“Rise, Sir Tristan, a new knight of the Round Table.” King Arthur announced, lifting the ceremonial sword off of the man’s silver pauldron. The aging king’s grey mane had lost none of its magnificence since he’d ascended the throne. “Serve your kingdom in the name of justice and righteousness. So long as you abide by the values of the Round Table, you shall never lose against the heinous orcs that plague our land.”

Queen Gunievere, who’d been standing behind, smiled graciously as she stepped forward. Clad in sapphire robes, she laid her jeweled scepter over each of Tristan’s shoulders, muttering several blessings before she too, retreated. Finally, their daughter, the sole successor to the throne, stepped forward. Tristan remained on one knee, heart beating faster. He felt her hands clasp an amulet signifying his new position amongst her royal guard around his neck. “I pray that fortune continues to smile upon thee, Sir Tristan.” When Her Highness extended her hand, Tristan gingerly lifted the back of her palm up, grazing his lips against the pristine skin. She blushed, a distinct contrast against her snow-white cheeks and golden curls before gently tugging him up until he stood up before her, eyes sparkling with adoration at the man who had grown up alongside her.

The ceremony lasted another hour and in the midst of the celebration that followed, Tristan approached his childhood friend and curtsied before her. The two of them indulged in idle conversation before Her Highness mentioned a desire to step outside onto the garden away from the hustle and bustle. “May I have the honor of escorting Her Highness on the grounds?” He inquired politely with an offered hand.

She smiled at him warmly, slipping her fingers in between his, “You may, Sir Tristan.” The two stepped out of the hall, down a flight of steps, made a right into a magnificently tended garden. And although, Tristan allowed himself to let Princess Cordelia’s hand to fall between them, he kept her fingers gently grasped within his own as the two conversed amicably away from prying eyes. Upon ducking into an alcove obscured by several young fruit trees, Tristan’s hands found Cordelia’s waist. He leaned in, eyes closed, only to meet Cordelia’s fingers on his lips.

“Not here.” She muttered, pushing him away just moments before another couple walked past, paying the two no attention. Once they rounded a corner out of sight, she pecked him on the cheek. “Tomorrow night.” She said, ushering him with her eyes to return to the garden path. And he followed her with renewed spirits, a new spring in his step as her hands found his once again.

“Looks like you’re healing quite well from your injuries. Much faster than I’d expected from a man of your age.” The bespectacled doctor quipped, inspecting the stitched gash closely before moving onto the bruises peppered across Tristan’s upper arm. “Another two weeks’ worth of rest and you’d be right at home back on the battlefield once again. Frankly, you could be out there in a week, but I wouldn’t want to run the risk of overexerting you. Can you tell me about this?” He inquired as he tapped the ornate ink crest about the size of a child’s palm emblazoned across Tristan’s left pectoral muscle.

“One of the village’s orc witches casted an incantation when we attempted to take her prisoner. I felt the crest burn red hot, then pulled my sword from my sheath and beheaded her while she was still speaking.” Tristan muttered, eyeing the doctor with a hint of worry.

“No doubt she attempted to curse you. Your raid was several days ago, I believe. Have you experienced any negative symptoms since then that can’t be attributed to your other wounds? Pain in certain areas, dizziness, fatigue, tightness in the chest, bleeding in the stool perhaps?” When Tristan shook his head, the doctor made annotations on a piece of parchment. “Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but I’m tentatively going to say that perhaps her curse failed because she couldn’t complete the incantation. When His Majesty’s court mage returns from Zenzikar, I suggest making an appointment with him to investigate the insignia, but if you haven’t suffered from any negative effects yet, there’s not much more I can do. If any unusual pain strikes you at all, do come to me immediately.”

The senior’s answer didn’t wholly please Tristan. But seeing as he couldn’t provide a stronger counterargument, he thanked the old man before retiring to his chambers and attempting to get a good night’s sleep.

Oil lamps illuminated the darkness. A lit fireplace crackled, illuminating unoccupied wooden tables. Two women sniveled in the background. The remains wooden frame of a door shattered like a paper-thin glass sheet underneath a heavy, bludgeoning fist larger than a cantaloupe. An innkeeper’s face contorted with abject fear and brazen courage came into view. Holding a hefty club, the man swung with a terrified scream before his skull was caved in with a sickening crack that left blood on the same inhumanely large fist.

Hunger burned. He plopped down onto a wooden bench, picking up a warm clay pot with his bare hands and lifting it up towards his mouth. Carrots, celery, an assortment of shellfish, and chunks of potatoes flowed into his mouth. His jaw clenched, crushed the softened shells before he swallowed uncaringly. When the two women huddled in the corner began to hesitatingly crawl away, he flung the wooden ladle just above their heads, killing any hopes of escape. They retreated back, unable to do anything but shiver in fear as he finished the entire pot, not even bothering to wipe his mouth even after slurping down a half-gallon of ale down to the last drop.

His hunger remained unsated. Only one more thing remained on the menu. He stood up, lumbering towards the two covering women and grabbed the youngest one, a ginger-haired girl by the wrist. The older woman cried, screamed, only to succumb to pitiful whimpering when two fingers larger than sausages thrust themselves in her face. The barmaid bawled for her mother kicking against the beast’s chest in futility as he tossed her over his shoulder like an old shirt before trudging up the stairs.

A vacant room. Door slammed so hard the frame cracked in three places. He tossed her on the bed, tore the stitches preserving her modesty with his bare hands. She cried, then did so even harder upon seeing what was to come. All futile she thrown onto her back, her legs spread wide as the orc lined himself up, pressed closer against her before he simply-

-Pushed.

More screaming, incoherent babbling about how he wouldn’t fit despite the fact that he had. How he was too big. But it sounded increasingly distant to him, like someone calling out to him as he soared away. Because for him, that first insertion was the equivalent of the first gulp of hot chicken soup after a winter trek, the pleasant warmth gently spreading and stimulating every nerve of his body, his entire being relaxing before he eagerly took another sip. He set the bowl down, taken aback at just how good it was and then-

-Pushed.

She screamed louder, the unforgivable din piercing his bliss. In response, he wrapped a hand around her throat, the other occupied with keeping one of her legs splayed out as far to the side as possible. He squeezed her windpipe lightly, silently letting her know that he to take her over and over and over and over and Over and OVER again. She could do nothing, until eventually, even her screams melded into moans as her ordeal continued, her body opening up to him with every thrust, her juices dampening his thighs as she changed. And as he felt himself roar, pleasure exploding from his groin towards his head, she half moaned, half screamed in unison as well, her ankles locked around his waist.

“Terrible, just terrible.” Sir Gareth surveyed the wreckage of the Three Jackdaws Inn with a grimace. “Good man. Served this amazing stew with diverse mollusks, crayfish and other tasty little morsels. And his roast lamb with onions and dill? Shame I’ll never get to taste it again. Damn son of a bitch, I’ll skewer him from ass to mouth when we find him.” He growled, clutching his blade’s leather grip so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Tristan looked about uneasily, finding the tavern eerily familiar even though he couldn’t recall ever stepping inside. “We should question the girl. I’m assuming she’s in her room?”

When Gareth nodded and gestured toward a flight of stairs, the junior knight made his way over, bracing himself for the sight he knew to be inevitable. No woman was the same once an orc took her for his own, even it was for a single night. Every drop of saliva, sperm, and sweat the woman accepted into her body was another step toward a brink from which there was no return. A single encounter would leave a lasting scar like that of a former alcoholic who had to resist the temptation whenever he noticed drink. Any soul unfortunate enough to be captured and used for two weeks would be utterly broken, mindlessly begging to be fucked over and over again, venturing outside the walls themselves to offer themselves up shamelessly even after being rescued. And even the ones that retained their intelligence and consciousness would only use it to satiate a craving that even the largest of men couldn’t satisfy. He recalled that a certain Duchess of Hadronen who’d suffered a similar fate, had her retainers capture an orc which she kept as a pet which she would bed from dusk until dawn every night. She kept up duties, although it was never clear who was the owner and owned in that relationship.

Even while standing outside her door, Tristan could smell the scent of fresh sex, long after the orc had left. And that scent only evolved into that which eclipsed a whorehouse that hit him like a battering ram when the door opened and allowed three inches of light to pierce into the disheveled room. A ginger-haired freckled beauty, wearing nothing but a towel tightly clutched around her breast, peered nervously up at him. Her fingers reeked of debauchery and depravity, a facet the souvenir that’d been gifted to her, one she could never give away. Maintaining his composure despite knowing that she’d likely been rubbing herself ever since her tormentor had left, Tristan politely introduced himself and inquired if she’d allow him to ask her a couple questions. She hesitated, but allowed him to enter. The smell washed over him like the tide, threatening to drown him in the orc’s pheromones and sweat that had having seemingly pervaded the sheets, floorboards, even the walls as he pulled up a chair while she sat on the bed, hands on her knees.

Throughout questioning, he delicately avoided the rape itself. Instead, he inquired after the orc’s mannerisms, why they didn’t call out for help, how it entered the tavern and how it escaped. The girl, now wrapped in a blanket that reeked of musk and sweat that wasn’t her own, answered to the best of her ability. Her fingers would tic and flex erratically, a telltale sign of an addict barely restraining their desire. Only her newfound dependence wasn’t either powder or liquor, but pleasure that would elude her for the rest of her life if she remained within the castle walls. Though shame glistened in her eyes, he caught a flicker of a wish that her messiah would return to her tonight and deliver unto her the same pleasure once again. And she would never be truly freed of those thoughts. She could only repress them at best.

Tristan then asked, “Was he wearing anything that might help us recognize him? Did he take anything?” The girl thought silently then answered that as she remained sprawled and exhausted on the bed, she noticed that the orc had left a leather brown cloak with a wolf ornament pinned to the right breast. Tristan’s shoulders fell upon hearing this for such a cloak could be found anywhere.

After returning to his chambers, Tristan’s mind buzzed with unanswered questions. How did an orc enter the city undetected? How did he know exactly where and when to ambush the night patrol before entering the tavern? How did he vanish into thin air? No one would willingly shelter an orc, right? Then where was he hiding and when would he strike again? Finding himself completely stumped, Tristan began undoing the buckles to his armor in frustration, stowing his helmet, gauntlets and boots on the floor of his closet. As he decided that a visit to Cordelia might soothe his spirits, he completely failed to notice that tucked in the back of the closet, was a leather brown cloak with a wolf ornament pinned to the right breast.

My Vision: An intense corruption story where Tristan is cursed to ultimately turn into an orc/Hulk-like man bent only on fighting, killing, eating, drinking, fucking and breeding. (The transformation must be severe enough that Tristan must not be recognizable.) These transformations occur every couple nights with Tristan reverting before morning, usually soon after orgasm. Although Tristan won’t initially remember what he does in his alternate form, he will begin regaining some consciousness and control of his actions while transformed, but ultimately overwhelmed by his primal desires. You write for Cordelia. I write for Tristan. We share control of side characters, although whether or not you want to write sex scenes controlling them (due to Tristan raping them) is up for discussion. Cordelia and Tristan are romantically interested in each other but haven’t progressed very far in their relationship beyond holding hands, kissing and perhaps the occasional grope.

There’s a couple plot events I think the story should have, listed here in chronological order: (Of course, if you wanted to fast forward toward Cordelia’s corruption, that can be discussed. Warning, spoilers ahead.)

1) Cordelia (a virgin at this point) and Tristan sleep together for the first time in secret.

2) Tristan continues to have transformations, gaining more clarity with each one. (I think it’d be ideal if we played out him attacking a civilian once, but it’s up in the air.) Cordelia and Tristan also continue sleeping together in secret, him teaching her how to derive pleasure from her body.

3) Cordelia journeys to a neighboring kingdom for diplomatic reasons, whereas Tristan remains behind to investigate the mysterious orc that’s been appearing. But when Cordelia’s retinue make camp in the evening, a transformed Tristan appears, kills all of her guards and rapes Cordelia before escaping.

4) A shaken Cordelia returns home, guilt ridden at having been ‘defiled’ by the orc. She sleeps with Tristan, but finds it unsatisfactory. Tristan has also come to enjoy sex while transformed, although he’s still not aware who it is his alter ego who raped Cordelia.

5) Tristan transforms sometime later. After returning from another brutal rape, he’s in the process of returning to his human form when Cordelia stumbles upon him and makes the connection that Tristan and the orc are the same.

6) Cordelia keeps the revelation a secret from Tristan, certain that him knowing that he raped her against her will would break him. However, she begins to internally rationalize it to justify sleeping with him in his orc form again. Thoughts like It’s not rape if it’s someone I loved and enjoyed it after.

A lot of options are available to us at this point. Perhaps Cordelia attempts to find a cure for Tristan’s affliction. However, I believe the most suitable storyline would be that of Cordelia and Tristan committing themselves to a life of mutual sexual hedonism, with Cordelia even seeking to make Tristan’s transformation permanent. Having been tainted by the orc’s fluids, her desires grow increasingly deviant until she’s practically insatiable and/or mindbroken by the story’s end. I apologize if this prompt doesn’t flesh out Cordelia, but this prompt has already grown quite extensive.

My profile if you’re interested. No chat requests. Let’s talk first.