The Ogre of Bracken Wood, Ch. 04

I lost track of how long I had been a prisoner.

Days turned to weeks turned to months. The summer died. The verdant trees of Bracken Wood -- glimpsed from my high window in the ogre's house -- turned gold, red, all variations of amber.

The village seemed so far away. My life there, my memories of it, were like memories of a dream.

Everything was the dreary room where I spent my days, lashed to the bed.

Everything was the ogre.

We fell into a routine.

During the days, I remained tied up while the ogre went about his business, away from the hut. It wasn't so bad, after a while. I dozed mostly, dreaming. The room was drafty and cold, with just a thin rag for a curtain, but from where I was tied I had a view of the tops of the trees. I could watch the clouds, the birds. And I managed over time to gather various tatty bits of cloth to serve as blankets, placing them about me as best I could to make it snug, despite the chill of the changing season.

The ogre came home around sunset every day. What he did outside the hut wasn't clear to me. Hunting and gathering. Theft, more likely. He might return with a stolen lamb or pieces of bric-a-brac looted from the rubbish heaps that all the villages of the Mael Estate had on the outskirts of their village. Perhaps stolen from the outlying farms. Old pots and pans. Rusted farm tools. Broken fragments of furniture. Once a brace of coneys that I presumed he'd trapped himself. Some days, he came home empty-handed.

But he always came home wanting me.

Every night I serviced him, till his hips bucked with that familiar thrust and the yellowish ogre seed came flooding out for me to swallow.

I had to be creative.

I would use different techniques, techniques I spent the day thinking up. Different movements of my mouth, my lips, my tongue. Exploring him in different ways. His glans, his foreskin, shaft, balls. Using my hands, or sometimes not.

I learned to gauge his reactions, to read him like a map. What was working, what was getting a reaction. How firm should I squeeze those immense, sagging sacks of flesh that hung below his ogrehood.

Mostly, he was in the chair, but other times he would stand above me and I would crouch below while I performed.

Sometimes I did it fast. Working him with vigorous movements, giving him no time to breathe until he exploded. Other times, I worked slow. An hour or more. Bringing him close then backing off until he recovered. Those times the volumes of his seed would surprise me -- great gushing spurts, a waterfall of it.

Yet always, always I swallowed it.

I became quite the expert in pleasuring him.

Afterwards, he would doze.

It was than that I would cook for him, and clean, and keep house. More skills I had to learn, to teach myself, to perform to the standards that keep him impressed -- and keep me alive.

Curiously, I had no need to eat, or drink, nor void myself. Something in the property of his seed. I felt fit and healthy. Another odd physical reaction I noticed. I started to find my own sex becoming engorged during the times when I was servicing the ogre. What this meant, I had no idea. But once or twice I even touched myself while I was providing mouth pleasure to the creature; the feeling sent tingling fire along my nerves.

But I didn't dwell on thinking about either of these things too much. The implications were uncomfortable, in both cases.

Afterwards, as the fire dwindled, I would rub his feet. Huge and warty, easily three times the size of mine. Pressing and kneading, sitting before him. Sometimes he would become aroused again, and again I would work him to completion.

Thus our routine went on. I had hoped, if I stuck to it long enough, he would become lax, and let his guard down, and that would be my opportunity to escape his foul clutches. But every time I thought this might be the night that he fell asleep and forget my knots, every night he awakened, and I was tied up once more.

But I had other ideas.

I started to gather useful tools. In the evenings after he was spent and while I cooking and cleaning. Under pretext of tidying, I secured a small spot in a cupboard where I placed items that would come in useful for my escape. For I was aware that even if I should spy an opportunity, I would not be able to flee naked through Bracken Woods, even during the day. I didn't even know the way back to the village, so who knew how long I might have to spend wandering the dangerous forest. I gathered a very sharp small knife. A piece of large tarp I could use for a cloak. Best of all, discarded among the ogre's haul one day was a pair of worn leather boots. The soles were nearly gone, and the leather cracked, but they would fit very well. Those I hid at the bottom, just in case the ogre should notice what I was doing.

One evening, however, did not go according to our routine.

I was tied to the bed, half-asleep. I heard, as usual, the door thump open as the ogre returned from his work. Starting to blink the sleep out of my eyes, I began to mentally prepare for my evening's work, reviewing some of the ideas I'd been working on during the day for keeping the ogre entertained.

But then I heard another sound.

Voices.

I hadn't heard any voice other than my own and the ogre's occasional non-verbal grunts since I had left the village, so this was strange indeed.

The voices were deep and low, like boulders tumbling down a mountain. And another sets of heavy, thumping footsteps.

Another ogre?

What did this mean?

I tried to listen to the words.

In the village, we spoke the common tongue of our people. Northron, we called it, the language of the North. (Though North of where I didn't understand. All that lay to the south as far as I knew was wild swamps and the tall, yellow crags infested with terror birds.) All the villages around spoke it, and in Broad Market. The Magi's tax collectors spoke it too, though they had their own, slightly higher-pitched and more formal dialect.

The voices below me spoke in a different tongue, but there must have been some relation to our own, as I could pick out the occasional words.

'Food'. 'Forest'. 'Beast'. 'House'.

But the meaning of the conversation I could not grasp. Occasional barked laughs interrupted the talk as I listened in vain to decipher what was being said. Any clue might help me.

'Village'? 'Soldier'? 'Spear'.

They were discussing their situations, perhaps. Sharing local knowledge?

'Drink?'

'Drink?'

'Drink'.

I heard a bottle being opened, a belch.

Now the conversation grew more raucous, and the words I could distinguish fewer. Yet I began to be able to discern the difference between the two. Both were as low, but the deeper was 'my' ogre. His grunts and moans had become as familiar to me, after all, as a lover's voice. The other, the Stranger, as I began to refer to him, spoke a little faster, a little more emotionally.

But as the drinking continued and the conversation went on, their voices rose, in argument or passion, the laughter becoming more frequent and more uncontrolled.

More words.

'Up'.

'Human'.

'Fuck'.

'Boy'...

A cold fear settled on my stomach.

And then that familiar sound of steps on the stairs.

The door opened and the ogre was there.

His face had been loosened by the drink. He leered at me. From across the room I could smell the sour stench of alcohol. Within a heartbeat he had undone the knots binding me to the bed. Usually he would let me make my own way downstairs, but now he grabbed me and tossed me over his shoulder in one movement. I was naked, as usual, but I tried to cling to a blanket to protect my modesty. He took it from me, easy as taking a bauble from a babe.

Unceremoniously I was hauled downstairs and dumped on the floor.

The other ogre, the one I had heard, was there. His immense bulk filled one corner of the room. The Stranger was fatter and perhaps older than my ogre. His belly bulged through the crude leather apron he wore, coming out at sides, covered in thick hair and veined. He had the same warty hands, the same brutish physiognomy. His huge eyes widened when he saw me and his licked his lips with a fat red tongue.

My ogre cackled when he saw the Stranger watching me. He crooked a finger at me, and I understood I was to stand, and turn around, to present my naked form to them. I had no choice but to show them everything.

The Stranger watched and took a long pull from a bottle. His eyes glittered with envy and disbelief, that my ogre had such a prize -- a young human peasant -- all to himself. Beneath The Stranger's apron I could tell that my nudity aroused him.

My ogre was aroused too, by my form. Perhaps also by the sense of power he had in presenting me.

I couldn't tell if they were friends. They seemed convivial, but there was a sense of rivalry between them. He garbled something in their brutish tongue to the Stranger, and the Stranger laughed coldly.

The ogre walked around me, tracing my nipples and back with one huge warty finger... I was facing the Stranger and I could see his bulge growing. I knew beneath that apron his cock was at least as large as the one the Ogre wielded. My fear doubled. He couldn't mean to give me to this brute as well? Was I to be used, as a toy, by these towering, fearsome monsters?

The ogre showed me off, parading me as a prize. The Stranger just kept taking long pulls from the bottle, his eyes greedily assessing my body.

No the ogre wouldn't give me away. He was too jealous of me.

Was this, in that case, something I could use, in my quest to free myself from this hut?

The ogre stood behind me. His huge hands rested on my shoulders. I could smell the moonshine, more pungent even than the ogre's usual stale stench, and feel his ogrehood pressing against my lower back. I backed my arse onto his leg -- barely higher than his knee such was the height difference -- and began rubbing it up and down like a cat on a fence post. All the while, I met the Stranger's lustful, cruel gaze and held it, letting him see what a whore the ogre had made of me. I could see it worked, as the Stranger's cock strained at the fabric of his breeches. Behind me, the ogre chuckled darkly.

I turned to face him.

He was a good two feet taller than me. I stared up into his hideous, rubbery visage with all the lust and passion I could muster. I could feel my own sex stirring at this, so convincing was my performance. Or so I told myself at least.

As I bent forward -- fingers expertly pulling at the ogre's breech drawstrings, mouth wide open to receive his huge penis -- I arched my back, presenting my backside in full to the Stranger. A risky game, I knew, but it was time to take risks. As the ogre's massive tool sprung free, with one hand I guided it to lips, and with the other I reached behind me to pull back a cheek, and reveal my pucker to the watcher.

The ogre never used that entrance, a fact for which I was grateful, given his size. But let the Stranger think what he wanted.

As I licked the sweaty slit of the ogre's penis, his head rolled back and he moaned in delight, and I revealed my most inner secret to the Stranger.

He could take no more.

Furious with jealousy, he slammed the bottle down and stormed from the hut, into the gloom of night-time Bracken Wood.

I looked up from my work. The ogre smiled down at me. His smile was sloppy with alcohol, but I could tell that I had pleased him once more. I felt a surge of satisfaction -- both at this and the fact that somehow, in some way of which I was not yet sure, my plan to escape had advanced a notch.

The ogre grabbed me again and swung me over this shoulder.

Up the stairs we went, to my room. The ogre placed himself on the bed, legs wide. His great club of a cock stood erect as a flagpole, and his huge balls slumped on the bed.

It was clear what he wanted, and by now, I knew how to provide.

It was the first time I had ever serviced him up here. But I bent to my work as eager as maid on her wedding night.

Later, his seed in my belly, the taste of it still salty and sweaty on my lips, was the first time he did not tie me to the bed.

He folded me into his arms, into his enormity, my head pressed against his shoulder, one hand wrapped around me and the other clutching me to him. Within seconds, he was snoring.

I lay there, not tied, but secured as surely as if I had been. There would be no way to wriggle free and besides, I had already resolved not to escape from the house at night.

I lay against him. His skin was sweaty and rough; the animal smell strong in my nostrils.

My own cock was as hard a rock.

I wondered if I would spend the whole night like this. To my vague surprise, within moments, in the sweaty heat of his frame, I too succumbed to sleep.