I was twenty-one when they brought me in. I can’t say how old I am now. It was impossible to track time down there. There were no windows, no light. It must have been years, but I can’t be sure.
They put me in the furthest cell of the corridor, much further than where most people were taken. I had been separated from everything else on purpose. They weren’t planning to get rid of me. Most prisoners didn’t last more than a day or two. Sometimes I heard screams. Sometimes I heard nothing at all. But they always left just as quickly as they arrived. I didn’t.
Sometimes the cells around me were completely empty for a while. Just me, sitting in silence. No voices. No movement. Until the door would open somewhere far down the corridor—a creaking sound, followed by the slow rhythm of footsteps as the guard moved closer to my cell. I’d press myself back against the wall and close my eyes, counting them. It would take them thirty-two steps to arrive at my cell.
I could hear their breathing—heavy, steady. Then the sound of a key opening the lock, followed by a buckle being taken off and dropped onto the stone floor, the impact rolling through the corridor in dull echoes. As soon as their pants dropped down, the odor of sour cock filled the dungeon. In time, I learned to distinguish the orcs by the scent of their cocks.
They never spoke. I don’t even think they understand our language. The orc would just grab me by the hair and drag me toward him, forcing my head down his meat. I used to gag. But as the weeks passed by, I slowly got used to the disgusting, foul taste. I learned to breathe through my nose, to swallow when I had to, to disassociate while my body moved automatically.
What I didn’t get used to, however, was the size of them inside my pussy. It never stopped hurting. The brutal, tearing stretch that made my vision blur. Their slow, deep thrusts that always made my stomach bulge obscenely. The sound of their balls slapping against me, obscenely loud, in the hollow quiet of the cell. I’d bite down on my own wrist to keep from screaming, tasting iron as my teeth broke skin. The orcs would grunt like an animal, their sweat dripping onto my spine in thick, sticky trails.
Some of them could go on for hours. The pain never lessened, they were simply too big, too rough. I tried to retreat into myself, to focus on the cracks in the stone wall or the way my breath fogged against the floor. But then they’d suddenly grab my hair, yanking my head back, and reality would snap into focus with brutal clarity. Their breath would hitch, their thrusts turning erratic. I knew what was coming next.
The first hot splash inside me always made me flinch, no matter how many times it happened. Their cum was thick, too much of it, filling me until it dripped down my thighs in sticky rivulets. The musky scent clung to my skin long after they’d left. One of them always pressed a rough hand against my lower belly, pushing down as if to make sure none of it escaped.
They never lingered. As soon as the creature was done, he would pull out with a wet pop, buckle his pants, and leave without a glance back. The cell door clanged shut. A crusted hunk of bread and a bowl of water would skid across the floor toward me. Another day over. But the next one would be the same again. Maybe even worse.
Photo Set
For those interested, click here to check out an early concept sketch for this series.
