A/N: I don't often feel compelled to open a chapter with a warning, but here it is: major, shuddering, blecchy squick ahead. This may even constitute a trigger-type of scene. You have been warned.
Mauhûr stared at the breeder on his assigned table, unsure how to proceed. Only four days had passed since he'd received Golmud's instructions, and as luck would have it, he was fetched by the vile Pitmaster to his least favorite duty. Except today, he had a purpose of his own.
He'd never really looked at the breeders before; they were simply receptacles for his seed, interchangeable and uninteresting. Sometimes one would whimper or cringe from him, but mostly they lay quiet. Attempts at escape, or to hinder the proceedings in any way, earned them a clout from the Pitmaster or one of his lackeys, so they barely moved, and rarely made a sound. Mauhûr preferred it that way; it was less distracting.
The tables were shaped in such a way that the breeders' legs were spread conveniently wide. The leather restraints were at the shoulders, waist, wrists, thighs, knees, and ankles. Movement was restricted to barely an inch in any direction; only the new ones troubled themselves to try for more.
Today his selected breeder – no different from any others he'd bred with over the years – gave him pause only because now he'd been informed that a female's pleasure existed. He now knew that the part he had, hitherto, used nearly as a urinal, could be manipulated in a different way, to somehow please a female.
You won't be pleasin' them cunts down in the pit, Golmud had warned him. Best you just ferget 'bout 'at now. Just have yerself a look about, poke it round, get tuh know it.
The old Orc had also winked and advised him to 'have a taste' while he was down there. Mauhûr wasn't sure he was quite ready for that.
Taking a deep breath, the Uruk slowly squatted down, keeping a wary eye on the breeder's parts. He swallowed, and his brow bunched. He moistened his lips, and placed his right hand on the breeder's thigh to steady himself. Then he carefully, slowly extended a finger.
"Whatchou on about down 'ere?"
Startled almost enough to lose his balance, Mauhûr jerked his hand back and shot the Pitmaster a furious, and somewhat guilty, look. He even growled a warning for good measure. The Pitmaster snorted with amusement.
"Jus' playin' like, eh?" he murmured. "Well, 'long as you get yer dick in 'ere at some point, I guess it don' matter whatcha do, eh? You bein' his Lordship and all."
"Leave me be," Mauhûr snarled.
"Shouldn't oughta remind yuh, but you gotta dip yer dick five times today," the Orc told him as he turned away. "So don' wear yerself out fiddlin' about."
Seething, the pizdur turned his attention back to the breeder. He could feel tension where his hand rested. He noted an odd blemish on her thigh, vaguely circular and brown, then he ignored her. Reaching out, he deliberately investigated the bristly hair between her legs.
The breeder sucked in a surprised breath, then went silent. Careful to arch his thumbs so his claws did not scratch, Mauhûr pushed the strange fleshy bits about. They were on either side of the opening he usually just blindly shoved himself into.
Yuh need tuh find 'at button, he recalled Golmud saying. It's up at the top. Pretty well buried in hair, usually. Yuh may have tuh dig fer it.
Mauhûr squinted in the flickering light from the torches along the walls. It seemed odd that the key to a female's pleasure was hidden. Was it of little use other than for pleasure? If so, why hide it? What purpose was there in hiding such a thing? Huffing impatiently, he aimed his questing finger upward, urging another shocked gasp from her.
There it was, or seemed to be. The pizdur stared at the nub, exposed from its wiry-haired shroud and peeking from a hood of flesh.
Nothin' sharper'n a tongue or a dick, Golmud had said. Swallowing again, Mauhûr leaned forward and slowly extended his tongue.
"You been talkin' tuh that sick bastard, Golmud, ain'tcha?" the Pitmaster chortled. Somehow he'd sidled up behind Mauhûr and was leaning over the pizdur's shoulder.
Mauhûr didn't react well when his concentration was broken. He didn't like being interrupted, either. Rising up with righteous fury, Mauhûr rounded on the Pitmaster and punched the smaller Orc in the face, sending him flying into the wall. Quivering with rage, the pizdur curled his lips back and bared his teeth.
"Fuckin'... bastard," the Pitmaster grunted as he struggled to rise. He spat out a tooth and rubbed his aching jaw. "Master'll hear 'bout this. Get on with yer duty, yuh worthless sod." Dragging himself to his feet and leaning against the wall, the old Orc snarled, "I ain't gonna be so nice a second time, understand? Fuck 'at cunt, and finish it. No more muckin' about."
"Go to Master," Mauhûr sneered. "And I will tell him you make my work difficult with your meddling."
A slow grin spread across the Orc's face; Mauhûr found it unnerving. "Yuh think yer so special, eh? Yuh think the sun shines out yer ass, do yuh? If yuh didn't sometimes make a whelp worth keepin', Master'd have yuh butchered tuh feed his snaga. Wouldn't bat an eye. Yuh sure you want me tellin' 'im yer playin' with the ladies when yuh should be about yer duty? Want me tuh tell'im yuh got somethin' tuh hide?"
The pizdur swallowed with difficulty, and his lips closed over his teeth. "I have nothing to hide."
"That so?" The Orc's brow arched and his smile turned sly. "Get on, then. I'll do yuh a favor'n keep this between us. Fer now."
Mauhûr was denied further exploration while the Pitmaster roamed the breeding room, but the next day his luck was better. Another load of whelps was being pulled from the pits and required the Pitmaster's attention.
It wasn't so much the foul Orc's threats that troubled Mauhûr. He was confident that, away from his lackeys, the Pitmaster was easily defeated. The difficulty was that he had several underlings, and they seemed to bleed out of the walls like pus from a festering wound when their leader called for them. The pizdur had learned this the hard way when he was still a pizgal, proud to be selected for breeding. He hadn't thought he should be shuffled along or ordered about like all the others; his arrogance cost him a great deal that day.
While he liked the Pitmaster no better now than he had then, Mauhûr grudgingly respected the Orc's authority. He wondered what leverage Golmud had with the Pitmaster, and if he could somehow use it himself. A question for another day.
Before now, Mauhûr had never known or cared whether he mounted the same female day after day, or if they were each different. Today he noted the same mark on this one's thigh that the previous day's breeder bore. The acknowledgement was only worthy of a moment's pause before the pizdur got down to business. He once more crouched beside the table and peered at her parts. He searched out and uncovered the nub. All the while, the breeder jumped and squirmed to evade his questing fingers, and she made whimpering sounds. Mauhûr paid her no mind, other than to press his thumbs firmly into the meat of her thighs as a silent warning.
He couldn't say he liked the scent of these breeders, now that he was close. But Golmud told him of this as well: Yuh probly won't like the way they smell, down 'ere in the pits. Ain't so clean. Master ain't interested in makin'em fancy fer yuh. Probly won't taste so good, neither. But 'at female 'uh yers... yer mate... Ah, that'll be a scent yuh take with yuh fer all time. Yuh won't ferget it. And the taste... Like a fine wine, it is. Won't be fergettin' that, neither.
Mauhûr hadn't asked where Golmud got a hold of wine for such a comparison; the Orc was as old as the mountains, as withered as a dry heath. Who knew what sort of mischief he got up to in all those years?
The breeder's opening seemed small, pinched. Held closed. An experimental prod with a clawed finger forced a startled cry and another flinch. It was no wonder entry required force, judging by how tightly she squeezed herself shut. Force, in his experience, caused pain, something he wished not to visit upon Fedelm. How, then, must he coax this breeder to open herself, and thus learn how to handle his mate?
His tongue, of course. Settling himself firmly upon one knee and taking a deep breath, Mauhûr approached cautiously. He was dimly aware of the breeder's sobbing; it was a sound heard often enough in the breeding room. One tended to ignore it. Anything louder called the Pitmaster over to restore the calm quiet. He only made note of it now, he supposed, because he was attempting to put a stop to it in a different way. Now inches away, he firmed his resolve and extended his tongue. He touched the tip of his tongue to the nub.
He could barely taste the breeder with so little contact, but held his position and, for once, paid close attention to her reaction. Her thighs under his hands were tense and quivering; she had strained them attempting to thwart his actions. The sounds she was making were quiet, yet seemed to be held behind tightly pressed lips. He suspected she would cry out in protest if punishment for such an offense was not promised.
Ease the tension, he told himself. Sooth the fear. Slowly, he slid his tongue down toward the tightly-clenched opening.
"Stop... he told you not to do that," the breeder whispered urgently, her voice quaking. Mauhûr ignored her words; his focus was her body. She had stopped squirming, and lay still.
The pizdur swirled his tongue about with fascination, curious at the interesting taste of this breeder and her odd responses. She would remain still, then shift slightly away. Extended contact with the nub seemed to freeze her like a frightened animal, while any attention paid her opening caused resistance and an attempt at avoidance. Encouraged by this discovery, he focused on the nub, exposing it and laving it with the tip as well as the broad flat of his tongue.
"No... STOP! He told you not to do that!" the breeder hissed in an urgent undertone, but Mauhûr barely heard her. The amount of tension required to resist him could not be sustained much longer, he reasoned. Something would have to give. About some things, Mauhûr could be determinedly patient.
Eventually, the breeder was worn down. When he found the way open, instinct drove his tongue deep, and he sighed with smug triumph as the breeder wept.
