Cnc puppy mutt

My oldest horny fantasies were born as I would lay awake at night, replaying the orc stories in my head. I knew I was supposed to be scared- the other elves seemed to be. I did feel something similar. A strange, warm kind of fear that rushed straight to my tight, unmolested pussy.

The older I got the more I came to realize that nothing lit my fire quite like imagining myself in the clutches of a cruel, sadistic, overpowering orc. I kept these shameful, even traitorous fantasies to myself of course. I wondered if my elvish body really was designed to be subjugated. “Low.” Beneath them. My body did respond heavily to the idea. This sickened and excited me, especially as I grew older and occasionally glimpsed real orcs on patrol and in brief border skirmishes. They were everything I’d imagined and more: several times my size, built for superior brute strength, and seemingly all of them- of every gender- were very well endowed. Their fashion proudly emphasized this, actually.

I didn’t know it then, but you were the first orc I ever fought hand-to-hand. I was thrilled by how powerful your swing was, easily 50 times what I was capable of. I was very lucky that my kind greatly outnumbered yours that day, and your group retreated, due to no merit of my own, really. You could’ve butchered me easily. But I remembered your eyes. They seemed to burn into me and through me, all the way down to my engorged tdick. You looked at me like you knew something I didn’t. Like you could read my filthy thoughts. You also carelessly left your axe behind, and I snatched it up and hid it before it could be destroyed by my superiors. I hated that they always burned orcish weapons without ever bothering to study them.

Well, the real reason I kept that girthy orcish axe from our fight was not just to behold a prize from a victorious battle, but to use as a dildo. It was far more bulky and aggressively phallic than any delicate little elvish weaponry I had. Something about its shape was irresistible to me, even hypnotic. I buried the sharp end into a log and mounted the handle any time I could get a private moment, imagining it was your orcish rapecock instead. The fantasy was so unbelievably vivid whenever I destroyed my pussy with the handle. I came harder from that than any sex I’d had before.

How was I supposed to know that orcs can form a magic bond with their weapons, one that serves as a psychic link to everything their weapon touches? I didn’t even know orcs HAD magic. My teachers had told me they weren’t sophisticated enough for it.

So when I snuck out to the woods for the thousandth time, I didn’t suspect a thing.

Your war battalion had been conquesting for some time, so you just hadn’t had the opportunity to penetrate my territory since I’d last seen you. All along your travels, you’d been amused and pleasured by my masturbating. I had no idea that my “vivid fantasies” were a two-way psychic current. The same magic that helped you tap into an arcane flow of battle energy, also meant that you savored every slash of your battle axe on a deep, physical level. So naturally, you could also feel me like a ghostly fleshlight this entire time. You had been pressing into my surprisingly pliant mind to corrupt me further every time I willingly railed myself with your axe.

Of course, you had left your axe for me on purpose all along. You’re experienced in luring stupid little low elves like me. You had caught a whiff of my hunger for subjugation the first time your magic axe dented my breastplate. You enjoyed the taste of fear, hatred, and pathetic lust that radiated from me. You knew I’d take your axe in more ways than one. And now it was time to collect.

Your posse waited until I was climaxing loudly to step out from the shadows, chuckling and clapping. I froze. My delicate, boyish body was completely vulnerable and spread open. I blushed. I felt so ridiculously, stereotypically emasculated. My clothes, armor, and dagger lay too far to reach. When I met your eyes, a shock of recognition and humiliation reverberated through me. It was you who’d been in my head for months, degrading me, violating me, subjugating me. And I thought I had enjoyed those dark fantasies privately…. how foolishly I thought I’d been in control!

“It’s time to return my property, elf-whore.”

I attempted to quickly slide off the axe handle, but you snapped your fingers. My boycunt obediently gripped the handle so hard that I couldn’t move. I gasped. I tried yanking the handle, but it was too slick with my own cum for me to get any purchase. You were pouring overwhelming fantasies and visions of my many obscene axe-poundings into my head, which over-rid my instincts screaming for me to run. You lumbered closer. I tried to yell at you to stay away from me, but with your axe still hilted inside me, it came out more as a stuttering whine. I could see the glint of your tusks as you smirked. My pussy clenched.

You were worse than the scary stories of yore, because they’d been incorrect. They’d assumed I could resist you and rise above your degrading idea of my species. The moment you manhandled me off your axe handle and sank my tight elf pussy onto your massive bitchbreaker, I screamed and sobbed and cursed in elvish. But I also felt my holes gape and spasm obediently for you. I couldn’t believe my cunt could be forced to fit you. My body sang with dread, pain, and pleasure.

Orc society HAD been right all along: cuntelves like me were made to be bred by powerful orcs. It didn’t matter if I cried, or thrashed, or tried to escape your cock, because my cunt was indisputably and uncontrollably enjoying this more than anything before it. My tdick and cunt had never felt so full and good, and I was overwhelmed by the need to fulfill my lifelong fantasy of being a rapesleeve, like some kind of perverted destiny. I knew then that I was created for this via centuries of orc-controlled husbandry of my species and advanced magic, shaped inside and out for their maximum pleasure. I was bred to be too small, fitting uncomfortably tight around you, and so easy to overpower. I was bred to have so many nerve endings in my holes that I was forced to enjoy this. Of course I was bred to gush with more cum than any puny elf “cock” would ever need for lube, because I was actually meant to slick up dozens of orc cocks. I really had always known my place deep down, and now I was forced to face my humiliating biology.

“Take it, low elf. You belong to me. Take it,” you smirked while mercilessly bruising my cervix.

I came so hard I nearly blacked out.

But you were only getting started. You held me suspended by the hips and stroked me on to you, like a toy. Meanwhile, your comrades took turns gripping me by the hair and nearly suffocating me with their cocks as they facefucked me. My spying had proved accurate- even orc women have huge cocks, just like hyenas, and everyone enjoyed using me. I whimpered and clenched my pulsing boycunt. My struggling only got them off more. My feet didn’t touch the ground for hours as they passed me around, brutalizing every hole with countless thick, hot loads. I was so lost in my own pleasure, forced to cum over and over just from the fullness, that I didn’t notice the tears that had been streaming down my cheeks. But you did, and I felt your rapecock harden yet again inside me.

“Fuck,” I heard you moan, “God, your pussy feels so good to finally claim. Give in, elf. I can feel your simple brain clinging to your personhood. You were made for this. Your little slave holes are for orc cock to fill. Feel how I fit in you? Hmm? Feel me inside you?” You changed up the angle of your thrusting into my poor abused cunt, and I began to moan like a tawdry bitch.

“AH-AH-AH-AHHH!”

The orcs laughed at me and became excited by this, thrusting into me more violently than ever. And all I could do was moan and pant myself hoarse. My body writhed with unbearable pleasure, refusing to let me forget that I was enjoying this for even one second.

I didn’t notice the heavy collar when it was locked in place, I was already being violated in too many unspeakable ways all at once to properly register my new enslavement. I realized I had been collared only after the gangrape, when you yanked me forward by my leash so hard I fell to my hands and knees. Everyone laughed. I was too weak to stand, so you simply dragged my broken body back to your camp by my collar.

This would become your favorite pastime. You love to yank me around, exposed, dripping orc-seed, and at the complete mercy of my chain, through countless public demonstrations. I try to imagine that my tribe hasn’t figured out what happened to me yet. I hope so. I’d rather they didn’t know.

Sometimes you still slide your axe handle into my holes too, when you feel my pathetic elf cunt has been stretched too much and needs to feel tighter for you. But you don’t strictly require it in order to push into my mind anymore, since the link is firmly established. I even technically asked for it. Breaking in a fully unwilling slave would’ve been much harder, and you love to remind me of this when I’m bratting out.

Of course, orcs love a fight more than anything, so I become a favorite in your camp. They feed off my defiance and embarrassment. I can’t let go of my shame because of how loudly my body enjoys my use, so I remain a bigger brat than the other slaves. That’s ok. They just savor breaking me over and over. No matter what I do, I was designed to enhance your pleasure.