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I would like to request a dark story. fem reader gets kidnapped by an orc chieftain and his warriors are in charge of making sure his new bride is nice and wet for his fat cock.

The Clan Needs Your Warm Holes (orc chieftain and clan x fem reader)

You are captured by an orc chieftain and his war band. His warriors are tasked with preparing every inch of your body for his massive cock...

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, kidnapping, non-con, forced arousal, group sex, oral penetration (fingers), nipple suckling, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, double penetration, triple penetration, gangbang, forced orgasm, size kink, humiliation, dub con, implied stockholm syndrome acceptance at the end, fluids, dirty talk.

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The furs beneath your back reek of musk and smoke.

The sack rips from your head and torchlight sears your vision.

Mud, leather, and male musk bodies fills your nostrils. You're on your knees, wrists bound behind you, surrounded by a circle of massive green-skinned figures whose tusks gleam yellow in the firelight. Orcs.

The chieftain sits on a throne of stacked skulls. He's broader than the others, his chest scarred and broad, one tusk chipped in battle. His eyes crawl over you, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"You're the tribute," he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates in your ribs. "The village finally sent someone pretty."

"I'm not—" Your protest dies when he lifts one finger.

"I am Grothak. You will call me Chieftain. You will call none of my warriors by name because you don't deserve to know them yet. Right now, you're just a hole that needs stretching."

Three orcs grab you before you can scramble backward. Thick fingers close around your arms, your thighs, your waist. The binds around your wrists get sliced through with a blade, but freedom lasts half a heartbeat before they pin you flat on the fur-covered platform.

"Hold her still," Grothak commands. "Prepare her thoroughly. I want her weeping around my cock before sunrise."

You buck. "Don't—"

A thick finger presses against your lips. "Hush. You'll thank us when he splits you open."

You thrash. Your heel connects with something solid—an orc's knee—and he grunts but doesn't budge. They manipulate you to lie on your back. Another orc straddles your calves, his weight crushing your legs flat.

"Stop! Don't—"

Hands rip your linen dress from collar to hem. The fabric tears. Cool air hits your breasts, your belly, the thatch of hair between your thighs. You try to curl inward but they force your arms above your head, pinning your wrists in a double-fisted grip.

"So small," one orc remarks. He runs a calloused thumb down your sternum. "Look how her nipples are already pebbling."

"I'm cold," you spit.

The orc who spoke—the one with a jagged scar across his throat—laughs. "Cold, oh, we'll warm you up, little rabbit."

Then there are hands everywhere.

One orc cups your left breast, his palm so wide it covers the whole mound. He kneads roughly, squeezing until you gasp, then releases and watches the flesh swell back. Another orc takes your right breast between both hands and compresses, pushes the tissue together until your nipples touch.

"Soft," he grunts. "Human females are so fucking soft."

"Her areolas are so cute," observes a third, leaning over your shoulder. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "Tiny. Like little coins."

They don't stop talking. They don't stop touching.

A mouth closes over your left nipple. Not gentle, a hard sucking pull that draws the bud deep between green lips. You feel the rasp of his tongue, the scrape of a tusk against the underside of your breast. Your back arches involuntarily.

"No—"

Another mouth finds your right nipple. This orc has a wider tongue, and he licks broad strokes across the sensitive peak while the first one sucks. They establish a rhythm: pull, release, swirl, bite. Not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk. The orc pinning your legs shoves them apart, kneeling between your thighs to keep you spread.

"Look at this," he says, and you feel one thick finger drag through your slit. "Dry as old leather. We've got work to do."

"Kiss her neck," Scar-Throat commands. "She's a woman. They like that."

An orc you hadn't noticed—younger, his tusks barely erupted—drops his head to the curve of your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft. He mouths at your pulse point, teeth grazing, tongue tracing the tendon down to your collarbone. You hate the shiver that races down your spine.

"She's trembling," he murmurs against your skin.

"Keep going," Scar-Throat says. "Open her legs wider."

The orc between your thighs hooks his elbows behind your knees and pushes. Your knees bend toward your shoulders, exposing everything. The torchlight is on you. You feel seen in ways that make your face burn.

"Such a pretty little cunt," he says. "Look at these lips. Plump. She's going to grip the Chieftain like a fist."

"Stop describing—ah!"

Two fingers part your outer labia. Cool air hits the slick inner flesh that you know is starting to glisten despite your horror. Your body is betraying you. The mouths on your breasts, the lips on your neck, the rough handling—it's all firing wires you didn't know existed.

"Getting wet," the orc observes. He drags one finger from your entrance up to your clit, just barely grazing the hooded nub. "There she is."

"Don't—that's not—gnnn!"

Another finger joins the first, and they spread you open like a flower. You feel exposed to the bone. The orc lowers his head, and for one terrible moment you think he's going to put his mouth there, but instead he spits.

A thick glob of saliva lands directly on your clit.

You jerk. "What the—"

"Wet is wet," he says, and rubs the saliva into your flesh with the flat of his thumb. The friction sends sparks up your spine. Your hips try to close but you can't.

"She's clenching," announces the orc at your breasts. He's switched from sucking to licking, broad stripes that catch your nipple and drag it toward his tusk. "Every time I do this, her whole body twitches."

"Mine too," says Neck-Kisser. He's moved to your ear now, nibbling the lobe. "Her breath keeps catching."

"Fingers," Scar-Throat orders. "Let's see how tight she is."

The orc between your thighs—you're starting to think of him as The Breaker—slides one thick finger inside you. You clamp down instinctively. Your walls try to push him out, but he's too big, too unyielding. The knuckle stretches your entrance.

"Tight," he confirms. He pushes deeper, curls the finger slightly, and you feel the pad of it press against your front wall. "There's the sweet spot."

"No, don't—" Your protest strangles into a moan when he presses harder.

"That's it. That's the sound." He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your eyes water. "Two already feels like four in a human. Chieftain's cock is thicker than my wrist."

"He'll split her," someone says with satisfaction.

"Good."

The Breaker's fingers pump slowly. Each thrust pushes a wet sound from your cunt—a sticky, obscene noise that echoes in the quiet of the circle. The other orcs have gone still, watching, listening.

"Her ass," Scar-Throat says. "Don't neglect her ass."

"No—I haven't—I've never—"

A new pair of hands. These ones are oiled and a slick finger circles your anus. You tense every muscle in your body.

"Relax," says the orc behind you. You can't see his face, only feel the warm oil and the pressure. "Fighting makes it hurt more."

"I don't want—"

His fingertip breaches you. Just the tip, just past the tight ring of muscle, and you whine. Not from pain exactly—though there is pain—a sweet unexpected ache. An ache from the sense of being opened in a place you'd never allowed anyone to touch. Your whole body locks up.

"She's crying," Neck-Kisser observes. He's pulled back to watch your face. Tears streak down your temples into your hair.

"She's supposed to cry," Grothak says from his throne. His voice hasn't changed pitch. He watches like a man examining livestock. "Keep going."

The finger in your ass pushes deeper. The two fingers in your cunt resume their rhythm. The mouths return to your nipples—sucking, biting, laving. The hands on your breasts squeeze and release, squeeze and release, plumping the flesh until your areolas look swollen, darker.

"She's wet enough now," The Breaker announces. He pulls his fingers from your cunt and holds them up. They glisten in the torchlight, strings of your arousal stretching between them. "Look at this. Dripping."

"Taste her," Scar-Throat commands.

The Breaker puts his fingers in his own mouth, sucks them clean with noisy relish. "Sweet. Little bit sharp. Human women always taste like copper and honey."

"Let me." An orc you haven't seen before pushes forward. He's broader than the others, with a flat, smashed nose. He doesn't ask, just lowers his head between your spread thighs and drags his tongue from your perineum to your clit.

You buck. Your hands strain against the grip holding them. "Oh—fuck—"

He laughs against your flesh, then he does it again, slower, flattening his tongue to lap at your inner lips. He dips into your entrance, gathers a mouthful of your wetness, and pulls back to show the others.

"Look. She's making soup."

The orcs around you chuckle. You want to die. You want to crawl out of your own skin. But your hips are tilting upward, seeking more of that tongue, and you hate yourself for it.

"She likes it," Neck-Kisser says. He's returned to your throat, kissing and sucking. You'll have bruises tomorrow, purple badges of our attention. "Her pulse is racing."

"No, don't want—"

"Fingers in her mouth," Scar-Throat orders. "She's still arguing too much."

You open your mouth to scream but thick fingers shove between your lips before you can form the words. Two of them. Calloused. Tasting of leather and smoke. They press down on your tongue, and you gag.

"Suck," the orc commands. His hand is attached to a thick arm, which is attached to a chest with a tattoo of a wolf skull. "Get them wet. We're going to use every hole."

You try to bite down. He pinches your nose closed with his other hand.

"Suck or breathe. Your choice."

You suck. Saliva floods your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his knuckles against your will, coating them in slickness. He withdraws them slowly, strings of spit connecting his fingers to your lower lip.

"Good little bride," he says, and smears your saliva across your cheek.

"Turn her over," Scar-Throat commands. "Let's see her from behind."

Hands roll you onto your stomach. Your breasts press into the fur, nipples dragging against coarse hair. Someone grabs your hips and lifts them, forcing you onto your hands and knees. Your cheek is pressed sideways into the pelt.

"Spread her."

Knees kick your feet wider. Your thighs separate. You feel exposed from behind—the cool air on your wet cunt, on the oil-slicked entrance to your ass.

"Much better." The Breaker has moved behind you. You feel his thumbs part your outer lips, exposing the darker color of your inner flesh. "Look at this view. Everything glistening."

"Fuck her with something bigger than fingers," someone suggests.

"Get the handled club."

"No—" You try to crawl forward. An orc grabs your hair, fisting it at the roots, and thrusts his fingers in your mouth.

"Good. We said prepare her," Scar-Throat reminds you. "Not comfort her."

The handled club turns out to be exactly that—a wooden shaft, smoothed and polished, with a rounded bulb at one end. It's smaller than a cock but larger than fingers. The orc who holds it—The Breaker again—lathers the bulb in oil.

"This will stretch your cunt open," he says, pressing the cool wood against your entrance. "Get you ready for what's coming."

He pushes.

The bulb spreads your inner lips wide. You feel the stretch in your perineum, in the ring of muscle that guards your core. The wood is nothing like flesh, and every ridge and grain scrapes your sensitive walls.

"More," Scar-Throat says.

The Breaker shoves the bulb deeper. You gag around the fingers in your mouth as your cunt clenches around the intrusion, trying to expel it, but the shape locks it in place. He twists the handle, and you feel your insides rotate around the shaft.

"Now her ass," someone says.

"Ngnnn—" you cry mutely even with your finger stuffed mouth. "Ghphhh!! Can't—Ghprrrphh!"

Another bulb. Smaller this time, but still too large. Oiled. Probing your ass. The orc behind you—a different one, with sharper tusks—doesn't wait for your permission. He pushes the bulb past the tight ring, and you scream around the fingers, then suckle them hard.

The sensation is too much. Too full. Too stretched. You have fingers in your mouth, and something in your cunt and something in your ass and they're all moving, twisting, pumping in opposite rhythms. Your whole lower body feels packed, stuffed, invaded.

"That's it," Scar-Throat says. He's stroking your hair now, almost tender. "Take it. Take all of it. The Chieftain wants you gaping."

The fingers leave your mouth, and another set joines them. You manage to grumble, "Can't—too much—grpphhh!"

"You can. You will. Keep sucking." Scar-Throat grips your jaw, turns your face toward Grothak's throne. "Look at him. He's been watching this whole time. Be a good girl for him."

The chieftain hasn't moved. His massive arms are crossed over his chest, and his cock—you see it now, jutting from between his thighs—is enormous. Thicker than your thigh. Long enough to bruise your cervix. The head is dark purple, almost black, and beads of fluid glisten at the slit.

"That's going inside you," Scar-Throat says. "Every inch. And you're going to thank him for it."

"She's not ready," The Breaker announces, pulling the club from your cunt with a wet pop. "Still too tight. She needs more preparation."

"Then give her more."

What follows has no shape, no sequence, only sensation.

Orcs take turns on your body.

One kneels in front of your face and feeds you his cock while you choke and drool around it. Another fucks your cunt with his fingers while a third tongues your ass, his rough tongue lapping at the oiled rim. Someone bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then sucks the bruise.

You lose track of who is where. Three hands on your breasts at once—one pinching your left nipple, one tugging your right, one kneading the underside of your left breast where the skin is thin. Hands plump your tits together, squeezing until the flesh bulges between green fingers.

"The nipples are darker now," observes an orc. "From all the sucking."

"Her areolas spread," agrees another. "Look how wide they are."

You glance down at your own chest and barely recognize it. Your breasts are flushed, the nipples swollen to twice their normal size, the areolas crinkled and damp. Every breath makes them ache.

"Rub her here, too," someone says, and you feel fingers close around your clit. Circling. Pulling the hood back until the exposed nub is raw against the air. You sob.

"Stop—ghhphhh!! I'll come—"

"Good. That's the point."

You come with a scream that tears your throat. Your whole body convulses—back arching, hips bucking, thighs clamping around the head between your legs. The orc doesn't stop teasing your clit through the spasms, drawing out the peak until you're weeping from overstimulation.

"One," Scar-Throat counts. "She needs three before the Chieftain."

"Can't—"

"You can."

They build you up again. An orc fucks your cunt with his tongue, dipping into your entrance, swirling, then dragging up to your clit. Another orc slides two fingers into your ass and crooks them, searching until he finds the thin wall between your channels. You feel his fingertips press against the tongue in your cunt through the membrane.

"That's it," he growls. "Feel that?"

The second orgasm rips through you while you're still trembling from the first. This one is sharper but your body doesn't care. It keeps going. Your cunt gushes around the tongue inside it, and you hear someone laugh.

"She's leaking," The Breaker says. "Like a cracked waterskin."

"One more," Scar-Throat insists. "Then the Chieftain."

"No—I have nothing left—"

They prove you wrong. An orc with a clever tongue licks slow circles around your clit while another pinches both your nipples, rolling the sensitive buds between thumb and forefinger. A third kisses you—actually kisses your mouth, tongue pushing past your lips, tasting you. The intimacy of it breaks something inside you.

You come for the third time silently. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Your vision whites out. When you come back, you're on your back again, legs spread, and Grothak is standing over you.

"Good work," he says to his warriors. "She's ready."

He is naked now and his cock... it's even larger up close. Twice thicker than the wooden club. The head alone looks bigger than your fist. Veins rope along the shaft and his balls hang heavy beneath, tight with need.

"Please," you whisper. You don't know if you're begging him to stop or to start.

Grothak, the chieftain kneels between your thighs. He doesn't bother with foreplay, his warriors have prepared you thoroughly so he just spits on his palm, slicks his cock, and lines the head up with your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands.

You look.

He pushes.

The head stretches your cunt wider than anything that's been inside you. Wider than orc fingers, wider than the club. You feel your inner lips flatten against the sides of his shaft, feel your perineum strain. The burning is intense, a fire that makes you claw at the furs beneath you.

"Breathe," he says, and you realize you've been holding your breath.

You exhale in a shuddering gasp. He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another. Your walls try to clamp down but there's no room—he's already filled every space, stretched every muscle.

"Halfway," he grunts. Sweat beads on his brow. "Tightest cunt I've ever had."

"I can't— too big—"

"You can. You will." He pulls back slightly, then shoves forward. The head of his cock punches past your cervix, and you scream.

The pain is white-hot. But underneath it, buried beneath the stretch and the burn, something else flickers. A fullness that borders on pleasure. A sense of being completely, utterly filled.

"There," Grothak says. "Pushing against your womb."

He begins to move. Slow thrusts at first, each one dragging his ridges against your raw inner walls. Then faster. Harder. The furs beneath you bunch and slide as he pounds into you, his balls slapping against your ass with each stroke.

"You're taking it," he growls. "Look at you. Dripping down my shaft. Soaking my balls."

You are. You can feel your own wetness coating his cock, making each thrust easier, slicker. Your hips have started moving, matching his rhythm, tilting up to meet him.

"Please," you moan, and this time you know what you're begging for.

"Please what?"

"More—harder—I don't care—just don't stop—"

He laughs, and it's the first time you've heard him laugh. It's not cruel. It's triumphant.

"Warriors," he calls. "Come join your chieftain as he claims his bride."

They don't wait. They descend like wolves.

Grothak lies back and keeps pounding your pussy while one orc kneels beside your head and feeds you his cock. You open your mouth without being told, suck without being commanded. Your tongue swirls around his shaft, traces the vein along the underside, laps at the slit.

Two orcs position themselves behind you and spread your asscheeks. They rub around where you pussy is spread wide by their boss then rub your pucker. You whimper around a mouthfool of cock when one pushes into your ass—you feel the stretch, the burn, but it's nothing compared to the cunt-stretch of the chieftain.

The other orc—where does he go? There's no room—

"Spread her cheeks wider," Scar-Throat orders.

Grothak pumps to the hilts and spreads your ass wide apart and the orc behind you slides into your ass alongside the other. Two cocks in one hole. You feel impossibly full—split open—stuffed beyond reason.

"Fuck," Grothak groans and keeps fucking your pussy. "She's magic."

The orcs in your ass begin to move, too, pumping in opposite rhythm. The orc in your mouth thrusts to the back of your throat. You're being fucked from every direction, every hole filled, every inch of your body claimed.

"Look at her taking her clan," Grothak says with satisfaction. "Not many humans can take that."

"She's not human anymore," Scar-Throat replies. "She's orc-bride now."

The orgasm that builds is different from the earlier ones. It doesn't crest, it drowns. You feel it rise from your core, spread through your belly, flood your limbs. When it breaks, you're screaming around the cock in your mouth, your whole body convulsing, your cunt and ass clamping down so hard the orcs groan.

"She's coming," Grothak says. "Again. Give her more."

They don't stop. They switch positions, swap holes, take turns. You lose count of how many cocks have been inside you. You're passed from orc to orc, each one fucking you until they spill, then the next one taking their place.

You are now on your side, Grothak stretching your throat with deep slides. You open for him, greedy now, desperate. Your lips stretch around his shaft, your tongue laves at the head.

An orc is spooning you from behind, fucking your ass and when he spurts his cum and pulls out, someone else slides in immediately—thicker this time, longer. The orc in your cunt fucks you so hard your vision blurs. Someone's fingers pinch your clit, another set on your nipples, rolling the swollen nub suntil you scream.

You're a thing of holes and need, a vessel for orc seed, a bride being broken open and remade.

At last, hours later, Grothak takes you again, but this time he's alone. The warriors have pulled back, all of them spent and satisfied, their seed dripping down your thighs, your chin, your chest. Your whole body is covered in it—sticky, hot, reeking of musk.

The chieftain lays you on your back, spreads your legs, and slides home in one thrust. You're too gaping to feel the stretch anymore. Your cunt has softened, loosened, shaped itself to orc cocks. His slides in easily, his ridges scraping against walls that have learned to accept.

"Look at you," he says, fucking you slow and deep. "Crying. Drooling. Covered in my warriors' seed. And you're still trying to fuck back on my cock."

You are. Your hips are rolling, meeting his thrusts, pulling him deeper. Your inner muscles clench around him, milking, begging.

"Please," you sob. "Please come in me. Please fill me up. I need it—I need your seed—"

He growls and picks up speed. "Take it," he snarls. "Take every drop."

His orgasm is explosive. He roars and you feel his cock pulse inside you, flooding your cunt with loads of cum. It fills you, overflows you, drips down your ass to mix with the other orcs' spend. He stays inside you, seed pumping.

When he finally pulls out, you're empty. Hollow. Your cunt gapes open, dripping orc seed, trickling down your thighs. Grothak cups your face in one massive hand. His thumb wipes tears from your cheek.

"You'll do," he says as you fall into exhausted sleep.

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