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OrcBound 1-1: Oscar

By: Ramshackled

Halvard was not usually one for gossip. He was large and stoic, an imposing, barrel-bodied mountain of a man whom the townsfolk avoided. But even he, content as he was to keep to his privacy, had heard that trouble had come to the sun-kissed valley that he called home. Trouble, not just for himself, but for all able-bodied men that traveled the roads connecting his village of Driftwood to the numerous trade hubs surrounding the capitol. Because Orcish slavers from the north had arrived in the valley. They had begun ambushing caravans- stealing away food, weapons, and most disturbingly, people. Not just caravaners, but guardsmen, well-built men, strong and experienced combatants who would leave to patrol the roads and never return.

News of trouble along the road worried Halvard. While years at his trade had shaped him into a formidable bear of a man, he foremost, was a blacksmith. He woke in the morning, dressed, ate, and tended the forge in the village of Driftwood until well after the sun had set. He had no experience in warfare, and although he would never admit it, Halvard had never so much as been in a bar fight.

This caused the man much worry. With the arrival of spring, he would have to transport his wares for sale. This normally meant many long days of travel and living amongst the unpleasant city bustle for a time. Now, with the issue of Orcish pillagers roaming the wilds. he knew he simply couldn't make the trip alone this year.

That was why, against his better judgment, he had enlisted the help of Oscar, a local guardsman.

Halvard finished loading supplies into his wagon shortly after nightfall and left for the town square. As he approached the tavern, an armor-clad Satyr moved towards him lightly on two hooved feet. Oscar had been waiting for him.

"Oi! Ol' Halvard, sounds like you'll be needin' an escort 'long the road to the capitol?" He held up a scrap of parchment that was, indeed, Halvard's requisition.

The blacksmith shook the Satyr's hand apprehensively. "Sure is, I need to be leavin' at first light."

Oscar had a reputation in Driftwood. On one hand, he was built heartier than most other Satyrs and was rumored to be a formidable warrior and an even better tracker. However, he was a less than a shining example for a race known for mischief and debauchery. Regardless, Halvard needed the Satyr's escort, he needed it fast, and he needed it cheap. It was not ideal for the reputable blacksmith, but Oscar was his only option.

"I'll be takin' a couple a' refugees north. Pair a Dwarves. Between them n' you, my price has gone up."

Halvard expected as much. "Just tell me how much Satyr."

"five-hundred"

The blacksmith recoiled. "Absolutely not, that's almost all my stock!"

Oscar shrugged. "Then I 'spose you won't be getting very far. Not with Orcs tearin' through the countryside."

Oscar paused for a moment, running a thin hand through his wiry red hair. "I hear things ya' know? And I don't think a down-on-his-luck smithy could afford gettin' his supply stolen by Orcs. Hell, I doubt the _town_could afford that."

Halvard flushed red with rage. Oscar was right. Business had been bad, and the people of Driftwood needed the money his journey would bring back. He was shouldering the weight of the entire town, and he was failing them.

Oscar may have seen the hopelessness in Halvard's eyes, or perhaps he planned this all along because he then said something curious: "Ya' know I hear other things too big guy. One was about a blacksmith who would do anything for this town. One who's bent his knee to some unsavory folks to see things done."

Halvard was taken off guard, "How did you-who?"

"Doesn't matter," Oscar waved him off. "Tell ya' what, meet me in my room at the tavern and we'll get your payment all square."

He was lost in his thoughts for a long time, but finally, Halvard managed a vacant nod. He felt a familiar heat rise from where it hid in his belly that found its way towards his groin.

"Great! I'll see ya' in a bit. Can tell you already caught my meanin'!" The Satyr smirked and winked at the tightness in Halvard's trousers.

Halvard arrived at the tavern shortly after midnight. He pulled his cloak tightly over his head and stuck to the outside of the crowd that was dancing and singing around the fire pit at the center of the lounge. He moved down the tavern's hallway quietly, disappearing into Oscar's room and locking the door behind him.

On the bed, sat all manner of what looked to be torture implements. There were whips, collars, and restraints of all sizes.

And there was, of course, Oscar sitting smugly with a flagon of ale in the corner of the room.

"So Mr. Big Ol' Blacksmith. Where those rumors true? Ya ready to pay your way?"

Halvard's gaze shifted from the restraints to the floor."I...I am." He stammered like a chastened child.

"Then show me."

Halvard looked up at the Satyr inquisitively.

"You know what I mean slutsmith. Strip."

There was the heat again, it moved from his stomach and into his hands. It moved his fingers mechanically, unbuckling his belt. Slut. A Satyr had just called him a slut. And instead of throttling the smug creature, Halvard was undoing his trousers.

Piece by piece Halvard stripped off his clothes revealing a stocky barrel of flesh and muscle covered in a generous amount of thick chestnut brown hair. He removed his trousers one leg at a time, pulling out thick tree-trunk-like legs that ended in chiseled calves. When he was down to nothing but his loincloth, he paused for a moment. The heat came again. It overtook him, a voice that was his own, telling him to submit to this and enjoy what would happen next.

He complied to the heat, removing his underwear gingerly. Freeing a meaty six-inch-long cock that stood completely erect. Every vein throbbing along its length as it awaited orders not from its owner, but from the smirking Satyr that watched contently from across the room.

Halvard sometimes watched the town's guard during their drills. He mimicked them now by standing tall, rigid, and at attention. It was his last and only attempt at keeping hold of some of his pride- stark nude as he was.

Oscar got up from where he sat. "A bit o' resistance, but that's okay." He said mockingly, running a hairy hand along Halvard's shaft, around his love handles, and over his rump. Halvard only looked forward silently.

"Ya' know slutsmith, I may have pushed you into coming to visit, but it doesn't take a Satyr's intuition to know you're right where you want to be."

Halvard grumbled.

Oscar began rubbing Halvard's broad shoulders. The blacksmith could feel oil on each of the Satyr's hands, coating his weathered skin. It went on cold, but became warm within seconds; the same exciting heat that he felt in his belly now felt like it was washing over him.

"Something to help ya' relax." Oscar cooed "Take it easy, do as I say for the next few hours and we'll call things even. Might as well have some fun in the process eh?"

Something close to a muddled "yes" escaped Halvard's loosening lips.

The Satyr had moved down his back and was now rubbing the oil onto Halvard's rump, moving his fingers delicately inward in a circular motion- teasing the entrance to Halvard's anus.

Halvard's shoulders began to droop. His tense muscles began to relax, and the large man started to teeter and stand slumped. His brain became foggy, and the voice at the edge of his mind telling him to give in to his buried desires grew louder until it drowned out all of his inhibition.

The probing finger circled, applying more pressure, going deeper until it was inside of him. Halvard moaned as Oscar's finger pushed inside, coating his insides with the slick aphrodisiac oil. His mind was pulsing. The Blacksmith had kept his fetishes and fantasies to himself, but tonight circumstances dictated that he would serve this man. He would be owned and he would be used, and then tomorrow things would go back to the way they were. The large, proud, and strong Halvard could let go of all of his worries and know the pleasure of servitude tonight if he were to just let go.

These thoughts swirled around in Halvard's muddled mind. Were these his fantasies or a result of the drug Oscar had rubbed into him? The force of all these things pulled taught a thread in Halvard's psyche, tighter and tighter; and while it didn't snap, it had begun to fray.

I submit.

Halvard's eyes grew vacant and he lowered himself to his knees clasping his hands behind his back. As each bare knee hit the wood floor, he told himself that he wanted this.

Halvard looked downward, bowing himself slightly. "Use me, Sir. I belong to you."

"Good job slutsmith." Oscar said placing a hand on Halvard's head. "I want ya' to show me whatcha' can do."

The once-proud slutsmith straightened up, "Yes, Sir!"

"Your first lesson" Oscar began, "A proper slave will obey their master under all circumstances."

Halvard's cock bobbed up and down as he nodded silently in agreement.

"Good" Oscar replied, his tone growing increasingly authoritative, much to Halvard's pleasure, "then show me." Oscar threw two pairs of large leather shackles on the floor before the kneeling man, the chains connecting the restraints clanking on the wood floor as they slid between his legs, landing beneath Halvard's two egg-sized balls.

Halvard had no hesitation. He grabbed the leather shackles and locked one around his thick wrist, and then the other. Then he moved on to each ankle, locking each loop in place and willfully restricting his movement. Every step put him further at the mercy of whatever Oscar had planned- and he didn't care.

"To us slut, those are more than chains. They're a symbol of your status and who ya' belong to. Don't forget it." Oscar grabbed something else out of a pack laying at the foot of his bed and approached Halvard.

"Only gift I'm gonna give ya' tonight, slutsmith." Oscar said, producing a black sack, not unlike those that condemned prisoners wore on their way to the gallows. He slid it over Halvard's head, who was pleased to find it had a hole cut out allowing him to breathe easily through his mouth. "Ya' gonna find there's more than one way to pay your debts."

From beneath the anonymity of the dark hood, Halvard heard the jingling of Oscar bringing forth a final contraption. Two rough hands reached down towards his cock and cradled his nuts. Delicately, Oscar pulled both hairy orbs tight and wrapped a leather strap just beneath his shaft that clasped into place.

Halvard shook his balls back and forth, testing the new restraint. In response, he felt a rough tug from Oscar, who stood a few feet away. His balls had been looped into something of a leash; this initially frightened him, but in his addled stupor, he didn't protest.

Oscar tugged on the leash. "Here, slutsmith."

The now fully restrained Blacksmith sucked his teeth, still unsure of the new sensation of his balls being stretched, and crawled towards Oscar's voice.

The cock leash jingled in Oscar's hand. "Well, I think you're ready to pay your debt. Whaddya' say slutsmith?"

"This was it," Halvard thought. He had been waiting to taste cock since he walked into the room. He was curious and excited. He had heard Satyr's, half men, half best, had flared penises like those found on horses-and with comparable length. Halvard drooled and tilted his head upwards expecting the taste of cock to invade his mouth at any moment.

But it didn't come.

Oscar stood up and yanked on the leash, eliciting an embarrassing "yip" from the prostrated man, who reoriented himself and crawled along behind. Halvard struggled at first, scrambling to keep the leash from pulling on his balls.

While he couldn't see where he was going, the leash kept him just a few paces behind his owner. He heard Oscar open the door to the room. Was he being taken to another person's room? Was the shifty Satyr whoring him out to someone else? Through the fog of drugged oil, his mind spun. Someone would surely know that the mass of hair, muscle, and fat crawling along the floor like a dog was him! The heat rose again. In the back of his mind, he had fantasized about this kind of submission. Part of him wanted this, and so he didn't fight back. How could he? Oscar had his balls on a leash.

Oscar walked, and Halvard crawled. It felt like a long time to the new slutsmith, who tilted his hooded head desperately trying to draw in any sound that would tell him where he was. Traveling down the tavern's long hallway, they passed inn room doors that creaked and passerby's that would murmur and snicker at the masked whore. Halvard expected to turn at any moment; he expected a door to open and to be lead into a stranger's room by the dominating Satyr, but they only continued marching forward.

Before him, Halvard began to hear the raucous laughter of the towns tradesmen, hearty men who spent their nights drinking and dancing to celebrate the conclusion of another hard day. Their noises grew louder and louder as the two drew closer. Halvard's heart dropped. The thought occurred to him that there was no patron that he would be whored to, no single man, and not even the dignity of a private inn room in which to serve.

The celebration suddenly stopped and unnerving quiet fell around the slutsmith.

It was Oscar's voice that broke the silence. "Good men of Driftwood, how 'bout a fresh, ready-to-use pig for ya'll!"

The room lit up in a symphony of cheers and laughter.

To be continued...