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Hope for the Uruk: 3. Payback
The Orc finished coating my insides with spittle. Distantly I waited to be skewered on its mighty cock.
It entered me as gently as a maiden’s kiss, paused whilst I adjusted to its width, and then sheathed itself with one long controlled stroke. Although I was stretched and opened further than I’d ever been, the pain that followed was no worse than I’d experienced with other male lovers before this. The Orc pulled back the length of its shaft and plunged again, establishing an irregular rhythm which somehow caught my elusive pleasure-spot each time. I felt my spent cock begin to rise once more.
Its claws raked across my already wounded back, and it lapped blood like a dog as it thrust deeper into me. Its tongue reached around my side to tease one sore nipple, whilst a hand – somehow once more not clawed – squeezed the other between forefinger and thumb. With its free hand it reached down and began to caress my lengthening cock. I was being jolted out of trance as control slipped once more.
The Orc began a low discordant hum in its throat, and its movement within me became swifter and more irregular. With one hand it gripped my cock convulsively, and, between its other fingers my left nipple began to drip blood as the constriction became unbearable. Its tongue slid clean across me to savour the flow.
I managed to get my elbows onto the table before me, and dropped my head into my folded arms as I came, agonisingly, into the Orc’s cupped hand. I sensed its response to my spasmodic movement, and felt it bite into my shoulder, grabbing my back-hair as, with a muffled sound, it flooded me. Movement stilled, and stars swam in velvet before my eyes.
Perhaps, after all, I had not died. I stared down over the table’s rim to where a noisome bucket displayed its obvious contents. I drew in a constricted breath, feeling the weight of Middle Earth across my back.
“I’ll take that slop-bucket when I go, Orc, and get them to give you a fresh one.” I said hoarsely.
The weight shifted from my back. I was light as air. I moved cautiously; found no impediment apart from the singing agonies in my own flesh. I heard from afar the distant laughter of Shagrat.
“Ah-har har! Tark! Sweet Tark. You should be fucked senseless, and you talk about shit-buckets. And what about the information you wanted?”
“That too.” I agreed, pushing myself slowly upright.
“You earned it Tark. I was going to hold out on you for another quickie, but you earned it fair and square. Phoo! You’re wasted on these Tarks and Cupcakes(1) here. You should be working level three of Lugbúrz where the offduty Nazgûl hang out. You’d make a fortune in red-eye tokens.”
“Too late for that.” I reminded him, stepping cautiously away from the supporting table, and making for my discarded clothes. “Er … Cupcakes …?”
“Sodding elves.” he growled, “I can smell at least one on you.”
“Ah. Yes. There is one Elf in Minas Tirith at the moment.”
Shagrat sniffed again, brow wrinkled.
“Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood? Yeah, thought so. But there’ll be more come midsummer, won’t there, when your little King marries that Cupcake princess and cops all the problems when the Wizards and so-called Wise pull out West on him. Har har – he’s so taken up with the Glory of It All, and the Beren-Luthien bit that he hasn’t seen what’s coming yet!”
“Nah. They’re gonna leave him with all the work of a Dark Lord – but without the Dark Lord’s methods. They’ve dumped everything – Everything! He’s supposed to be High King of Gondor AND Arnor, without the help of Imladris and the fucking Golden Wood, OR any of the Wizards. And on top of that, he has to deal fairly with Khand, Harad and what’s left of Mordor. I tell you, Tark, He’s royally fucked!”
“And what would you do if you were him?”
“Call in the Uruk-hai of course! But he won’t consider that – oh no! What – ally with degenerate life-forms? Not on your life.”
“So your advice would be to form an honour-guard of Uruk-hai in the livery of the White Tower?” I murmured, intrigued by the image.
“Ah-har! Get him to do it, Tark, if you’re one of his advisors. They’d appreciate you – really they would. You could make a dishonest fortune!”
I’d stepped back beyond his reach once more. Now I slid the discarded robe over my mauled shoulders and stooped to pull on my boots.
“Isildur!” I reminded him.
“What? Oh, that. Yes.”
He favoured me with an enviably concise account of an Orc’s-eye view of the disaster of the Gladden Fields, speaking as if he had actually been one of the raiding party. It made a fine tale; and I was inclined to believe him. His description of a lost dark silhouette appearing suddenly amidst the swirling waters of Anduin and presenting a shifting target for arrows, was particularly compelling(2) .
“Now Orc, one thing – if you’ll answer a final question.”
“Try me.” he growled.
“Can you be sure that after your people finished firing, and the body submerged, no one retrieved it and had a feast?”
“Ummm. No. That Tark was famous. Any one of our lot would’ve been proud to have ate him. We’d have heard. I’m sure we would. Anyway –“ he snarled, “they would have had to share him with their tribe at the very least. We’d all have wanted a taste of Isildur!”
I supposed I had to believe him. I watched him subside contentedly onto his paliasse and ventured within his reach one final time to grab the bucket from beneath the table. Like lightning, a claw fastened on my leg.
“Before you go, sweet Tark –“
“What?” I asked impatiently. I was beginning to crave hot water, and a surcease from the hurts.
“You might like to consider that I hold the answer to a question you never asked me. I’ll give you the question for free – the answer will cost you the same price.”
I didn’t believe him, but supposed that I had better finish the game since I was so close to the goal.
“You never asked who else we might have seen piddling about in Gladden afterwards! If your little King wants the remains – as I suspect he does – then you should consider that. I can see his point, though. He has to establish a legitimate right to a throne that’s been vacant for nigh-on five hundred years. Finding his forebears and giving them decent burial – and naturally taking any mementos – would be a fine piece of theatre for him. Yes. You think about it, Tark. The Uruk still has a song or two to sing, if you’re willing. Close the door as you leave. You don’t want me catching any nasty diseases – not yet, anyway.”
He was snoring sonorously even before I locked the outer doors.
(1) Cupcakes: This is a film-reference. The Orc-extras apparently came up with this name for the Elf-extras.
(2) Isildur’s Death: The story of Isildur’s sorry end can be found in Unfinished Tales, entitled “The Disaster of the Gladden Fields”. I have relied heavily upon it in this and subsequent parts.
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