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either side of his hips and Yhalen’s rear placed in the ogre’s lap. With the big hands on his thighs, there was very little Yhalen could do to extricate himself from so vulnerable a position. All his desperate writhing accomplished was the gradual hardening of the large phallus that lay under his belly. It was a hard, long length against his own small, soft one and the size and heat of it brought back the terror of only two nights past. Of what those other ogres had done to him—of the pain and the horror and the utter mind-blanking fear.
    He gibbered words he could hardly understand himself. Pleas for mercy, promises, threats—cries for succor to people who were far, far away from this nightmare. It took a while for him, immersed in his hysteria, to realize that the big hands were not hurting him. That strong fingers were stroking up and down the length of his shivering back, soothing tense muscle, smoothing flinching skin. The ogre said nothing, but the touch was much like a man might use to calm a frightened animal. Like he might use to break a wild yearling colt to the first touch of a halter and eventually a bit in its mouth and a saddle on its back.
    To his shoulders, down his spine all the way to the juncture between his legs. Back again, fingers missing no portion of his body, pausing now and then to test the texture of his frayed braid, to tease the lobe of an ear under the fall of escaped hair—to knead the soft flesh of his buttocks, his thighs, to slide between the heat of his legs and graze the loose skin of his balls.
    There was the sound of a ceramic jar uncorked and cool jelly was smeared down the crack of his buttocks, worked around the puckered lips of his anus, but not quite inside. Rough finger pads circled that cringing mouth, stroking the skin between it and Yhalen’s balls with such sensation that Yhalen’s gut tightened as heat flooded the flesh between his legs. The tip of a finger slipped inside him, past that first ring of muscle, past the second, with more ease that it ought to be able—sliding in just the knuckle, methodically, gently massaging the spasming muscle on the inside, just as his other hand continued to do on the out.
    And Goddess—he hit something—some place inside of Yhalen that made his body shake and his balls go small and constricted. Made the tip of his manhood pulse, twitching against the thicker shaft pressed against it.
    He pressed his face into the fur, tears leaking from beneath his lashes, hating himself for that betrayal, trying to chase the heat and the coiling feeling away. But there was no time, for the ogre shifted, rising a little on his knees, lifting Yhalen’s hips up so that his knees just touched the furs, and the large, oiled tip of the ogre’s erection pressed against his throbbing entrance.
    “No—please, no,” he moaned into the furs, oh, very serious and very certain that he in no way wanted this thing inside of him. But his body wasn’t so sure and even as the huge head pressed inside, stretching the ring of muscle wide—but not so wide that flesh split, though blood flowed—he wasn’t certain if it was pain or pleasure that ran up his spine. Surely pain. Surely that, with the blood trickling down his thighs and the pressure in his belly of being filled to capacity—filled beyond capacity as the ogre slowly pushed in, hands supporting Yhalen’s hips, fingers bruising his flesh as he gripped hard in his concentration.
    He didn’t think it was possible to take it all, without the tearing mutilation of organs he’d experienced before—but with stubborn persistence, this one nestled himself inside Yhalen’s body, until his big balls pressed tight against Yhalen’s thighs and there was no stabbing scream of pain that signaled internal tearing, only the dull throb of his body stretched and filled and slowly adjusting to the presence that invaded it.
    The ogre shifted a hand, stroking Yhalen’s trembling shoulders, patting his side in