If one doesn't want stinging, tear-filled eyes, one should let sweat run calmly. Dorky was unable to put this simple rule into practice and now suffered doubly. His neck, hair, ears, forehead - all were dewy with it. He still replayed how he had wildly shaken his head left and right, screaming and cursing. Now, everything was quiet, and only the pain remained. Sweat irritating the eyes is nothing if you have free hands and can wipe it away a bit, instead of just blinking. The boy, however, was bound, and in a rather ingenious way. He lay on his stomach, embracing a smooth tree trunk. His head hung over the edge, but his body could not slide off, as his forearms and legs from feet to knees rested on additional, fur-lined supports, in which holes had been drilled for leather straps, tightly holding him in place. He was naked and alone. Darkness reigned. He tried not to sob. He reached back into his memory and once again replayed the scene that had happened barely a dozen minutes ago…
The cruelly laughing Orc-women tore off his clothes and expertly secured him to a centrally placed, strangely suggestive bench, smoothed and marked with dark stains from the many bodies exercised on it. Several torches landed in wall-mounted stands, freeing his tormentors' hands and illuminating the terrifying utensils hanging on roughly hewn hooks. The boy's attention was drawn to an elongated, zucchini-shaped object of soft wood, mounted on a harness of straps. He immediately looked away. On the other side, aesthetically crafted, tallow-greased whips of various shapes and sizes proudly displayed themselves. The human woman, a true specimen of physical strength and agility, stood by the wall, casually resting the foot of her bent leg under her butt, and winked at him with an eye crossed by an impressive scar. She licked and bit her lips. The view was obscured by the bulky Babeno, who approached closer and lifted his chin with one finger.
"The punishment for playing without permission is spanking. I will administer them myself, so you remember," she said hoarsely, then turned her hand palm up. Dorky watched, hypnotized, as Chechi obediently took a bowl of olive oil from a small stand and slowly anointed the entire surface of her protector's enormous hand with the thick liquid. Her small hands moved finger by finger, not missing the nails. The older Orc-woman grunted with satisfaction and unbuttoned one of the fasteners on her breast. Now she shifted her weight from foot to foot and, with a loud crunch, stretched her neck, as if before a fight. Marpala adjusted her glasses and circled behind him, in her tall riding boots and flowing tunic with two high slits that increased her freedom of movement. For a moment, he felt the bare skin of her thigh slide against his exposed leg and buttock. Then she ran her hand over the sensitive skin of his lower back, a gesture so masterful and full of hidden power that all his hairs stood on end. She took a good observation spot a step further back and made room for the Tribe Elder. And then the beating began.
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Babeno struck him methodically, buttock after buttock, from top to bottom. After each blow, she held her hand a little too long, rumpling and massaging his bottom. After this seemingly endless prelude, which, though painful, was quite bearable, she took a more sideways position and grabbed him by the back of the neck with a mighty paw. Now she struck mercilessly, both buttocks at once, with the speed of an attacking wasp. That's how the boy felt, as if stung by a swarm of angry insects, and a hot, unbearable, tearing pain spread over his lower body. He opened his mouth wide in surprise when, during a pause, she ran a slippery finger through the sensitive, defenseless area between his buttocks and reached lower, briefly grabbing the base of his scrotum and making two pulling motions, as if checking if his testicles were well attached. The boy thanked the gods she didn't do it harder.
"Howl, human pig," she whispered, then began to beat him so quickly and forcefully that he couldn't take it. His burning, bruised body rebelled and thrashed. He screamed and writhed, and then cried. Several times he stiffened like a fish on a hook, then let out a pathetic, full-throated wail. The Orc-women clapped rhythmically, setting the tempo of the blows. In fragments of his memories, their faces showed not a shred of pity, only excitement and amusement. The Tribe Elder finished, delivering slow, powerful blows that she punctuated by scratching his back with her other hand, in short, accelerating movements, like a bard playing a mandolin. He couldn't believe something so humiliating was happening to him, but when he reached rock bottom, Advisor Marpala placed the sole of her boot on his cheek, comically mimicking a comforting pat. Anger and indignation left him speechless. He gasped deeply, and his body, moving with his breath, was racked with sobs. A snot dangling from his nose almost touched the dirt floor. The Orc-women, laughing and patting each other on the back, began to leave the place of punishment one by one.
"From now on, you ask for permission, Little Fox," Narma threw at him as a farewell.
Finally, sleep overcame his exhaustion and pain. That's how he spent the rest of the night.
At dawn, two green-skinned women unknown to him unchained him from the stand and dragged him to the pen he had occupied earlier. A bucket of water and some milk awaited him. Dazed, he adopted a bearable position, apathetically drank the milk and water for breakfast, and then even washed himself a bit. In the boy's mind, a resolution was sprouting, still undefined and full of question marks, still vague and marked by uncertainty. He had to turn it over in his mind many times to understand and fully feel the weight of the fate written for him.
How to spend the last hundred days so that not one goes to waste?
