The Ogre of Bracken Wood, Ch. 03

Bound in such a uncomfortable position, with my wrists tied above my head to the bed and only a thin rag for a blanket, sleep was fitful at best. I tried to turn and find a more comfortable position but knots of wood and splinters from the floorboards kept jabbing into me. Worse, the summer night was chill: a hint of the autumn that would be upon us soon.

If I lived to see it, that was.

The ogre himself stayed downstairs. I could hear him through the floorboards, the buzzing of his snore like a nest of angry hornets. Clucks and trills came from the other stolen chicken in his cage. I could not get rid of the disgusting taste of the ogre from my bruised mouth.

Outside, in Bracken Wood, the owls hooted and the wolves howled. The creatures of the wood were oblivious to my fate.

And what of the others villagers? By now my absence would have been noted. But how would they know where I was? Would they even care? It was possible they thought I had run away to Broad Market, the nearest town. Maybe they even thought I had been the one who stolen the chickens, for barter or sale. I was always considered a good-for-nothing. To run away would be just like me.

And I had to admit to myself that I had considered it, on more that one occasions.

Life in the village was so quiet, so routine. We were serfs, tied to our landlords, the magi of the tower of Mael. They were not cruel, but they owned the land we worked. In return for our service, we were allowed to keep four-fifths of the harvest. The system seemed perilously unfair to me but any whispers of dissent were quickly suppressed by the village elders, who whispered darkly of mysterious and macabre... things... happening to those who grew too vocal with their criticism of our lords.

Still, we weren't property. Others had fled before. I'd been to Broad Market on a few occasions. I'd heard tell to, of further away cities, of the endless sea, of other lands of mystery and adventure...

Now I had found adventure -- or, rather, it had found me - and I would have given anything to be back home, another evening spent around the fire in our cottage, trading village gossip, mending our threadbare clothing and worn-out tools.

Even my own parents... would they care that I was gone? One less mouth to feed.

My own mother?

It was all too much for me.

No, if I was to get out of this, I would have to help myself.

Bracken Woods, where the ogre's hut lay, was within the demesne of the magi of the Tower But, 'Stay away from those woods,' the village storyteller Kennab would warn. arnings I had always scoffed at, perhaps a little too publicly for my own good. Kennab spoke of not just ogres, but fierce, wild animals and hungry ghosts -- the souls of those who had perished within the woods, and wanted nothing more to add to their number, to appease the never-ending loneliness.

I must have slept eventually for I woke to the pale light of another late summer dawn. Downstairs, I heard the door slam shut, and the ogre tramp off into the woods. My wrists ached from being bound, but I managed to wrench myself into a sitting position, and awkwardly rub the sleep from my eyes.

I was alone in the ogre's house.

Again I noted I wasn't hungry or thirsty, nor did I need to go to the toilet. Nervousness, I attributed it to. Running on adrenaline.

At least it wasn't cold. Despite my nakedness, the rising sun warmed the room. Even somewhat pleasant on my bare, goose-pimpled flesh

It was as bare and brutish a room as I had ever seen. Even though we were humble farming peasants, the meanest village hut had at least some decoration: an icon, or scrap of weaving pinned to the wall, or a worked piece of wood on the mantel. Here was bare floorboards, the iron bedstead with its filthy thin mattress. The bedstead sagged in the middle. Perhaps sometimes the ogre slept here, though the previous night he had spent entirely downstairs. Exhausted after spending himself in my mouth, I reflected, and then regretted it, as it evoked an unpleasant sense memory of my entire mouth being crammed with his huge meat, and the taste of his seed.

With my tongue, I felt around the edges of my lips and mouth, expecting bruises and tears. To my surprise, there was no pain, or markings of any kind.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was an ancient cupboard, really just some planks crudely nailed together, with a drape of ancient rag sufficing as a door. But the cupboard was on the other side of the room from the bed, and thus out of my reach.

The morning sun wore on, painfully slow, and with it rose in me a feeling of utter bleakness and despair. I could expect no rescue. I was the slave of the ogre, for whatever use he had, until he tired of me, or grew bored -- at which point I could only expect a cruel and violent death. I cried and cried, until my tears ran dry, and all I had to sit with was the utter uselessness of my existence.

I had to laugh, in a way, a laugh as mirthless as a graveyard. I had got out. I had escaped the stifling confines of the village -- and now look where I was.

Outside the window I could see the edges of Bracken Wood. Oak and birch trees, leaves late summer yellow and green. In the trees danced a small yellow bird. She was building a nest. I watched her as she made journey after journey, returning with a tiny twig, a scrap of leaf.

I wasn't dead yet.

There was hope.

The ogre was stronger than me, and faster, and perhaps more cunning. But if I could be patient, like that bird, perhaps I could yet regain my freedom. I cherished this thought, this tiny hope, like a seed, warm and secret, that would one day blossom to something more.

He came for me again that night. As I had known he would. At dusk, as soon as he returned.

Where he had been all day, I had no idea. Perhaps raiding our village again, or one of the other villages?

He slammed the door shut and mounted the stairs.

Not even looking at me, he undid my bounds and pushed me downstairs again.

Sitting in his great wooden chair, he forced me down towards the growing bulge in his crotch.

But I was prepared.

I didn't resist.

Ignoring the stale sweat and horse manure smell, I put my lips to the throbbing in his breeches. Running my mouth up and down the length -- it seemed even bigger than my remembrance -- I covered it in small, passionate kisses.

The ogre let out a soft moan. Soft for him - it still sounded like distant thunder, an approaching storm. I ran the palm of my hands up and down the hardening matter, and the ogre seemed pleased for his moans grew deeper and more gentle -- now the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Yes, I felt disgusted. But I remembered that little bird and how hard she worked.

I could work as hard. Harder even.

I reached up and start pulling the roughly knotted rope that held his breeches up free. With a little work, the knot came loose, and I parted the tough cloth to reveal his great club of a weapon. From my earlier ministrations he was close to fully hard now, perhaps a good half-yard in length and more than a fist in girth as its widest, at the base, just above the immense pair of hairy, wrinkled balls.

I looked up. The ogre was panting very softly, watching me through half-closed lids. I half-knelt, half-crouched between his tree trunk legs, looking into those yellowish eyes.

An idea came to me.

Perhaps a foolish one. For I didn't want to tempt him into using my backside for his needs -- his cock was so immense, that I felt sure I would not survive penetration. But still, I shoved my bare arse out, like a bitch offering herself for mounting, as I slowly drooled spit onto my hand and began to rub the tip of the creature's monstrous penis.

The ogre gave a satisfied sound as I worked the tip. Both hands slippery twisting round the head, like one of the village girls working a spindle, building in heat and friction, each time bringing my hands a little lower. I edged his loose, purse-like foreskin back, revealing the furious purple head of his penis.

I spat more saliva out as I worked keeping the pressure up. From the slit at the end of the creature's penis, a thin yellowish-clear liquid began to pump out, and that was even better than my spit, enabling me to use one hand after the other in a fast, continuous motion.

I'd never done this before, of course. Not with another man or fellow school boy in the village. I'd worked my own cock before, many times of course. A filthy habit, so the priest and the village wise woman told us. I had always ignored them

Still, pleasuring myself was quite different. I wasn't small, but I could fit my whole hand around my own cock, unlike the beastly enormity of the ogre, which was more like a horse's cock. Bigger, perhaps.

I invented technique as I went on, gauging by the creature's involuntary moans and the occasional spasming buck of his hips. Fluid leaked forth in small little dribbles.

Did I feel disgusted with myself? In truth I had crossed some point of shame. This was a matter of survival. At least that's what I told myself. I didn't dare even vaguely acknowledge the pleasant warmth that was beginning in my own crotch.

Working the shaft and tip, I wondered if that would be enough to bring the ogre to his moment. I hoped so, because I wasn't sure I could bear to taste his sweaty, animalistic taste again.

No. Steel yourself, I said. This has to be as good as possible.

With a final flourish, I released the ogre's cock from my hands. He was hard now, as hard as I seen him, and his weapon stood there, straight as a flagpole.

There was a moment of theatrical suspense -- a moment I had coquettishly arranged -- where perhaps the ogre thought perhaps I wasn't going to finish the job,

Then I bent my lips and opened my mouth.

That taste again! Like sweat, or a stable, or two days' old grease from a pan.

Yet I was used to it now. It wasn't nearly as bad as I had remembered.

But the size of it hadn't changed. I could barely get the 'O' of my mouth around the head of the dick. I bobbed there for a few moments, then pulled out again. Using one hand to steer the penis to my mouth, I placed the other hand lower down, running it along his sagging, wrinkled scrotum. I flicked my tongue along the slit, hard and fast, daring once or twice to jab it almost inside.

This the ogre loved -- if the heavy panting and growling he was starting to do was anything to go by.

He was close.

A few more flicks of the tongue, then I summoned my courage to take it deeper in my mouth.

It felt like the sides of my mouth would tear, such was the girth of the cock. Yet I persisted. Somehow, though the pain brought tears to my mouth, it went deeper in.

I moved my head back and forward in a nodding motion, trying to curl my lips around my teeth to make the ogre's pleasure more sensual. As it touched the back of my throat -- not more than a quarter way down its length, I estimated -- I nearly gagged.

But I suppressed the sensation best I could. Building in speed, I worked the ogre with my mouth.

It didn't take long.

With a great roar of pleasure, the ogre ejaculated.

I made to move away and let his seed spill on the flagstones. But with one of his meaty hands placed on my head -- not roughly, but firmly -- I was unable to do so.

My throat filled with the creature's seed as it pulsed out of that veiny, purple beast. Salt and sweat and meat... I had no choice. Take the contents of his scrotum -- or asphyxiate.

It seemed like the flow would never end. For myself, a few pumps and I was spent. For the ogre, it was a score or more, each one accompanied by another viscous squirt.

Eventually, the spasms subsided. I released the creature's weapon from my mouth, and tried to catch my breath, wiping the tears from the face.

He lay back in its chair, breeches around his ankles, cock now semi-hard, and flopping to one side, head rolled back and facing the ceiling, breath coming out in long, low moans.

I stood up. Wiped at my mouth -- though I had swallowed pretty much all of his ejaculate.

The ogre was insensible.

I felt a surge of satisfaction. Though my task had been unseemly, disgusting, even -- I felt as if I had performed it well.

Was he sleeping?

I couldn't be sure. But his eyes were closed and his breath low and steady.

I glimpsed out the window. Could I run now? But it was twilight. The hungry ghosts of Bracken Wood would be stirring their soft forms among the darkling trees.

An idea struck me.

The other chicken that the ogre had stolen from the village was still in the crude cage. I slid the gate open, pulled the chicken out, and with a rough twist of my hands, broke its neck.

I'd never done that before, though I'd seen my mother do it many times for special high day meals. It was easy. No trouble at all.

While the ogre dozed, I set about preparing the bird. Plucked the feathers loose one-by-one. Removed the creature's guts. Dumped all the waste in a pail. I set to stoking the fire up a little. Mindful of sparks on my naked skin, I retrieved a large leather apron and wrapped it around myself. It came down to my feet, but with a few deft wraps I managed to make it so I could move about with ease.

Exploring the kitchen, I found some crude, no doubt stolen, tools. A cleaver, a mallet, some rusted knives. Still sharp... I looked at the knives. Over at the ogre. Then dismissed the thought immediately. He was twice my size. Violence was not an option. No, I had to stick to my strategy. Get the creature's defences down.

I put the bird on a spit and began to roast it.

Delicious smells of cracked chicken skin began to come from the roasting fowl. I turned the spit as I had seen my mother do a hundred times. Occasionally, using a large rust-pitted metal spoon, I basted the creature with its own fat that had dripped into the pan below.

Though I could tell my cooking was not bad, that the chicken would taste delicious, again I noted that I wasn't hungry -- or thirsty -- at all. The taste of the creature's seed still lingered in my mouth.

The smells however, must have drifted over to the ogre, for I noticed he had awoken from his doze. Through slitted eyes he watched me curiously.

Eventually, I gauged that the bird was cooked was ready, and slid the chicken from the spit to a cracked plate, and presented it to the ogre.

I could tell he liked it. Though it was hot from the fire, he tore the bird to pieces, leg and wing and crunching bones disappearing into that vast, rubber-lipped mouth. Within barely a minute, the chicken was gone. The ogre licked the juices from the plate, then let out a small belch.

He seemed to notice me then, standing awkwardly to one side.

Outside the sky had gone dark.

He indicated the stairs back to my prison, and up I went obediently, the creature following behind me. No point resisting, I reasoned. I knelt beside the bed, ready to be bound to the bedstead again.

To my surprise, the creature scooped me up, dumped me on the old mattress. Retrieving his ropes, he bound my hands to the tops of the frame. He was on the verge of leaving the room when he noticed the ragged old blanket on the floor, which he placed on my naked body. Then left me there in the dark.