tagSci-Fi & FantasyIn Shadowed Silence Ch. 05

In Shadowed Silence Ch. 05


In Shadowed Silence: Chapter 5

Olus ducked his head to enter his house. The door frames were annoyingly low; but then, all doorframes were low to him. At nearly seven and a half feet tall, with shoulders broader than the back of a draft horse, doors were the enemy. He couldn't count the times he had concussed himself just trying to get out of a taproom to go home. He scanned the small room grumpily, getting more irritated by the month at his cramped quarters. He shut the night sounds of the docks of Loria out and barred the portal.

By all rights, one with his talents and sheer bodily power should not be made to live in such a hovel. His house was a single, L-shaped room, partitioned into a bedroom, kitchen and a tiny office space where he'd do his books, into which he could barely squeeze his bulk. It was called a 'breakfast nook'. There was a crude joke there, but since his mind plodded along too slowly, he couldn't think just what it was, so he just grinned maliciously at the notion. The Kitchen had the house's fireplace, with ill-used cooking implements, with the exception of the kettle, which was large enough to boil a halfling or dwarf, and had done just that service a time or two. A table just big enough for a plate, tankard and his meaty elbows separated the kitchen are from the bedroom and office. The furniture was heavily reinforced with iron, so much that the average man couldn't lift them with any amount of ease. There was, however, a sense of comfort in the space for him. If just the doors were larger, he could deal with such squalid quarters.

But, really, He should have long since had a posting at a Lord's keep, at the very least.

His bed was simply huge, taking up most of the available floor space at the foot of the L shape of the living space. It was patch-worked and lumpy, having been made from a pair of military tents and stuffed with the wool of four dozen mountain sheep. It sat upon a thick wooden frame, strung with springy steel straps. An invention of Olus's own design, they lent the mattress both comfort and support. If he slept upon it carefully, his feet didn't even hang off the end. Under the foot of the bed, he had dug a hole in the flagstone floor, excavating a pit in which to store... illicit items. The bones of former victims littered the bottom of the oubliette, along with its only living resident: a certain green-eyed slip of a girl.

His house was uncharacteristically clean, however, thanks to same girl. While she didn't serve his tastes exactly, she still had uses. She could clean the house and amuse him in certain ways, even without breaching the restrictions the Patrons put upon his treatment of her. Even so, she was as much a chain on his own ankle; he was trapped here, watching over her, barely able to attend to business. And the damned street rat, Aulric had seen her. Fuck! That boy could be trouble as well, as stupid and weak as he was. The girl had gone all moon-eyed at him, too; he was sure if he just let them be together for a few hours alone, she'd no longer be his problem. He'd as soon sell her, or sell rights to lay with her, but that was strictly forbidden.

Forbidden! Bah!

Xarek and his ilk had laid stifling limits on what uses to which he could put her. Why the hell saddle him with this shit detail, when mayhem was always at his fingertips? He was sure the problem lay in their plans for him and his forge. They paid him well, and no mistake, but forbade him to spoil her, in any fashion, so the pastimes he would choose with the girl were out of the question. The also forbade him, likewise, to let others spoil her. She was a virgin, then, but what use was that? Lastly, they forbade him to draw undue attention, lest his 'guest' be discovered.

That part was easy. Olus Grogan enjoyed a great deal of privacy, as the general populace and most of the guardsmen feared him. Crush a watchman's helmet with bare hands, and the message was clear. Crush the same guardsman's helmet while the guard was wearing it, and that was the kind of message the ogrish smith relished sending. His standing retainer on a couple of guard captains pretty much assured his pursuits would remain unhindered, and they would keep the others from asking too many questions. No one was going to be the wiser, except for the street rat having seen her, that is.

The part that wasn't easy was not spoiling her. The temptation was always there; to hear her scream and sob, to force his rod upon her unwilling flesh. To see the inches-thick, foot-long shaft force its way into her virgin cunt...

Olus shivered a little and chuckled at the visual. His balls tingled and his manhood stirred like a beast waking from restless sleep. Her horror and her pain would be delicious. And after...

But there were penalties. Plateaus of agony, of which he had tasted; sampled mountainous wracking tortures that caused even his cruel heart to quail. Xarek had shown him. Talarin had hinted at even loftier peaks of pain. Those two had unearthed positively fiendish secrets of dispensing harm that Olus could scarcely even imagine. Their magics made almost anything possible.

But there were no such limits in other arenas. His cock strained at his leather pants fiercely, even in the face of such fears of retribution; in fact, it was because of those fears his blood quickened. For the giant smith, blood equaled thought, overrode it, supplanted it.

Grogan did not think. He lifted the foot of the bed with one massive paw, and pulled the grate over the girl's prison open with the other. He propped the bed up on the open trapdoor. An eyebolt was set into the floor at the rim of the pit, the chain trailing down from the hardware into the darkness. He took up the links in his fist and rattled them to get his ward's attention.

A whimper came from the bottom. Olus began pulling up the chain. "Yer coming up, girl. Grab on tight," he was breathless, his growling voice almost painfully deep with his arousal. "Don't want to rip yer foot off, do we?"

Hand over hand he lifted the taut length of chain into the lamplight of his chamber. It swayed with the weight of its burden, not overmuch, but as though he drew in a catch at his favorite fishing spot on the deep, wide Jhalin river, where it wended its way out of Loria's docks district. His grey eyes could just pick out the shape of the girl dangling by her hands from the cold iron links. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he could almost see her wide, canted emerald eyes shining, verdant in the darkness below.

As she reached the lip of the oubliette, Olus slid his left hand down the chain to just above where she gripped it. Then, with a grunt, he lifted her with just the one hand, holding her at arm's length to regard her with piggish, grey eyes. Dangling from the chain had positioned her arms above her head, which lifted her rough shift so that her hips and milky-white ass was visible. Leering at her, he turned her to see the fine downy hair of her mound, as deep, dark red as that upon her head.

She smelled of the pit, and Grogan inhaled deeply of the stench; it only served to heighten his arousal. Her suffering was to Olus as a fine wine was to one of the noble Patrons. They wouldn't be able to appreciate it as he did, the fools. He roughly took her chin in his right hand, more or less covering her mouth and nose as he did, the better to see her almost elfin eyes.

She stared at him. She actually stared at him. Grogan was always giddy, each time she declined to shut her eyes, as though refusing to deny what was about to happen to her. Indeed, her glare from her strange eyes was nearly defiant. She faced the horrors he visited upon her with open eyes, however sadly limited those horrors were. His small, grey orbs bored into her dazzlingly green, and he sneered derisively, but the expression was so loaded with cruel lust, that it couldn't have been mistaken for anything but.

The chain clinked and clattered as it swung, and dragged against the flagstones. The sounds of the city were muted outside the sealed shutters. There was a hiss of air against Olus' palm as she forced her breath past it, and it grew warm and cool in turn as she exhaled and inhaled. The smith's malice and lust shortened his breath, making it shallow and sharp.

"Stand." he commanded, and set the odd girl on her feet, among the loose, coiling chain looping over the floor.

The girl stared up at him silently, standing only just taller than waist-level to the ogrish man. He cracked his neck and knuckles, scowling down at her. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins, strong and hot. His monstrous cock pulsed almost painfully, trapped in the confines of his leather breeches.

She said nothing. No pleading. Not any more. She was perfect. Small, defenseless, and beaten... but still, defiant, proud. Not broken, but cracked, just the way Olus liked them.

"Take off the tunic," his voice grated. 'The tunic.' Not 'your.' To say that would give her possession; allow her an identity. Unacceptable. She was his.

She did not obey immediately, and the smith blew out an annoyed breath through his nose, snorting his disapproval. She exhaled and moved to obey.

She simply tucked one shoulder in, and pulled downward on the rough fabric, drawing the garment down over her shoulders, to catch briefly on the swell of her breasts. The pliant flesh bounced as the girl tugged the tunic down off them, over her stomach and to her slim waist. She then hooked her thumbs in the rough shift's neckline to shimmy it down over the flare of her hips.

The garment pooled around her filthy feet like the chain coiled over itself on the floor. Her angular face was free of expression, as though what Olus was forcing upon her was not actually happening. He allowed himself a small smile at that.

He gave a short, satisfied grunt, then nodded down to his bulging crotch.

"Free it."

Again, she did nothing at first, and Olus thought that she was steeling herself for the task ahead. She reached out toward his belt haltingly. Her eyes were taut with some strong emotion.

Ah, he thought. There it is. That's the fear I want. He grinned as she fumbled daintily with the twin buckles on the wide girdle he wore. The constriction of his member in his leathers was excruciating now, its rigidity at odds with its position, pointing nearly straight down his thickly muscled left thigh.

Once unfastened, she dropped the belt to the floor and set to on the hooks and loops of his breeches.

"Free. It," Olus repeated tersely.

His prisoner redoubled her efforts with a nervous glance at him. He hid a victorious smile at the apparent crack in her calm, serene veneer, but at the same time, his member felt like it would rupture if she didn't get those pants off now.

Finally, he felt the tension releasing, and sighed when she hauled his breeches far enough down his legs for his cock to spring free. And spring it did, almost slapping her in the face. She flinched away from it, as though it were dangerous. Olus Grogan chuckled darkly.

She stood up straight again, her hands falling to her sides. Her face was smooth and clear, if dirty, and betrayed no expression, but her dulled emerald eyes spoke volumes of the erosion of her pride, and the depth of defeat she felt. Olus' heart jumped, and his long, thick cock throbbed and twitched in time with his heart's steady beats. The girl peered up at him through her tangled curtain of lank red hair.

"Lick it," he breathed. "Slowly. From balls to head."

She grimaced slightly, and he couldn't keep the malignant, smug smirk off his face. "Do it," he growled. "Hold it in your hand," he added.

She didn't have to bend far to position herself for the task. She took his rod in her slender fingers, and Grogan smiled. She couldn't quite get her fingers all the way around it, but held it pointing straight up, along the smith's body. She leaned in and Olus exhaled as her breath tickled his sac. She placed her tongue under his balls and dragged it, torturously slow, up his wiry-haired scrotum. He heard her choke softly; he hadn't bathed today. He smiled darkly at the top of her head.

She continued up to the base of his shaft, thick as her forearm, and tingles went down the giant man's spine. Her tongue drew a wet, languid line up the underside of his phallus, and passed between her thumb and fingers, wet with his precum. When she licked up and over his flat, wide head, he shuddered. The young woman sucked in a breath, trying not to choke on the old-sweat-and-leather odor.

"Keep going," he prodded.

She ran her tongue up and down his length, which was rapidly being coated with his precum. His prisoner obediently lathed his member, dutifully mopping his sticky cock with her tongue. She twirled her tongue around the head, and Grogan's vision misted and he saw stars for a moment.

"Suck it," he rasped, palming the back of her head, forcing her mouth wide and onto his waiting lance. "As far as it'll go... Then farther."

The young woman took his head into her mouth; he was amazed at how wide she could open. Her teeth brushed his frenulum, and he twitched. That was all it took to make her gag. He chortled evilly and kept her face planted over his cock, choking her with his thick head for a few seconds. He grabbed a fistful of hair at the back her head and pulled her away. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she wheezed and sucked in air, tears streaming tracks down her filthy face.

He let her hair go, and spoke softly as he could, "Continue," letting the word become a mocking, desultory, squirming thing that would leech away her self respect and restraint. "You will please me," the smith declared, daring her to deny him.

She glanced up to him, her wet eyes wounded and desperate, and he almost came in her face right then. He held back, and she put her tongue and mouth back to the task, slathering his member with saliva, which blended to a froth with the precum oozing from his fat dick. She forced her head down onto him, taking his cock farther than she ever had, past the head, her tongue flattened against its underside.

Olus' cum was boiling up inside him, and his foggy brain sent him a mental image so strong and cruel that he laughed out loud. He gathered her hair up in a fist and began fucking her face, rewarded by involuntary grunts and sloppy sub-vocalizations as she gagged and choked on his massive manhood. Her hands, wrapped around the base of his cock, pushed back reflexively, and by the time he finally stopped humping her face, she hacked and coughed violently, with a few retching sounds.

Grogan was pleased immensely. "Good." He tilted her face up to see the nearly clean stripes down her tear-streaked face. Her green eyes were rimmed with red and she breathed raggedly.

He straightened his back and crossed his heavily muscled arms over his keg-like chest. "Lick it. Suck it," he rumbled. There was definite hesitation, and he reached down for her hair again, scowling.

She dove onto his cock again, spurred into action. He murmured, "You think yer little wiry, skinny little pretty boy can give it to you this good," he asked, testing the waters. She hesitated once more, so he barged on. "Aulric. That's the street rat's name," he hazed her. "He won't have the kind of cock you want; not like this one. You think for a second that he can make you squirm like this? Make you choke?" He picked up steam as she seemed to put more effort into giving him head.

He felt his head bumping against the back of her throat, her speed increasing. "Yeah," he growled. "Those shoulders, those wiry legs..." She whimpered, sending a pleasant little vibration down his shaft. "His deep, brown eyes..." One of the girl's hands went down between her legs.

What the fucking Nine-and-a-half godsdamned Hells? He was shocked that talking about the weak little street rat had worked her up this good. She was getting off on just hearing about him. Hmph. Musta struck a nerve here. Some random thought knocked politely on the door to the rowdy and loud room where he kept his thoughts, and went unheard. It was something about her desires... Ah, he'd get the door later. This was too good to pass up.

"Oh," he mused, "is this turning you on? Talking about your pretty little street rat?" He grinned as she moaned around his girth. "Tell you what. I won't kill him, no." He gave a mean little chuckle. "Maybe I'll bring him here. You could use a little company, right? You could look all you wanted." He pitched his voice low, a calculating gaze locked on her as she gasped and moaned, sucking his huge member. "Touch him..." he suggested, "all you want."

Her fingers worked a quick rhythm between her legs, and he could smell her sex, musky and sweet. She moaned and the vibrations sent a little shock through him. Olus was getting into her head with this line of bullshit. She was going crazy.

"And that tight, athletic ass of his," he whistled. "Damn, but won't it be fun to watch me," he said, his voice hardening and rising to a growl, "stuff my cock between those cheeks and fuck him on my anvil..."

She stopped and pulled back from his cock in horror, her eyes wide with panic.

He snarled, "...until he fucking splits in half!" He palmed her face roughly, bending to look her in the face. "I will break his pelvis and ruin his asshole, and I won't stop! I'll grind his ass 'til it splits," His voice dropped to a whisper as tears, real tears, welled in her horrified eyes. "Then I will reach in with my fist and rip his guts out into the coals of my forge."

She whimpered and sobbed, her face crumbling, helpless, utterly without hope. The desperation in her green eyes was too much for him, and Olus came, shooting ropes of cum onto the grieving young woman's face, into her hair, over her breasts. Eight, nine spurts, maybe enough to fill a milk bottle.

"Fuck, yes," he crowed. "Better than you've ever been, bitch!'

"Impressive," a blithe, nasal voice came from the shop-side door, the very door where Aulric had seen Olus' pet.

The ogrish man spun with a snarl, his still-hard cock pointing straight at the one who spoke.

The thin, tall man leaned impassively on the door frame. His features were narrow and long, and his white-blond hair fell limply around his face, not quite reaching the bottom of his jaw. The moustache and goatee was probably supposed to make him look sinister, Grogan figured, but it just served to make him look like a limp-wristed prick. The cleft in his shapeless chin that his sparse hair failed to hide made it look like nothing so much as a scrotum, which, to the smith's mind, left the thin man with dick going into or coming out of his mouth at all times.

"Tumaud," Grogan hissed. "You weasely little cocksucker, you ever enter my home without an invitation again and..."

Tumaud tsked. "Oh, that won't do. Greet me as a brother. The Patrons have sent me to check upon their investment."

Olus noted the man's eyes dart a couple of times toward his manhood. He took a step toward the man, stroking his length in one meaty hand. "She's there..." he grinned evilly. "And well-fed."

"The Patrons were clear," he complained, wringing his spidery hands. Fucking cowardly thief. "She is to be unspoiled. And cared for." The Guildsman stared at her nakedness in what Grogan thought was horror. What with her thinness and deeply shadowed eyes, filthy skin, grimy hands and lank hair, the skinny, short woman could have passed as a zombie in any graveyard in the city.

"Shut up, simp," Gogan sneered, gathering the last milkings of cum on his fingers and regarding it. "The Patrons were pretty..." he searched for the word for a moment. "Specific. I ain't given her nothin' they can lash me for."

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