Captured By the Orc Ch. 10

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter Ten: Introductions

"Where did he touch you?"

Dalthu lowered his head between Samson's legs, and Samson could feel the orc's hot breath puff urgently against his skin. It tickled the sensitive area.

"Here?" The orc delivered an experimental lick across Samson's asshole.

"Hnggh—" Samson's voice was high and breathy. "I just came, dammit."

"And yet, your body is telling me it wants more."

"What do you—" Samson looked down. He was hard. Warmth flooded his cheeks as Dalthu said, "May I continue?" and raised an eyebrow in challenge. Samson chewed the inside of his cheek and turned his head away, unwilling to look Dalthu in the eye.

Taking his silence as a "yes," Dalthu dipped back down, sliding his tongue gently over Samson's orifice, exploring slowly. The orc's tongue gently lapped against him, and Samson felt the familiar warmth of desire growing.

Dalthu's tongue circled around his opening, the tip flicking across his pucker. A moan slipped from Samson's lips and Dalthu hummed a reply, encouraging him.

"You taste . . . so good." Dathu's words were muffled, but Samson felt the orc's tempo increase until he was slurping noisily.

"Th--that sound . . . I don't like the sound—" Samson wiggled under the large orc's ministrations, but Dalthu didn't stop. Holding Samson's hips up with one arm looped under him, the muscular warrior grasped Samson's prick with his free hand and tugged it impatiently.

"How did you manage until now with such a naughty body?" Dalthu sounded awe-struck. He held Samson still as each jerk of his cock sent him writhing in rapture. "You must have had to self-pleasure twenty times just to make it to breakfast. I shall have my hands full keeping you satisfied."

Samson curled his fingers through Dalthu's silky dark hair and silenced the orc by pressing his head firmly against his ass.

Dalthu took the hint. Samson was soon dripping wet. There was so much saliva, Samson could feel it slipping down his perineum. His shaft was coated in his own juices, which were lubing the orc's warm hand, allowing him to pump Samson's dick unrestrained. The orc pressed the tip of his hot tongue against Samson's opening and wriggled against it, seeking access.

"Fuck," Samson gasped. His hips bucked as a bolt of pleasure shot through him.

I almost came again.

"Language, pet," Dalthu chuckled, the vibrations nearly sending Samson catatonic. "You're still too tight," the orc added off-handedly.

"W-wha—"

What does he mean "too tight"? Too tight for what?

Samson struggled to look up at his golden-eyed captor, who was sucking on two of his large fingers. "What do you—"

"Dalthu?" An unfamiliar voice called from outside. "Are you in here?"

The orc froze as the door swung open and a dark-haired human woman marched in. "Mother?"

The woman's eyes widened as she took in the scene; Samson with his legs up in the air and Dalthu's head settled right between them.

MOTHER?!

Samson planted his foot into Dalthu's face and sent the startled orc tumbling backward into the pool. He scurried around looking for anything to cover himself while Dalthu rose sputtering out of the water.

"What do you think you're doing?" the woman shrieked.

Samson started to babble an apology as he clapped his hands over his groin, but the woman wasn't looking at him at all. Her eyes were staring daggers directly at Dalthu.

"The ceremony is about to begin," she hissed, "and instead of taking your place in front of the elders, what do I find?" She thrust an accusatory finger toward the orc. "You indulging with your mate."

"I was—"

"Were you planning on arriving late? Perhaps walking in during the Lok'vadnod? You'd bring such shame to your family?!"

"I was preparing him!"

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Sha. Preparation is good, my son. You must always care for your mate, but—Oh!" Her head whipped around to face Samson as if she had just become aware of his presence. She covered her mouth with both hands. "Oh . . . oh my. Forgive me, we haven't even been introduced!"

The woman stepped slowly toward Samson as if she were approaching a newborn fawn, no longer gnashing her teeth like an angry badger. She bowed her head. "My name is Rachelle. Mate of Kilug Bloodhand and mother of Dalthu, Graman, and Moth. It is my greatest pleasure to meet you . . .?" Rachelle paused expectantly.

"Oh! Um, Samson. Samson of . . . well, just Samson Cartwright."

Rachelle gave a toothy smile and opened her arms wide. "Aka'magosh, Samson Cartwright."

"Ah . . um, ah-kah-mah-gosh, Rach—" Before he could finish, Samson found himself in a full-body bear hug.

"I hope one day you will call me Mother," Rachelle whispered conspiratorially and released him, her dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight.

A pointed cough from where Dalthu stood caught her attention and she glanced dismissively at her eldest son. "You're still here?"

Dalthu shifted on his feet. "Not without Samson," he muttered at the ground.

Samson felt like he was finally seeing what his haughty, domineering orc was like as a child. He pictured little Dalthu stamping his foot when he didn't get his way and then immediately falling apart with one glare from his inimitable mother.

Adorable.

Samson snickered at his fanciful imagining. Who would have thought he'd ever use such a word for this hulking creature?

A sharp warning from Rachelle pulled Samson's focus back to the family squabble. "Go. Or I will tell Samson about the first time you tried to ride."

Dalthu's eyes went as big as wagon wheels. "You wouldn't."

"He was six years old and small for his age, so instead of lifting himself—"

"All right!" Dalthu's cheeks had become a pale yellow as he sped toward the door. He bellowed out over his shoulder, "Make sure he is prepared and arrives on time," and then he was gone.

This time Samson couldn't hold it back and laughed uproariously until tears ran down his face.

"His face," Samson wiped his eyes. "Did—oh god, did you see his face? Like—like a young boy caught washing his soiled sheets!" His cackles echoed in the cavernous room.

Samson's laughter faded. He turned to face Rachelle, who was staring at him intently. It was then Samson remembered he was still naked. He cupped his genitals in his hands, feeling the back of his neck grow warm.

"Erm, I--I'm . . .sorry. . ."

Rachelle laughed. A high, musical laugh, like a bell. It was sweet and innocent. Samson decided that he liked hearing it. "Nothing to be sorry for, dear," she said, and, without warning, pulled her dress up and over her head, leaving her as naked as he was.

Samson yelped and averted his eyes. "What are you—"

Another sweet laugh. "You'll get used to it. Orc culture encourages skinship. Now," Samson heard a splash of water and chanced a look over his shoulder. Rachelle was in the pool, holding a sponge. She smiled up at Samson, who wasn't sure if he was awake anymore. "Let's get you ready for tonight."

To be continued . . .