Middle-Earth: Shadow of Whore

BY : salarta
Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > AU - Alternate Universe
Dragon prints: 11055
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.

Author's Note: Honestly, I know what's here sucks. I did what I could with it, but I think it's a mix of too long and not finding good alternate words and phrases for a lot of things. It's getting posted now as it is because I'm sick of how it's been sitting unfinished on my computer since June. This is going into some weird territory unique to the nature of Carnan as a character, like a lot of my fics, so be prepared for that. If I feel up for it some day, I have ideas for chapters for Shelob, Eltariel and Idril, each with an entirely different angle.

CHAPTER TAGS: 3Plus, BMod, CR, Ds, Fet, Humil, MF, Ms, Other, Rape, Slave, Tent, TF, Smell, Filth, Decay, Giant


Flames raged in the grass. Smoke blotted out the sky. Bare branches shook on foul winds. Noxious black fog flowed down putrid rivers. Only husks of bark remained for trees, their insides burned away into husks where all manner of nasty beasts now dwelled.

This was the Forest of Carnan, and it had changed. Any who ventured inside could taste it in the water. Feel it in the earth. Smell it in the air. Its old bounty was lost, replaced a new Carnan. Dull. Decayed. Stinking. The Free Peoples of Middle-Earth would have wept at the sight of this woodland abattoir, but it was not meant for them. It was meant for one creature, an Uruk who approached the Great Tree flanked by his Orc torchbearers. As the tree's last vines withered away to blight and fire, this Uruk gazed into the massive cavern they revealed and bellowed his triumphant screed.

"Landfilth! You have been beaten. My army walks your lands. My magic consumes everything within your reach. You have nowhere to go and no power left to resist. Come out and surrender yourself to your new master, Zog the Eternal!"

The land trembled. Thud. Thud. Thud. The untrained ear might have mistaken it for a mere earthquake if not for its regular beat. Orcs stumbled and fell, clutching their torches, swords and spears.

Soon, the silhouette of a lank, pitiable figure darkened the Great Tree's doorstep. Green fingers curled around the cavern's edges. Then a fresh, woody scent issued forth, pushing back the rank odor of Zog's magics. The grand unveiling lasted several minutes, long enough to bore even the sluggish Ents, but when Zog's prize came into view? Oh how he smiled.

Carnan head drooped in shame. Past her bright and smooth chlorophyll complexion, her crown already showed its rot. Dessicated tendrils. Cracked, weathered shoots of bark. Leaves hung off her body, all pale green and shriveled. Only a small spark of life lingered in her face, and as she dropped to her knees, she breathed it out her bulbous lips. A sweet aroma. Pervasive, perfumed with a cocktail of roses, lilacs, peonies and many other fragrant flowers.

That, too, would change.

"You wretched Uruk," Carnan lamented. "You have ruin-ed me."

"Yes I have!" Zog proudly announced. "Do you know how I did it? Cause you're so bloody stupid! Why would I settle on Tar Goroth when I can conquer the thing that beat it?"

Carnan couldn't deny this - and not because he wielded power of her. She lived for millennia, felled waves of Orcs and the mightiest Balrog alike. She protected her sacred forest with creation itself, forming caragors, graugs and drakes out of leaf, petal, root and spear. Yet, she did not foresee the schemes of this dwimmer-crafty necromancer. For all her experience and might, one small squishy Uruk outsmarted her.

She had a right to be outraged and defiant. But she could not deny what she knew. It wasn't in her nature.

"You speak true. Sallow-brained, I was. Bog-sighted by my hubris. You have earned your victory. End me."

Zog looked into Carnan's eyes. Those lush, radiant, verdant eyes as big as his head. And he laughed. He laughed as she flinched, fearing a blow from one of his spears. "End you? Oh no. When I said I conquered you, I meant I conquered you. I get to tame more than your lands today."

Carnan snarled. Far less intimidating than mere days ago. "You wish to make me your puppet. A slave to your will. A pet that must obey your commands."

"I do. Now say the words. Complete the ritual. Bind your soul to me!"

Zog raised his hand over Carnan's mouth. As the mighty spirit exhaled, her power drained into Zog's glowing palm. First green and light. Then brown, dark. Her pleasant, soothing, airy sigh corroded until it reeked with the pungence of a compost heap. As her new foulness consumed the last hints of lilac, she spoke his words.

"Defile-ed is the land. Curse-ed is the maker. Fair to foul, bounty to blight, Spirit of Carnan serves Zog the Eternal."

A rush of wind. Crebain flapped and squawked. Black fumes rose through cracks in Carnan's body as she moaned out a single gust of the thick nasty miasma. It was done. She was done. The independent spirit of the woods existed no longer. In her place knelt a servant of Zog. When her breath-smog dispersed, Zog stood a champion amongst his cheering throng, who he turned and faced to savor his moment.

"Take a look, lads. Where Sauron fails, Zog succeeds. I have turned these once thriving woods into a wasteland that bows to my whims. Isn't that right, tree whore?"

Carnan let Zog lean back against her cheek. Because she had to. Because she must. Because like a good servant, she lived for his comfort and amusement above her own. Wincing as he pinched her giant nostril, she answered his question.

"Yes, master. Carnan is putrid and rotting tree whore. How may Carnan serve master?"

The Orcs' joy seasoned Carnan's shame. Raucous and wild, they delayed the proceedings with their noise - though Zog found some fun in the waiting. He smeared the filth of his boots along her plump lower lip. He scraped his claws down the long bridge of her nose. When he tugged on her wispy eyelashes, Carnan scowled and muttered soft curses under her rancid breath, but she did not move. She did not resist. She was an avatar for him to abuse in any way he wished, even if only as a means for him to pass the time.

Finally, Zog's army calmed. He spoke again. "I'm very glad you asked, Carnan. You may be fallen, but you're still a long way from showing it. And besides, you need to reward my followers for helping me claim you."

Of the crowd, one Orc dared to ask, "The pit?"

"The pit!"

Another roar of excitement erupted from the horde. Lavishing in their praise, Zog pushed himself off Carnan's cheek and bade her to follow.

Slow and crawling. Never before had Carnan suffered the indignity of moving at another creature's pace. She would have leapt and bound through fields, or soared high in the sky at fearsome speeds, at her own behest. Starting today, she carried on as they asked. Shuffling behind their plodding steps.

Orcs lined both sides of her path. Like a parade. A parade presenting the weak, stupid abomination Zog owned. They waved their implements with glee, shouted insults in Black Speech and the language of man. She expected a gauntlet when she saw axes, but they never fell upon her. Not a single crooked branch took a blow. Such was their respect for Zog.

Then they stopped. From her lowly place on all fours, Carnan peered at the backs of many Orc heads blocking her view. For the first time in her existence, dread consumed the Spirit of Carnan. She found good reason for that dread as soon as the throng parted.

A hole. A giant hole. Right in the middle of her forest. It stretched long, wide and likely deep. Likely, because she could not see how far down it went. The Orcs had filled it with a bubbling, boiling soup of the nastiest muck to ever stain her nostrils. She would have plugged them if Zog permitted.

He did not. Instead, he turned to his pet. "Here we are. One hot, dirty muck bath ready and waiting just for you. What do you think?"

One look at the cesspool and her face contorted in disgust. A crinkling between her eyebrows and frown upon her lips added hard edges to her soft features. The stench assaulted her as she inhaled a mighty whiff of the squalid brew and gagged.

She glared, powerless, at the necromancer. "It stinks of death. Make-es me retch. This bath would ruin Carnan forever."

"That's the idea, landfilth. Get in."

With those two simple words, Carnan splashed into the pit. Bubbles rose to the surface as she sank, popping near her waist, around her shoulders, in her face. She scrunched her nose and recoiled at the awful smell.

"This no way to treat Carnan. Carnan is great spirit of forest. Thrives on life and light."

"Carnan will wallow in that pit until I tell her she can come out. Now shut up, lie back and think of Zog."

It pained and enraged Carnan how this pitiful little monster could control her so deeply. The thought of his naked form flitted all over her ravaged mind. His rough grey goatee. His baleful yellow eyes. His jagged teeth. Lower, his turgid cock flapped between beefy legs of flesh. Sap swelled on her grassy tongue, rolling out the corners of her mouth, and that's when she realized what kind of powerful hold he had over her.

She loved him. She hated him. She wanted to please him. She wanted to kill him. Dual passions roiled for dominance, one natural and fierce, the other pathetic and false. She could tell them apart, but for how long? How long until Zog snuffed out that last bit of light and turned her into his mewling arboreal slut?

These feelings tormented the once mighty Carnan as she surrendered herself to the pit.

At first, she floated. Her will may have succumbed to Zog, but her woody body remained unspoiled. It defied the depths to hover like pond scum. Yet it would not last. Just when it looked as though she might happily fail her master's latest command, Carnan heard a sound so dreadful and humiliating for one such as she, it made her cringe from gnarled crown to spindly toe.

A sickly squelch. Inside her long skirt, between her hardy thighs, trapped air hissed free. It echoed across the wasteland. Announced its release for all to hear. Along with it, Carnan bellowed the loudest, horniest moan her big slutty mouth could muster. A tickle of pleasure ebbed along the edges of her crevice of a cunt, as those edges softened to the pit's acidic waste.

It had begun. Her fall. And right in the middle, they laughed at her. Zog's followers laughed, drowning out the occasional wheeze and whistle spewing from her small tree trunk tits. She sank, sank, sank, the pit's surface frothing with a steady stream of her descent into foulness.

A deeper viridian shade tinged her poor cheeks. For all her existence, Carnan never felt the need to defend her honor. She had magic. She had power. Lower creatures did not merit concern from one made of tree and beast. Until today. Today she yearned for respect.

Her teeth chittered as she quavered denial. "This filth does not please Carnan! Carnan wishes for root and sun, not nasty Orc sludge."

"Hear that, boys? She thinks she's too good for us," shouted a commander.

"Maybe we're too good for her! Did she ever think of that?" a sniveling Worm jeered.

"I bet she would fuck a graug if she could. Unasked. That's how bad she needs a little cock in her burning bush."

Their insults never ended. Over and over, they assaulted her leafy ears until a flood of the viscous brown gunk turned their verbal jests into a slew of jumbled murmurs. Rarely, she picked up choice words. Scumslut. Muck raker. A litany of abuse persisted, but most of it landed beyond her senses.

That left her lying there. Still. Eyes darting back and forth at the encroaching sludge. It rose in her periphery, a tide of corruption coming to consume her. It rolled inch by inch over her chlorophyll skin. It claimed her shoulders, then her neck. She clamped her eyes shut, holding her breath for the final submersion... when she stopped. Fearfully, she peeked out at the world around her.

Calm. Too calm. If Orcs failed at anything, it was patience. They lacked the capacity to wait for a chance to have their fun. Yet they waited. They watched, staring at her from afar. It gave her time to think. Slowly, realization dawned on her.

Her face was an island. Verdant and smooth, it bobbed on the surface as slimy waters lapped against its shores. From her jutting rock of a nose to stinking pit of a mouth, she bore landmarks clearly defining her as the rotting Isle of Carnan.

This humiliation alone would have satisfied most conquerors. Reducing Carnan from a pervasive spirit who wandered as she pleased to a tiny festering landmass submerged in noxious grunge brought plenty of fame. And when he had no use for her, Zog would see to it that Carnan spent her time in this shameful state of repose. Visited and used by his men. Mocked, stepped on, abused to remind the spirit of her rightful place beneath their heels.

He had greater plans for Carnan. But they required a little time to prepare.

No sense in making his men wait to bask in the thrills of their new island toy.

"Have at her, boys!"

What came next was barbarism. They invaded Carnan. The Orcs jumped the moat and trampled her face underfoot, sharp hard boots digging into her skin. Mud smeared across the fleshy green surface of her lands while the Orcs' weight mashed the pulp beneath. Her veins bulged with darkened sap, growing thicker, pronounced, reacting to her pain and frustration.

A fwoosh of magic cleared the muck from her submerged ears. She could hear them. Their garbled cries and clamor became known to her again, in time to hear their petty arguing.

"I've got her mouth."

"No, I've got her mouth!"

"Nobody touch her eyebrows, they're mine."

Despite the smallness of her island face, the Orcs did what happened with all creatures who deigned themselves rulers of new territory: they fought for dominion. Brogg claimed her forehead. Her right eye belonged to Pûg. Torz took the indent above her lips, insisting that his fetish for the basin meant only he had a right to fill it with his splooge.

Carnan hoped against hope that the Orcs would kill each other off during this lower creature squabbling, but no such luck. They found the prize too great. As they organized their efforts, Carnan's focus shifted to her body.

It burned. The sludge sizzled against her dendroidal dress, melting rugged lianas and hard wood, leaving only a thin film to hold them on her soft naked curves. Her shoulders felt so bare, her skirt so loose... and this was merely the beginning. The acidic waste seeped into every fiber of her fibers and tainted them. Changed them. Corruption tingled throughout her battered spirit, reducing its shape and substance into something Zog could work with. Something he could mold into the indecent, humiliating form he felt Carnan deserved.

While Zog's magics worked below, his army worked above. A ring of Orcs surrounded her lips. Eager. Waiting. Cocks out.

"Please, have mercy on Carnan," she begged. "Befoul-ed is my body. My spirit, broken. Carnan suffers enough without tasting Orc seed."

The ring leader answered with the brevity of wit Orcs were known for. "Open up, landfilth."

She sighed mournfully. "As you wish, master."

Like an ancient elven door, Carnan's lips parted to the magic words. They stretched long and wide, unveiling a dark abyss where all manner of foul offerings might disappear. The Orcs peered inside and pondered these depths. The stinking hole quivered, threatening eruption, but nothing ever spewed forth to claim them. Not a single vine shot out like the ones that murdered their brethren-in-arms days ago.

They were safe. They could throw in anything they wished and Carnan had to accept. Anything. Rushed to excitement by this knowledge, they furiously pumped their hard pricks. A chorus of wanking took the place of trash talk and big boasts - because their dicks did the talking for them. Squelch, squish, shlup, these sounds announced their arousal and contempt for the natural she-slut beneath them better than any Black Speech.

No one knew this more than Carnan herself. Downwind, she picked up huge steamy whiffs of their musk. She would have breathed through her mouth if able, but it risked too many Orc lives. One sharp inhale had enough power to suck them into her lair. That, above all, was not allowed. As their plaything, their cumdump, their leafy bitch, she had a duty to uphold. Their welfare meant more than her dignity.

Thus defeated, she wilted at the scent. Decay yellowed from the tip of her big nose and down the rim of her nostrils to the curved base where they met her lurid cheeks. The stress of her shaming made her face veins throb. This drew ever more attention to her twitching eye, where another couple Orcs brushed sticky pre-cum into her lashes. Like the rangers of Gondor, these creatures found a use for every part of her ailing body.

Yet, none of the abuse she weathered compared to the horror lying above and around her.

She stared up into the darkness of a smoke-blackened sky. These trees had once belonged to her. They extended her reach, brought power and control, offered gifts of sight and sound for her domain. Now all she felt from them was death. Stiff gusts loosened weak bark. Deep roots shriveled under poisoned earth. Rot-blighted fruit lay scattered on the ground where it could poison any woodland fauna foolish enough to take a bite.

She no longer heard the cry of the forests, the scream of the rivers. Instead, she felt her body tingling within the pit's fetid ooze. The gunk sloshed across her skin, drawing out deep, dark, depraved pleasures of mortal flesh - and that's when she realized what changes the dwimmer-crafty necromancer wrought.

Fair to foul. Bounty to blight. Parts of her decayed. Parts of her shrank. Parts of her grew. One of those parts expanded at rapid pace, far faster than she could withstand. Pressure built inside her prison of a shabby dress. Something needed release. Something thick. Heavy. Full. She wheezed to a newfound tightness in her chest. She couldn't breathe. It defied all logic in the nature of forest spirits, but then, the fiery heat between her legs did as well.

Just when Carnan thought she might pass out from lack of air, her breasts exploded free with a mighty crack. Two new islands emerged. Rising, spreading, those verdant tracts of land spoiled and smushed together in the middle until their small canal became a tiny tickling stream.

"Lookit that, lads! The tree whore's put herself out for us."

As before, the Orcs seized Carnan's new bounty in the name of Zog. Her overripe tits squished beneath them as they converged on dark and twisted weeds sprouting at the center of each isle. Tiny stalks with serrated leaves had the look of sharpness, but the Orcs knew better than to believe the forest spirit had any bite to her bark.

The first Orc to stomp on her scruffy pest-plant teats earned a moan in reward. This worked the others to a frenzy as they kicked, yanked and whipped Carnan's buds. Their boots brought on the worst of it. Pointed tips dug in. Blunt heels ground down. Twisting, rubbing, chafing turned her bushy nipples raw. Abuse wracking her hardy plants and their soiled mounds, she let out a desperate cry.

"Nnnn-!" Carnan shuddered. "No more, masterssss. No more."

"Who said yer allowed to talk?" The ring leader at her mouth chastised. "We're not finished here!"

Carnan sniffled and winced. The stench of Orc spunk had thickened. It coiled up and forced its noxious scent upon her, a low-hanging cloud slipping into her deep dark places. Amber splotches reached her forehead and rounded to form a domino mask. Sap soured to a sickly hue in her veins. Gold flecks sparkled in her wicked eyes. Blind to light. Keen on darkness. Her vision blurred with yearning for dirty, coarse, impure things.

It shook her to her core. The world once glowed with wonders for her. Now, only the grotesque. She saw shriveled petals in place of grand bulbs. Scum consuming clear clean waters. Everything in view of her spirit-eyes was dank and foul as Carnan herself.

Yet her tainted sight became an afterthought when the first shot of splooge landed in her mouth.

Her tongue withered at the glob. Salty and tart, it stung her taste buds as it rolled down the back of her throat. A streak of rot remained to show its path. Then, another burst of semen spewed from an Orc's cockhead and into her pit. Then another. Another. Another. A chain reaction rippled down the line. The vile assault made her tongue flick about for cover.

"It burnssss," she wailed.

"Shut up and take it," the ring leader commanded.

Her tongue settled. Settled and suffered. Orc seed smothered the whole fleshy length. Suddenly, her body adapted. Her buds sizzled, taking on foulness as an acquired taste. A drug. An addiction. Every cell in her mouth screamed for their spunk to slake its thirst. Toxic green slime smutted her lips to match her new craving. More. She needed more.

Of course, Carnan would never admit it. To know they could further humiliate the great woodland spirit by making her want what they forced upon her? It would please these beasts to no end. She left them to think they hadn't corrupted her gaping maw, and lost herself in her shameful soiling.

Until she felt a harsh thwack from below.

Her tits. In the time her mouth became a reeking cum dump, her nipples had grown. Harder, tougher, wider, taller, blow by blow her nasty shrubs jutted into timber peaks. Sharp tips rose higher as new branches formed along the length. These, too, garnered abuse until the dense brown nubs thickened too much for her to feel anything through their many aged layers. The grand tetons towered above the Orcs, unmoved by even their mightiest punches and kicks.

Unfortunately for Carnan, they quickly found an answer to this problem.

"Boys! Get us some hammers."

The first hammerfall shook the very foundation this posse stood upon. They all fought for balance atop Carnan's wobbling bosom. Some resisted. Some collapsed. Yet each slam of head to trunk made the task - and Carnan - easier. No sweetly foul sign proved it better than her moans. Hot and wild, her rank breath blew out in long gusts. The ring of Orcs around her mouth took the hint and abandoned their endeavor, wanking elsewhere. The greatest mass shot their loads up her nostrils, but a few adventurous sorts sought to glue her eyelids shut.

They failed. Merely spackled her eyelashes. Despite this failure, they succeeded in their greater goal of annoying the woodland spirit like little flies buzzing in her face. Her prone, ravaged face. A face she could not defend, letting these insects crawl and slither and dirty it to mock her weakness. She swallowed their secretions between gasps. Caught her breath. Thought she found composure, before a thundering shook the land outside her cesspool and she remembered one of Zog's greatest assets.

Ologs. Dumb, dirty giants with huge wooden clubs stomped across her barren breasts. Their feet left deep impressions. Cheers went up. Clearly, the beasts prepared to strike their first fearsome blows.

She braced herself. It wasn't enough. One. She winced. Two. She shivered. Three. Her legs twitched. Four. She rocked her head. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One two. Three four. One two three four. One two three four. One-two-three-four. One-two-three four. They quickened into a maddening, neverending beat.

"No more!" Carnan begged. "Fire-ed my loins you have. Beat my nipplllles raw. They ache. Need rest from Orc masters."

"Not a chance."

Her tits reached their peak, and still the Orcs smashed through to sapwood. She thrashed in her scummy pool. The smartest of those who smeared her face in spunk abandoned the island while they could. The dumbest suffered for not predicting her throes of lust. Tossing her head, she flung them into the muck. Lighter Orcs swam. Heavier Orcs sank. Pounds of armor sent them to the bottom, resting at her shoulders.

"Pleasure building. Masters stain Carnan with nassssty mortal thoughts."

Sins of flesh tore apart her chastity like vultures. Picked her mind unclean. What once had no place in her lands had snuck in and made a place for itself. Here in this filth garden, her spirit reached out to feel her ruined home. Every rotten inch fed back to her. Leylines, the wizards called them. Invisible seams of the earth where energy flowed toward a common powerful center. In this place, that center was Carnan, and that energy took the form of corrosive lust. Resist though she might, it didn't stop her pussy from oozing in her bathing squalor.

Nor did it stop Zog from twisting her ties to her forest into something far more sinister and obscene. Something that ripped the ground apart and sprang forth.

Mere days ago, Carnan had the power to torture Zog's legions in toothy cages of wood. His twisting of this skill worked much the same with one important difference. Her vines didn't impale her foes. Her vines cradled them. Through those winding creepers, she massaged their hefty balls. Jerked off their wanting pricks. Each and every one of her lesser masters came to her gentle touch through tendrils wrapped around their bodies and packages like little sex cocoons.

"Ooooh yes, that's the spot, landfilth."

"Better not give me green balls or you'll regret it."

"Don't forget the tip!"

"Vile, wretched beasts. Your praise sickens Carnan!" she shouted. Sickened, and excited her. She awaited the next crass insult, the next backhanded compliment, the next reminder of her fall. She awaited their words like barbs to her sacred space while roiling her pit.

The throbs. The twitches. The tiny spurts of semen shooting out and soaking into the ground. Unlife called to her with its hardness, its thickness, its tasty scent. Little buds of flowers emerged from her vines and sniffed for the source. Noxious pestweeds, the white-petaled plants were. Their distinctive odor aroused Orc dicks to full mast. Aside from the gagging, Carnan's aphrodisiac served its purpose. Her vines found the Orcs' bulbous tips and slipped all the way down to the shrubbery of their pubes.

Moans went up as Carnan sucked them off. All of them. Hundreds of Orcs across miles of forest savored the pleasures of nature spoiled. Whether they knew the cause mattered not, for Carnan served them anyway. She drained their scrotes. Pumped the seed underground. Tasted it in every fiber of her being. As her morgul-flowers swallowed the Orcs' last bitter drops, she released their tired, aching bodies. Exhaustion pushed them to slumber. Sweaty, snoring, spent, the masses missed their tree whore's mewling pleas.

"You have won, Lord Zog. Let Carnan rest."

She panted in the afterglow of climax. Yellowed skin, browned tendril hair, slimy lips, she exhaled plumes of darkness past cum-stained teeth. Nothing remained of her former luscious greens. The pit robbed her of that beauty. That life.

But merely seeing these changes through Carnan's sour sallow sneer would not satisfy death's midwife. Like all makers and unmakers, the necromancer had a need to see his great handiwork and test its mettle with a true challenge.

"Arise, my foul temptress," Zog commanded. "Your final test awaits."

Carnan groaned. Those few still awake bore witness to her grand unveiling as she sat upright and clambered out of the pit. Sludge burbled down her body in dirty waterfalls. Stripped of bark, stripped of color, her rotted out dress bore huge gashes through which wind tickled her wet skin. Dead brown moss failed to cover her cracks and crevices, where the sludge wound its path into a pool at her feet. Even with these openings, the ragged gown looked positively chaste as it ran from neck to ankles. It made quite an example of her bilious tits, rolling like soft mountains as she heaved. They acted as a cliff, and she moaned to a rush of cold muck soothing her battered trunks.

When the wind picked up, she shivered and turned her back to Zog.

At any other time, in any other place, turning one's back on their master meant disrespect. Not here. Not when it meant Carnan leaning forward and bending at the knees, revealing her giant cunt through a hole in her skirt. Lush fields of grass overran the valley of her thighs, sparkling with dew in spite of slime dripping off her quim. Though passion tinged her slit brown along its edges, it fought valiantly to preserve what the rest of Carnan had lost.

"You've been holding out, haven't you tree whore?"

"Trees and rivers and sky you break," she answered. "The cycle remains. From decay comes bloom."

Briefly, she felt a twinge of pride. Defiance. A chance to reclaim herself. Then she heard it. A mighty roar. Loud. Fierce. It scorched the winds and set withered foliage aflame. Fear slackened her jaw. Tears of dread wetted the corners of her baleful eyes. She couldn't control her shaking, dust drifting free in a fine mist. She recognized that sound from her battles with the creature.

"We'll see how long the cycle lasts when he's through with you."

Carnan looked over her shoulder at the behemoth. Tall, dark and hot, he approached her from behind with great wings of fire, and armor almost chitinous in appearance. Magma flowed beneath the surface of his earthen crust for flesh. Big long chains dragged from cuffs on his wrists. His four virile horns jutted outward from his head, a prelude of what she would soon find buried inside her.

Tar Goroth had come.

Corruption crept further on her pussy the longer she stared. Flaxen and engorged, the mound lost its verdance to strange new sprouts following the yellow tide. To this awful sensation, Carnan accused, "You said you had no need for Tar Goroth!"

"I said I wouldn't settle for Tar Goroth. I never said anything about giving up my plans for him." The cocky Zog settled against a decrepit tree, watching his puppet steam. "Two thralls are better than one, and after the trouble you gave him, I think you owe him a little revenge."

Her face screwed in abject disgust. A dark power took hold in her throat. It wormed down her chest and around her mouth like roots as she frowned through the agony of her spirit being taken yet again by her master. Nasty words spilled out, off a tongue too filthy and horny to resist. "Plow me, Tar Goroth. Rip apart my pussy and plant your vile seed."

Cloven hooves dug deep as the balrog found his footing. Claws to her hips, he forced her higher then shoved her forward til his slut's rear lined up perfectly with his crotch. A little rubbing coaxed out a beast within that lay dormant for millennia. Untouched. Unsated. Unknown before this day. The tip of something new and different arose from his darkness. Sharp and jagged, the length might have looked like a huge dagger if not for its place and the two massive boulders banging against each other beneath it.

Yet it served the same purpose when he plunged it into her twat.

His chest glowed bright with fire in the middle of his armor. Her chest heaved as her big pallid boobs jiggled from impact. A long stream of flame burst from between his fangs. A dense plume of toxic smoke blew from between her lips. Thus began a fucking the likes of which had never been seen before on Middle-Earth.

A pillar of solid rock, heated for his pleasure, slammed into her squishing wet swampmound. Over. And over. And over. And over. Enough power for a battering ram assaulted her wooded gate and scorched her whole forest along its path. With each thrust, Carnan lost more of herself - and more of her dress.

It broke off in pieces. Dry, shriveled, dead, chunks fell to her feet and revealed ever more skin. Along with a change in color, her bust had grown softer, firmer, as if ready to burst with a single squeeze. Weak yet shapely arms and legs flailed out, designed for looks, not use. Wide birthing hips defied the laws of nature. Dark veins throbbed corruption on her chest. Better to arouse Zog's angry horny hordes. From ripe to rotten, her loss of a dress said much about the state of this pathetic she-tree, but it did not mean lack of attire or markings to aid her harlotry.

Brambles blossomed off her shoulders, winding around her biceps and tits - the first of many places to bear them. One set dangled off her wrists and ankles like chains made to match the iron worn by her balrog lover. Another set made for a twisted black slave collar on her tender neck. Worst of all, a miniskirt of the tight, prickly, painful barbs hung so short and lacking in threads that they did more to mock than cover her. Pain over pleasure. Filth over function. Bondage lingerie exposed the great yellow whore for judgment by her betters - a title held by all but the lowliest of creatures in Middle-Earth.

She rubbed her flat belly, fingers tracing lines along her new balrog head tattoo. The mark of Zog. Impossible to miss thanks to its sheer size, it properly branded her as the necromancer's property. A second tattoo emblazoned across her whole back added further insult to injury with the full leafy wonder of her great tree. A few minor Orc tribal tattoos rounded out the assortment of body blemishes, but the final piece to ruin her image spread like a plague on the dankest, darkest pits of her body.

Morgul-flowers. The noxious white-petaled monstrosities bloomed in her armpits and crotch. As a pale imitation of gnarly tangled pubes, they fumed their sex musk in thick invisible clouds. Bees foolish enough to seek out her bulbs suffered for it, sent astray in a haze of hormonal sleaze.

But bees weren't the only creatures affected by her new slutty scent.

"Oh!" Carnan moaned as her mate grabbed her hair-vines and yanked hard. "Yes, Tar Goroth. Use me like a lowly beast."

Incensed, Tar Goroth rammed his glowing lava shaft deeper and harder. The hunched over stature of his mate may have offered ease of entry, but it also plumped up her arboreal ass. Full cheeks dulled his full force, cushioning the blow and saving her tortured quim from all out devastation. Which of course, did not sit well with their master.

"Get in there, Tar Goroth! What's one tree whore compared to the might of a balrog?"

Zog's influence certainly had an effect. Goroth sped up. His beefy rock legs made her soft plant thighs quiver. Weak in the knees. Both of them, but moreso Carnan, who needed Goroth's grip on her lank slippery plant-hair to keep from falling. Her pussy steamed into a barren wasteland as his prick burned her baneful bush. Poison and fire. Two common elements in the arsenal of Orcs. Each of Zog's thralls had them, and showed them, avatars of these weapons of war.

It could not last forever. They had a purpose to serve that didn't involve remaining locked in a battle of cocks and cunts for all eternity. As with the time of gods and elves, their rutting needed to end.

In the final stretch, she weakened as he held firm. Her moans and his roars collided, carrying on the winds. She shook harder. Cried louder. Panted like a caragor in heat. Ecstasy made her writhe against Tar Goroth with a stripper's zeal, molesting her own shrubby teats. Sallow, sapped of strength, she ground herself on his cock in a tired mess. Glassy saffron eyes and a slack jaw showed her defeated joy as she came. A steamy sizzle competed with her flower pits for dominion on the air.

If Tar Goroth had been a mortal man, he would have kept using her. But he was a balrog. And a slave. Task complete, he tossed Carnan off him like refuse and drew back into the forest's shadows, leaving the forest spirit to pick up her own pieces.

If she could. She breathed deep. Weathered. Rotten. Ruined. A truly unique scent fumed off Carnan, an unholy mix of swamp and sex to shame and arouse her from slumber same as the most potent smelling salts.

"Landfilth!" Zog barked.

Her sore eyes fluttered. Focus. She needed to focus. Gaze at the little necromancer standing in front of her. Do something about his staff prodding her flushed cheeks. Lightly sighing, she answered. "Yes, master?"

"I'm not exactly versed in the tongue of elves or spirits. You need a new name that suits your new life. Give me one."

Many languages whipped through her smut-addled mind. Quenya. Entish. Black Speech. She settled on something nearest to her older name, a stark reminder of her glorious past and shameful future.


Dark wood. Dead wood. It matched her soiled body and toxic stench. The stench of rot. Decay.

"Nurnan," Zog commanded. "Stop being a lazy whore and get off your ass."

Whining, she lifted herself on trembling arms. The very act jiggled her sweaty boobs. Her legs wobbled. Cum dribbled down her aching thighs. She rubbed her chafed nipples, not to comfort them, but because a part of her knew Zog would love to see her wince at the pain. "What do you wish of me?"

"The task is simple. March on Minas Morgul. Spread your foul flowers. Tell all you see about my control over you, your hard fucking by Tar Goroth, and how they can enjoy spoiling your lands if they follow me."

She obeyed. Stomping, she headed toward the valley of Morgul Vale.

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