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WULD! NAH! KEST!

The shout resonated amidst the sturdy stone, akin to a temblor coming from the depths. But it wasn’t one, nor did it threaten the structure that had weathered centuries and worse without fail. No, it was a single shout, one amidst the many the Greybeard had tried to convey to their new Pupil.

“This is all for today, Dragonborn. Your talent and discipline are commendable, but you shouldn’t overexert yourself,” stated a regal and baritone voice, shaken by the small tremors of age, as it approached the source of all that ruckus.

Standing in the middle of the great hall was an Orc, not a veteran but well of age when it came to battles. His head had been shaved, showing that intense green-colored skin, while putting forth the red sideburns the man sported. His corrugated traits shimmered in the dim lamplight, sweat pouring from his face onto his tusked lips and steaming body.

In another life, the Dragonborn would have been a proud warrior for his clan, standing in a folder line for any combat with a strong arm.

However, even Arngeir noticed the Orc had become more pudgy over the last months: his arms were losing their strength and fattening, much like his belly, despite the tense efforts he deployed in the High Hrothgar’s halls. But again, the hoary Greybeard was not here to comment. No, the Nord approached with a beverage in hand: a small fuming mug to entrust to the Disciple as soon as he turned.

“Thank you, Master. But I should be better at it. I feel like I am missing a piece in all this,” commented back the Dragonborn with a solemn expression, his eyes drawn onto the greenish liquid before drinking it. And grimacing, much to Arngeir’s satisfaction.

“Haha, I know, its savor leaves much to be desired.”

“How can you drink it every day? It tastes awful,” commented the Orc, massaging his throat as the warm liquid spread and soothed the sore muscles.

Of course, his Master retrieved the mug and began to walk further from the halls and towards the adjacent chambers where the Greybeards, and the Dragonborn now, lived. Everyone had their little nooks, where trinkets and beds amassed, though surrounding a hearth providing warmth to the cold stone.

As expected, the Disciple followed along.

“This is an acquired taste. And it is that or lose your voice for a few days. As I said, you must not overexert yourself lest you may maim your throat. Many young Thu’um practitioners left those halls mute and weary,” stated the old Nord, stowing the mug on the fireplace, then peeling back the cowl covering his head. That way, the man could observe the large cauldron on the fire. At this instant, the snow had turned into steaming water, perfect for something.

“I hardly see those halls welcoming students,” commented back the Orc, angling himself to watch the pot. “Are you making soup today?”

“Hardly, as you said,” commented the Nord, pulling off leather gloves from the hearth and entrusting them to the Disciple. “Put them on. I need you to carry the water.”

“Master?” asked the Orc, only to be shushed.

“My back is killing me, and Borri had been kind enough to help. You can handle the last for us,” stated Arngeir, raising his hand as if it gave an explanation. But it also struck something to the Orc… Despite the tempest warring outside and making exercises in the court near impossible, none of the other Greybeards were in the quarters or training away. And if his shout had bothered their meditation, Arngeir would have been the first to pull his pointed ears.

However, it was by following his Master while lifting the cauldron that he got the answer. And nearly dropped it when he finally saw where they had all been… And had been doing. Further away from the hearth, hidden behind the walls and a separator, were all of the Greybeards, except Arngeir and him, cleaning themselves. A large basin of warm water in the middle of the room served as a makeshift dip for the towels the men used to rub themselves clean while incenses hung in the air.

Amidst the three old men, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar, the Dragonborn felt a bit bothered as they exchanged grunts like beasts and communicated through them, sharing “words” much like the bar of soap they used to rub on their bodies.

On magnificent bodies dared the Orc to say. Despite their ages and living in quasi-isolation, the monks’ ascetic existence provided them with muscular bodies. There was little to no fat, therefore exposing their dry muscles under the tense skin. And more than that, even with their ages, they seemed… Vigorous. Their movements were calculated on all occasions, minimal even, but here they were acting like his fellow Orcs when he still lived in the stronghold.

And… It emanated from them a scent of sweat mixed with faint touches of lavender and salt, probably from the bar they kept rubbing on their damp and hairy chests, bellies… And.

The Orc gulped, watching those men exposing their manhood without shame. And they didn’t care if the Disciple ogled them: whether it was Borri’s wide dick ending in a mushroom-shaped tip, Wulfgar’s mace of a shaft, or Einarth’s long spear… They didn’t care at all and seemed rather. Joyous.

“You’ve been with us for a long time, and haven’t had a bath for days. The Masters and I decided we all needed one,” commented Arngeir, undoing the straps of the front of his robe.

“… Bathing? Is- Is this necessary?” asked the Orc, only for his Master to stop and glance at him.

“You have been training for days while keeping the same clothes,” pointed the Human toward the gray shirt and the leather trousers the Dragonborn had sported all that time, showing signs of wear and tear along with greasy spots.

“I-. Fair. What should I do?” he finally relented, lowering his arms but not enough to drop the cauldron.

“Fill the basin, stow it aside, and join us,” ordered Arngeir as the robe finally dropped. However, contrary to the man’s peers, the monk was more… Plump.

The Nord’s arms were rounder, the chest wider, and even that belly was roundish while hiding beneath that gray happy trail. But Arngeir seemed unbothered, even when the Orc plainly eyeballed that body with his blue eyes. However, the Human did put the arms on the hips in frustration.

“Well? What did I tell you, Dragonborn?”

“Sorry!” he nearly shouted, running off to the middle of the room to empty the cauldron carefully… While trying not to turn his head towards Borri’s waist and scrotum, with his forehead now covered in sweat.

It was… The Dragonborn had no words for it as the final drop of water left the cauldron, and he ran to put it aside. Only to return with Arngeir having joined the fellows but still wearing a loincloth compared to them.

And to be fair, the Orc was not certain if his Master was modest. But he didn’t care, or rather wasn’t allowed to watch: the Nord turned and scowled at him. And soon, the Dragonborn fought with his clothes to get out of them. To uncover that green chest with large pecs. They were sagging a bit, and the areola of his nips looked bigger and darker now. A sign he noticed as he grazed the swollen teats… And grumbled, watching his own roundish belly covered with red hair… And finally… Well, he doffed his pants. And… Decided to keep his loincloth as he approached the basin and took one of the many dipping towels to rub his armpits.

It was a rudimentary method to clean oneself, but a bath, at this height, would be a waste of firewood and material, justified the Orc. And his observations went on the cauldron, the basin, the soap, as he rubbed the damp towel below his arms, feeling the hair soaking with water… A thought interrupted by a nearby grunt, Wulfgar, who presented him the said bar of soap. And like a reflex, the Orc lowered his eyes to see the Nord’s half-hard shaft, blood rushing to pump below the skin.

“Thanks,” mumbled the Orc, red in the face as he used the bar to soak under his arms and chest, trying to close his eyes. Only again to be interrupted.

“Chaste, are we, young Disciple?” asked Arngeir, fOrcing the Orc to open his eyes and see his Master extending a hand. Those blue eyes were on him, glancing up and down expectantly. But then, the Dragonborn handed out the soap bar, still abashed and yet glancing at his Master’s broad chest and round belly.

“Does that bother you?” asked the Orc, feeling self-conscious despite not being the only one in the room to wear his dirty loincloth. But so far, he had been afraid to divulge his secret.

“No, Disciple. But it is a sign of thrust to be fully naked among your peers.” retorted Arngeir, passing the cloths on the legs to clean them.

“Really?”

“Really. And if you are self-conscious around men, we can promise not to look,” commented the Voice of those halls with a genuine smile. Truly, it was even difficult to refuse the old Human’s request as it was so sincere.

And the Orc grumbled. He grumbled while shaking his head.

“Well. Do you promise not to laugh at me?” he asked, his voice low only for Arngeir to listen.

“To laugh? I should be the last to do so, Disciple. We are here to foster your talents, not insecurities,” promised the Nord, the blue eyes onto the Dragonborn.

Before the latter relented and undid the knots on the side. Before long, the sound of the cloth flopping on the ground occurred. And all eyes darted on the Orc.

Not for his pubes, red like wildfire and in a large amount; not for his cock, uncut and yet hanging heavily, a mast bigger than anyone in the room; but for his scrotum, black-green and shaved. The skin was clean, but it… Flopped around. Empty, without any content in the pouch. The great Dragonborn, an Orc warrior, moreover, was a eunuch.

And all Greybeards watched. Even Wulfgar commented, in an earthshaking way: Slen Viik.

And instantly, Arngeir laughed. The man laughed with that deep bass voice. And the Dragonborn bent to grab his loincloth to cover his privacy.

“Master!” he shouted, his green skin turning in a shade of brown from the blood rushing to it. And already, he was ready to turn away, only for Arngeir to grab him by the arm, still laughing and… Smiling genuinely.

“Ah-ha… So-hoho-rry Disciple, hehe!” he continued to laugh before he took a deep inspiration… And failed to stifle a tiny chuckle along with a smirk. “I expected many things, but not for you to be precocious.”

Precocious? The word rang wrong to the Orc as he tugged on the hand to have his arm released.

“You- you promised not to laugh at me!” he shouted, frowning and angry.

And yet, the Nord was working on the still-worn loincloth.

“There is a misunderstanding, my dear Disciple,” Arngeir stated as the cloth fell. “I am laughing because you’ve burning steps before becoming an elder.”

Much like the Orc, Arngeir sported a hairy tuft in the guise of pubes, enough to look like a gray bush. From which peaked a tiny cut dick, a tiny pink nub poking from the bush. And nothing more. Arngeir had no scrotum, Arngeir too was a eunuch.

And as the man smiled at the Disciple, the latter noticed. How all the other Greybeards were ogling them both and how their shafts stood rigid and stiff. Only for him to sense a calloused hand on his ass: Arngeir’s. Arngeir was stroking his cheeks.

“I thought this would be a moment to reward you for your diligent work. But Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar will be the ones to provide it,” commented the old Master with a smile. Solely for a finger to squeeze through his clenched cheeks and tease that tempted butthole.

“Bath time is over.”

And bath time was indeed over as both Eunuchs lay on a stone table, listening to the grunts around. The Greybeards were convening on something while Borri had gone to seek something.

Leaving the Dragonborn and Arngeir to lay on the table: the former on his belly, the second on his backside and with the legs spread.

Enough so the Orc could forward a hand between them and see the man’s hole for himself. Something ripe yet firm, a wrinkling ring, but showing signs of swelling that didn’t hurt Arngeir when the battle-accustomed fingers pressed on and against. Even the muscles seemed to be in workable fashion when Arngeir growled, and the orifice opened right away, allowing passage for the curious and… Unexperimented Orc.

Who watched and observed, nauseous and yet… Curious.

“Is this your first time, Dragonborn?” asked his Mentor through a heaving breath, his face and body covered with sweat as the fingers pressed deeper inside. But.. Much to the Orc’s shame, he… Nodded, then shook his head.

“I had experience with whores in the cities. But never with men, nor behind,” he replied, blood rushing to his face. Much more as the old Nord chuckled… And another hand joined the Dragonborn’s exploration. Wulfgar’s hands, dripping with oil whose slick presence slipped between the cheeks without any resistance.

A presence that suddenly reminded the Orc of his body. And the sensation of cold oil being pressed against his ass. He hissed, heaved, swallowed his saliva. And yet, didn’t expect a kiss from the elder Greybeard who stroked his shaved head, then the sideburns.

“Focus on my voice, Dragonborn. Do not focus on what’s happening behind. Ease yourself,” stated Arngeir with a deep voice… Solely for another hiss to come from the Orc as his hole was being stretched by that finger, leading Arngeir to turn at the fellow.

“Slower, Borri, the Dragonborn is not ready,” continued the Nord, answered to by a grunt before returning to the Disciple.

There, the finger felt less pressing and more like caressing. A rough finger that pressed between those red-haired cheeks to stroke that hole… And anoint that orifice.

Whereas its owner was left almost speechless, especially as he felt more than three fingers going inside the Mentor. No… More than four. And yet, the Orc was still fingering him, stretching him all the more.

But the man was taking it easily, breathing calmly.

“H- How? Doesn’t it hurt?” he finally asked, in a mix of awe and fear. Only for Arngeir to reach for the Orc’s hand and pull it from that ass onto the groin, onto that soft two-inches nub sported amidst those bushy pubes.

And below, he felt… The pushes.

“This… is experience, Dragonborn. I know how to- handle this. If you are afraid, you can leave, and I will handle this matter.” the old man stated, seemingly approved by Borri’s gruff behind the Orc.

And there, the Orc turned to see the Nord standing proudly and erect, his body brimming with envy. And… So was the Dragonborn as he returned to his Master and breathed out.

“I- I’ll stay.”

“Well, let me help you change your mind,” commented Arngeir, moving his elbows and slightly turning to the Dragonborn. His fingers, stroking the sideburns, lowered onto the chin to hold and pull it closer. Until their lips met, until the tusks began to scrape against the beard and those lips to be pried open by the Nord’s tongue. But soon, the Orc’s tongue, too, participated in the action. His mouth opened, and so was welcomed the prodding appendage he suckled on. Then, he tentatively pushed his tongue forward. All to taste his Mentor’s saliva, breath, and finally get a glimpse of what had been done while he shouted. The taste of semen was overwhelming, salty and acrid.

One taste he had to savor by pressing his tongue further, making the Master groan and grunt.

Below, between the fingers, he felt Arngeir’s nub spurt and spout a liquid, something so watery… And yet, he pulled his mouth away with more questions than before.

“Who was it?” he asked, gazing into those blue eyes while his Mentor looked in high spirits.

“All three. We are all insatiable, and when you are exercising your Thu’um, it is a convenient moment, Pupil.” admitted the Greybeard with mirth, followed by smug grunts from all over…

And more spurts from that cocklet as the man heaved once more.

But it was not from simple fingering. No, it had changed, and slowly the Orc felt something moving from the movements below the skin. More than a finger, two, three… Even five. No. And then, Arngeir bucked a little when Wulfgar pushed his fist deeper, fOrcing the old man to throw his head back.

As for the Dragonborn himself? He huffed from the finger stroking his asshole. But he wasn’t done.

Therefore, he lowered his hand to get where the scrotum should have been, where should have been Arngeir’s malehood, solely to reach for a patch of wrinkly skin but no scars. Not like him, behind the empty scrotum.

“I mean? Who- Who took your manhood away?” he asked, imprudent.

But instead of finding offense like anyone who had been unmaled, Arngeir rose on the elbows to stroke the Orc’s cheeks and guide him into another kiss, to let him taste the semen once more.

“Our Master, he used the Thu’um to do this,” stated the Nord, calmly and softly. Again approved by the grunts of the patient men around who were either fapping or handling the two Eunuchs.

“Your Master? But, you-” he began, only to be cut.

“It was our request, of all four,” stated Arngeir. And there, the Orc turned to Wulfgar, the wrist entirely settled within his Mentor’s ass; Borri now fitting two fingers inside; Einarth stroking that shaft with envy but nodding. And then back to Arngeir, soft of body and owner of comely curves.

“We were all lovers, but the elders didn’t approve of our passion,” added the Nord while finally resting the spine against the stone and enjoying the Orc’s exploration. “We were youthful and stupid. We knew the rules that wouldn’t allow the Greybeards to have children or spill our seed. But then, one of the elders approached me about becoming the Voice.”

The thought of willfully emasculating oneself surprised the Orc, but still, he listened… And stroked that groin while feeling the pull onto the skin from the fist pushing inside. Followed by the reeling from his Mentor, Arngeir’s breath.

“He divulged the truth about being the voice of the Greybeards and said that he saw potential in me. See, we shouldn’t have families. But an isolated existence can be-hrmphh too difficult to bear. The duty of the Voice is to speak for the elders whose powers are too dangerous. And to help them with their needs,” finally stated Arngeir, most of the tone back under control despite Wulfgar now brutally fisting that hole. The back and forth was loud, brutal, followed by sounds of suction and oil spilled onto the cold stone. And then, Arngeir lifted both legs, getting them as close to the chest as possible while sliding both arms behind the knees to hold the position.

And… The old Nord shivered, trembled. And sweated.

“Sorry, Dragonborn, if my voice is shaky… My Mentor would be disappointed in me to see me act up like this,” he stated, the composure breaking. And perhaps the Dragonborn watched the real face of his Master. No, watched who the Greybeards truly were. And he grunted, feeling the sensation of the fingers moving deeper into his ass. But he tried to focus on Arngeir, on his voice that began to slur and slip.

“Hhh- you-’re almost there, Wulfgar,” commented Arngeir, saliva dripping onto that bristling beard before he turned to the Pupil. “See. The first months, I regretted my choice. But no longer, nothing brings me more joy than to please my lovers.”

And in a way, the Dragonborn envied the man… He saw the envy, he saw the shaking… And then, he saw his Master howl while more fluids dribbled from the prostate and cocklet. Just droplets, nothing like a man’s ejaculation. And yet, Arngeir seemed more relaxed. And so was Wulfgar when pulling out. The Nord stepped closer to grunt something at the Eunuch’s ear.

“No, you did it wonderfully. Thank you,” answered Arngeir, followed by a kiss between them both. No, clearly, they loved each other. They all loved each other.

And the Orc was almost extraneous in that situation. Except for “HRMPH!” he growled, nearly shouting as the third finger began to wiggle inside him.

It took his focus away from his Mentor long enough the kiss broke. And for the Mentor to be back onto him.

“But you, Dragonborn. You could also become the voice of Greybeards. Your circumstances may have been less pleasing, but it isn’t all lost in vain. I see a will to please in you,” commented Arngeir, with that calm tone returned now the fist was out… Even when it was replaced by Wulfgar’s cocktip.

“We intend to help you defeat Alduin. But if fate wills it, you could become one of us. Your secret would be-”

The remaining of Arngeir’s sentence disappeared in an echo, replaced instead by a hot white flash filling the Orc’s sight as he felt it: the fingers caressing and hitting against something inside him. A spot, a place he had never felt. And more than that, there was… That pressure inside him. Something he had pushed back ever since he had lost his jewels. Something the Dragonborn had repressed and forgotten, only to be reminded of it. And sensed his cock spring to life after weeks.

“Ma-Malacath,” he finally uttered through his harsh breath, tears rolling from his eyes as the fingers pressed and massaged that spot. It should have been painful, but it was… He- He even laughed a bit, then groaned. He almost bit his tongue while lowering his head.

And took a sharp breath, lifting it to see Arngeir’s smile and grin.

“Our libido isn’t as strong as before, but our body still has needs, young Dragonborn,” commented the old man before giving a nod to someone behind. There, almost out of nowhere, appeared a shaft. No, it had been Einarth who had stepped closer. And from this distance, it was… Wonderful. That 9-inch cock was elongated, ending in a soft tip, while its flesh was wrinkled from an oversized foreskin. There was nothing nasty in the folds, but from them emanated a strong scent of sweat and cum that overtook his nostrils, filling them with that stench that not only permeated from the cock… But also the man’s sizeable and hairy testes.

Testes Arngeir had started to lick and kiss, to cover with whispers of affection while sucking the sweat out of those pubes. But then, a gruff occurred. And the Elder was fOrced to pull away one second and glance at the Pupil. At the slackjawed Dragonborn watching in awe, ogling the purplish cocktip as if hypnotized by it. And barely able to pull away, even from Einarth’s grunts.

“Well, Disciple. If you’re willing, open your mouth. You shouldn’t expect patience from every man,” mirthfully commented Arngeir. He then returned to the man’s testicles, drooling over them… Leaving the Orc to watch, to scent, to swallow the warmed air emanating from the shaft. And the saliva he had to gulp down.

Before inching closer, he adjusted his lower jaw to present it first and avoid the scrapping from the tusks. And then, opened up, letting the cocktip enter the lips. Just the raw scent emanating from the skin tingled his tastebuds, promising an earthy and tantalizing aroma. Something he had never tasted before and yet yearned as he pushed the first inch again his lips. And closed them on it, suckling on it.

SU FRUL SHAAN

And gave into it. The flesh pushed deeper as he rubbed his tongue against it, sensed and experienced the cock quiver while his ass felt fuller. So full, his eyes darted to his left and right but never to go further than what they could… And his sight filled with the presence of Einarth’s groin inching closer. Those pubes were getting closer, the strands glistening from the sweat and oil. The same oil that had mixed with the taste permeating the Human’s skin. A taste the Dragonborn swallowed and savored, all for himself. He was blessed by it, by the tingling it occurred on his tastebuds and further down. Even the sound, vibration, and echoes were beyond his reach as the shaft pushed onto his tongue, guided by those lips until it passed his uvula. And pressed further down.

Without an itch, without pain, without gag. No, the shaft invaded the Orc’s throat, squeezed against the walls, and entirely occluded the path.

But he wasn’t affected. If bothered by the sensation and surprise, he didn’t feel strangled or drowning. He couldn’t breathe out or inhale, yet… Yet it didn’t surprise him. Until one hand was behind his neck and pushed, urging him to take the whole length inside.

“Fret not, Disciple. I am here to help you,” whispered a voice to his ears: Arngeir’s voice.

The man who, by a single glance, had moved position and wasn’t lying on the back at his side. But where? The Dragonborn couldn’t tell exactly. He only saw the absence, felt the presence, and now sensed the bushy pubes rush to his face and rub his closed lids.

“Go on, use your tongue,” goaded Arngeir again, emphasizing on each word.

And so, he did. The Dragonborn did use his tongue by extending it further from his lips, spreading it all over the lower face of that dick until the tip reached for Einarth’s testicles. Until he sensed the rough and dry texture of that scrotum’s skin, the hair rubbed against the tastebuds, and the sweat. No, the perfume emanating from the Nord’s manhood.

One he tasted and savored, even tried to inspire in vain, only to rub his nostrils against the pubes.

And…

Arngeir pulled him back.

The monk proved stronger than expected as the hand on his nape managed to pull the Orc’s back the same way Einarth pulled on the hips. Only for both parts to join again and for that long cock to swab into. By Malacath, by the Eight, by anyone who may hear his complaint, was the Dragonborn praying silently with those lids closed.

His backside felt numb and yet used, filled with something but unable to tell unless he focused and sensed the movement, the vibration, the rubbing.

But then, his mind was pulled afar from it, back onto that cock within his throat: crushing his vocal cords, teasing the back of his throat, pressing his tongue against his teeth so much it started to hurt.

But even then, he couldn’t stop himself. Not Arngeir’s firm hand or Einarth’s pushing hips. His throat was invaded and abused, used as a mere toy to please. Nothing unlike the mere whores he had seen in the cities. But now he was one. And unlike them, his mouth was fucked and ruined, his chin slapped by the Nord’s scrotum until sweat and oil drenched his skin and sideburns.

In and out, out and in. Behind, before. Before, behind. His body was a hole to claim by those men who clapped his cheeks and filled his cheeks. It wasn’t over, it wouldn’t end as their pace increased and accelerated.

Even their withdrawal were instants few and far between, as if they no longer cared to pull out but instead were content in moving their hips inside and rubbing against the Dragonborn’s inner walls. He couldn’t open his eyes nor speak, even his hands were fOrced to hold on the table to keep himself stable and not slip.

But worse was Arngeir’s hand that kept him there, anchored him in a depraved position. But, by Malacath, did he love it.

He couldn’t look up, but he knew his eyes would have been filled with desire and lust, his voice pleading for more, his body begging to get that dick. Those men were hung and good at it, they were good at using him… At using bitches.

But like everything, like every moment of love and care… It had to end.

The pace slowed, the movements weakened, the legs trembled… And suddenly, Arngeir’s hand pulled him back. Not entirely through, but just enough for the cocktip to sit against his lips and the meatus to press against his tongue. His eyes could finally open on the Nord above him, grunting and growling like a beast while his torso lifted and lowered along his breath.

And so, he saw Arngeir close by… The Eunuch who watched expectantly…

And it happened: the flow, the flood, the inundation. A flow of cum so intense as the Nord’s testes clenched in that tight scrotum, the nuts suddenly pulled up before the salty and acrid liquid pushed through the widened urethra.

It was thick, overly tangy, exceedingly pungent. And it kept flowing, one mouthful after another. It surged and surged, unstoppable, and the Dragonborn had no other choice but to try to swallow. But then, he barfed and grunted. The liquid was almost choking him, drowning him. Until Arngeir’s hand pulled his head back, and so the elder was at it, swallowing what the Pupil couldn’t.

Stunned and aghast, with cum dripping from those lips, the Orc watched the old and “dignified” man suckle on that shaft as he stood sideways with Wulfgar still inside.

And he watched, observed how his Master swallowed the liquid, saw it bulge beneath the throat before disappearing below. The Orc couldn’t pull his eyes from that vision as the elder Nord suckled and nursed on the dick… Before Arngeir pulled out in a sigh, leaving the last few spurts cover and drench his face and beard.

And then turn to the Disciple with those half-open lips, coated with someone’s cum… And fOrced onto the Orc.

A kiss.

One that was less subtle, less refined. And surely more of a mouthful as the Orc suddenly felt the tidal wave of saliva and cum invade his mouth. One last load Arngeir had been keeping for him and now shared.

For a stunned moment, the Dragonborn did nothing. But then his Master’s skillful prodding egged him to answer back with his tongue, to unite their salivas. His mixed with the fluids, merging and coalescing into a primal liquid that swarmed both united mouths.

Arngeir’s blue eyes were closed, but that elderly face seemed so relaxed and calm. Especially when one of the old man’s fingers were on his throat, stroking it… From the jaw to the collarbone. And then again, again.

Until the Dragonborn swallowed one. And twice… And the last drop disappeared. Arngeir parted and smiled at the Pupil, even grinned.

“You would do a wonderful Voice, Disciple,” commented the man with that baritone voice, kept low and steady. And the Nord kept stroking the Orc’s throat until the latter swallowed the saliva backing up in his mouth to speak.

“Master, I-” he began, only to be shushed by his Master with a raised finger. Before the Eunuch pointed at those behind them… At Wulgar and Borri, who had been working up their holes and were still doing… Despite the cum slushing in their guts, both.

Despite the feeling of pleasure and release from the Orc’s lower body.

Then, he returned to see his Master conniving look, completed by a grunt above them. Einarth.

“We are not done, Disciple,” commented the Elder, as more grunts and movement occurred. And their mouth would soon be occupied.

And they were.

Although the Dragonborn had been skillful in fighting and enduring physical tasks, he ended up battered and exhausted when the three Elders were done and gone for the tardy baths… Leaving Arngeir and him lying on the table, both plugged by a small metallic contraption, and cum-coated.

A poor sight for the would-be savior of Skyrim… And his Mentor, who laid on the side, admiring the Disciple reeking with cum and standing on his backside, at a loss of words and breath. His chest lifted and lowered, his closed eyes were ornated by furrows. And none of his body had been spared by the perverted men.

The Orc exhaled, and tried to swallow his saliva only to taste the remnants of Borri’s… No Einarth’s… No, all of them, their fluids. His body was exhausted, battered, but it seemed to be yet the end as he heard Arngeir more. And his body yearned again for pleasure without any release.

He wasn’t even sure he had climaxed. And surely he was sure it was done… Except.

Except again for his Master, moving, rolling, going on his knees and hands. And then sitting on his distended belly, bestriding the Disciple while looking down at him.

“What do you think? Do you think you could endure this?”

“Ah!” laughed back the Dragonborn, bringing a hand to his face. “No. I don’t know where you found your energy, but I’m spent!”

“Are you?” asked Arngeir with a cocked eyebrow and a smile, fumbling with something behind until the white, hot surge landed on the Orc’s malehood, coating it and his empty scrotum.

“You may be a Dragonborn, a natural-born. But there’s a secret I am about to reveal to you; listen closely,” stated Arngeir, awaiting his nod before the Nord spoke… No, shouted.

SLEN! ZUN! FUS!

He had never learned that shout. No, it was a mix of different words and Shouts he had heard and used. Something that… Made sense in a way. Shouts were a tongue, so if he knew, he could snap them into a sentence.

And then…

The Dragonborn felt something in his groin.

Like warmth and need, a desire, a lust. Slowly, the Orc approached his hand from his genitals, only to sense his cock: erect and fully pointed up. A mast almost 10 inches long and as thick as Wulgfar, if not more. A cock with a dark-green color ending with a mushroom-shaped tip. And more than that, he felt the cold air rushed against the once numb skin. A sensation instantly opposed by the warmed and slathered cheeks of his Master when the Human lowered himself. And engulfed the whole shaft in one instant, that anus clenching around his dick like a vice-grip. There, both Nord and Orc moaned in delight as Arngeir began to mount those hips while grunting.

“Hrmphh! You’re almost as big as our Master. It’s… perfect!” shouted the man, without a dignified attitude anymore.

But the Dragonborn didn’t care. After so long, he was finally fucking someone… And what an ass that was. Perhaps then, he should stay around a bit longer. And being the Voice didn’t seem so bad.