The Great Conquest · Part 1

The Great Conquest · Part 1 (1/4)
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PART ONE

~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ Some consider it a travesty, of course. The fate of the human races pinned in stasis, demons and demiurges sat at a pinnacle never intended for their ilk, that sort of thing. True as far as it goes, but not my concern. In fact, I think there's a beauty in it. The closest to a closed causality the Center of Everything and its hundreds of Attendant Universes has ever known, the center raised above the edges, terrifying cliffs only scalable by those who can adapt to the new reality, order imposed on every world, for ever… beauty in stasis, that's more in line with my thinking. It's worked out for me personally, at least in comparison with the previous thousand years of my existence. For all the irreplaceable cultural treasures lost to pillage, some things deserved to be overturned.

And anyway, it is what it is. I've got no power other than to record my observations of the Conquest from my cage – if not a gilded one, at least one with thorns less sharp than they might be.

An observation: Oenone Able, a simple albeit winsome farm girl in the backwater of some, if you'll pardon the Earth-icism, Lord of the Rings-ass human kingdom menaced by a neighboring nation of orcs, ogres, and hobgoblins. Status quo: an uneasy peace with the occasional border raid. Then the Great Conquest found its way all the way out to this unimportant orc boondocks. The price of certain local fruits, lumbers, ores and such – and that of winsome farm girls – soared to an all-time high. Other markets were glutted. Nutritious food was readily available and onetime farmers were pushed off their land. Enchanted weapons, primitive trash to those of the Center but the peak of modern spellcraft in Oenone's world, became easy to acquire.

So soon enough, one daring band of raiders, led by the intrepid heroine Gol Ga, crosses into the kingdom by cover of night and pillages the agrarian towns of the land's soft underbelly. One morning, at the Able farm on the outskirts of Tabby Junction, Oenone goes out to feed the pigs and stumbles across a pair of hobgoblins carrying one of them off.

They drop the pig and they're on her in seconds, stuffing a wad of cloth between her teeth that tastes of sweat – it's the hob's spare undershirt. They wrench her arms behind her back and bind them together, with a loop of rope passing around the front of her neck to keep her from moving her arms under her to her front. Then one of them slings her over his shoulder and they bolt back into the hills.

The hobgoblins are strong and stocky, about five feet tall. They have huge manes of wiry black hair and beards, a wide mouth full of sharp teeth, big ears, leathery skin, beady black eyes, and big clawed paws instead of feet. They go shirtless though with some leather straps for carrying javelins on their hairy backs. They manage quite a speed even with their struggling captive.

They move their camp in the hills every few days, inching farther and farther into the kingdom's heartland, so it's all a temporary affair. The party is thirty raiders strong, with a further thirty auxiliaries guarding and working in the camp. The guards cheer when they see what the hobs have brought back.

They march cheerfully to the center of the camp and the hobgoblin shrugs Oenone off to stand before Gol Ga. She's the band's strongest fighter, but remains at the camp anyway to coordinate, evaluate, and appraise. She's on the smaller side for an ogre, but that still puts her at seven feet tall, powerfully built in a wiry way. Her pale skin is shielded from the sun by a straw hat with a wide cone shape and robes of clean white canvas. Though cloth masks her lower face, her cruel eyes are expressive enough. White hair billows from beneath her hat.

She appraises Oenone only briefly, reaching out one bony claw to cradle the girl's trembling face and pull apart her lips for a glance at her teeth. Oenone is fairly attractive, with wavy ash-blonde hair. Her breasts are small but well-formed, and her hips are plenty inviting. At a gesture from Gol Ga, the hobgoblin who brought her here holds the rope around her neck, keeping her in place while the other cuts her rough cloth housedress from her frame, leaving her in only a breechcloth, knee-high stockings, and boots. She finally manages to spit out the hob's undershirt from where it was crammed in her mouth, but only whimpers follow.

Gol Ga names a figure, an estimate of the girl's worth, which her adjutant jots down. She removes a long needle from a brazier that sits outside Gol Ga's tent, allowing it to cool before advancing on Oenone. The hobgoblin behind her holds the rope around her neck, keeping her in place as Gol Ga runs a piercing through the girl's left nipple and hangs a small metal ident tag there. Oenone screams bloody murder, which only prompts Gol Ga to bitch-slap her and shove her to her knees.

"Get her out of my sight," the ogre growls. Nodding fervently, the hobgoblins pull her uphill to the holding pen, one of them dashing back to grab his sodden shirt.

A trio of orcish support staff take her off the hobs' hands and rework her bondage, tightening a leather collar around her neck and attaching her bound arms to that instead of having the rope around her neck. She protests too much and they stick a roll of leather between her teeth, tying a cloth around her head to hold it in. They take her loincloth too, since she doesn't have her hands free to remove it when she has to piss, and then dump her into an eight-foot-deep pit in the dirt with a wicker cage laid across the top.

A half dozen others like her stare at her wide-eyed. They're not gagged, but one of the attendants is always keeping watch. If they try talking to each other he's likely to throw something at them, or piss on them, and the smell in the pit is foul enough without any more orc piss. One girl has red marks across her tits, belly, and thighs – a repeat offender, the attendant pulled her out and took his belt to her.

Each night the raiders return and, though in hostile territory, find time to blow off some steam with their captives. A few filthy sleeping pads set up by the pen, well within the watchful eye of the three attendants, serve as the raiders' brothel. Those women found with an intact hymen, by local custom, are left untouched, as are those on their period.

Oenone isn't one of these, and the pair of hobgoblins returns the first night. They take her gag out and give her food and water, first. Then one of them takes her blonde curls in hand and forces her mouth onto his cock. Inexperienced and in distress, Oenone bites him without exactly meaning to.

The hob roars with anger as his companion, laughing, kicks Oenone in the ribs. She crumples, her arms behind her back and unable to keep her from hitting her temple – luckily on the sleeping pad rather than the packed earth.

The laughing hob pulls down his own trousers and grabs Oenone's collar, yanking her to her feet. He sits on the pad and pulls her onto his lap, facing him. The offended raider, still growling, gets behind her. He straddles the other's legs and wraps his arms around Oenone from behind, one around her belly and one around her neck. She trembles at his ragged breath in her ear.

With the help of some rendered pig fat from their dinner – no one's first choice of lube, but then they are on campaign – their cocks slide into Oenone's pussy and asshole. She's real stiff, so the hob she bit places his teeth on her earlobe. She gasps and freezes at first, but as he gnaws at her she starts to squirm. He and his comrade start thrusting into her. Soon his arm tightens around her neck and he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, just shy of breaking skin. She starts screaming, but his arm gets even tighter and chokes her off. His other hand goes to her clit and the panicked jerking all that draws out of her gets the two hobs off. They take a few minutes to luxuriate before dumping her off them and into the dirt, cum spilling out of her holes.

A gang of orcs, who started watching when the hob jumped up and yelled about his dick getting bitten off, take over. They take it in turns to fuck her one at a time, all five of them. They're mostly businesslike about it, though one of them does force her to make eye contact and tugs on her nipple ring whenever she breaks it.

The orcs dump her back in the pit, covered in cum that clings to her and immediately mixes with dirt. Hair tangled, sobbing, she's a pathetic sight even before the last of the orcs pisses on her through the grate.

As the night gets cold the attendants pull a thick blanket over the grating atop the pit, though they leave a hole to watch through with a lantern hung over it. One of them is always on duty.

Days in the pit are uncomfortable and uneventful except when new captives arrive, but at least Oenone usually only gets fucked once or twice a night after that first time. Every few days the camp gets picked up and loaded onto the draft dogs and they move farther into the kingdom, sticking to the hills. On those days, the girls have their collars linked one to another in a line with sturdy ropes, with the frontmost girl tethered to one of the dogs. Those who don't keep up the pace are encouraged by the riding crops of the attendant staff.

They do usually find some creek or river to wash in on walking days. Once the raiders have washed themselves and the staff have moved on to cleaning all the spare clothes, there are plenty of volunteers to help the girls scrub off the filth they're forced to live in. They can't do it with their hands bound, after all. Oenone has the assistance of the pair of hobs that brought her in, who make sure to wash every inch of her supple skin.

By the time Oenone has been with the raiders for two weeks, the party has been on the kingdom's soil for three and have nearly forty captives. They dig a larger pit to keep the girls in each time they make camp.

One morning on a day they're on the move, one of the hobgoblin scouts runs back to the raiding party to report an advancing army, outnumbering their sixty tenfold. Gol Ga doesn't bat an eyelid; this is the inevitable end to any raid. She gives the order and the whole caravan about-faces. They can easily outrun so large a force of humans.

"But can you do it while dragging us with you…" mutters Oenone, in a rebellious mood, and a few of the women try to dig in their heels and resist. In short order Oenone is dragged out of her position toward the middle of the line by the attendant staff. They tether another draft dog to the head of the line, and a pair of dogs to the girl who was behind Oenone, and then it turns out they can pretty well keep up the pace while dragging the girls behind them if need be.

Protesting Oenone, for her trouble, is lashed across the furry back of one of the dogs pulling the second line of captives, behind the packs and bundles the dog is already carrying. She's laid face down, boots and stockings finally lost and feet roped to her bound forearms in a loose hogtie. The orcs find time to pass a thin rope of rough canvas between her legs, tying one end to the back of her collar and passing the other end through the ring at the front of the collar.

Only then do they pass a cargo rope behind her legs, between them and the rope of the hogtie; they pull it against the inside of her knees, pass it under the belly of the dog, and tie the ends to the front of her collar so she's held tight against the dog's flank. A few cords hold her by the left leg and left arm to the harness that holds the dog's freight, keeping her from falling off backward. The kicker is that the cloth rope gets tied to the cargo rope quite a bit tighter than the cargo rope is tied to the collar, so as she bounces up and down against the dog's hot flesh the cord is drawn back and forth between her legs and tightens against her sensitive parts.

The whole rebellion has cost Gol Ga all of two minutes in the face of the advancing army. Assured of their lead, they march on at an even faster pace. The draft dog's driver, unamused at having been roped in with the captives, takes out his frustration with occasional slaps of his riding crop against Oenone's defenseless ass, feet, and the sides of her right thigh and breast. Not her finest hour.

They've been getting away scot free for twenty minutes when they run into a fallen tree in a valley that was unobstructed when they passed through it less than an hour ago. Suddenly, a bolt of fire shoots from up the slope and incinerates an orc wholesale. The party snaps to, looking for the threat, when a precisely-aimed rain of tiny firebursts burns away the ropes leashing the captive girls to the dog Oenone is on and to each other. Suddenly it's chaos, as a dozen and a half prisoners are on the loose. With their arms still bound, most are caught immediately, but the orcs are distracted and a few manage to break through their ranks.

"Gol Ga!" cries a woman standing on the hill opposite where the fire came from. "I challenge you to single combat!"

"Your terms?" calls Gol Ga.

"My associate will hold his fire and your troops hold while we fight. If I win, you release your slaves or I kill you and he starts shooting. If you win, he leaves you be, and you do with me what you will. Otherwise we continue picking off your men one by one."

"Agreed. Stand and fight!" Gol Ga yells, casting away her cloak and hat. Beneath she wears a loincloth and little else, that being a tradition for champions in these parts. Her skin is so pale white it's nearly see-through, despite being thick and strong enough to turn any but the sharpest knife. She hefts her poleaxe and springs toward the hero on the rise.

The hero is Twil Tuo, a wayward sickle knight, and she defends herself admirably with the weapon her order is named for, against the hulking Gol Ga. She's not quite as traditionally outfitted as the ogre, with armor covering her chest and belly; her arms and legs are bare but for strapped-on sandals and gloves, and her shock of red hair is quite distinctive. She stands barely more than five feet high, her physique powerful yet still stunningly feminine. Gol Ga puts a high price estimate on her and resolves to get paid.

Twil actually delays things to the point the human army's outriders catch up, and though her raiders kill all who stand against them, another rain of fire frees the rest of the girls; with the raiders and even most of the support column fighting off horsemen the girls all escape – except poor Oenone, bound to a dog like baggage.

Twil Tuo manages to trip up Gol Ga, only to be grabbed from behind by a pair of beefy orcs with armor enchanted to the hilt. The humans did break the terms of the dual when the fire mage attacked again, after all. Gol Ga is spitting mad, but at least she has someone on whom to work out her frustration at losing the others.

Gol Ga leans in and tears the heroine's armor from her with her bare hands and her razor-sharp claws. She bares her breasts and crotch, leaving tattered remains hanging at her waist. A snap of her fingers and her adjutant wrestles a collar on Twil and, with the help of the armored orcs, binds her arms to it, trapping her like any other slave.

The three orcs work together and bind each of Twil's ankles to her thighs, leaving plenty of loose rope to work with. They force a leather bit into Twil's mouth, securing it with straps over her nose and head and behind it, then gather her hair into a burlap hood they pull down to her collar. Gol Ga, meanwhile, is putting on a heavy leather harness from her personal belongings. It binds securely around her chest, torso, and thighs. To put it on, she removes her loincloth, revealing her enormous cock, which she strokes a few times until it's firm.

With the setup complete, Gol Ga stands straight and solid as the armored orcs pick up Twil and hold her against Gol Ga, the heroine's back to the ogre's front. The adjutant works quickly to rope together Gol Ga's harness with Twil's collar, the ropes around her arms, and those around her legs. Gol Ga reaches down to position her cock, and then nods at the guards, who release their hold.

Twil gasps with pain as Gol Ga's cock pokes at her asshole, barely avoiding sliding down any further by tensing her muscles against the ropes and bracing against the curve of Gol Ga's belly. With her prize secured safely against her belly, Gol Ga shrugs her cloak over the whole affair.

Within minutes, Twil's muscles weaken and she falls onto the ogre's cock, gasping with pain. Gol Ga grins and reaches into her cloak to give the girl's nipple a tweak. The spasm grants her a thrill of pleasure.

Perhaps the fire mage would have kept Twil from Gol Ga's hands if he'd not been nabbed himself just after his injudicious attack. The orcs mostly disarm and disable the men they overcome, or kill them if it comes to it of course, only going to the trouble of transporting fuckable women. A male elf, however, is practically as good as a human woman, and his talent for magic will drive his price up as well. Treesha Shroudleaf is a glowering young thing with locks of white-green hair hanging over his face, tall but willowy and soft without a hint of muscle in his arms or chest, and of course the big pointy ears, delicate and sensitive. He even has puffy nipples.

So Treesha gets fitted with one of the silversmithed chastity cages the raiding party is supplied with – actually quite a practical solution for taking magic-wielding prisoners, as through arcane and unimportant mechanics they prevent the channeling of magical energy. He doesn't struggle, cool in the face of defeat, as they strip him to his toeless thigh-highs and fit his undersize tackle with the cage – though he does flinch when the slender silver rod slides an inch up his urethra. The cage's cap is held very nearly flush against Treesha's body by the gut-coated silver wire locked around his scrotum. Suffice to say he'll have to beg every time he needs to piss, but it means they won't have to worry about him torching any of them – good deal, from the orcs' point of view.

The elf gets trussed up much the same as Oenone, down to the canvas rope between his legs, and lashed to another of the dogs.

With a mere three captives rather than three dozen and a few raiders down, Gol Ga retains all the rest of her loot and a good lead on the human forces. She knows when to cut her losses, and having taken only a minute or two to secure their new prizes, her troops make for the border, double-time, the three prisoners bouncing miserably with the gait of their captors.

~ 4 ~ 5 ~ It's only the next spring before the raids spill into a full-scale invasion of the human kingdom. The orcs loot what they can and burn enough of what they can't that the humans won't be swinging back anytime soon. And so Oneone Able is followed over the Trollbridge by a whole stream of farm girls – and more exotic fare as well.

The Glade of Tomberlin, in the woods at the kingdom's borders, has long been home to this world's only permanent settlement of deergirls and deertaurs. Forthlin Aer runs a kitchen there. She's a slender deergirl with short antlers growing from her forehead and big fuzzy ears, freckles dusting the skin of her face and shoulders, long straight brown hair, and a fuzzy tail.

Gol Ga, now on a real campaign with a quarter of a legion under her command, sees gold in the exotic deergirls. She surrounds the Glade and her men sweep in to take the entire population prisoner, two and four legs alike, more than three hundred in all.

They've got much better supply lines and support on this campaign than on their raid months ago, and Forthlin Aer's processing is more systematic than Oenone's was. Forthlin is stripped of her simple woven clothes and has a stock locked around her neck and wrists, a light but sturdy board with three holes in a straight line. It's stamped with the same number that gets tagged on her nipple piercing. Then a scribe jots down an entry on her in a ledger, and a thin but sturdy chain links her to the girl in front of her in a long line of her neighbors.

It's a long, slow march out of the forest with so many prisoners, but a few weeks later they reach the trunk of the invasion at the occupied city of Gatling, the closest human city to the border. At its edge, endless rows of pens, built of palisades driven into the ground and lashed together, hold those captives bound for the orc lands, each of their wrists and necks sealed in those standardized stocks.

Even Princess Fivette, the eldest daughter of the king, is fitted with an identical restraint. The wagon train transporting her from the capital arrives in Gatling about the same time as Gol Ga and Forthlin. The open-sided wagons are full of the cream of the crop, the most beautiful noblewomen of the capital, picked out by the orcs and sat on hard, narrow benches for the many miles' journey. Fivette herself is a sharp-tempered brat and tends to launch into angry tirades cut short only by rebukes from the guards. Her curtain of black hair falls elegantly across her bare breasts as she finally steps out of the wagon and into one of the dirty pens. She's nude but for a chastity belt of hardened leather, identical to those fitted to any captive the orcs determine to be a virgin.

Advance agents of various mercantile entities pace up and down the row of pens each day, making notes of lot numbers. They buy up penfulls at a time, taking them off the orcs' hands at once in exchange for a discount. The deergirls, naturally, get plenty of attention from these agents, and the bidding is steep.

Forthlin and the other girls in her pen are purchased by the Musashi Company of the grey dwarves. Many of the other deergirls are bought by Musashi, as well as by the contingent of the drow priestesshood who contract with the same company for security. Forthlin spends only a day in the cramped pen before being taken to a staging ground for a Musashi caravan. The dwarves' great carts of wood and iron are pulled by towering living armor of the same. Forthlin is packed into a cart whose wheels are taller than she is.

An even taller construct with eight legs and fire spilling from its eyes is more than enough protection from any bandits between here and the mountains to the south. The deep halls of the dwarves and the drow border the orc and human lands both. The caravan departs the next morning.

Of course, the plump princess Fivette is an even hotter commodity. The orcs will accept no bids on her until she's auctioned in their own capital city. Her noble peers, on the other hand, get bought up nearly as fast as the deergirls and many join Forthlin on the journey south.

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 6 Far across the Trollbridge is the capital of the orc nation, Scrimshaw. Its name comes from the legions of scribes that work the halls of state and business, etching figures into sheaves of treated bone. Twil and Treesha are brought there the same day as Forthlin and Fivette reach Gatling. Travel is slow after the first snow, so they've spent the winter in an orcish border town. Though they're Gol Ga's personal pillage, she rented them out to a military brothel before leaving on her new campaign and selling them to Dael, one of the big names in the orcs' flesh trade. Now they bear his company's brand on one shoulder blade in place of the nipple tags they wore all winter. They've walked the Troll Road for a month in a long line of other prisoners to reach the gates of Scrimshaw.

Dael's auction house on the main street of the trade district is a rambling affair, not as polished as some of the other houses but with plenty of space to move a high volume of product through. Twil and Treesha spend only one night in the stinking pens of its basement.

The morning after their arrival in town, before sunrise, the Dael's staff empty the pen one by one. Twil is close to the door, so they grab her first, snapping a leash onto the wooden stock around her neck and tugging her upstairs to a stone-tiled bathroom. They stand her in a basin and a harried orc scrubs the dirt from her skin as a dozen others around her receive the same treatment. A hobgoblin stands guard while the orc unlocks the stock and takes it off her. She rubs her chafed wrists as the orc finishes washing her and combs out her tangled hair.

Ten minutes after her leaving the pen the orc pronounces her ready for sale. When the hobgoblin standing behind her moves to close a slender leather collar around her neck, she ducks it and knees him in the balls. Not a smart move, but her arms are free for the first time since Gol Ga sold her, and she has a lot of anger to vent. More guards close on her in an instant, grabbing her nicely combed out red hair and forcing her to her knees, banging her shin against the edge of the water basin; they wrench her arms in front of her and cuff her wrists, then a massive orc hauls up on the

The Great Conquest · Part 1 (1/4)
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