Minas Tirith, early Fourth Age
Looking at Arwen with half hooded eyes Aragorn trailed her slightly pointed ear with his finger. This brought back memories of other pointy eared women he had pleasured and brought to scream his name in ecstasy.
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Western Gondor, several decades before the end of the Third Age ...
Aragorn, taking a shortcut between the Mark and Western Gondor, had spied a group of about half a dozen orcs in the upper Lefnui River valley between the Pinnath Gelin and White Mountains proper. With his tracking skill ambushing them was child's play. With his sword wielding skill butchering them was again trivial. But no fencing skill could save him from a fist sized rock thrown at his head.
The Hope of Free People's came to in a firelight den. A bucket of cold water had been sloshed at his face to revive him. He was bound. And surrounded by a dozen or so small orcs. No! These were orcesses!
A white haired with age, wrinkled orcess seated herself on his chest.
"So, the great tark is back wiff us ... you one of 'em "deff before dis'onour" blokes or iz ya open to a deal?"
"Kill me. I'll never serve orcs agaisnt the Race of Men!"
Surprisingly, this produced a grin on the orcess' face.
"Good! So yous of dem 'onrable gits."
She began thumping him in the chest with her finger, tipped with a claw-like nail.
"We don' wanna you to go raidin', 'specially as you just offed all our raiders. Der's summink else you can 'elp us wiff."
The crone's weathered mien took upon a more serious expression.
"We've been having bad luck an' our blokes got and offed demselves left an' right. Ye killed de last ones. So we iz only bints and sprogs 'ere."
Indeed Aragorn could only see only females about him – their crass and shameless bare-chestness clearly identified them as female. And there were some orclings peering at him from behind their scandalously short skirts. After registering the presence of sprogs his eyes immediately went back to the not unsubstantial swathes of undraped orcflesh.
The spokeswoman thumped him on the chest to catch his wandering attention.
"Ye can gape at dem tits later. If ye choose to live, dat iz. Ye hunt for us and give us sprogs for ten years and we letta ye go, once dem lad brats are grown summat, or you go into the pot. What da ya choose?"
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Minas Tirith, early Fourth Age, a minute later
Aroused by his memories, Aragorn slid his hand down to Arwen's collarbone, caressed it for a moment, and began to drag the nightgown off her alabaster skinned shoulder.
"Sorry my love", the Evenstar said with her unconsciously sultry lisp, "I've got a headache".
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The White Mountains, early Fourth Age, simultaneously to the above:
Two old orcesses watch sprogs at play. Seeing her lanky grandson forget to duck his head in a low passage again, one asks.
"Oi, Grabazz, you ever miss old Pinky, that big tark fellow we useta have around here?"
"Nar, not really. 'E made some fine tall sprogs, but 'e were shit in the sack."
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AN:
What the orc lasses actually screamed in Orcish were variations of the below:
"Come, Pinky, come, you clumsy fuck! I'm fucking sore already!"