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satisfaction, saying something soft and pleased as if he were congratulating Yhalen on a job well done.
    Then he started to move. Rhythmic, single-minded thrusts that grew stronger and harder as Yhalen’s body opened to him. The soothing touches were forgotten and Yhalen’s bobbing erection soon ebbed, forlorn and untouched, the vigor of the ogre’s movements beginning to hurt—more so when the pace seemed destined not to slow and the creature riding him showed no signs of impending completion.
    He began to sob, mindless little cries wrenched out of him as his face and shoulders were rocked to and fro across the fur—then a startled gasp as the ogre paused in his rhythm and leaned forward, pressing Yhalen’s face hard into the furs as he snagged the rope tied to the pallet’s frame and yanked it
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    savagely free, then pulled Yhalen up, rising to his knees so that Yhalen’s weight momentarily rested on that which impaled his body, before settling back down, Yhalen upon on his lap, his back pressed to the ogre’s chest.
    The sensation of the thing inside him at this angle was riveting. His mouth opened and his eyes strained wide as the ogre began moving him up and down its shaft, using his body weight to press him more firmly down its length before lifting him up by the thighs and slamming him back down again. He tried to scramble away and the ogre casually caught his bound hands in one of his own and twined them around his head, effectively trapping them.
    Somewhere along the way, Yhalen ceased to be aware. Ceased to be anything but a limp receptacle for the ogre’s boundless lust. He thought—or perhaps it was only a series of nightmares—that his captor went on well into the night. Finishing one bout and initiating another, very much like a child with a new and fascinating toy that he couldn’t quite let out of his hands even at the risk of breaking it.
    When he finally did sleep—true, uninterrupted sleep—it was the sleep of the righteously exhausted.
    No dreams marred it, no sounds, no sensations. It would be a long while before he drifted out of blackness and into consciousness again.
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CHAPTER TWO
    Yhalen woke stiff and sore, curled on the floor next to the pallet and lying on furs that spilled over from the frame. He was alone.
    Sunlight seeped in from the cracks in the canvas flap, but otherwise the tent was dim and cool. It smelled faintly of sweat and oiled leather and...sex. He shut his eyes, pulling his legs up closer to his body and even that movement hurt. His lower back ached as if he’d been beaten, his thighs screamed protest at any exertion and other things.... He hesitated to dwell on the more centralized ache that throbbed dully between his legs.
    His hands were no longer bound, but he couldn’t recall the moment when he’d been untied. There were raw burns along his wrists from the rough rope. Alone and unbound, his mind drifted to thoughts of escape. How deep into the ogre camp had he been led? Everything had been so blurred—his perceptions so blunted by pain and fear and exhaustion that he’d hardly noticed the finer points of detail when he’d first been led through.
    He wasn’t allowed the time to put more thought into flight, for the tent flaps shifted and a man entered. A human man, thickly built, with scraggly blonde hair and beard and little more than a loin skin about his hips. Yhalen thought he might have been the same one who had brought water the night before. But this time he held nothing and his eyes fixed immediately upon Yhalen.
    “Get up,” he said in an accent so thick that Yhalen could hardly understand the words. Yhalen lay there blinking, and with a huff of impatience the man stalked over and snatched Yhalen’s wrist, yanking him up.
    It hurt, both the harsh grip on his wrist and the usage of muscles that would rather not be used.
    Yhalen had had as much abuse as a man could tolerate from monsters twice his size and taking it from a man of his own blood was