Ghoraka the Lefthanded Beats More than Metal (fantasy, futa/futa, selfsuck, frottage)

Story by Kuroshio

I'm not sure what to write here for the author's notes. It's pretty straight-forward.

futa on futa, fantasy, literal interracial, frottage, selfsuck, autofellatio, rough sex, uhh... bondage?, futadom

For blacksmiths, things were always busiest with the spring thaw. Generally, only two groups made up the bulk of the brisk trade. There were the constant stream of farmers, looking for new tools or repairing the damage done to old inventory. Then there were the armies, with pompous aides-de-camp placing large orders of weapons and armor for the campaign season. Every blacksmith across the valley and the surrounding hills was working from sun up to sun down, desperately banging away with their hammers in hopes of stemming the tide of incoming work. Ghoraka the Lefthanded was no exception, the powerfully built orc woman pausing only to brush her leaf red hair from her eyes and wipe the plump drops of sweat from her bro.

With a sigh, she rolled over her latest work: a repair job on a damaged chest plate, the new owner explaining it was a family heirloom of sorts, taken out by a particularly impetuous son and returning in its present state. Ghoraka grunted at the short tale the middle aged man told, asking in typical orc fashion, “Did the son come back too?”

The man betrayed no hint of surprise whatsoever, “Unfortunately, yes.” He offered up both hands in a sign of resignation, “Ah well, I suppose it is better than the alternative. I couldn't bear to hear his mother's weeping if he did not.”

But that left Ghoraka over-tasked for the day, her apprentice having temporarily succumb to the shop's heat and repetitive strokes required to fashion metal in a quality fashion. Shaking her head, she wondered where the girl had gotten off, no longer lying outside the door, covered in sweat and fanning herself lazily. There wasn't much she could do about it from her shop anyway, setting the armor back on the mold and resuming the swings of her hammer. She was rhythmic in her dedication, repeated strikes smoothing the metal out before setting it back into place, the gashes and dings disappearing by the minute.

However, it was far from easy, and Ghoraka found her usual dedication flagging. Not for any particular failure of her strength or stamina, merely the rise of her libido as she worked. That was one place where Marrissa, her apprentice would have come in handy, the rather stocky human teen always being up for a quick romp while bent over a workbench or on her knees in the backroom, tending to Ghoraka's needs in a most satisfying fashion. Her lips were like ---

The orc shook her head, trying to drive the scene from her mind and get back to the task at hand. However, in spite of her thoughts filling with various tricks of the blacksmith's trade her thick member persisted in its growth, slowly gathering blood and flaring, the heft of it lifting her apron. She grunted in frustration, finally laying her hammer aside and casting off her apron, fully nude underneath on account of the unusually high temperature in her shop.

If the girl, her apprentice, had gone anywhere, it was likely to be far away and Ghoraka nearly resigned herself to a long trek towards the town's central well, likely to be crowded as people poured out of their homes and sought to socialize. Whereas the blacksmith loved nothing more than a quick, spontaneous romp, most women weren't nearly as indiscriminate and the long dance between two eager parties only frustrated her on most days.

There was an alternative though and Ghoraka quickly pulled on breeches and a loose-fitting sleeveless blouse, the bare essentials to maintaining public modesty. The top's long slits allowed anyone astride her an ample survey of her breasts, their size and shape matched only by their firmness, while her bottoms were tight against the width of her hips, speaking to the body of a breeder. All the same, she rarely enjoyed any attentions beyond that, the prominent tusks and unsubtle musculature turning away most of those who would have been interested, with her cock, hanging stiffly down the leg of her breeches, scaring away the rest.

That left the art of self-reliance, one she'd been taught from an early age, the practices of which she planned to put into effect as soon as she'd rounded the corner around her shop to a stable, clean and freshly strewn with straw although presently empty of horses. It was far from ideal, but it was inviting, with her cock making its approval known through the most direct manner, throbbing intensely against her thigh as she took a quick glance to the street before stepping inside.

Once inside, Ghoraka wasted no time, untying her breeches and pushing them down to her ankles, sitting down on a particularly soft looking pile of hay and lewdly spitting on her now standing member. The wad of spittle landed true, coating th

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