat, nipples grazing his lips like dark invitations.

She gripped the armrests, knuckles paling to sickly green with the force. Her hips drove relentlessly, pussy slamming down on his aching cock, churning their mixed fluids into a frothy, obscene mess that soaked his balls and thighs in sticky rivers.

Azrael faded in and out of consciousness, world blurring to fevered haze. His face had gone pale as parchment. 'My soul has left. Just evacuated.

Left the shell behind. The groans? Those are just automatic responses now. Everything aches. Every single part. But even through the haze of pain and exhaustion, sensation broke through. Hate that I'm still responding to this, cock betraying me for her fire.'

He came again, barely a trickle this time—dry heaves of pleasure. She wrung it from him, rocking through her own shuddering release, a low growl vibrating her core.

Two hours after it began, she finally slowed. Eased off him with a wet, sucking pop. Stood, his mixed fluids running down her inner thigh in pearly trails.

She grabbed a hide and wiped herself clean with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning their weapons—brisk, unashamed.

Azrael sagged against the throne, a ruined husk.

Then everything went black.

The next morning, light crept through gaps in the hut's walls. Azrael woke in a chair—not the cage, an actual chair, padded with hides and positioned right beside the throne. Every part of his body throbbed like one massive bruise.

'My virginity. Lost to an orc queen.' He stared at the ceiling. 'Do I process this trauma or just compartmentalize and cope? Yeah, cope wins. Definitely cope.'

He was naked—she'd destroyed his clothes yesterday—but someone had draped a hide across his lap. Decent coverage.

Food waited on a low table beside him. A wooden bowl steaming with chunks of meat in thin broth. It smelled raw and bloody, like old iron.

'Orcish cuisine. Five stars in Hell's kitchen.' His stomach growled despite his reluctance. 'Skip it and starve? Or eat and have energy to plan? Energy wins.'

He speared a chunk of meat. It was tough, tasting vaguely of dirt and smoke. He forced it down. 'Fuel. That's all this is. Just fuel. Starving means dying, and dying means I lose.'

The queen sat beside him with her own bowl, scooping the contents like it was a delicacy. She glanced at him. Nodded once. Partners now? Equals?

Two male orc guards entered, carrying their own bowls. They knelt before eating, heads bowed respectfully.

But their eyes kept darting to Azrael, boiling with hatred. Fists clenched white-knuckled around their bowls.

'Human at the queen's table? Sitting beside her like he belongs? We have to kneel and he gets a chair? This is bullshit.'

One snarled under his breath. The other hawked and spat to the side.

Azrael focused on his bowl, deliberately not making eye contact. 'Side benefit of being the queen's bed-warmer—I get to eat with the royals. Just keep your head down. Don't look at them. Don't give them an excuse.' He paused mid-bite. 'Though honestly, with this charisma boost, I might accidentally charm them into hating me even more.'

The queen noticed. She stopped eating, tore a particularly juicy strip of meat from her bowl, and offered it to him. Grease dripped from it.

Her expression had changed. The cold, assessing mask was gone. Her tusks curved in something almost like a smile. Her eyes had softened. Like a guard dog looking at its master. Affection. Possession.

'What the fuck. Is this a food-sharing bonding thing? Some kind of orcish courtship ritual?' He stared at the meat. 'Shit.'

He took it slowly, bit into it. Fattier than the thin soup, actually tasting better. He chewed, swallowed, trying not to think too hard about what accepting it might mean.

'I lost my virginity to an orc. The orc queen, specifically. Multiple rounds. Made a mess of both of us.' His mind spun through the implications. 'What are the chances of pregnancy? Orc-human hybrid? That's probably possible in this fucked-up world. I could be a father.' He almost laughed. 'The original Azrael's fate. Hey, real Azrael see I changed your story completely. Look where the hell I am right now.'

She rumbled was that a chuckle? and squeezed his knee. Gentle, for her. Which still felt like a clamp.

Azrael stared at his bowl. 'I'm married to an orc queen. Or the equivalent. I'm the clan chief's spouse. The hero's journey fully subverted.' He snorted quietly.

The guards' glares intensified. The queen snapped—sharp and commanding. They scrambled out of the hut, practically tripping over themselves.

Quiet settled over the morning.

Azrael ate. And planned.

First priority: learn their language. Can't navigate this without communication. He watched the queen from the corner of his eye. Second priority: figure out if escape is even possible, or if I should just... adapt. The chair was definitely more comfortable than the cage. The food, while questionable, was food. He wasn't being actively tortured.

'This isn't freedom. But it's survival.' He took another bite. 'And survival means I'm still in the game. Still have options. Maybe not good options, but options.'

The queen glanced at him again. That same possessive softness in her eyes.

He ate, and plotted, and tried very hard not to think about what the night might bring.

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