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Middle-Earth: Shadow of Whore	By : salarta Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 13054 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings/Hobbit or any other Tolkien properties, or any characters, ideas or concepts contained herein. This story is a mere fan-made work, and I make no money or profit from its creation and dissemination.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Author's Note: Hello! This was a pain in the ass! Like Carnan, I started this chapter months ago. It went places I didn't intend for it to go, and I've reached the point where I'm sick of working on it. The views and reviews I received for Carnan are greatly appreciated and were very unexpected. Here's some references if you're interested in reading this chapter and need them: https://imgur.com/a/tdtzydg
CHAPTER TAGS: 3Plus, Anal, BMod, CR, Fet, HJ, Humil, MF, Ms, Oral, Other, Slave, TF, Smell, Dubcon, Hairy, Bukkake, Drunk, Language, Magic, Failure, Greed, Mounted, Chains, Defiled Relics, Cock Appraisal

It is in Men that we must place our hope.
These were the future words of a wizard offering counsel to an elf Lord whose faith in Man was spent. Where the wizard saw promise, the Lord saw failure. Whole armies of Men warred against Sauron's evil and won against all odds, yet just one man allowed his lust for power to consume him and keep that same evil alive. Strong in body but weak in mind. Their proof cut both ways.
Idril was no man. She knew not a lust for power, had no need to raise armies, rule kingdoms, prove her worth among her or any other kind. Her wants and needs were simple. Quaint, even, compared to the world's would-be kings.
Yet from this simplicity, Idril lusted in ways far more loathsome and pathetic than any man.
"Oh yes! Yeeeeeees! That's the spot right there!"
The palantir rolled in her palm. Dark. Bright. Hot. Its fire burned within the orb and between her legs with enough passion to keep her on her knees. She panted, heart thumping, cunt dripping, body coated in a thick sheen of sweat the likes of which one would expect from a good hard fucking. Only through the palantir's sight could she find what she needed: artifacts. Beautiful, ancient, forgotten artifacts. Relics so obscure that she creamed herself the moment she saw them.
As a former curator of Minas Ithil, she had an eye for such wonders. Two eyes. Roving over cracks and scrapes, filling in the gaps between seen and lost details. Yes, in time she could discern every inch of provenance from her latest find.
Time she did not have. The moment a Ringwraith snatched the palantir from her grasp, her eyes went from drugged out cloudy red seas to pools of blue anguish.
"No!" She rose up with a mournful wail. "You bastard! I wasn't finished."
"You're finished when we say you are, Mîril," the Ringwraith said.
She loathed her new name, but she had no choice. This one kept her tongue silent. Her spirits low. Reminded her that access to the palantir was a gift, not a right, and she had to earn it like any other willing slave of Sauron. Settling into her haunches, she sniffed the orb but dared not touch it.
"I'm sorry, master. I let my sins get the better of me."
The Ringwraith seemed intent to test her, holding the palantir aloft at the tip of her nose. Her bloodshot gaze followed its path left, right, further, closer, like a hound yearning for its treat. Never pouncing. Never whining. Always watching for permission to sate both sets of hungry lips. Once certain the woman could control herself, the wraith let her give it a quick lick and tucked the orb away.
"Tell me, Mîril. What did you find with your lusting quim?"
Fragments of her horny mind pieced together what images it could recall. Her brow wrinkled under the strain. Hers was a frail human mind filled with frail human desires, not built with the great wisdom expected from typical wielders of the palantir. Every use frayed the nerve ends of a brain riding out orgasmic bliss. When at last she could describe what she saw, she moaned it out.
"In... in the great.... ohhhhh great hills of Hobbiton..."
The Ringwraith paced around her. For too long had the One Ring eluded them. Despite its will, it remained lost among hidden cracks and crevices in the world of Man.
"There is a... a..."
The wraith listened closely. Perhaps this time, they would find the ring. Perhaps this time, the gold-digging, treasure-seeking cunt of a woman would coax their prize into view. Of all the forces in Middle-Earth, Man's greed held an uncanny power to bring about their own doom. It was this quality that the One Ring exploited to save itself from oblivion, only to abandon Isildur in his time of greatest need. And here, kneeling before him was the worst of their lot. A woman unable to resist the clarion call of her sloppy wet slit when faced with every chance to redeem herself. Surely the ring would emerge for this greedy little whore.
Or so the Ringwraith thought. In a matter of seconds, his designs for the fall of Man turned to dust.
"... A pipe. Oh, what a sexy pipe. Someone carved it from the first White Tree. Look at the tiny stem. Why, I bet it could fit inside my-"
"Enough!" The wraith bellowed, slamming his fist into a nearby chair. "How is it that you keep failing!? Even our pet wizard offers more than your annoying moans and a mess on our floor."
The wraith moved to leave. Idril would not have it. She could still taste the palantir on her tongue, and she aimed to keep it. Not by force. Not by power. She had subtler means better suited to a weakling and failure such as her. Leaning forward, she clutched his robes and begged.
"Please! If you would only give me the palantir, I could find such wonders the likes of which you've never seen - including the ring! Who better to wield it than one as thirsty as I."
He yanked himself free and glared through the darkness in his helmet. "No. You have molested it enough for one day. Find something else to do with your filthy hands until we call on you again."
Desperate mumblings followed this edict as the Ringwraith flitted off in a trail of smoke and green light.
This left Idril alone to wallow in her disgrace. A pool of her lust cooled between her legs. Another sign of her weakness, same as all that sweat drying on her skin. Not so long ago, she would have scoffed at the idea of ending up in this sorry state. Licking her lips. Rubbing her twat. Breathing in her musk. This was no place for a proud Shieldmaiden and Second Captain of Gondor.
Titles she no longer held. Or deserved.
Composing herself, she stood and wandered through the Great Hall toward a set of double doors lit by hanging torches to each side. Up the steps. Her bare feet slid against tile. Her clammy palms pressed against wood. Sickly pale green light streamed into the room as she pushed the doors open and emerged into the great outdoors.
Into Minas Morgul.
Much had changed about the city from its halcyon days. Orcs and uruks roamed the streets. Caragors roared and rattled their cages next to corpse piles. Smoke polluted once pristine skies. Walls crumbled. Fires raged. Banners flapped on foul winds, bearing a new sigil used by those who conquered and spoiled what remained of the Middle City.
The same sigil she now wore. Its spiky red crescent tattoo ran along her collar bone. Mud smeared around her tits and down her belly into a ghastly skull. Enchantments from a Mystic tribe orc turned the corrupted muck into a brand that held as firmly as any other. If she were a flag, Idril would have shown her allegiance in white on black. Her pale skin required a shade as dark and twisted as her soul.
Yet even without her giant mark of shame, Idril had other means to sully herself.
Her arms, legs and pits ran wild with hair that would have looked barbaric on a woman in the lands of Man. She no longer had need for such grooming. In fact, her keepers preferred the look. It showed how base women could become when they stopped putting on civilized airs for their kind.
Her head went unspoiled for this very reason. Through her short brown locks, full soft lips, a slight blush on her freckled cheeks, orcs saw the pretty face of a girl in need of tainting - right before their eyes passed down her slender neck to marvel at their great work. Beauty above. Filth below. In this way, Idril became a walking, talking, reeking, fucking example of their power to ruin whatever they wished.
But none of these touches could match what she wore to earn her namesake of Mîril. A name her snaga brethren rarely used, preferring to say it more plainly - as one orc did the moment he saw her standing outside the Great Hall.
"Treasure Slut! Find another shiny to shove up your arse, did ye?"
In the dark, she could deny the crude title with orcs and men who did not know of her lust for the palantir and what it might reveal. She did not have that luxury when they saw her attire.
Warg fur on her back, jeweled rings, gold anklets and bracelets. Coins of Eärnur laced into chains that dangled off her pierced nipples. A Gondorian necklace - a glittery Great Hall keepsake she pined for and often stole as a child - almost served as her most telling disgrace. It conjured memories of when she imagined herself an elegant lady of Gondor in her youth. Exposed her for the uncouth traitor she became as an adult. Though unfit for her, the necklace's green gemstone sparkled all the same, always reminding her of how badly she strayed from her ideals to lust after old trinkets.
Donning that artifact should have been the lowest she could sink. It was not. Another piece held the honor. One she soiled with every step she took down the tower stairs.
"What business is it of yours what I find?" Idril scowled, drawing closer to the jeering orc.
"You need a raiding party to clear your path, yes? The little coward would hate it dearly if good men saw her pathetic self."
In her heart of hearts, she knew it was wrong to wear such an important piece of history. It did not belong about her waist, hanging between her legs. It belonged on the walls of an archive where great scholars could partake in its richness. She told herself that she took it as a loincloth to save it from burning in some fire pit, but in truth... she loved it. She loved the feel of rough wool and sleek silk against her nethers. A cheap thrill slickened her slit at the thought of its wisdom forever stained by her wetness, its textile warriors and scholars marred into splotchy remnants that hardly resembled their models. Even if someone pried it from her waist and whisked it to better lands, no perfume or cleanser would lift her musk from its layers.
If Gondor's artisans could see their torn tapestry today, they would weep. If Idril herself had found it in this condition just one year prior, she would have decried it as a grave insult to Gondor culture. No respectable, well-minded lady would engage in such sacrilege.
But Idril no longer counted as a lady. She barely counted as a woman anymore. Much less a curator, a vanguard meant to protect and preserve the very thing she now rubbed between her legs to mop up her palantir leavings. The Gondorian necklace may have laid her childhood dreams broken and bare, but it took a tapestry she ruined with her cunt to truly capture her weakness. One smear at a time.
She tried to put that shame out of her mind as she reached the streets. Many places to go. Things to do. Artifacts to find. Passing the orc, she ventured into the rotten shell of her once beloved Minas Ithil.
Its decay plagued her with pangs of guilt, failure, a sense of profound loss. Beyond brick and wood, the city had a special life she held dear. Each building brought its own anguish. In that corner smithy, hammers bashed glowing steel into tough armor fit for a knight. Down that alley, raggedy kids played silly kid games in front of their orphanage - ramshackle even before the invasion. Ghosts of lives better lived haunted these ruins unseen by its new citizens. Memories crept in, reminders of a bustling city she wished she could return to its former splendor.
That was, until an unfortunate itch broke her daze. Slowing, she reached back between her cheeks and scratched. Yet another ungentle trait she acquired. Ladies of Gondor never risked the sight in public, so Idril indulging in it greatly amused Morgul's orcs - including the one chuckling from a nearby doorway.
"What are you looking at?" Idril spat.
"Got a hungry pucker back there, eh? Bet I got somethin that could do it in."
Her lip curled. Much as she hated giving him the satisfaction, she offered a show of raking her nails deeper and deeper in search of that damned spot. "I can scratch my own arse, thank you very much."
"Really. You look like yer havin some trouble."
"I'm fine," she said.
Relief might have come swiftly without her audience. The orc's sniffering meant she fumbled, red-faced, unable to pinpoint where she needed to sate her hairy crack. She wasted a good minute until finally, she pulled her hand out with a grumble and carried on. Leaving the orc to his glee, hoping this late hour meant few others would notice her.
She almost made it too. Mere steps away from the bridge out of Minas Morgul. Then she heard it. Worse than war drums beating from afar. Worse than a hungry Caragor's growl.
"Wake up, boys. Treasure Slut thinks she's goin places without payin the toll."
Treasure Slut. Again. Their words for her, crueler than the Ringwraiths' kindly spoken curse. It stuck to her. The tents. The pits. The bogs. Every path she took, a chorus announced her coming. For when she crossed a pack and left it with their seed spilling off and out of her, she did so with all the fanfare due for a slattern who tried and failed to slip away in the night.
This time would be no different. Orcs, uruks and ologs roused from their slumber. Their armor shifted with loud clangs and soft clinks. Their feet shuffled. Surrounded on all sides, she resigned herself to her fate with a heavy sigh.
"I did not wish to disturb you, masters," she lied. "I can search for relics without an escort."
"You mean dig for garbage," one spouted.
She knew the uruk. Mâku the Judge. He made a sport of tracking her down at the worst possible moment to taunt her, drawing crowds for his heckling. No matter where she went, how fast she ran, he seemed to appear from nothing. How she wished she could slice his throat like Talion did to the countless orcs that hunted him throughout Mordor. Alas, service to the Dark Lord did not permit.
"Yes, sir. I- hnk!"
Too quick. Her guard couldn't catch the shadow that crept up from behind, slid her tapestry loincloth aside, held her by the waist and plunged his dick in her ass. At first, she resisted. Writhed in his skinny arms for release. Clenched her hole around his turgid shaft. She went limp when she realized who was fucking her. Thin, fast and rough, these traits revealed her mystery assailant as none other than Lorm the Stinger.
Lorm alone had a prick slim as one of his assassin blades, able to slip in with ease and stab away. Raw speed battered her tightness into a loose cavern that simply took it. Grunting in pain to Lorm's grunts of pleasure, she endured his assault by focusing on the one beating in her ears.
"You know we can't let you leave," Mâku said. "Least not without givin you a proper sendoff."
As Mâku prattled on, she could feel Lorm building to his end. His thrusts became more jagged. Undisciplined. Rhythm tossed aside in a bid to hasten his climax. She bounced to the pounding, nipple chains jingling as they swayed. Pretty looks twisting with ugly rage that made her lips sneer, her nostrils flare, her eyebrows drop.
"I don't need a sendoff or protection, Mâku. I know how to handle myself."
"Yeah, ya do. Heard ya piss yerself and run away soon as ya see a Man. Mighty brave."
She growled at his insults. Coward. Traitor. Terms to hound her with dishonor as likely to wash off as the mud on her tits. Worse yet, she couldn't argue against him. To the orcs, she looked every bit the wuss they imagined. What else could they call this snaga who skulked around midden heaps for forgotten trash, then crouched behind a tree or pillar while they fought Gondor's finest. What should they think when she scurried into some dank hole to hide from Baranor's keen gaze.
As if the orcs knew what she did about records and history. How even one sighting of her would lead to an entry in some musty tome, a caricature of her nasty form drawn beside a thorough recounting of her life and fate. She did not want the world to remember her as this cautionary tale, a dirty little nothing in the sort of stories that parents told their children before bed. She would not turn her father's betrayal of Minas Ithil into a legacy.
At least, not among the free peoples of Middle-Earth. But among the orcs...
"Lookit the whore squirm!" Lorm jeered. "Whoda thought Castamir blowin his load wherever he could stick it would make this little jizzmop."
"I am not my father's daughter!"
"No, you're worse." Mâku approached. Fat fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to stare up at him, from bushy gray beard to large tricorn hat. "He saved yer life, but all you do is whine and shove treasure in yer cunt. Bet he'd be right proud."
Lorm quickened his pace. She shuddered, wincing as he fucked the buried itch into a throbbing pain. Any time she arched her back, any time she twisted in his grasp, he held on tighter. No escape. Her chains rattled louder and louder until, finally, it happened. He came. His thick load shot deep. And as he withdrew and shoved her off, she felt the sticky mess tangle up her ass hairs.
"How's that feel, wench?" Lorm taunted.
"Hot!" Idril cried, fanning her chafed hole with her hand. Its slight breeze cooled her cockburn ever so slightly. Not enough to cure the pain. It never did, and she had countless nights of sticking her arse in the air as she slept to prove it. But it was better than-
"That so? Lucky you, I got jus the thing for what ails ya."
Not enough time to think. Mâku grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her close, put his arm over her shoulders and forced a bottle to her lips. She acted on dumb instinct and opened her mouth. Her mistake. When she did, some of the nastiest, goopiest black swill she ever drank oozed over her tongue. Its taste stung so much worse than her pucker, little nettles for drops soaking in and torching each tiny bud. She spluttered. Shook her head. The grog would not be denied. It pushed onward, invaded and clogged her throat until it settled in her stomach like a rock.
Weight wasn't its only trait. The liquid lump doused her gut in alcohol more potent than all the spirits of Man. It hit hard and swift, weakening her muscles, blurring her sight. A heavy growl demanded more, reminding her why few Gondorians dared to imbibe the mystery brew: they feared what they might become. That they might behave like orcs, losing a fight for their bodies to the wilds of drunk uncouth stupidity.
And they were right to fear it. Squeezing her muddy boob, rubbing her horny slit, a new wave of depravity washed over this crass masterpiece of a woman. Black dribbles streamed down her chin and neck as she greedily gulped her cure to the last. Mâku hadn't lied. Under its power, her cockburn dulled to a pinprick. But now both sets of her lips tingled anew.
Gasping for breath as the bottle left her, Idril slurred whatever words popped in and out of her boozy brain. "Ugh. Fuckin... pussy needs ta calm down."
"Jus' the way ya like it, dontcha Slut?"
A smack on the back from Mâku knocked her to the ground. A blush. A pout. She reacted as best she could for a Treasure Slut. Or Mîril. Or any name they chose to call her except Idril, for that name held too much beauty and pride for her to ever bear again.
A truth she embraced with more language to match the foulness wafting off her tongue. "Mouth tastes like shit. Gimme some water."
"For you? Pah! We know what whores want ta chug, and it ain't water."
Idril's nose scrunched as Mâku pushed his dick against it, tip to tip. He advanced while she retreated like a coward, only stopping when she ran into his well-placed ambush. Two shafts pressed against her neck. Sweaty gravid balls flopped onto her forehead. She was surrounded. First, she failed as a daughter. Then, as a curator. Now, a warrior. They routed and outflanked her at every turn, trapping the would-be Shieldmaiden. She scowled and glared at what she knew was coming - soon cumming - in from all sides.
"You'll pay fer this," she spouted.
"Oh, we mean to. And a fair price at that."
Coins clinked in a pile between her legs. Mere change. Nothing like the brilliant coins on her chains. She counted its cheap copper by sound, hardly worth a nip of ale. She would have groused about the disrespect next to her treasure-laden body if she did not have other concerns. Like the orcs wanking around her.
Their musk clouded her senses, growing thicker and hotter as they went at it. A sickly squishing uncommon to Man joined their grunts and panting. A cacophony of perversion assaulted the fallen soldier. Warning signs of a fate she feared yet knew she had to bear. She flinched early and often, playing with herself to ease the burden of her grog-induced lust all the while.
"Say Slut, what do ya make of this treasure?"
Idril forced her eyes open. This was common among her orc masters and peers. They demanded appraisals. Not just for their pride, but to savor her pain. To watch her fume and grimace while assessing their length, warmth, girth and any other features of note. Taking his massive prick in her tiny hands, she set herself to the task hanging before her.
Which, unlike Idril, wasn't easy. As a curator, she knew how to describe the details and history of an object placed in her care. As a drunk whore of Mordor, the smart, sophisticated verbiage of her old calling abandoned her when she needed it most.
"It's... it's fuckin big?" Idril stammered. "And heavy. Bet ya could knock me out with it, it's so uhh, big and heavy."
"I thought you was an expert! Tell us somethin' we don't know."
Idril blushed. Despite all the times she went through this hazing, it never sat well with her that a lifetime of learning could fall apart with a single swig of grog. A true master of her domain could do her duty in any state. Knowledge would flow through her muddled thoughts to impart wisdom of the ages, guided with a keen sense of Middle-earth life and culture. She had no excuse. Something, anything, that sounded the part would do.
"Gondor ladies ain't used ta cocks this big. They'd have ta fuck a horse. Some of 'em would, too, if they saw what yer packin'."
"Hear that boys?" Mâku boasted. "Treasure Slut says wimmen need horses cause their men ain't good enough. Buncha horny twats."
Amid the laughter of orcs jacking off in her face, Idril weighed Mâku's hefty pair. Forty grams each, a number she consigned to memory. Orcs cared not for the particulars, whether one testicle sagged lower or by how much. All that mattered to them was form and function - and a dash of stroking more than their pride certainly helped.
Which she did. Grabbing his shaft, she dipped her fingers into the dense soggy weeds of his pubes and pumped. Spasms beneath his sallow flesh turned her task into a two-hander challenge. This should have been simple. But no. She wrestled the organ with all her might. Brought every ounce of her shieldmaiden training to bear against a worthy foe flopping in her grip like an eel.
No use. Bested by the behemoth, her tired muscles surrendered to its will. What followed was nothing short of slavery. Her weak arms slowed and sped up to a rhythm their new master decided. Pull to the bulb. Push to the base. Loosen on the upstroke. Squeeze on the downstroke. Strict orders told them when and where to move, relayed in little twitches that only a good servant would notice.
Everything she learned in Minas Ithil should have prepared her for much greater enemies than a single giant orc dick. It had no mind, no cunning, only raw lust to guide its actions. It beat her all the same. On this day, her strength failed.
Defeated even in this, Idril sighed and gave Mâku his next round of ego boosts.
"Dick's stronger than I'll ever be. Keeps threatenin' ta blow a load on me, but it's holdin' out better'n most men would. Might be cause it's all slimy n' rough."
Ducking under her wrists, she took a deep breath and parted her elbows. The comforting scent of her armpits faded as she approached his musky crotch. So sharp. So dense. She almost fainted, color draining from her cheeks and mind swimming in his masculine stench.
As an unwilling connoisseur of cocks, she had a process she needed to follow. Sommeliers swished bits of wine in their mouths. Chefs sampled their dishes before serving. A year of practice taught her the right way to judge an orc's package: starting at his balls.
Closing her eyes, she puckered her quivering lips and kissed. Not a brief peck, either. She buried herself in his sack. Rubbed her cheeks against his wrinkly orange skin. Pubes slipped up her nostrils, tickling toward a sneeze she couldn't afford. Every whiff was a dare. Could she stifle the urge and savor his heady aura without passing out into his hot orc knackers? Could her nose handle what her worthless arms could not? If she wanted to salvage what remained of her reputation as a curator, she had to act quick. With a loud wet smack, she left her dark red calling card.
But that was only part of the test. From her mark, she pressed her tongue to Mâku's scrote and licked along his length. Bumps and pulsing veins added texture to a story of salty spunk. Once she reached the tip, she couldn't help but breathe good and hard on his bulb. Truly, she knelt before the most magnificent specimen she ever had the honor to meet. In fact, it bore such splendor, such majesty, such unrivaled heft and warmth and fragrance, that she could scarcely believe it allowed her to touch it. She bowed her head in respect.
Yet all good things came to an end.
The best curators knew a good tale had twists and turns. Idril found hers. With a disgusted shiver at his taste, she regaled her audience with what wonders a wasted Treasure Slut could glean from Mâku's brimming boulders.
"There's a sayin' for Gondor wimmen: be careful whose dick gets stuck in ya. They might want ta fuck this nasty piece, but it'd rip 'em up inside." She spouted these lines with a sureness found only in the sleaziest alleys of Minas Tirith. "It's worse if ya blow yer load in 'em. Their wombs ain't made for orcs. A month in and-"
Idril had many words left to butcher. Mâku's prick didn't care. As her master, it decided when she should shut her trap - and it did so here. With a single flex, it jammed itself between her big fat lips and toward the back of her throat. Its girth strained the ex-warrior's mouth to its fullest. Gagged her til mere hums and moans mumbled through the tiniest of gaps.
She sniffed. Read his smell like a soothsayer before leaves. Any minute now, the rough scrape of her teeth would bring about an end she received nightly since her fall.
"Get ready, wench," Mâku spouted.
Then it happened. He pulled out. Normal men had pitiful offerings compared to the mighty Mâku, who blasted his seed across the whole of Idril's face. Not a shred of this canvas went unshamed. It soaked into her eyebrows, clung to her lashes, blinding her as it drowned her faint freckles in a sea of viscous spunk. Every day, she washed this muck off til not a drop remained. And every day, some orc spoiled her pristine girlish looks and sent her off to show the lads her new white mask.
If only her torment ended there. Though she could not see, she felt fresh strands fly and splatter anywhere they could find among her nakedness. Dripping off her earlobes. Gunking up her hair. Wadding in her dank pits. She heard orcs shuffling, trading places as the spent made room for those with more to add to her layers. When the cavalcade ceased, Idril sat there, drenched an army's hatelust for her. Sheets of it oozed down her body, collected at her chin, leaving her a ruined mess which even the wise wizards of Middle-Earth might mistake for a slime creature that crawled from the foulest cesspools of Mordor.
She certainly spoke like one.
"More. Mooooooooore," Idril burbled.
"If ya want more, we'll give ya more!"
War drums beat. The earth quaked with pounding footsteps. Tremors of this scale and a theme song to match did not come from the land. Few of Sauron's brood deserved such a grand entrance. Even through the swampland of her head, she could tell who had come. A drunkard's dread swept through her heart and loins when a massive hand grabbed her torso and proved her fears true.
"Olrok! Olrok! Olrok!"
Their chant announced the arrival of their hero, Olrok the Smasher. An olog of high renown. His power demolished countless keeps, wiped out swaths of soldiers in one blow, and turned the tide of battles too many times to count. He lacked speed, but in concert with Mâku and Lorm, his failings balanced out in what became the Terrible Trio. And now, he was here to claim his spoils of war.
As Olrok lifted Idril high, he exposed her worst kept secret: the Evil Eye. Its flames issued down her thighs from that great fissure at its base. Only here did her body remain bare, its hairs burned away like so much scorched earth. Some orcs tried to claim it. They paid dearly. For unlike the skull painted from breasts to belly, this tattoo served as a vital warning. Few creatures could take the raw heat of her corrupted quim.
Few except Olrok.
The moment he speared her on his cock, Idril let out a horny wail. Passions stirred as fiercely as ravens and bats rushing from nearby trees. They had an escape. She did not. Her chains rattled around Olrok's clenched fist. A short jerk affirmed his grip, and her place at the mercy of it.
"Feel that, Slut?" Olrok said. "If ya try anything, I'll give ya a good yank."
How could she? The massive log split her neat and wide. While her drunkard claims for Mâku mainly served his inflated sense of pride, this piece truly could tear a normal woman apart from the inside. She was no longer normal. Exposure to the palantir granted her inhuman resilience where it counted most. If an orc or beast wanted to fuck the prone Mîril, her hips would allow. Her womb would stretch. So long as they proved worthy.
Which Olrok did. His other hand pumped her along his curve.
"Alright, boys! Let's go for a walk."
**********
From a pile of slumbering orcs, a figure emerged. A lucky midnight rain had washed her clean, yet hours trapped under the sweaty mass of green, orange, grey and black bodies left her with an unholy stench that wafted sex for miles on the strongest of winds. With a final push, she splashed into a puddle and rose to assess the damage.
Her loincloth remained. Her skull sigil, unmarred. Her nethers sizzled Olrok's seed into a fine mist as they tightened, ready to be defiled once again. Semen still sweltered in her pits and from her crack, preserved amongst the hairs in pockets too obscure for last night's showers to reach.
Her legs wobbled. The rest of her did not bear the same power as her most pillaged jewel. A few weak steps and she collapsed.
But if she knew what skulked atop the pile from whence she came, Idril might have put in a little more effort. It wasn't until the creature landed on the warg fur draping her back and grabbed her chains that she found some vigor.
"Get off me. Off!" She shouted. "I don't have time for more orc games."
"Games, no. You will takes us to the Precious!"
She did not need this. Her head pounded. Her ass ached. Her quim burned. Wet, raw and tired, Idril meant to toss the imp when he gave a tug. Tendrils of pain snaked across her chest. A couple more for good measure and she stopped resisting.
"AGH! Okay, okay you little fucker, I give up. So I'm to be your mare. Tell me then, where would you have me go?"
The creature settled onto her shoulders. His ratty loincloth flapped over her neck. His dirty feet dangled over her breasts. In truth, she planned to buck her unwanted rider the first chance she got. Until the secret he whispered in her ear gave her pause.
This thing. This... Gollum... knew where to find it. It. The highest prize sought by her masters. Glittery and gold, with lovely etchings exposed only by flames. She imagined finding the ring. Shoving it in her snatch. Letting it drop into her palm. Grinning, as her lust revealed its secrets.
A fever dream that broke when Gollum firmly pulled on her reins. "Ow!"
"Leave! Now!" he insisted.
"Where am I to-"
"Shire. Baggiiiiins."
Her blood ran cold. Maps and measures popped into her head. Over one. Thousand. Miles. On foot. Shaking off the pure shock of his demand, she cleared her throat. "Surely you want a real horse for such a journey. If I had to carry you that far, it would take-"
He snapped the chains taut again. This one sent her onto hands and knees, seething but cowed. Biting back an endless stream of swears, she stood and trotted northwest. Toward Gondor. Toward Rohan. Toward Dunland, Isengard and Bree, where Men could witness one strange creature riding another and tell tales that echoed for all of time.
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Middle-Earth: Shadow of Whore