from the taste—from the sheer wonder of it inside his mouth. He finished his chunk and licked his fingers, staring under his lashes at the rest of Bloodraven’s supper still within the bowl. The ogre picked a few more choice hunks for himself, then sat the bowl down with its few remaining scraps and waved at Yhalen, repeating the word Yhalen assumed meant ‘eat’. He didn’t hesitate this time.
And when he’d finished, Bloodraven caught his arm and pulled him almost into his lap, this time with the intent of tipping up the large wineskin and allowing the strong bitter ogre brew to stream into Yhalen’s mouth. He’d probably have had a hard time handling the great skin himself, but it was embarrassing to be fed from it so. Still, with his back to Bloodraven’s chest and his naked rear pressed against his groin, he supposed wriggling about in indignant struggle ought to be avoided He swallowed more than he’d have chosen for himself and choked and coughed from the bitterness of it. The ogre laughed and pushed him away, sitting both empty bowl and wineskin aside, while he pulled off his boots and ran long, strong fingers up and down the arch of his feet. Bloodraven produced a short, thick pipe and stuffed it with strong smelling dried herbs, then lit it and took a long, slow drag of scented smoke. He lay back finally with his trousers loosened, his feet and chest bare, and one hand behind his black haired head as he rested on the piled mass of his pillows, sucking at the pipe. Lashes fluttered over gold eyes, and the angular face relaxed into lines of contentment. The sounds of other ogres encroached the walls of the tent from outside, loud and raucous with the occasional cry of pain drawn from victims Yhalen preferred not to put faces to, but here it was quiet and calm and still.
Huddled against the far end of the pallet, Yhalen thought Bloodraven might have drowsed off.
Hoped it to be so, for the ogre might well sleep the entire night away and not bother him further. But it was not to be. Without quite opening his eyes, Bloodraven murmured a few soft words.
Yhalen, of course, had no inkling what the ogre said. Perhaps it wasn’t even directed at him.
Perhaps whatever narcotic was in the pipe had plunged Bloodraven into a half waking dream.
But the golden eyes slitted open and the phrase was repeated. One large hand slid to the chain resting on the furs and gently tugged Yhalen towards him. Yhalen reluctantly complied, crossing the distance over the furs on hands and knees until he knelt between the ogre’s legs, trembling with horrified expectation.
Once more the phrase was repeated and Bloodraven’s hand slid down to the loosened opening at
19
his crotch, pulling lazily at the laces until the flaccid length of him slipped free.
“No,” Yhalen said softly, understanding, finally, what the ogre wished and refusing to willingly participate in his ravishment.
Bloodraven’s hand tightened on the chain, forcing Yhalen’s head down until his face was close enough to the ogre’s crotch to feel the heat emanating from the organ there.
“I won’t,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Rape me if you will—I can’t stop you—but I won’t cooperate in it, monster.”
He crouched there, face pressed to Bloodraven’s lower belly, hands braced on Bloodraven’s hard thighs and thought, that if the ogre really wished, he could be forced in this as well as the other. The hand moved to his hair, fingers tightening around his neck, applying pressure. If the ogre snapped his neck, he thought dismally, at least it might be the last indignity he suffered at their hands.
But after a moment of painful tightness, he was jerked backwards, flung to the end of the pallet as the ogre rose, fastening the laces of his leather trousers, then pulling on his boots. Bloodraven grabbed the chain again, this time at the far end and with a jerk of his arm, yanked the spike out of the earth.
He wound the loose end around his fist
And when he’d finished, Bloodraven caught his arm and pulled him almost into his lap, this time with the intent of tipping up the large wineskin and allowing the strong bitter ogre brew to stream into Yhalen’s mouth. He’d probably have had a hard time handling the great skin himself, but it was embarrassing to be fed from it so. Still, with his back to Bloodraven’s chest and his naked rear pressed against his groin, he supposed wriggling about in indignant struggle ought to be avoided He swallowed more than he’d have chosen for himself and choked and coughed from the bitterness of it. The ogre laughed and pushed him away, sitting both empty bowl and wineskin aside, while he pulled off his boots and ran long, strong fingers up and down the arch of his feet. Bloodraven produced a short, thick pipe and stuffed it with strong smelling dried herbs, then lit it and took a long, slow drag of scented smoke. He lay back finally with his trousers loosened, his feet and chest bare, and one hand behind his black haired head as he rested on the piled mass of his pillows, sucking at the pipe. Lashes fluttered over gold eyes, and the angular face relaxed into lines of contentment. The sounds of other ogres encroached the walls of the tent from outside, loud and raucous with the occasional cry of pain drawn from victims Yhalen preferred not to put faces to, but here it was quiet and calm and still.
Huddled against the far end of the pallet, Yhalen thought Bloodraven might have drowsed off.
Hoped it to be so, for the ogre might well sleep the entire night away and not bother him further. But it was not to be. Without quite opening his eyes, Bloodraven murmured a few soft words.
Yhalen, of course, had no inkling what the ogre said. Perhaps it wasn’t even directed at him.
Perhaps whatever narcotic was in the pipe had plunged Bloodraven into a half waking dream.
But the golden eyes slitted open and the phrase was repeated. One large hand slid to the chain resting on the furs and gently tugged Yhalen towards him. Yhalen reluctantly complied, crossing the distance over the furs on hands and knees until he knelt between the ogre’s legs, trembling with horrified expectation.
Once more the phrase was repeated and Bloodraven’s hand slid down to the loosened opening at
19
his crotch, pulling lazily at the laces until the flaccid length of him slipped free.
“No,” Yhalen said softly, understanding, finally, what the ogre wished and refusing to willingly participate in his ravishment.
Bloodraven’s hand tightened on the chain, forcing Yhalen’s head down until his face was close enough to the ogre’s crotch to feel the heat emanating from the organ there.
“I won’t,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Rape me if you will—I can’t stop you—but I won’t cooperate in it, monster.”
He crouched there, face pressed to Bloodraven’s lower belly, hands braced on Bloodraven’s hard thighs and thought, that if the ogre really wished, he could be forced in this as well as the other. The hand moved to his hair, fingers tightening around his neck, applying pressure. If the ogre snapped his neck, he thought dismally, at least it might be the last indignity he suffered at their hands.
But after a moment of painful tightness, he was jerked backwards, flung to the end of the pallet as the ogre rose, fastening the laces of his leather trousers, then pulling on his boots. Bloodraven grabbed the chain again, this time at the far end and with a jerk of his arm, yanked the spike out of the earth.
He wound the loose end around his fist
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