LAYLA
I felt like a sack of potatoes slung over his shoulder. Heavy, awkward. I hated how natural it must have felt for him to carry me like that, as if I weighed no more than a bag of grain. My hips, my thighs, the round swell of me — all of it made me feel heavier than the girls men actually wanted. The elf-slim ones with sharp shoulders and hollow cheeks. Clara, with her sleek lines and long legs. Not me.
And yet he chose me.
The flat door groaned as he shouldered it open, the crowd’s howl dimming into silence when it shut behind us. I blinked in the dim light. Two rooms, nothing more — a kitchen that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and iron pans, and the bedroom, large enough only for the bed that dominated it. The air was thick with him — smoke, steel, sweat, musk.
It wasn’t a lover’s den. Not soft, not inviting. Heavy furniture scarred with use. Sheets rumpled and unwashed. A fighter’s rest.
And he threw me onto that bed. The mattress groaned under my weight; the sound echoing sharp in my chest. My face burned. I thought of every coin I’d scraped together, every hour bent over trays, every ache in my back — all of it spent on the ribbon and the dress I still clutched at. Three month’s wages.
The sound of tearing filled the room.
I gasped as the fabric split under his hands, seams giving way like paper. He stripped me down in rough, decisive motions until my dress lay ruined across the floor. I wasn’t naked — not yet — but I may as well have been. My bra was a size too small, the cups biting into soft flesh, pushing me out instead of holding me in. My panties clung where they shouldn’t, cutting into the roundness of my hips, showing too much. Stockings hugged my thighs, the elastic biting in just enough to remind me of every inch I wished I could smooth away.
I wanted to cover myself, to tug the straps, pull the fabric higher, hide the way my body bulged where it wasn’t supposed to. But my hands froze halfway, useless.
He was looking at me.
Not the way men at the speakeasy did, with leers or sneers or jokes whispered behind my back. Not like Clara, who sometimes let her gaze slip down my body with pity hidden behind her smile. He looked at me as if none of that mattered. As if the sight of me in torn stockings and cheap underwear was something worth claiming.
And the glint in his eyes wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t dismissal. It was hunger.
The knot in my belly twisted tighter, hotter. I should have felt shame. I did feel shame. But it wasn’t all shame.
I had always thought of him as safe. Silent. A soft giant who filled space without asking for it, intimidating because of his size but never because of his intent. He’d never so much as brushed against me when I passed him in the speakeasy.
How stupid of me.
He was an orc, after all.
His tusks caught the light as his gaze raked me. And I realized then — he hadn’t carried me here because he liked me.
He hadn’t take me from the crowd to protect me.
He carried me here because he wanted me.
His eyes dragged over every inch of me until my skin prickled hot, the backs of my knees going weak. Only then did I notice it — the way the loincloth clung low on his hips, the thin fabric stretched and heavy with the shape of what was beneath.
Hard already.
Big.
Too big.
Even hidden, it was impossible not to see. My breath caught — fear and heat crashing hard in my chest,
I told myself I had to play the part. I had to. He was the mob boss’s bodyguard. He’d chosen me. Maybe if I gave him what he wanted, I could learn something, use it for my report. But that voice was thin, unsteady. Louder was the raw want clawing through me, want I didn’t understand.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
He moved instead.
One tug and my bra snapped, the straps falling loose around my arms. His tusks grazed my belly as he dragged his mouth down, rough hands spreading me wide, panties torn away in one impatient pull. Then his mouth was on me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. His tongue pushed deep, broad and relentless, tusks scraping against the soft of my thighs as his fingers worked inside me. The rhythm was merciless, giving me no space to think, to breath.
I gasped, clutched at the sheets, my body arching against him without permission. Heat burned through me sharp and wild, panic tangled with pleasure until I couldn’t tell them apart. My vision blurred, my thoughts broke.
And then it hit.
My body shattered around his hand, around his mouth, my cry muffled against the back of my fist. The knot in my belly snapped loose, and with it — magic.
It burst out of me before I could stop it, sparking across my skin, lighting over his. Heat and light tangled with the taste of copper in the air.
He pulled back with a low laugh, lips wet, tusks gleaming. His voice came rough, deep in his chest.
“Knew it. You’re a witch.”
Panic cut through the haze. No one was supposed to know. No one.
But he leaned closer, breath hot against my cheek, tusks flashing as his grin widened. “Don’t worry, little witch. Only I know.”
And the way he said it made my heart pound harder than the fear.
His laugh still echoed in my head when his hands went to the knot at his hip. The loincloth hit the floor.
My breath snagged.
I’d never seen a bare man before — not in flesh, not this close. Human or orc, it wouldn’t have mattered; it would have undone me. But this… this was more than I’d imagined. Heavy, thick, dark-veined, a shade darker green than the skin on other parts of his body, already hard, angled toward me. Too big. Too much.
His hand tangled in my hair and pulled me up, dragging me forward until my knees hit the floor between his thighs. He loomed above me, all muscle and shadow.
“Open your mouth, little witch.” His voice rumbled low, commanding. “It’ll be better for you.”
No way it could fit — not inside me, not even in my mouth. My thighs pressed together, slick heat between them betraying me.
Clara’s chatter rushed back sharp and unwanted — late nights in the cloakroom, her whispering about orcs, about their seed, how it woke your body up, how it burned you alive and left you begging. I’d rolled my eyes, pretended not to listen. Now the words clawed at me.
I trembled. My lips parted anyway.
He pushed into me without waiting, the blunt head forcing past my teeth, stretching my lips. My jaw ached, my throat fought him, but his growl rolled through me, approval dark and sharp. His hips drove forward, relentless. His hand clenched at the back of my skull, guiding, holding, making me take him deeper.
“Take it all,” he rasped, voice rough with hunger. “That’s it. My good girl.”
Tears pricked my eyes as he filled my throat, gag reflex flaring, but his pace never faltered. His lenght slid in and out, slick and heavy, the sound wet and obscene, his breath ragged as he used me.
And then he held. Pressed deep, filling my throat until I thought I’d break. His hand clamped tight on the back of my skull, the other pinching my nose shut, forcing me to choke. His growl rolled through me, low and savage:
“Swallow. Every drop. Be my good little witch.”
The word cut through me — witch — and I should have panicked, should have flinched. It was the word I’d hidden from my whole life, the one that meant exposure, danger. But in his mouth it sounded different. Not threat. Not accusation. Possession.
And gods, it felt good.
I swallowed. Once. Twice. Again. Until I couldn’t taste anything but him.
It hit like fire.
My whole body jolted awake, every nerve sparking. It was like drinking three espressos in one gulp, like lightning ripping through my veins. Heat flooded me, sharp and wild, my pussy throbbing, wetness pooling so fast it slicked my thighs. I came without being touched, the sensation tearing through me sudden and violent, my body clenching as I choked down the last of him.
I sagged forward against his thigh, gasping for air, spit and seed smeared down my chin. My body ached for more. Desperate. Starved.
And still his shaft was heavy in his hand, not softening, ready for me again.