Chained

Frigid.

That was the first thought that drifted into his addled mind when he finally woke. He was on his side, and as bleary consciousness returned, he had only the briefest of moments to realize that he was naked and that his hands were bound behind his back with two bands of metal before sudden, powerful heaves brought forth the last day's meal. Except, he realized as his body revolted with what felt like every cell of his being, that I have no fucking idea what day it is. His groan was gravel in his throat as he moved to roll onto his other side – away from the spreading pile of vomit that was slowly edging towards him. And with his attempt to move, came other jewels of information.

Not only was he bound – but the sharp jingle of shackles and the metal piece protruding from the floor told him that he was chained as well. His cuffs were tight around his wrists, and the length of the chains constricting him was just long enough for him to move his arms to his sides. Even with all of his wearied searching, he couldn't find a keyhole on either manacle – so he set to studying the room instead.

It was an old cellar, it seemed. Barrels of what could have been wine hunched against the far wall, stacked in two rows of three. The delicate cobwebs dusted across their spigots spoke to exactly how long they'd been down here. A set of four wooden stairs that sat beside the wine barrels led up to a beaten, old wooden door that likely should have been replaced a long, long time ago. The room itself wasn't that large – perhaps a solid six by five feet. But the darkness, deep in corners and tipped with the crisp, raw edge of Wynter, made it feel much bigger. Still shaken but functioning clearer, his mind tried to work out exactly how and when the fuck he'd been wrangled and trussed like a hog fit for slaughter. The last thing he recalled was ordering Chinese, flirting with the siamese Anthro delivery girl, and then . . . nothing.

He groaned again. The dim light – a bulb suspended from a thin pole and nothing more – seemed too bright to his dried out retina, and the concrete floor, covered by a thick layer of dirt and who knew what the fuck else, did nothing to keep his already icy extremities warm. He'd began shivering the moment his retching had subsided, and though he knew his body was only trying to survive, it only furthered his exhaustion.

That was about the time the door swung open.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sudden input of light against his dilated pupils left him squinting and damn near blind as he did his best to examine who he could only assume was his captor.

All other obvious indicators aside, his job as Detective at the Wako City Police Department regularly gave him insights into others' behaviors. And this woman had just pulled the oldest trick in the book: wait until your subject is weary and completely out of sorts – that's when you'll get exactly what you want. Her footfalls were somehow absolute in the cellar's silence as she stepped down from the stairs, closing the door behind her.

She was tall – and as she stepped into the dingy lighting, Almus noted that she was green. Gravel spilled from his chapped lips. "An Orc? What's an Orc need from a guy like me?" She didn't say anything as she studied him. Her eyes glowed green in the semi-darkness, and as she sized him up, he returned the favor. Though – how much of her he could actually see was limited by the heavy cloak she wore. Her head was uncovered, and though the unruly mane of dark curls that framed her face did the job well enough, he could see the small canines protruding from beneath her bottom lip. She also wore the toeless socks that were so common with female orcs.

Her own voice was soft – but the fury leashed in that voice pulled his exhausted mind straight to attention. "It is not what I need, Detective Davidson," she said, "but rather, what you want." He'd always listened to his instincts, and though he had a nag for trouble, they'd given him a nag for surviving.

Almus was silent for a moment as he ran her words through his still shaken mind. Damn it all. "And what does that mean?" Muscles flexed beneath his tan skin as he tested his shackles. She didn't respond to him immediately – but he didn't miss the cursory glance she slid over his body. He made a derisive noise. "I do hope your motivations for a felony offense are more important than fornication." Still, she said nothing, and as impatience and outright annoyance ate at him, he ground his teeth. But he was in no position to piss her off – so his best bet, not to mention the safest bet, was to not.

It was several moments before she spoke again. "Would you like to leave this cellar, Detective Davidson? Alive?"

His answer was immediate and bitten out: "Yes."

He wasn't quite sure when she moved, but the general consensus was that he hadn't seen it – her hand was wrapped around his throat, sharp nails easily piercing the skin there as her emerald eyes peered into his. Her face was mere inches away. "Then, you will tell me why your last case ended in my sister's death." Blood trickled from where her nails dug in, and Almus swore. His last case hadn't ended exactly how he'd intended it to – and part of the reason was because he'd lost his informant. He hadn't known the girl had had family; in fact, beyond her name and skillset, he hadn't known anything about her at all.

"Because," he growled at her, "she got caught in Ogre's warehouse, and Ogre doesn't take kindly to visitors he doesn't drag there himself." Ogre was a fiend son of a bitch – but he knew how to conduct his business low enough beneath the radar that even Almus hadn't been able to catch a whiff of evidence in the last eight years. His eyes must have betrayed him – because the next words out of the Orc's mouth were, "And who sent her there?"

Silence.

Her grip tightened as she leaned closer. "Who sent her?"

His own grey gaze turned to steel as he met her eyes. "I think you already know the answer to that." And with sudden, startling clarity, it came to him that he might not be leaving this cellar after all.

"What you think is of little consequence, human." She spat the words as she released him and stood. Her emerald gaze was cold as she brought forth a small dagger from her cloak's depths – Almus went rigid, jaw clenched as he glared at her. Perhaps, if he'd spoken sooner, she may have exacted her punishment quicker; as it was, Almus said nothing as she carved a symbol into her hand with the dagger, staring unflinchingly as blood pooled in her palm before dripping down her exposed arm and onto the floor beside him.

"You have two choices," she said. Her voice was grave, and her brow hung low above her eyes – as if she were displeased that she'd give him a choice at all. "You can die right here – on the ground, on your back like a bitch in heat." Teeth ground together, hostility rising quickly as his nostrils flared. "Or you can surrender yourself to me."

The snort that fell from him was derisive, to say the least. "Surrender myself, you say. And what, pray tell, does that mean?" It should have been obvious – naked as the day he was born and a heavy cloak? He'd played this game before.

"It should be obvious to a man of your notoriety." The way she'd said notoriety made it more than obvious that she knew his tastes were far and wide and not at all singular. He still said nothing; she hiked a brow – and with her bloodied hand, reached up to unclip the large buckle that held the cloak closed. And as it fell from her shoulders to pool at her feet, no amount of exhaustion could have kept him from drinking in the sight of her.

The legends claimed that the Orcs had been crafted by the gods themselves, carved from the very stone of Angelo's Bay and brought forth to protect the earth and its resources from greedy humans. Almus was tempted to believe it.

Her green skin was the velvet that held her tight, toned body together. Her hips and shoulders were of equal widths, but the thin waist between the two gave her sublime curvature. Supple where it counted and tight muscle everywhere else, his eyes traced the slight outline of her ample ass – and flowed from her sweet center that was crowned by a trimmed thicket of dark hair, down her solid thighs, passed her tense calves, and to narrow ankles and flat feet that were tipped with the same black, sharp claws as her hands. Her head was held high with pride – and with that and the loss of her cloak, he noticed other things that had not been immediately obvious.

With her body exposed as it was, he could gauge her height more accurately – and he was surprised to find that she was probably nine feet, maybe even a little taller. Her dome was mounted by a golden diadem that displayed a tear drop ruby in the middle of her forehead. Two golden dermal piercings speared that skin on the bridge of her nose, and as his eyes traced the white tattoos that mirrored her sinuosity, he came to rest upon a realization.

He'd offended the Orc queen. How lovely.

"Do you see now, human?" Her words were indifferent as she glared down upon him. His answering sneer was outrage incarnate.

"I see now," he growled back, even from his position on the ground, bound and at her mercy, "that you are fucking insane. I do look forward to the moment the Department of Interspeciatal Communications gets wind of this." For years, now, they'd been searching for a reason to cut the Orcs and Orges from their organization – and now, they'd finally have one.

It wasn't discrimination; not outright discrimination anyway. The trades they made with the Orcs and Ogres usually weren't deemed to be worth the trouble because both groups were such an uncompromising, rigid peoples in how they dealt with humans. The information they gave (on the Elves, some of the rarer Anthro groups, and even information that pertained to war and government affairs) was so few and far in-between that, little by little, more and more humans were becoming intolerant of Wako City's connection with them. But breaking off a decade old alliance needed a better reason than speciesism.

Not to mention the Orc queen herself . . . . There were rumors about Queen Maj that were extravagant – and true. They said she'd won skirmishes and wars against the Ogres and Elves with soldiers she'd trained herself. The rumor mill was always turning, and these days, it spoke of the Orc Queen who was in more possession of land than the Orcs had been in centuries. She was a brutal, conniving leader who didn't take well to disobedience or insubordination – but she was steadfast in her dedication to her people.

Her answering grin chilled him to his bones. "The Department of Interspeciatal Communications may be losing patience with my people, Almus, but they are not stupid. Government, if you've ever noticed, is heavily invested in the survival of itself." He was silent as Maj spoke, the only other sound in the room the drip, drip, drip of the blood leaking from the cuts in her palm. "They would willingly sacrifice you if it meant appeasing me to avoid war. After all – you brought death to an Orc queen's sister. Treason, Detective, and punishable by death. At the very least."

Almus said nothing as she dropped the knife behind her. It landed silently on her discarded cloak. "What? Torture not your thing?" Nervous energy built as he watched her – and as her glowing emerald eyes met his, he would swear that mirth danced there.

"I do what I must when I must," Queen Maj retorted. His lips parted, ready to speak, to snarl, to do anything that meant reaching the door behind the Orc woman with the increasingly alarming mischievous gleam in her eye; Almus had nothing. Because she was right. He'd offended her – and valuable asset or not, Wako City's mayor would choose the city over him, any day, any time.

His glare beheld her as she moved to stand over him – and he viciously ignored the exposed, pink regions of her parted sex. "And?" he said instead. "How might one such as myself surrender to you?" His mind was everywhere at once – anger and pride battled his growing lust and fervor as the queen lowered herself before him. The neat brush of pubic hair did nothing to hide her sweet folds from his view as she squatted above his stomach, and though he typically preferred women who were smaller than him, he found his cock hardening with no problem at all.

Weariness bit at him – exhaustion was still present, even after it'd been so long since his bout of sickness. But as he watched, furor adding to the plethora of warring emotions coursing through him, the woman leaned forward, and with her injured hand, she began smearing her blood on his chest, neck, face, and arms. Almus nearly blanched. "I'll be the first to admit that my fetishes are a little out there, Maj, bu–"

He wasn't entirely sure when she'd moved, but her ass was above his face in the span of a few seconds. "There are better things to do with your mouth, Almus," she retorted as she continued painting him with her blood. "If you'd like to see the sun again, I suggest you explore them."

It was one thing to get glances of her folds from a ways away – it was another thing to have them hovering above his face. The sweet scent that every woman seemed to contain wafted into his nose, and as if it could sense exactly what was being thrown at him, his manhood stood to attention. Between the steady, wet pressure of Queen Maj bedecking him with her life's blood, and the scent of her permeating what felt like his every pore, it wasn't such a stretch.

He could only blink when it was shoved stubbornly closer to his face. "I should think you would want to please your new Queen, human." He looked down and saw Maj staring at him, a flush to her skin as she watched him with half-hooded eyes. "If only to convince me to allow you to preserve some measure of control over your life."

"You're a demanding woman, Queen Maj," Almus shot back, nails digging into his palms as he gave her the easygoing grin that was his trademark. "But since you're so eager."

"I am," she said simply, before continuing on with her task.

What the fuck is she doing? Would she tell him, even if he asked? He doubted it. With every movement of hers, her sex moved with her – and with a heavy sigh, Almus finally dug in. He was being made into the personal slave for an Orc queen. Try as he might, he couldn't find a way to wriggle out of this particular brand of shit – so he might as well take what he could and deal with the rest later.

His grey eyes traced the sensuous curvature of her sex – Where to start? He usually decided how to start depending on the woman. The same tricks wouldn't work for every pony, and the same qualifications wouldn't get you every job. Sometimes, you had to switch it up. He could tell that Maj hadn't actually expected him to pleasure her – because when his tongue touched her thigh, there was a startle. Small as it could be, but there it was. Almus lapped at her thighs and felt corded muscle beneath the velvet of her skin. He toyed with her for a time, nipping at what he knew would be sensitive skin before lavishing it with sweet caresses from his tongue each time. It wasn't long before she was dripping for him; whether it was her body's desire or her own, it was there, and the scent of it was driving him insane.

Leaving a hard nip to her thigh, Almus traced a soft line of kisses to her sex. He started from her entrance and slowly worked his way up, ignoring the juices that stained his lips as he parted her sex with his tongue. His neck craned at the angle he needed to reach her was more than a little uncomfortable – but as her hand slowed with each passing lick of his, he deemed the discomfort worth it. He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, lavishing her dripping cunt with his mouth, but at some point, she'd wrapped her clean hand around his waiting erection, and that gave him more than enough reason to delve deeper.

He pressed up, soft caresses of his lips following the insistence of his tongue as he circled her clitoris. He kissed his way from the delicate bundle of nerves and over her labia to explore her parted core more thoroughly. And in his peripheral, he could see her head hanging down as she watched him with heat renewed in her eyes.

Is it rape if you like it? Almus wondered somewhat sardonically – but his desire to use his mouth for anything but pleasure had disappeared the moment Maj had lowered herself above him.

A husky purr was the only indication Maj gave that she was enjoying herself. "I was wondering if you knew how to use your mouth properly," she said, voice low and raspy with leashed fury, pleasure, and authority. "These motions are much better than the ones it was making earlier." The sentence was breathless at the end – and as Maj lowered her pussy more insistently to his face, his head was pushed back onto the ground. He heard the gentle thump of her knees landing on the dirt-packed ground on either side of his head, and he knew she was close. She made no sound – in fact, beyond her slightly heavier, uneven breathing, he almost couldn't be sure she was even awake. But if he'd ever been unsure – the way she rolled her sopping core over his mouth, moving her hips in slow, sensuous thrusts in time with the strokes of his tongue and lips, most certainly told him that she was indeed awake.

The sound Queen Maj made – reaching climax as she rode his face – a thin, raspy moan that pulled his already waiting erection to further attention would forever stick with him. It was a sound that communicated satisfaction, carnal pleasure, and the need for thicker, harder things in her waiting core.

How bad a way was he in if he was hoping and praying that she made good on her promise to subjugate him?

Almus would rather take her – hands bound above her head as he pounded into her, showing her exactly what he could do when unhindered by chains, fatigue, and a cold ass cellar, but he supposed this was the next best thing.

Queen Maj stood, and it was a beautiful thing to see her thighs, wet with his saliva and her climax, ripple with muscle as she pushed herself to her full height. She peered down her nose at him – and he peered down at himself. "You have a unique taste about you, Maj. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Almus was covered from neck to ankle with Maj's blood. His head, arms, cock, and feet remained untouched, and as Maj studied her handy work, no sign of the woman who'd just cum for him in the hard lines of her face, Almus looked pointedly at his erection and back to Maj. "I believe your end of the bargain remains unfulfilled." She merely hiked a delicate brow, turned, bent, and retrieved the knife she'd left atop her cloak. Almus was certain she noted how he'd stiffened – and was satisfied by it. But she merely made a thin, burning cut on his thigh, tossed the knife back on her cloak, and stood over him again. She peered down at him and finally spoke. "The magic will be powerful, Detective. Once our bloods mix, neither of us will be leaving this cellar until the fates deem this bond properly consummated. So I suggest," she ended, a wicked gleam in her eye, "that you prepare for multiple rounds."

If it weren't for the gleam in her glowing emerald eyes, Almus may have flagged at her words – they sounded like the words of a woman who wasn't used to flirting. And why would Queen Maj need to learn to flirt in the first place? He was certain she had any number of suitors waiting for a turn in her bed. He was proven right moments later when she knelt over him, carelessly exposing her sex again, and said, "I've never had a human cock. It seems puny compared to the Orcs I've dined on."