Ivar’s End 3
And so, the Horde shall have its pets
Commission for Lightsun168(FA)
Ivar’s End 3
And so, the Horde shall have its pets
“Pull faster! Keep going, Mutt! Crap… Is he even listening to me?”
An Orc groaned in Orcish, his voice low. But Jezz answered with a laugh and made that taser buzz right by his ears.
“Faster. Or I’ll hit your nuts with it!”
His ears dropped, and he pulled. He pulled as fast as he could. He pulled as hard as he could. But clenching his thighs and yet advancing produced various results; mainly, an uneven gait.
It was a reflex, something primal that made his feet kick the ground.
But as he pulled, his teeth bit into the bar gag deeper, leaving large dents in it. Something that could not have been possible with his weakness before. But now? It was different.
They had changed his diet. His Pack’s diet.
They’d decided to feed them, to make them bulk up, to gain some muscles, and not to look as famished. No longer were they turning into Humans. But all of a sudden, his Pack was acting… Different.
More feral, more primal. More tense within their cells and around the guards, much more wary than they’d been before. More prone to biting and snapping their teeth, too, even at him.
They acted demure afterwards, but their bouts were growing, especially around the females.
But that… Ivar could not comment about it or tell them outright.
Not as he was kept gagged day and night, only released for his feeding or-
Ding ding ding!
The bell rang, practically a familiar echo. Everyone around Ivar stopped. The Worgens stopped dragging their weights along on all fours, pushing with their shoulders and backs. And… Ivar no longer had to pull his weight.
He took a sharp breath, feeling the noses and eyes and ears turned toward him as he advanced… And the squelching sound came. His orifice… Opened up further and so slipped out the first bead, the largest.
Lubricant and cum sputtered out, sprayed over the metal toy and the rope tying it to the boulder he’d been carrying.
Then came the second bead. The third, the fourth. All smaller than the former until the smallest practically slipped out and smacked against Ivar’s fuzzy testicles before his asshole was out in the open.
Gaped, swollen, practically a shade of what it was. A gaping entrance coated with fluids and lube, a far cry from the raw scent he had there… From the tight orifice most Alphas had, they presented for a proper introduction.
The smell there did not make anyone doubt: he’d been used… Abused by the Horde, and at most, they would assume he was a whore. If not a female.
He groaned, walking forward without order. Darla and Ekor were waiting for him on stage, by the pillory that had been made to his specifications.
He looked at them, giving them a thousand-yard stare. Then, over his shoulder, he watched as his Pack was getting rounded up.
They were tied with chains, shocked when they fought, beaten if they fought again. But they were forced to sit in rows, chained like slaves, while he was installed in the pillory in front of them.
Their eyes, brimming with feral intent, were focused on him… His caged genitals were flatter and tighter around his groin. To his hands that were attached, to his craned neck upon which closed the wooden stocks.
And then… He was there, naked, exposed, forced to bend over.
“Can we stop with the whole ceremony?” asked Darla, scratching while her bodyguard appeared out of nowhere, holding out a syringe with a yellowish liquid.
“It is important, Darla.”
“I cannot record my thoughts when you’re doing that.”
“Not everyone needs to record their thoughts.”
“And that’s the difference, why I’m the brain, and you’re the brawn.”
Ekor snorted and grunted, leaning toward the Goblin. Anger and opposition. Ivar rolled his eyes, still tied… And feeling the Desert’s scorching air brush against his gaping orifice, making it clench and tighten.
At that point, he would be fine with getting the toy back rather than feeling that empty. It was starting to hurt whenever there was nothing inside his hole and gaping… Gaping was almost constant.
Similarly to the water elemental they kept in his cell, filling him up even in his deepest dreams.
“Fine. I’ll have one of my assistants record for me.”
Ekor didn’t say a thing, but he whistled and made a movement. His Peons ran away after having ordained the Worgens. Then they returned with the Grunts. Armored, prepared… Meanwhile, Ivar had been waiting and cooking under the sun.
But now, he was to watch all those Orcs standing proud and ready as in a ceremony, flanking the sitting down Worgens while Ekor approached the edge of the stage.
And he spoke…
Not in common, but in Orcish. A long, tedious, boring discourse.
Each time, he raised his hand toward one of the Worgen or Ivar before closing that hand in a fist and shaking it.
Each time, he pointed at one soldier, who nodded and hit his chest with a closed fist.
It was a ceremony, or it ought to be… But the main topic, to whom Ekor turned regularly, wasn’t there.
Though the Kor’kron spoke and everyone saluted, there were sighs… Coming from Darla.
She was bored out of her mind.
But then, the ceremony ended. And so came the typical Lok’tar Ogar and the orcs raising their fists… And reaching for their belts, a lascivious grin spreading across their faces.
“You can continue. What do you think about this version?”
“Far too wordy for our Warchief and for me,” answered Darla, prosaic before snapping her fingers. “But adequate in values.”
Ivar bit into his gag further, rolling his eyes and groaning. Even the Pigs had that distasteful love for celebrations. Just as boring for the Worgen, who narrowly yelped when a needle was planted in his posterior and the icy liquid was injected.
Followed then… The pleasure, the bliss, the warmth, the wrapping sensation of his body being swathed by the wind’s touch. It was no longer harsh on the fur but a caress that ran along his back, along his posterior… Along his asshole, while said asshole clenched and released a shot of lube and cum onto the stage.
He swore, he grumbled… But soon, Ivar’s expression relaxed. His brows dropped, his jaw relaxed, and saliva dripped from his mouth as he faced his kin. His Pack. His kin.
They eyed him, grimacing or frowning or commenting. Their eyes were raised, their hands flexing, though they couldn't remove the cuffs or the ankle wraps that stopped them from moving.
Much like how Ivar couldn't remove the gag locking his jaw or free himself from that magically reinforced pillory.
“Gorshag! You’re the first!” said Ekor, pointing at a Kor’kron.
His belt and pants were off. That one possessed a greasy brown cock that was hard and dripping on the floor, a mast that was… Well, almost as big as Ivar’s forearm.
The Kor’kron kicked his reinforced pants off and waddled with his boots on, his gait certainly not the finest nor the most refined. But his desire was all the more palpable as he patted the other Pigs’ shoulders on the way, grinning and whispering something to them.
Each time, Ekor had to cough to force him to come until the Orc was on stage, saluting, raising his hands, and roaring while behind Ivar.
He would roar, flex, and then… Once Ekor coughed and told him to get going, there would be that orcish shaft presented to Ivar’s back entrance.
To his rim, which was not only sensitive. But once the tip was presented, the orifice widened as much as possible. That cocktip, massive and impressive, practically slid into Ivar’s body, into his asshole. And the Worgen moaned, feeling like a silk caress inside his guts.
Even then, it was not silk. It was an Orc’s cock, a Pig’s cock. And though it looked human, its presence was demeaning, humiliating, perverse.
A cock whose sheer width and presence squeezed against the Worgen’s prostate, pushing against the organ that had been described as swollen and improved by Darla.
Only Darla could say that the organ was improved when it only made Ivar’s orgasms and pleasure more intense. When the mere pressure on it erased the worries, the pain, the torment… And left Ivar moaned and almost smiled as his caged cock shot inside the cage… And cum dripped from the cage over his fuzzy testicles. All… In front of his Pack.
Pack that snarled, that grimaced, that grunted.
But they, too, would be abused. They, too, would be ruined.
Ivar was certain; he’d heard it. He’d even listened to Darla and Ekor’s plans for them.
Then… The Worgen felt a hand reach for his mouth, feeling the calloused hand grasp the straps that were magically holding the gag in place.
He undid it while the Orc behind continued to pummel Ivar’s guts and shook him.
But the gag was undone.
Ivar gargled as his tongue slipped out with a mix of saliva and throat slime. He gargled, opening and closing his jaws while trying to keep what was happening in mind.
His prostate was pummeled, his spine hit by the crawling pleasure. His fur was ruffled, puffed up around his chest and groin. His cock… Well, it was burning from the ever-tighter cage.
What… Wait. Was it this?
“So… Are you planning to tell them?”
Ivar grimaced. Then he smiled. Then he grimaced again, fending off the waves of pleasure shaking his brain and making it difficult to hate the Kor’kron’s guts.
As much as a primal and repressed part wanted to rip Ekor’s throat out… No… Ivar smiled and had to maintain a constant effort to keep a grip on his mind.
Even… even when the Orc behind growled and grunted, ejaculating inside him.
The invading warmth, the weight, the density pressing against his guts before that Orc pulled out… The almost cold breeze compared to the steamy semen, the wind caressing his rim… The emptiness as his hole clenched and closed on nothing, solely to open again…
The tension in his legs. And that liquid sliding along the back of his nuts.
Ivar smiled and then shook his head, slurring.
“What… Not… Not now,” he whispered, grumbling.
“If you do not say to them, I will not honor your request.”
“You… You’re twisting it,” groaned Ivar.
Another Orc joined the stage, gripping the Worgen by his powerful hips and thrusting within.
The shock was strong enough to rattle Ivar and the pillory, though none fell.
Ivar’s ears dropped as he watched his Pack ahead, grimacing and disgusted. They would be; he would be the same if he saw one of his kin in this situation.
Ivar growled, shaking his head to ease the veil of pleasure and lust over his thoughts.
“I never promised when. You’d say it, Ivar. And if you don’t…”
If Ivar did not give up… It would be them.
Their turn to be humiliated, to be ruined. The hours spent fucked and fisted while hooked on Wolfsbane. The moments spent getting ejaculated on. The days kept awake with the sole relief coming after being fucked.
And worse… Then worse.
Ivar would never admit it. But here was the truth: his Pack was a bargaining chip.
Ekor had told him so. Ivar could give up on them, on the Pack. He’d be treated like the others, less abused. Garrosh wanted a pet. In the end, it mattered little if it was exactly Ivar, right?
The Worgen swallowed his saliva, though it was much in an attempt not to choke on it.
His saliva glands were overworking. He was salivating constantly, always… More so in the presence of Orcs. The same as his asshole that could burn days and nights, but worse after he was fucked or in the presence of an Orc’s smell.
That Pig’s smell, it was driving him crazy, through and through.
Then… Again, the Orc behind him clenched his fingers around Ivar’s hips, bruising them. Leaving them sore and burning.
And leaving another dose of cum deep within that asshole before it would leak and ooze… Drop and land in fat dollops coalescing into a puddle on stage.
Ekor’s breath was close, close to Ivar… A blow and he’d be stroking Ivar’s ears.
The Worgen’s ears dropped as he looked away, only to have the Orc’s hand, gloved, dig into his chin.
“Say it… Say it, and you’ll spare them the worst. They won’t have to be humiliated like you.”
Pride… And Ego.
Ivar ground his teeth, closed his eyelids as another cock was pumped inside his ass… Filling it. Filling him with that sensual pleasure that had become an entire part of his life.
The Orcs’ touch was feeling much… More pleasant. Adequate. They constantly did, and in return, his head buzzed when they stroked his body.
Much like how he shivered when Ekor’s fingers were behind his ears.
“Do… It. Mutt.”
A threat. A voice kept low with purpose.
Ivar nodded, sighed. Then looked at his kin with purpose. Their ears were lifted with intent. Their claws were almost scraping the floor. Their legs tensed at the thought of jumping on the Orcs.
One order, and it would be a last stand. One last stand, it’d be good.
But they would be kept alive if wounded. It had happened before; it would happen again. Garrosh wanted his pets alive and breathing. Even though it was painful, leaving a Worgen howling in the dark for days and nights after the treatments.
Ivar spat another dollop of saliva on the floor and then… He howled.
The sound came raucous and wrong at first, grating. But then came the clean cry, the howl his kind followed. They craned their heads and followed, though the suspicion and worries were present in their voices.
Not his… Not even as Ekor’s hand closed on his neck.
Not even when the Orc behind him slowed down and pumped another shot within him.
Then… The sound died down, and every ear and eye was on him. Aware, waiting.
“I…”
Ivar gulped, looking at Ekor’s sadistic grin.
“I am an Orc’s bitch.”
A faint movement, discreet.
“I am an Orc’s bitch. And I cannot live without their cocks.”
The Pack snarled and grimaced, their voices rising.
“How can you do this?” “What are you saying?” “Ivar! Traitor!”
Ekor’s grin grew wider, though it was only for Ivar.
“I am the property of the Horde now. I won’t fight my masters! I belong to them and their superior cocks! I… Am theirs! Their pet! I’m their pet!”
“You hear that, dumb Mutts?” said Ekor, turning to them.
Meanwhile, another Orc had joined in. And another Orc was pumping Ivar’s posterior, fucking and smacking his thighs against the Worgen’s posterior. His hits were rocking the Worgen, hitting his prostate with intent and purpose.
It wasn’t a guy coming to fuck and then nut inside the Worgen. This time, that guy wanted Ivar to cry and moan, to be loud about his orgasm.
He hit the prostate, smacked, punched, pummeled it until Ivar’s voice broke into loud and echoing moans. One that was loud enough to gather everyone’s attention, including the Worgens who’d been looking at Ekor.
“Hear that, bitches?! That’s your ‘alpha!’” shouted the Orc, air-quoting. “And he’s our bitch now! You can’t fight it! Ivar Bloodfang is our bitch! Not your Alpha anymore!”
“Traitor!” “Bastards!” “I believed in you, Alpha!” “Where’s your pride!”
The shouts answered Ekor’s prideful declaration with the Orc puffing up his chest to assert his status.
Even when it was another Orc ruining and forcing Ivar to moan and groan like a bitch.
He grinned, showing his teeth, and then turned to scratch Ivar’s ear, though the Worgen tried to pry his fingers away.
“You do not believe me, Mutts?”
“Orc cunts! I’ll rip your throat!” “We will kill you!” “What have you done to our Alpha?!”
Ivar’s ears dropped in shame, though the Orc soon obscured his vision… By Ekor’s presence and him reaching for his pants and belt.
“You do not believe this? Well. I’ll fuck your ‘Alpha’s mouth in front of you, mutts!”
“Don’t,” groaned Ivar, showing his teeth.
“I’ll do it. And you’ll choke on it… And if you try anything funny, I’ll rip their teeth out and have your Pack used by every Horde soldier. Even the disgusting Forsaken. Is that what you want? To suck a load out of an undead’s dick?”
The mere idea made Ivar retch and his ears drop. He did not need to visualize it more; he was disgusted, sick… And yet, he was presented with the Orc’s cock.
That mast was uncut, massive, and greasy. Oh, and whose smell titillated the Worgen’s nostrils.
“Darla. Another dose.”
Ivar wanted to open his mouth, but the needle was planted right in his neck. And the result almost came instantaneously.
One moment, he wanted to cry.
The second, he had the Orc’s calloused fingers running along his lips and gums, teasing his serrated teeth and prying that mouth open.
Meanwhile, behind, the Orc that had been pummeling Ivar’s prostate was finally done with it. Done fucking and milking more and more orgasms out of the Worgen.
Even then, with the cocktail that had been injected, there was no pain coming from the Worgen’s sore and used genitals. Even though he had been shooting blanks for the last few minutes, there was no pain when his testicles were lifted again, and a dry orgasm ran through his groin.
No pain… Only pleasure…. Only bliss when that big Orcish cock slipped through his lips and into his mouth, delivering its strong and pungent aroma onto the Worgen’s tongue.
An aroma that was unnerving, enthralling, terrible, titillating, disgusting, arousing.
The whole sensation wrapped Ivar’s thoughts. It egged him on, pushed him to give in. Ivar closed his lips, sucking on the Orc’s shaft while the Orc shouted orders above. Something and chains clang…
There was something different from the last celebration, beyond Ekor’s abuse and enjoining Ivar to give in. But what?
After that, the Orc would leave Ivar to be used by the entire squad, fucked in the ass until he passed out.
The Worgens would then be rounded up, and Ivar would wake up, cleaned up, back in his cell.
But it was different. Why another dose? Why another shot?
The question was there, amidst the numbness of lust and delight.
Then, piercing through it, clawing through his pleasure… Came the claws, digging into his flesh, drawing blood.
“You traitor,” came the voice, piercing through the bliss while Ivar was choking on the Orc’s massive cock.
Then… Came the cock, the organ plunging into his asshole. Not as big, without a foreskin… But elongated, thin. And ending… With fur rubbing against more fur. With a growl and the sound of something biting the pillory.
Whoever it was, he had a deep-seated hatred for Ivar. Something fierce, something primal, something brutal.
And that cock plunged deeper, the swollen knot hitting his back entrance, brutalizing. But it went in and out, with thrusts that were feral and bestial, shaking Ivar while he was forced to lick and clean Ekor’s sweaty cock.
The flavor on the Orc’s cock was strange, special, titillating. Appetizing. And he couldn’t stop licking it, not in his current state.
So… Ivar licked, feeling the claws digging into his side even after the one behind him had shot his load.
Another one clawing him?
The significant cuts across his back were like heated blades running along his spine and ribs.
But he was feeling… Good. The drug, the Wolfsbane, it inundated his senses. It always did. Choking, choking until he passed out, was pleasant.
Though the worries were there, it was through dissociation. Only one part of him was capable of such thoughts, but separated, inapt, incapable, walled in.
One intimately aware of his Pack, those he was sacrificing himself for, were taking turns knotting his ass instead of the Orcs.
Those who wouldn’t or couldn’t? They would spit or curse at him, leave their marks on his back in a way that reminded Ivar of old times.
Of the moment he became the Alpha of the pack. The moment he clawed his opponent’s back, leaving behind bloody gashes that would easily cicatrize. The fur would grow wrong in those spots, letting everyone see the shame written on the back, much like now.
-
“For the Warchief!”
“For the Horde!”
“Garrosh will save us all from the Alliance!”
The Orc smiled and waved, something that felt oddly wrong from him. But though the smile was crisp and forced, the crowd's glee was unfeigned. Whether Taurens, Orcs, Forsakens, Trolls, Blood Elves, or Goblins; they were all waving at the Warchief as the celebration was to take him from the valley of Trials to Orgrimmar.
The walk of the conquest, something that had not been done before.
He was not the only important figure on that day, though.
Cairne Grimtotem was at his side, though ailing. The Tauren’s chest and back were still bandaged. But he was frowning at the Orc’s mount whenever it was possible, calling it an abomination or an insult.
Garrosh waved those comments away, much like he did those from Thrall, the Banshee, and whoever might have decided to share their unsolicited opinion.
Today was Garrosh’s day, the celebration after the destruction of Theramore and the weakening of the Alliance.
Though the weather was scorching, the Warchief remained unfazed while smiling at the soldiers.
Old veterans from the first war, new ones… Mainly the Kor’krons who were not parading alongside him. They were needed to maintain the parade’s cordon. They made sure no one stepped in front of the Kodos and got their heads crushed.
Or that no Alliance spies would attempt, again, to murder the Warchief.
Remained the long walk, with some young Orc ladies even requesting a moment with the Warchief, though he declined by acting humble. A raised hand and a shaken head, though a huff came from Cairne at his side.
“They need to look down to see what the Warchief truly wants,” he commented.
“I prefer when it’s your son that’s around. He is just as spineless as you, but he knows when to sit down and stay quiet,” grunted Garrosh.
“Have you no shame?”
“That was taken away when I saw what the Alliance could do to tarnish our reputation,” huffed Garrosh, puffing up his chest.
“This is a declaration of war.”
“They can say what they want. I want them to repeat my words and tell their weaklings what they saw.”
Cairne snorted, shaking his hand weakly.
“You will doom us all.”
However, Garrosh did not care about this.
His hand descended along his ‘mount’s neck, patting it. He eased on the reins, though the walk remained as controlled, as stiff, as regular as before. Even though, compared to the Kodos, it felt like Garrosh was mounting diminutive Worgs.
“The spectacle is near,” said Garrosh, now gleeful and unfeigned.
All those parades and celebrations were for naught compared to the satisfaction he’d take from humiliating the Alliance.
This was no different, as he was riding Ivar Bloodfang’s back. The Worgen had been settled with a saddle, reins, and all the tack necessary for a proper ride.
However, more had been added. The Worgen’s ass had a plug firmly locked inside… A plug linked to a chain connecting to the Worgen cohort behind.
The pack the Horde had captured formed four lines flanked by the Kodos.
On them, the Kor’krons, with their armors, saluted all the same while they practically crushed the salivating and growling Worgens under their weight.
The cohort advanced that way, with the chains attached to buttplugs the Worgens had to keep in while walking forward. And those chains were tying them to their reins, to their gags, keeping the Worgens silent and forcing them to advance at the same pace.
The same footsteps. One, two. One, two.
Even the hammering drums could not alter the tempo that had been imprinted on the Worgens as they growled and stared at the crowd with feral intent.
Only one did not do that… And his eyes were on the floor, almost focused on counting the steps and the stones.
Clarity.
If one were to look at his eyes, one would find in return a sense of clarity rarely met. As well as nervous energy, only fear and worries could produce.
Yet, Ivar remained in his lane, following the orders while knowing Ekor was watching over him much like the crowd… Much like the Warchief, who gorged himself on water from a water skin before throwing it at a porter.
Then, with his arms raised, Garrosh Hellscream saluted the crowd standing at Orgrimmar’s doors.
Even a few races not from the Horde, like the Zandalaris or the Sethraks, were coming to observe the events. Even a few select Night Elves and Draeneis were among them, though kept under watch with guards keeping a spear near them. ‘Guests’.
The procession continued as they passed through the doors and approached Grommash Hold. Yet, at the front of it, a stage had been built.
A stage with a lectern there, adorned by a gem floating above. Garrosh approached it, with the Kor’krons maintaining a wide circle around the stage. Behind it, a totam had been erected and carved to represent an Orc’s face, similar to Garrosh’s.
Ekor followed, much like the procession, before Grommash stopped Ivar by the stage and jumped out.
Followed the cries, the crowd on the mesas shouting for Garrosh Hellscream’s victory. Even the nearby inns were practically bustling and disgorging themselves onto the streets. The rooftops, too, since everyone wanted to celebrate another triumph from the Horde, a significant push against the Night Elves’ stronghold north of Ashenvale.
However, the joy and celebration were different for Ivar. Someone grabbed his posterior and yanked the plug away, leaving his orifice gaping.
His cage dripped, too, when the Worgen was grabbed by his collar and the reins and forced to climb on the stage, half-pulled, half-dragged.
Finally… Ivar faced Orgrimmar.
Not the dirty city he’d barely seen before. No. This was the full might of the Horde, screaming and shouting for Garrosh, pumping fists while following the drums’ tempo.
The Warchief looked almost happy as he, too, pumped his fist and approached the pulpit he eyed with disdain… Before grabbing the gem on top of it.
He shouted, in Orcish.
The sound echoed through the valley, reverberating. And at the same time, a voice echoed. Common.
“The Alliance… HAS BEEN CRUSHED!” he shouted, pumping his fist. “They failed to push back! They failed to fight us fairly! The Alliance is weak!”
The crowd answered in kind, pumping their fists and shouting the same while Ivar was pulled and grabbed, forced to approach the totem.
His cuffs and ankle sleeves were removed before they lifted him, keeping his body pressed against the totem under the snarling Orc’s representation.
Ropes were tied, passed through little notches in the totem, securing his chest and legs. The cuffs were then put back, but passed around the totem.
Another rope was passed around his neck, securing him, though his muzzle was kept.
“The Night Elves and their tree, their arrogance, we will crush them! Then! It will be the turn of the Draeneis who soiled our homeworld! The Alliance shall fear us as they feared us with Theramore! They shall know we will not end with their petty attacks!”
Garrosh shouted, his voice coming off as echoes that shook Ivar’s head and mind.
The Worgen’s eyes were on the crowd, and those gazes that were going to him and then Garrosh, eyeing what the deal was with that Worgen tied to a Totem behind the Warchief, practically in front of Grommash Hold.
They were questioning his identity. Much like they were questioning those feral Worgens that were growling and used as mounts by the Kor’kron.
“They sieged us in Mulgore!” shouted Garrosh, pumping his fist, and so did the Taurens.
“They threatened our home in Durotar!” he shouted, this time imitated by the Orcs and Trolls.
“They attacked us in Ashenvale!” he roared, with the Goblins joining in.
“They banished us from Dalaran!” he shouted, though the support from the Blood Elves was not as impressive.
“They killed our people in Lordaeron!”
This time, it was the Forsakens’ turn to shout, to scream, to be gleeful.
Ekor stood proudly by the Warchief, puffing up his chest when Garrosh crushed the crystal and roared, turning to Ivar.
The Worgen did not speak Orcish well. But he clearly understood when Garrosh pointed at him and called his name.
The crowd reacted, shouting and even throwing fruit or something similar at him.
But the celebration was far from being done, not as Garrosh spoke while patting Ekor’s shoulder.
The reverberation was lesser, but Ivar remained painfully aware of everything surrounding him. From the pain of the wood digging in his back, or the ropes digging in his chest and torso… Or his cage, that was painfully tight.
Ekor spoke while Ivar wiggled.
The Kor’kron spoke, shouted alongside Garrosh, while he raised his hands towards his Kor’krons and some Forsakens. Then… Garrosh shouted, turning back to Ivar in a way that felt threatening.
Alliance
Ivar was certain to have heard the word said by Garrosh as the Orc’s grin turned sadistic. And then, Ekor approached Ivar. He, too, was smiling. Everyone was smiling around except the ‘guests’ and the Worgens. Ivar? Oh, he did not even grace them with a snarl.
His ears dropped, and his fists clenched when Ekor reached for his cockcage and opened it.
The metal dropped, revealing… Ivar’s swollen testicles, and yet, his cock was not even visible from the sheath. No traces of erection, nothing.
His pride looked ‘normal’ until something was stabbed discreetly inside Ivar’s leg.
Ivar’s world drowned.
His jaw dropped, his eyes rolled, his nose clogged up with snout. His tongue lolled out, his breathing relaxed. His thoughts, his fear, came at a sluggish pace while the Worgen looked around.
Surprise, wonder, curiosity, disgust.
But everyone could see the red tip slipping out of his sheath… And nothing more. Only one tip from which dripped something clear, even when his contracting abdominal muscles lifted his testicles.
Ivar was cumming.
He was cumming, again and again, his body shaken and invaded by waves of pleasure. But his soft cock only dribbled something clear and watery on the stage while Garrosh laughed. While Ekor laughed.
While most of the Horde laughed at Ivar.
Then, Ekor approached the pulpit while the wave of ecstasy finally receded, leaving only shame behind.
Shame as Ivar’s ears dropped, and he swallowed his saliva. He watched his torturer pump his fist while speaking. In orcish first. And then in common as he turned to Ivar, while raising a hand toward the Alliance ‘guests’.
“This is the Alliance Pride after we crush it! Tell your people! Tell your Wolf King we have declawed his most dangerous pet and we’re coming for him, too!”
Ivar opened his mouth, but even with the gag… There was nothing he could say.
Genn Greymane had been his King all along. He should have trusted him instead of a Pig.