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More Than They Could Chew

No one knows how this world came to be. Desolate, lost, wild with some claiming it is due to the war having lasted for countless generations, while others say that the sky has fallen. There are tales of plagues festering these lands but it too had died. Regardless, borders on maps have been erased. Names and roads have been wiped from canvases. Faith, law, and order have been snuffed out. If these institutes of the old civilization could not be trusted, then only yourself and those beside you are worthy of it.

Two figures prowl through the plains under a pale setting sun, their stature enough to hide under the tall grass that the light and wind comb over. At the lead is a strapping gnoll in his early 20s. Despite the world nearly dying, his thick fur has a pronounced brown shade, dotted with black spots. He wears leather rags, armed simply with a carved dart blowpipe, and a club made of stone and branch from a dead tree. "We're close," he whispers to his second.

The one trailing behind is also a gnoll, albeit shorter and on the weaker side. His fur has a more caramel shade of brown to it, and does not have the black spots. This one wears cloth rags; in the form of a vest, footwraps, and even a decent sized fabric to cover the front of his loins but not his rear. With him is a pouch strapped around his hips full of blow darts, and he has a small carved knife that's tied around his waist. "Need the darts, Alphie?" he whispers back to the first, showing the crude stone projectiles with green-tipped poison on them. or

Alfonso, or Alphie, peeks ever so slowly, trying to blend his messied hair with the untrimmed grass. They hear loud thumps against solid ground, meaning their targets have sturdy footwear, which is something they may need during the upcoming hotter seasons. The trampled grass beneath their feet is cool enough, and does not chafe against their footwraps for now. Within moments, he matches the sound with sight; three people in a small group moving casually. And he brings up three fingers in which he receives three darts.

"What are they?" Roland prepares three more in hand because there have been times that their poison is not enough to sedate a target, and he's only had theories as to why; weakened soil from overplanting, or the world dies even further. The last part he refrains from telling his brother, and hopes that it isn't the cause.

"Orcs," Alphie brings up three fingers again. They're resilient but vincible at least. Brown-furred brutes that are more muscles than brain. They don't even have those, substituting them for muscles instead. Because of that, one can smell them from miles away, except the updraft over the plains mask them with sweet mildew. "Three of them." His gut feeling is the inane formula that guides his dart with the wind.

"Furred men in our turf again," Roland mutters. His gut feeling, instead, wonders about their presence here. It's an aching hollow inside, driven by worry and the need to tell his brother to venture into newer territory. Other gnolls, lesser fur-kin, and humans no longer go these routes; though not as valuable, they are easier to kill in confrontation.

"Ready with your knife," he loads one dart into his blowpipe, the second, third, and fourth between his fingers while holding it up to his lips. A deep inhale, which he catches their putrid scent of sweat and fire, he fires one dart after with quick precision. The winds carry his darts, striking the back of their necks, piercing their fur and its thick hide underneath.

These orcs turn to them, showing off their tusks carved with intricate shapes of spires and curving lines. With two darts, their faces boil with rage as hot air seethe through their nostrils. A bluff lasting for a moment before its poison kicks in, all of them falling to their sides and backs one by one.

Both gnolls wade through the grass, Alphie cheering between themselves and cackling as he puts their prizes on a permanent slumber. Takes several whacks to cave their heads in, cursing at them as he proclaims himself superior despite their size and their resilience. He doesn't even notice Roland not having dirtied his blade, and rummages through their bags and pockets with excitement.

Roland is juxtaposed by all this– these orcs did not fall down immediately, even with two. And their tusks are identical to each other which means–

"Rol," Alphie raises a folded piece of paper. "Look at this." He presents it to his brother.

Roland sheaths his blade and accepts it with trembling hands. This parchment is not made of scrap but its creases are there from being inside plenty of pockets, which in itself draws a lot of questions. But Alphie's excitement pushes him to unfold it, revealing a map of the region. Well drawn, different colors, and he can tell that they are in the grasslands that's a shade of light green. Further south is a bronze shade with a black line drawn through it, labeled: 'supplies'. "In the swamp regions?"

"What about it?" His brother goes around him, peeking over his shoulder. "Supplies? If they're taking it through the swamp, they ought to be very valuable."

"But Alphie, don't you think they could be well prepared to take it through the swamp?" Roland argues, encircling around the big yellow mass. "There's a reason no one goes through here."

"But we can, Rol, and it is [i]our[/i] territory. They're gonna be like newbloods venturing into the dark." He rolls up the map and straps it into his chestwrap. "They won't know what hit them. In fact, that means we can use our finest stuff, show them who's boss."

Roland sighs. He tries retorting but his brother urges him to scavenge the remains off of their victims. Tearing off their clothes, taking their leather, dried meat in paper wrap, and string-sewn waterskins. Each time he tries to bring out their quality, Alphie laments on its value and nothing more. Succeeding protests, muttering them between gritted teeth, is met with ignorance, so he gives up and does what he is told. There are more worrisome qualities he's gathered from their bashed-in victims; zippers, buttons, and even a rustic scabbard with its knife.

"Woah, you should use that one instead," Alphie returns with a bag of rations heaved over his shoulders. A bountiful reward that has a pleasant meaty smell to it, enough to mask the rotting death that just occurred. He sees Roland unsheathe it, the blade shining as the waning sun kisses its tip. "Looks sharper too. Take that and the belt, and maybe we could hide your jewels this time."

The wind blows a coincidental draft between Roland's legs, jostling his nuts in cool air, his loincloth flapping forward exposing his uncut shaft to his sniggering brother. The blushing gnoll tugs it downwards, while waiting for the breeze to pass. His brother leaves him to it while double checking the corpse's pockets.

Roland ties the scabbard around his waist and sheathes the knife in it. Heavier than his initial knife, but he pulls it out again and uses it, making quick work of the fabric they need to take. He shares a small amount of his brother's enthusiasm; he feels safer with this than his last knife. It'll make slicing game easier thankfully, he sighs in relief as he sheathes it once more.

"Good job brother," Alphie says, handing him the other bag of loot that they both carry over their shoulders as they head home. He means it well, even if his brother is not as built as he is. He had the brains to make the poison, which has been more than helpful in their last dozen attacks. That said, he asks, "Do you think you can make your darts more potent?" They tread carefully on the plains' decline, tip-toeing and balancing their bag of treasures.

"I can," Roland answers, his brother still adamant about attacking a convoy, but at the very least grasps the potential threat of what is to come. All he has to do now is add the last of their rosethorn flower poison into the mix. His confidence softens, realizing they're about to gamble everything they have for this. It will be weeks before he can regrow his flowers to bloom, and in an area far from their home.

After their lengthy walk, they finally spot their home just before the darkening horizon. On top of a small mound of dirt surrounded by bushes and small trees, next to a river that curved around its base stretching farther away from the rising moon that replaced the sun. It's a wooden shack made with crude logs and poorly tied rope. Beside it, away from the river, is a small garden where Roland's rosethorn grows, a type of flower where its petals, shaped like a rose, had an ash color from its thorns. There are about five left, enough to make ten of the same darts they brought today, or five with fatal dosage.

"Home sweet home," Roland mutters as the bag's weight has been dragging him down since he saw their home. The rising incline does not help him. Alphie offers his hand, which he gives him his bag, and he steps ahead to prepare themselves a celebratory stew.

Their humble abode is the last bastion of the fabled civilization that they learned about in their youth. A small piece of land where they feel safe from their past, and the present danger. Afar it looks like a boulder hidden at the edge of the forest. At night, their lamps make it look like the eyes of a larger bull-like monster and no one dares disturb it. Next to a river that has given them near-potable water, all they need is to heat it.

Roland prepares their supper in a small kitchen enough for one gnoll, while his brother unravels their newfound fortune in the bedroom beside; lots of dried meat, waterskins, folded up cloth and leather, and sharp knives that can be turned to speartips. His stew makes use of bones from previous game for broth, and chopped root vegetables from a separate garden behind their house. The reward for today is the use of dried meat they found, making it tender as it boils in the pot, their home filled with the aroma of cooked meat.

Alphie starts preparing for tomorrow's big ambush. He brings out the spears normally kept for hunting wild game or fishing (which he's never been good at anyways), and cuts their blunting spears off with their new knives, and replaces them with it too. The map they got is sprawled out on his own bed as he makes use of it too, marking his home, and it's due west of the supposed route.

This time Roland peeks over his shoulder, hugging his brother tight and close. "Are you really sure we should do this?"

"Mhm, it'll make our future raids easier with their kind of equipment. Rol, we have the element of surprise, and nature on our side. We're nimble and smart. These orcs are not." Alphie reaches behind and hugs him with one arm too. "Plus with your poison and my tools, we will survive in this world."

Calming sentiments, Roland thinks, but it means Alphie's set for good. There's no going back anymore. Once supper is served and done, he goes around his other garden, scrap-leather gloves covering his hands. The rosethorn flowers, on its thin wooden stalk, grow as tall as he is, and he cuts them halfway with an old rusting knife he's had since his maturity. The preparation is simple; he uses polluted river water inside a small box made of tainted oakwood, a yellow-brown type of tree that grows close to said river, and drops the entire flower cut inside. He smashes it with a pestle, creating a very green liquid with murky waters beneath. It lets off an odor of rotting shit, much worse than the orc-hubris earlier.

Alphie, no matter how many times he's used it, is not fond of the smell. He excuses himself after thanking Roland for the meal, and steps outside to get a whiff of acceptable air. The trees surrounding their turf allow him to move in total darkness, his gnoll eyes allow him to see outlines within them at about thirty feet. With his brother still back in their home, he sits himself down underneath a tree to reminisce about today's success; standing atop battered heads with a bag of goodies over his shoulder. Standing atop a multitude of rewards he has earned over the years. In these plains, and in the swamp, he and his brother stand atop the food chain.

Such thoughts of glory, of superiority entice him, tenting the cloth below his waist. With his already-great physique, his endowment was much larger than his brother's. He pulls his loincloth aside, touching his bare uncut flesh. Alphie gasps, having been days since he last touched himself, his pink dick hidden behind his beige foreskin with pre oozing out of its tip and dribbling down his base. His victories race around his mind, getting off to them. With every stroke of his hand, his skin peels back exposing the pinkening and very musky head. He is pleased with his own scent, taking a dab of it with his finger and sniffing it. A rush courses down his veins a kind of warmth that even the cold howling wind cannot cool. Yet it is loud enough to mask his moans, at least his brother won't hear. When the wind dies down, so do his motions. And as it picks up, the howls overlap his moaning and climax, the dark green blades of grass now coated with sticky white mess.

Alphie sits there for a while, rubbing his own body as the afterglow embraces him. A just reward for their endeavors today, and he looks forward to the thrill of their mission tomorrow. He closes his eyes, resting on satisfaction. Tomorrow will bring out their finest hour, and hopefully his best climax yet.

The night turns to day, the brothers having left at the crack of dawn trailing southeast. A big mission requires their best; Alphie dons himself in thick leather armor, his muscles able to carry its heavier but more robust padding. A spear in hand, and two more on his back, he bares sharp fangs, its smell a rotten memory of last night's supper. With Roland trailing behind, swaddled in cloth that covers his dignity more. He bears the responsibility of the blowpipe, with more potent munitions infused into its pricks.

Their map leads to a place that no sentient creature dares tread; the swamp-waste. Despite having ventured through it twice in their lifetimes, its absence of feral creatures disturbs them. Even the birds of the sky move around the edges of this area where a fraction of its leaves glow green like the residue left by the world before. Even if Roland has assured time and time again that it is harmless, only that its scent and hot features scare off most creatures. They proceed through the map's designated point, the smaller brother worrying with the accurate route being followed through. Whereas Alphie looks around, studying their surroundings and the best way to ambush a greater foe. This path is easy to navigate through as they have not sunk themselves into the murky waters beside. Sturdy-looking trees, part of its leaves shining, may serve as good lookout spots. And this smell blocks their scents, as did their foe.

Deep into the forest, Alphie pauses when he sees nearby rocks that he and his brother can move. They prop them up on the middle of the path that will stop the convoy for several minutes. At first they are hasteful, worrying that the convoy is nearby, but their absence as the day turns to noon slows them down yet provides them to establish a scrappy wall of rocks, and the path after it cragged with pebbles, and thick branches to further delay them. Throughout the afternoon, their ears only hear silence amidst their grunting, and stone being rolled in the mud. By evening, they rest themselves atop trees on both sides.

Alphie plays their ambush in mind. Eyes gleamed under the rising moon, seeing them fall one by one to his brother's poison darts, leaving one more target who's probably going to piss himself before killing him with his new spears. Afterwards he breaks the lock and chain of his prize, revealing fresh meat, iron armor, or a sword! He's always wanted one, fight like the days of old, just before the world had gone.

Roland watches his brother with cautious joy, his mind too raced with hopes of herbs, seeds, and fruit. Meat stew, root crops, and dried meat are passable but can no longer be distinct. It makes his stomach gurgle, and it persisted so long that it actually isn't his stomach anymore. His brother is already alert to the approaching cart, seeing the torchlight flicker between the gaps of trees. He steels his nerves, standing on his branch with his blowpipe out. They are well hidden with the bushels at the end of branches, and the trees are tall enough that the approaching orcs won't even look up. He sees their approach, about five of them. Leather armor but with iron pauldrons and vambraces, and the one holding the torch in front has an iron helmet too.

Roland turns to his brother and only sees excitement, his eyes set on the prize that is a large wooden cart drawn by a domesticated, scaled, bipedal creature, with a simple rope harness. This is going to be nasty, just like their scent. He surmises that for a faction of peoples who seem to have a grasp of civilization, they could maybe make themselves smell bet–

What happened to the putrid swamp smell? Roland lifts his nose and sniffs the air, and it's just their scent, the orcs', and the livestock. He waves his hand towards his brother, hoping that he could be seen out of his peripherals. But it is of no avail, Alphie's already raised his spear, pointing at the group below only noticing the blockade from their torchlight.

The helmed one lifts his head, suspecting foul play. He grumbles and looks up to the trees beside them. At first it scares the brothers who both remain still. They do so with great hope and will, imagining themselves as thick dying bushels on branches. Mouths shut, their snouts denying air flow as the orc's leer turns away from either of them.

Roland eases himself, side-eyeing his brother still poised to strike. Those below them start moving the debris, but they do so in silence. Disciplined, observant? Or are they as cautious, trying to listen in on the silence? He looks to Alphie, seeing his brother raise the spear higher about to hurl it. This is the moment of no return, Roland thinks as he licks his lips while mouthing the blowpipe.

Five orcs, five darts but they're all well armored; Apart from one wearing a helmet, the others' leather armor had neck guards, with long sleeves and small gaps that show their brown furred elbows. And they trot around in boots, and cloth pants for mobility. While their raptor pet looks around with paranoia in its eyes. The reek of the afternoon swamp is still on him, but disciplined enough to not go around berzerk, apart from being tied to a big wagon.

All the orcs let out a collective groan once they see the rocky path laid ahead. There's a collective agreement in the form of a dissatisfied grunt. They get to work, the leader of the pack even helping them. Kicking rocks aside the road, tossing some of the bigger ones work them up a sweat that the brothers can smell from afar. But the night aids them with a gust of cold wind, howling, followed by a gruffed shriek then a loud thud. Their source of light fallen to the ground, hiding those in the trees above even further.

"Ambush!" The helmed orc yells, yanking the spear out and splits it in half with his knees. He leers at the same trees, this time seeing the glint of another spear approaching him, grazing the side of his helmet. Blood spilled that night, "Up on that tree!" He points to his right, imbalanced as he trips over his struck compatriot.

"Got it, boss," one of them tosses a knife in Alphie's direction but the gnoll has descended since his second spear throw. But he feels a prick on the gap between his arm and shoulder, flicking it off which feels like using all of his strength to do so. His vision blurs along with the sound, putting him down to his knees.

Roland mutters under his breath why he's not lying on the ground unconscious, and he starts to curse to himself seeing his brother fight two orcs in melee combat. His eyes track the gaps between their foe's armor but they're moving gracefully and around his brother.

Alphie mimics their motions, 'dancing' alongside them. He exchanges their swings with thrusting motions. Their manly scent pervades his nose with each dodge, but he does not succumb. Using his shorter stature, he ducks and swings at their legs, scratching at their cloth pants and leaving red blotch stains on them.

Roland fires another dart, prickling one of orcs' armor instead, and in his act to correct it, he immediately fires at the other orc and it hits his pauldron instead. He has two left but in his panic, fumbles through his fingers and both of them fall down to the darkness. His brother's in danger, so he climbs down to help.

Alphie's sluggish dodges leave gnashes through his armor, almost feeling the blade slide across his fur. He, too, panics and focuses more on his defenses. The orcs get closer to his fur with their swings, and their boss starts throwing knives in his way, slicing off his armor straps as they fly past him. He uses this opening to spin and take a long slice that both orcs dodged, their leader running up from behind.

Roland pounces from the shadows with a knife in hand. His heart thumps with fear despite his display of courage to attack a stronger foe. Surprise is with him, and a quick plunge into the orc's chest will finish him. Instead, though, his face is plunged into the ground, dragged across the dirt. He yelps for help but his muzzle is pressed further in, letting out a muffled whelp instead.

"Brother!" Alphie shouts, his hesitation results in his last spear halved, and the very tip of the orc's sword cutting down the hem of his pants. They drop to his knees, exposing his uncut length, but that doesn't matter. He takes a swing with his severed weapon, but his dropped pants imbalance him, and he falls on his back, his legs spread out enough to show his tight pink hole, barely lit by the carried torch.

"Brothers, eh?" The leader looks down, huffing at the smaller gnoll he's pinned. "The Scurrying Brothers of the Blue-Green Plains. Two gnolls, use of sedatives on their enemies. Scantily dressed," he rips his pants apart with one pull.

Roland's cheeks turn warm at the tearing sound, turning redder as his legs are lifted up.

The first orc that Alphie struck earlier arrives with a torch in hand, "Is this the cunt that speared me?" His eyes look down at his tight pink hole surrounded by gentle brown fur. He'll fuck him up if he's the one responsible for his now-bandaged arm. Moving his torch closer to his insignificant gnoll bits to scare him.

Roland squirms and whines to no avail, his fur stands as he feels the closing heat. His bladder nearly loses itself too, feeling a more dignified sense of relief that none of him got scorched.

"This one's the weaker of the two, in charge of the poison I assume." The orc's hand trails down from his raised ankle to his crotch, his larged furred fingers able to cup his nuts and cock gently. He worries of breaking him before they're taken home, and this one can't even hurt a fly. "That one over there," he glares at the snarling gnoll shouting obscenities at them.

"Heh, I'll make him my bitch." The wounded orc stomps his way to the other two orcs holding him down. They even make him kneel, holding out his arms as he stood before, huffing and growling under his breath. The torch moved closer to his wound, making sure he knows whose fault it is. All he sees is a resisting snarl, trying to bite out at the hand holding the flame.

"Let my brother go!" Alphie demands of them. Despite having no means, nor power, nor cunning to impose. No undergarments either, letting his rather well-endowed junk take in the cool breeze. He can still smell his own musk from last night, distinguishable from the sweat.

Unfortunately for him, the orcs can also distinguish these scents. They snicker among themselves knowing how virile these roadside bandits are. The wounded orc says, "Boss, one of the bandits here had a good wank not too long ago." He laughs, and the rest of them do too.

Roland blushes at that fact, the proclamation, and the scent association makes him look at his brother's dick trying to be covered up by muscular gnoll legs. He does so too, hoping he won't be made fun of for being smaller in his tool and his sac, and the thought of it had cold shame run up his spine.

Alphie keeps himself quiet with no retort, yipping suddenly as muscular and rough hands jostled between his legs. "Let me go you fuck!" Both his arms are lifted up by one of the orcs while the other two inspect his goods with calloused hands and hot breath sniffing him. They caress him in ways that feel strange, unwarranted, yet somehow arousing. Sure his mind screams resistance! This feels bad! Or at least it's supposed to. But another fiend's hand who's familiar with fondling dicks– the way two fingers rub his shaft, shrouding and exposing the glans under his foreskin. He seethes and stifles a moan enough for them to not hear, growling under his breath while trying to kick their pervy hands away. Alas, despite his powerful legs, the other orc catches them and holds them down.

The wounded orc crouches down, and after having dodged his kicks, he sees the gnoll's dick sticking out with pre leaking from and pooling around the tip. He laughs aloud, catching the attention of their leader, "Someone's enjoying this!" With gentle strokes, pre dribbles down along the base before leaving a string that falls to the dirt road below. Musky and unwashed for how long, and responsible for all the courier killings? A severe punishment is in order. It doesn't help either that he and his group have been pent up, talking about the whores in their next town. These two will do. They'll even be rewarded for it.

Their helmed leader wrings around the unresisting gnoll with one hand around his neck. He drags him across the road, the scrawnier one is too light for his size, or he himself is stronger than he realizes. Peeking at his captive's dick as his own libido gnaws for release too, glancing back and forth drawing comparisons with this one's brother, liking what he sees in the bigger gnoll. Knowing how his subordinates will fight him over it, especially the wounded one, he'll let them have their fun with him. Stopping just before them, he spanks Roland, making his dick bounce as the forest echoes the gnoll's yips and yaps.

Roland whines in between, greeting his teeth as bare hands smack his furry rear. He doesn't see the imprint it leaves, or the reddened cheek, and the fact that the man handling spreads his cheek outward so the orc can see his tight virgin hole.

"Whatever you do to my brother I will return to you five fold!" Alphie swears.

"Only five?" The wounded orc fondles his nuts without any emphasis on care, the forest now echoes his yelling. Despite that, pre oozes over his back arm. He turns to his group, even the other orc who's waking up, "This one here likes it rough."

"Fuck you!" Alphie retorts.

"Yes, we will," he cups his growing bulge, licking his lips. "Think of it as punishment for your banditry, and killing our men." The wounded orc passes his torch to their leader, loosening the hem of his pants after. There's a smirk across his face as he undoes the knot holding his pants together, letting the front sag forward and unleashing a powerful musk repulsing Alphie who gags despite his throbbing cock.

It's pungent, invades his nose with an aggressive sweat. Alphie tries to turn his head away from it with no obvious effect. Only for it to become more potent as he hears the sound of pants dropping onto the orc's heels. He still struggles, his cock bouncing whether from his resistance or the arousal from peeking the orc's leaking schlong.

The scent permeates from his loose foreskin tip, dangling from his throbbing cock. Pre seeps out of it too, some dribbling down along his shaft, and onto his plump orcmakers. The two other orcs holding Alphie down loosen their pants and shimmy out of them in a few motions to reveal larger shafts than even the bigger gnoll. They see his panicked expression, or maybe it isn't? One of them remarks, "What? Never seen what a real dick looks like before?"

Their leader chuckled, "Maybe he likes dick after all. Especially being stuck with this other male." His hands slide along Roland's sides, feeling him jerk out of fear, whimpering under his breath. There's sympathy to be felt here but he is still responsible for knocking out one of their guys though. And when his hand finally returns to his spanked-hot cheek, the smaller gnoll lets out a moan. So he slides his finger between his ass cheeks, almost as large as his captive's dick too. Rubbing his rim, twirling around it, and his body trembles some more in a vain attempt of deviance because he's gotten hard too.

"Is this the one that knocked me out?" As he steps closer to the torchlight, this orc has longer fangs than the rest. Safe to assume that he is the second in command, his voice is deeper than the helmed one. He looms over Roland, seething with the subtle scent of rosethorn mixing with his own musk too.

Roland is forced by his chin to turn and face him, crying quietly as their eyes meet. He sees the rage in them with a glance of his tenting pants. Skin beneath his fur becomes ice cold, the imminent demise inching closer step by step with his body shuddering in fear. Alphie in the background shouts inconsequential obscenities as the wounded orc grips his mouth shut and gropes his shaft; his ferocity turns to muffled moaning.

Their helmed leader raises his hand against his fellow orc, "Relax, it's just rosethorn. We use it as a sleeping herb." He continues to finger Roland's rear. "Plus a single punch and you might actually kill the weaker link." Shifting his body to emphasize this gnoll.

The fanged orc looms over Roland who tries to inch himself back only to find a rogue finger burying itself closer to his prostate. The orc's protruding musclegut rubbing against the gnoll's chest. "I thought this one is the pack mule."

"No, he's the smart one."

He crouches down, leveling himself to the gnoll, "All his size went into his head then." While he rubs the nub of his dickhead through his foreskin, peeling it back to release a very pungent smell he's only found after a hard day's work. The others laughed at his joke while Alphie muttered something through gritted teeth, but it's still a hollow threat.

Roland's tears contrast with his swelling emotions as pre oozes out of his stroked tip. While his hips try not to push itself back into the skillful protruding finger, and jerking forward to let his exposed glans into the warm orc breath sniffing it. His pale-colored cheeks turn pink, and the pine-sensation of the orc's fur behind him turns to a blanket-like texture as his gasps turn to panting.

"This one loves it up the ass too," the leader says, affirming the gnoll's reactions to his strong sensual advances. He turns and twists his finger, grinning as he feels the gnoll's muscle spasming inside. And an ominous chuckle as he gives his friend a musky surprise.

"N-ngh… n-no…" Roland whispers.

The orc crouched in front is given an unceremonious facial, closing his eyes after the first strand landed straight on his snout. He growls and sputters as he tastes the inferior gnoll milk at the curves of his lips. Despite its dribbly texture, there's so much of it. All the other orcs laugh at him, while the injured one strokes Alphie, giving him a good long look.

"You like watching your brother cum?" He teases. After all, the fun has only begun.

"N-no…" Alphie mutters despite his own erection throbbing, jealous that Roland got to climax before he did in a supposed victory that had gone sour. This is supposed to be his moment. He should be the one goading at these assholes with his brother. All he can do is glare against their humored eyes, glancing back and forth at his brother's dick, wondering if a similar fate awaits him, or worse.

"Your mouth says no but your cock says yes." The injured one gathers pre from his own shaft, letting it ooze on his middle finger. Alphie sees his intentions, half shocked and half awed because his dick starts to ooze more pre too. And to play on the term 'go fuck yourself' he mixes the gnoll's pre on his fingers and slides it down his shaft, and along his nuts, drying his slick finger before burying it in between his cheeks. "Say you want it and I might go easy on you," he goads.

"Fuck off." Alphie doesn't want to admit it. His cheeks puff with anger, trying to suppress the urge that the orc's musk invites him into. Mixing their scents, especially with those holding him down letting their cocks wave around, only pulls his body towards their whim. He has to endure this and get his way out. Save his brother– he can still do it. All he has to do is resi– his hips thrust forward as the orc's finger slides into him, rough and slow. He surmises in his panic that it's much larger than his own dick, and he yelps out in genuine pain, enough for tears to leak out his eyes and dribble down his chin.

The fanged orc growls at his leader but hierarchy denies him the right to retaliate. He will get back at him for that. For now, he turns Roland's head to his bitching brother, "Not much of a fight without your poison, eh? But you do grow it yourself, right?" He turns his head back straight in a harsh yank, making his neck ache, but letting him go so he can answer him proper.

Roland grits his teeth as the sharpness travels up to his jaws too. Despite the silliness of this orc covered in his own cream, he dares not laugh nor smirk. A quick nod, and his body shuddering after as the leader orc's finger slides out of him, his softening dick spurting out once more to the laughter of his handler.

He wipes his face off with his arm and smears cum on Roland's feeble chest, whimpering to his strength rather than his degradation. Truly a weak link, but his knowledge may prove useful should the chief deem it so. For now though, for his cooperation, he poses to him the same question: "Submit to us as our playthings and we'll go easy on you."

"Don't do it bro– The wounded orc jabs Alphie's stomach, cutting himself off with a hard cough instead. His body slumping forward if it was not for the orcs holding him firmly in place. He still has a finger up his ass twisting and thrusting to the delight of his bobbing dick.

"That's the best you can do, whore?" The wounded orc tugs on his foreskin, yanking it upward to the sound of him shrieking through his gritting teeth. "Aw, don't want to open your mouth? Don't want to show your brother how much you want this?" The more he tugs, the more pre oozes out, and he slides his hand while grasping his meat, jerking him off. His shaft pulsed against his coarse hand, the gnoll's warm breath brushing over his hair as he does his way with him. He hastens his pace, all the way until he feels him approaching his climax, which he stops and let's go.

"Bastard," Alphie tries to make himself cum by thrusting in the open air, his unhooded dickhead glistening against the fire only to ooze more pre.

The wounded orc smirks and grips his maw, keeping it open, "Being a bandit, I suppose no one taught you some manners. Boys, lower him for me. And use his tattered leather to bind his hands and feet."

"Yessir," one of them retrieves what remains of Alphie's clothes and ties his ankles together. He relishes in the moment, tightening it to the gnoll's discomfort. A prelude to a more tight-fitting punishment.

Alphie can only growl at him. He tries to voice his threats but the orcs misconstrue it, whether purposefully or not, as sexual begging. The wounded orc says, "I call dibs on his mouth."

The two others stand beside him, stroking themselves with pouting faces because of their jealousy. One of them glances back at the scrawnier gnoll receiving a much better treatment but by no means is it polite. The leader and his second in command continue to prod him all around. The idea of someone so scrawny to survive in these parts is unheard, and they continue to joke at his inability to satisfy any of their clanmates with his shaft alone. Even the smallest adult male in their clan is still twice as large as he was.

"You're going to be a fuck toy," the helmed one reminds Roland. "But you're going to be the fun fuck toy." He slides his shaft between those ass cheeks. This brutish orc girth is large enough to spread them open, and Roland is helpless to resist.

"Roland!" Alphie shouts.

"Shaddap!" One of the orcs smacks the back of Alphie's head.

"Can you finally stuff his mouth? I wanna enjoy my blowjob in peace." The long-tusked orc says to them.

"I'm getting to that!" The wounded one yells back as he smears Alphie's nose with his pre. He relaxes himself, growling in anticipation. "Bite my dick and your brother dies."

Alphie leers into his eyes, still reeling from the smack. But he's helpless now as he practically tastes the orc's cock from his musk alone. Drool seeped its way from his mouth to his chest.

"Enjoy it because it's all you can do now." He tells him as he slides his cock between his lips, widening the gap of his mouth to further accommodate himself. But he's certain the gnoll's tongue is trying to avoid it but ends up twisting itself around his cock. The folds of his foreskin reel back because of the excitement.

Alphie's mind retches at the pungent scent as it worsens with this orc's foreskin reeled back. But his instincts want it, almost allured, and his resistance tries to keep itself leveled despite his cock rising more on its own. He tries to free himself but the repurposed cloth proved to be more restrictive. But he is jealous of what true manhood looks like, snorting to try and come off as apprehensive. There's a blush on his cheeks because of his shame. And even as the orc loosens his grip against his mouth, having all the power to bite it as a reminder of having crossed him, he mustn't. He'll have to endure even if his body betrays him.

"Almost as good as a cheap whore. At least this one's free," he throbs against his tongue. And the slicker it is, the faster he pleasures himself with his maw. "Even they can't take it up the ass." He alludes with a sinister grin, "I bet you could." And laughs as his helpless leer can do nothing, and that there can be no response to his threats. Not while his brother is in view being spitroasted.

Roland's hesitance is much weaker as he lets his body go limp at their control. He gives them full use of himself. The orc behind him has a larger girth than the one in front, but thrusts slower. Strong grips, though not forceful, almost lift him by his hips as he slowly pulls out. While the shaft he's servicing with his mouth is quicker, feeling his nuts slap against his neck as a result. The orc with the longer tusks has two intense flavors of his cock as his foreskin folds and pulls itself open against his tongue.

"It's not so bad, right?" He says, rubbing the top of his head with a free hand. Their eyes meet and he loves seeing the depravity and surrender in them. There's a feeling that he's been touch-starved, knowing how his brother's been able to get himself off. Still, he forces him to nod with a rough yank and shove of his head, and he feels his cock bounce inside him. "That's right."

The wounded orc picks up his pace, tightening his hold on Alphie's maw. It's like fucking with a toy except this one breathes warm air against his exposing dickhead, sending pleasured spasms through his legs. He's close already but he wants to break him in more. And if his maw can barely fit one orc-cock, how about two? "How about you two get a turn with his mouth then?" He gestures them to his side, but tugs Alphie by his binds and drags him closer to his brother while jerking in his movements.

Their leader pauses, amused by this development. "Give him a good view of what's about to happen to him." He completely pulls out, under the low flames shows Roland's hole gaping, twitching, and strings of bodily fluid between his anal cavity. But he does so as a tease, giving him only a moment to 'appreciate' it, before burying himself hard inside. Taunting him more, he spanks Roland, and plaps against his rear with every thrust.

"Okay that's enough fun," The wounded orc makes him turn away, and towards the two orcs whose uncut cocks are practically kissing each other. Both their arms are on each other's shoulders as Alphie is shoved closer to them. One holds his mouth open, and the other leads both their frotting cocks into him.

"Let's see what we're working with here," he yanks the gnoll's tail upwards, causing him to yip in pain. And he smacks his rear, "Ah shut up. I'm not gonna take your tail off, but you sure sound like a bitch when I do this." He tugs it harshly, causing him to whine and whimper.

One of the two orcs say to him, "Keep doing it, I could feel his tongue desperately licking our dicks."

And he gives it a few more tugs, the yipping turns to a long winding cry. "Aw, I think I broke him."

The other then says, "Great job you idiot, you ruined it."

"Fellas," the wounded orc assures them. Both hands now spread Alphie's rear. "I know just how to fix him." He sees the gnoll's tight hole and he's definitely a virgin. A tight puckering pink tailstar. Because he's been struck with a spear, it's only fitting he'd impale him with something girthier.

More Alphie's tears roll down over the blush on his cheeks. He feels exposed with his hole feeling the warmth emanating from his cock. His jaw tires and the rest of his body aches, yet his asshole twitches as the orc's large cock prods at it. His eyes widen, more tears pouring down his cheeks, body writhing and trying to struggle himself free as the jolt of pain courses through him. They can't let him clench his teeth as his asshole tightens against a near-dry dicking whose girth is as large as his own arm.

"There we go," he can see the pink edges of his ring turn red with the sheer force at which he fucks him hard and raw. It's good to break them in like this. It feels liberating, especially with the sound of his thighs slapping hard against the gnoll's rear, and the lack of his yelling; while it is a pleasant sound, it's not as entertaining as their muffled cries. He glances over at his brother who only gives him a side eye, unable to process the situation they've been put into.

Their leader grins at seeing the more annoying of the two having his dignity pummeled out of him. He does pick up his pace with the weaker one, testing his mettle to see how much he can take. This one has grown accustomed to it, quiet and unwitting. His subordinate being fellatio'd is still pleased however. He rubs his side, "You're making out to be a fine toy. Good."

But the wounded orc is not done, he grabs Alphie's leg and heaves it up with his strong arm while his hands find his quivering shaft. He's smaller compared to the orcs like the others have surmised, and he toys with his gnoll sacs with just two fingers. It'd be a shame to crush them because they're always fun to toy with. His digits lead him to his shaft, playing around with his foreskin and having a finger underneath it.

Alphie feels the jitters in his legs as his mind is eroded in disbelief that this sets him off. He climaxes to the orc's jeering, while his ass is fire-hot, and his mouth full of musk, sweat, and length he can never grow to. Once his first spurt's out, he feels the shame overlap any other sensations he's feeling. A cold brooding force that shuts down any optimism and excitement he's had before. And unlike the fumbles he's made in his earlier runs, or wronging his brother, this one won't go away. His rear is smacked by large hands again, which is a punishment he takes without the drive of vengeance anymore.

The two orcs who've frotted inside the gnoll's lips hasten their pace, muttering their approaching climax under warm breaths. The wounded orc boning his bitch remarks, "This is why you two are at the bottom. You can't hold your fucks." As he pounds, edging himself to see if he can make team leader next time.

They would've retorted if they're not cumming inside their toy's mouth. Moans escape their lips, almost like howls as one strokes themselves, while the other thrusts faster into him. Wave after wave of pungent yellow-white orc milk oozes out from between the gnoll's teeth too.

Alphie feels the warmth rush down his throat, out of his nose, and any excess load splurts out from the edges of his lips. He involuntarily takes it in but can't cough it all out, yet in a cruel twist, he cums with them too. The salty, stinky, and sticky orc milk fills him more than any other liquid he's drank. And he can still feel one of their cock's foreskin fold and unfold itself inside his mouth.

"Fuck!" The long-tusked orc finds himself defeated, cumming into Roland's mouth because of the show that his two peers have done. Despite being alone, he climaxed well enough to have his spunk ooze out of the weaker gnoll's. And he keeps thrusting while fondling his own nuts as it sends him more into an ecstatic bliss.

"This is why neither of you are leaders," the helmed one says as he's still plowing Roland's rear. He glances at his wounded friend and treats it like a sort of competition.

The wounded orc catches on and ups the ante, trying to outdo his superior. But watching how both these gnolls have been painted enough in their spunk, "Boys, I have an idea." He pauses for but a moment and yanks Alphie away from the two cocks he's been lapping at, and turns his body towards the other three, where the orc at Roland's mouth paints his face with his essence.

Their leader does the same, to the disappointment of the long-tusk, and wrings him by the neck to bring him closer to his brother. Both gnolls' jaws still oozed with their cream, and are soon smooshed together against each other's lips. At first they stare blankly, but with the level of depravity they've been brought down to, they start to make out with each other. All the orcs laugh at them as they exchange their semen between their kissing. It's also a sight to behold that Alphie's cock is still twitching too.

The three orcs, aroused by their shameful display, jerk themselves off as they stand beside the brothers.

"They're such sluts."

"Didn't think the dumber one had hots for his brother."

"I didn't think bandits could stoop this low yet here we are."

Alphie's face is as red as his rear, and the orcs prefer to say it's due to his shame for loving his brother way more than one does. He looks into his brother's eyes, their tongues clashing against each other, wondering why his dick is throbbing to this. While his brother seems to go along with it than him, and his muzzle is the one pushing closer to him. Their captor's spunks mix and they all taste the same, all equally arousing though.

"Have him stand up," their leader pulls Roland away, causing his brother to stoop forward.

"Damn, he really does want him," the wounded orc pulls Alphie by his binds, the fight fucked out of him already. He goes along with his leader's motion, pressing their bodies against each other, and they both push each other's muzzle together too. Their cocks frot, oozing pre and smearing their earlier ejaculate over one another's, pooling at each other's covered tips too.

Roland feels how warm Alphie is, and how the orc behind him is far warmer. He climaxes again to the cheers of his new captors, and he feels his brother's mouth twitch, wondering himself why he gets the pity card instead. Alphie tries to growl but does not dare to do it to his brother; he's all that's left now. His climax is much weaker as he is spent, with his seed being thin and near-transparent as it dribbles down their cum-stringed cocks.

And the wounded orc soon came after, giving Alphie rough thrusts as he pushes his climax deep into him. "Take" he, "it" cums, "bitch," now! Firing strands after strands of copious orc cream into the bigger gnoll. Letting the first wave of pleasure ride by simply having his shaft impaled inside him, throbbing as more of his milk spills out into his red hole. And once his body passes the threshold, yet his cock continues to fire, he rapidly thrusts into the gnoll's battered hole, causing him to climax with the same load as his brother's.

Alphie can't groan out in pain as the climax coursing through him is a stinging wrath from his captor's brute force. He's always thought about how good it feels but not like this, and to have lost his first to the orc. He's spent too and yet he still feels something cumming. And he feels the orc's powerful arm pull at his neck, somehow knowing that he's about to climax yet again.

But it's not cum anymore. To the orc's surprise and ensuing laughter, they watch Alphie's dick become a fountain of golden reek. It stains the gnoll's fur, and that of his brother's too.

Their leader rubs Roland's head first as a subtle apology before having to pound him at the pace of his subordinate. Since they've all climaxed, he can now too, finally. He's grown fond of him, hoping he can make him his personal pet. At least he's not broken yet despite giving the full force that brings him to his own climax too. He fills him up, and feels his body tense and shudder.

One of the orcs points it out, "He's pissing himself too!"

Both gnolls stream their piss against each other, staining and discoloration of their fur with a dark yellow taint. Their bodily fluids dribble down their thighs, and drip from their now empty balls.

After the wounded orc is spent, he's pulled aside by the two dumbasses who opt in as sloppy seconds together, further stretching out Alphie than he already can. The gnoll deserving of this punishment has no sound left in him to scream, and his legs give only to be strong up by two arms and cocks frotting inside him.

While the long tusked orc cums once again, aiming his dick at Alphie's muzzle. The gnoll's tired and sticky glow-up received another layer of spunk.

Their leader puts Roland at the hands of the wounded orc, while he smears his cum coated dick against Alphie's sides and waist, the force of the rutting makes the cleaning easier. He wants to take a crack at him as well.

Alphie is once again filled not long after, his belly slowly expanding from the extra load that's put inside him. And another after the other two have already pulled out. Their leader lives up to his name as he is rougher with his play, grinding against his flesh cave while tightening his grip around his shaft firing blanks. The only thing coming out of him now is hollow air through his cum-covered snout, and whatever cum oozes out each time the leader thrusts outward. He looks around trying to find his brother but he can see him being rutted on the ground far from him, by the same orc he's wounded.

Roland fires blanks like his brother but the orc fucking him can't tell, lost in the pleasure of a near-tight hole. His captor relishes this act as he himself is silent too. There is still nothing to say. The pungent smell and these aches he feels now is something he'll need to get used to.

And when the leader yells in ecstasy, having cum inside his second favorite toy, he shoves him forward to let him fall onto the rancid mud. To top it all off, the long tusked orc shoots his climax all over him and says, "I wanted my turn too, you know." His disdain seeing him dirtied with his own urine too.

The wounded orc pulls out of Roland, painting his back with his own seed instead, letting out a satisfied sigh as he appreciates their handiwork. This gnoll stands still, hunched over from the exhaustion while he's being painted, and his dick turns flaccid once again, appearing smaller since he has nothing left in him.

He remains standing still as the orcs get dressed, extinguishing their fire as they see the sun rise on a new day. Roland is given a seat on the wagon, not even bound knowing that he has no strength to get away at all.

Alphie, on the other hand, is still bound, and bent halfway through the wagon's rear. His tail strung up to be permanently raised, and his hands tied along his thighs to permanently spread his cheeks, showing his red and cum-oozing hole. Fur all over his body is a mix of his own, his brother's, and the orc's spunk. And who's to say that the orcs won't toy around with him during their trip? It's still several hours until they return to town.

Through the grass fields that the brothers patrolled the day prior, they travel through the cliffside overlooking distant vistas, and between a valley they know not about, and another forest with trees the tallest they've ever seen. Some have huts high above their trunks hosting orcs in soldier gear looking down upon them. The helmed orc waves at them, receptive of a welcoming greeting.

"The chief shall be pleased that the bandit brothers of Za'mul Plains are no more!"

Cheers all around, and this is when Roland slowly makes the realization. And that the sound of a horn to signify their arrival answers his lifelong questions. He starts noticing more orcs they pass by, some dressed in dignified leather clothing. Farther into the forest he notices huts on the ground, and larger gaps between the trees that are made to make them.

More orcs flock around them, jeering and laughing at the gnoll brothers, some hysterical over Alphie's position. Roland can hear him weep audibly inside the wagon, whereas he is at a loss for words. For what was once an idealized myth is now their grim reality.

****