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When the Stones Drop...
Haft 7
It feels like one is being gutted, like a big tusky boar is ripping out your innards!
'Blast that hurt—thought I was being stabbed through!'
The chiefs broke into uproarious laughter and King Ork rang his anvil. The wantons and the wenches were all crowding in to see as his loin cloth tore open and his stones dropped out, big as bull ork fists and made it so he could hardly walk.
A deep voice like a bell of dry cedar and iron then rumbled, “This is tarrable—How will I play speed skull now?”
And that voice was his, he realized in stunned disbelief as the wenches and wantons and even some cows—big queenly cows who had birthed orks now bucks and even bulls—crowded around. He had no idea that there were so many females. The wantons just watched from a distance when they played speed skull. Cows were rarely seen by the bucks. The females were approaching close like none other than Mother ever had.
Then a big, heavy, ruined hand, the hand of Brand, fell to his shoulder and blood oozed down over Haft's hide vest from the now ashen hand of the Bull Ork, who spoke, “Ye done good, Haft. But you done dancin' da ax caper en prancin' da skull downpit—ledz see ye leap and lunge wit dem balls trippin' ye up!”
The other Bulls and the rest of the chiefs gathered around him and pushed their way through the crowd of females to the Mating Tree where Mamma Cow squatted in the doorway, eye brows braided, fangs adorned with red paint, pendulous breasts swaying near to the ground.
Brand shoved a wench across the sward of moss and growled, “Back ye greedy gash! Back!”
It was then obvious that Haft was in real danger from the frenzied females, scores of whom were climbing over each other and trampling the smaller ones to get close enough to sniff him. The Bulls, led by the chiefs, pushed their way through the throng of heated gash like a King's Guard through a mob of murdering men. Bucks were never permitted to attend the Mating Tree—it was a mystery. Indeed, the bulk of the bulls had herded the three age-grades off and the cows and wenches had already shewed the whelps away into their brood trees.
He now stood before Mamma Cow, Ork Queen. About him crowded ten big bulls and about them a hundred females of various grades. The Ork Queen rose to her full height, and was as large as the chieftains, the second largest ork in the entire tribe. She was beautiful in a frightening way, her woolly hair braided like her eye brows, her sleek skin oiled and polished to a subtle oaken hue, not ashen like like the bulls and the crones, but richly lustrous, though not as lightly colored as the hazel-hued wantons who had yet to gain their full color.
She admired him openly.
As she approached, licking her full strawberry lips, Brand held on to him possessively and warned, “Mamma, we gotz da hide 'o vigor 'ere. Don' drain em dry—he gotz ta goez elfin. Ged dem stones strapped tight en armor—”
The towering orkress hefted her massive breasts in her huge hands and squirted milk in the eyes of Brand, who recoiled with a, “Blast!”
He was cut off again by her mighty croon, “We cows know our bidness, Bull—now off ta rut on da third-rank wenches. We prime cows gotz dis prize buck!”
This female was terrifying to behold, though her massive feminine proportions did stir desire in him.
She took immediate note of his dawning interest in her, “Good, Bull!”
With a wave of her mighty brown hand, four crones lumbered off on some errand and she caught his gaze and interpreted, clearly more intelligent than the bulls, “River oysters fer yer strength en armor fer yer stones ye will 'ave, HAFT! I much preferred your father to the King—I shall savor his buck!”
He was having a hard time not being mesmerized by her massive, pink-nippled breasts as she made them dance before him like meaty puppets with her flower-painted hands.
She stalked closer like a great hunting ape and crooned, “Keep yer eyes on da fruit, Buck and I'll make a bull a ye yet.”
Then, as a crowd of females gathered around and she waggled her hand-sized left nipple at him, she swung the entire breast into his jaw with such force that he was knocked off his feet. Then, as he began to roll over to rise and preserve his dignity, his ankle was grabbed in one great hand and he was dragged towards the gaping maw of the Mating Tree, the wenches and cows and wantons clicking their tongues and lips in an eerie ululation...
Dragging the hobbit from her hole had been easy.
Killing those elves had been a snap—he had felt elevated.
Even the human wizard who named himself his grand sire—though frightening—had filled him with energy.
After defeating Brand he had felt the stronger.
So, he had naively expected, that after he had rutted this massive cow down to her quivering knees and made her howl, that he would feel strong too. But know, he was drained as he lie there next to her and she was expanded. This was what one supposed happened when elves drank your blood—that they got strong and you got weak—this was terribly disarming. He wanted to sleep.
But this was not to be.
No sooner did he roll over to catch some much deserved sleep, did that great hand once again drag him—but drug him outside it did—out of the cozy, moss-carpeted den of pleasure, into a ring of waiting wantons.
He was then dragged by his braided hair to his feet and stood towering over the lithe females of his age grade, all flowered and painted, their fangs daintied-up with blue paint, wiggling their fleshy thighs, swiveling their bulging hips and wagging their relatively tiny breasts.
Mamma Cow, Queen of Orks, introduced the virgin orkresses, who were arranged from least to most well endowed and named according to the orkish gift for simplicity, “Melons, Melony, Melonious, Jugs, Juggy, Jugmoria, Jugnormius...and Jugnormity—my own baby gash!”
He liked Melony the best but figured that he better pick Jugnormity to please the Queen and she interrupted him, many times more astute than the King—who was understandably tired all of the time if such were his duties, “Haft, yer a full bull ork, not some persnickety man—you don't have to pick one. Fuck em all!”
She then slapped him on the back, driving his breath from him and announced, “Line up you greedy gashes! My Bull Haft is apt-named—and he's broke ta ride!”
She then whispered into his right ear as the larger wantons slapped the smaller ones to the back of the line and they arranged themselves in the reverse of the order he would have preferred, “When you get out in da worl, Hafty, dem human gashes 'ill bat dey eyes en pucker dey pretty lille mouths witout narry a fang might seem to invite an ork's attention. So long as ye don' neglect my herd here, all well en good to rut on some human wenches. But if ya bring one back here like yer ole dad, who broke my wee 'eart, I'll bite her fookin' tits off—now have at em Bull!”
And he had thought speed skull was a rough sport.
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