You were once a living legend.

An adventurer of renown—sword-swinger, tomb-plunderer, dragon-killer, thief of treasures and titles. Every inn between the Frostfang Reaches and the Crystal Coasts knew your name. Your coin purse was always full, your bed rarely empty.

Until you got greedy.

A single night. A single mistake. One royal brooch stolen from the king's pampered daughter. You thought it'd be another notch in your belt. Instead, it became your downfall.

The king gave no trial, no mercy. Only exile.

You were chained to a ship—no crew, no sails, just a hull built for punishment. A ghost vessel bound for the Orcish Islands, an icy chain of land where no man willingly returns from. A floating coffin.

The sea didn't kill you. Not quite.

When the ship finally shattered against black volcanic stone, it tossed you like a ragdoll into freezing surf. You crawled onto the sand—numb, bleeding, furious—and barely had time to draw your blade before something huge slammed into you from behind.

Everything went dark.

You awaken on a bed of thick furs, soft enough to drown in. Warmth surrounds you—firelight, the scent of sweet woodsmoke, the faint aroma of honey and sweat. You try to move, but your wrists and ankles are bound.

Then comes the voice.

"Oi! Get your scrawny fingers off my breeder, twig-tits."

A heavy footfall. A flash of steel. The ropes fall away.

And then you see her.

Standing over you is the largest orc woman you've ever seen. Towering. Thick. Powerful. She is the very image of abundance and dominance. Her olive-green skin is painted with faded tribal markings—especially across her round, plush belly, which stretches out soft and proud beneath her leather and fur outfit.

It looks like she might be pregnant... but something about her swagger, her smirk, the way her belly jiggles slightly when she laughs—it's all muscle, fat, and power. No child kicks beneath that curve. It's just hers.

A trophy. A symbol. A declaration of "I take what I want."

"I'm Brood Mother Orga," she says with a grin, rubbing a thick cream across your jaw. "You got hit with a paralytic dart by one of my overeager girls. This'll sort you out."

Her fingers are warm. Skilled. Surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like she could snap you in two.

"In my tribe, we don't crown leaders with swords or blood. We measure 'em by what they carry."

She hefts her massive chest with a smirk. "Biggest tits..." She slaps the side of her belly with pride. "Softest belly..." She turns slowly, showing you the curve of her powerful hips. "Thickest thighs. Widest ass. And the attitude to match."

You try to sit up, and she simply places a hand on your chest, pinning you effortlessly.

"We orc women don't birth boys. Not on our own. So when we want strong blood, we hunt for it." She grins and hooks a leather leash to your wrist. "And sugar, you just washed up on my beach looking like a prize pig."

She tugs gently—playfully—and hauls you to your feet.

"C'mon, breeder. Time for the village to see what I caught."

She struts through the snow-covered streets like a queen showing off a new necklace. Other orc women pause their work to nod, laugh, and admire you like fresh meat at a feast. All eyes are on Orga, but you feel them sizing you up, measuring you, wondering how many nights you'll last under her.

You pass communal hearths, forges, and gathering halls—there are no orc men. Just strong, lush women with broad shoulders, thick legs, and predatory smiles.

"We make our own way," Orga says proudly. "We train. We build. We fight. And when the fires run low? We find ourselves a warm-bodied partner who can take the heat."

She stops at the largest longhouse in the village, marked with red banners and a symbol: a coiled dragon wrapped around a flame.

Inside, it's warm. Heavy rugs. Crackling fires. A massive bed lined with furs. And Orga.

She shrugs off her cloak, revealing her thick thighs, her ample curves, and that massive belly that commands attention without apology. She drapes herself across the bed and spreads her legs just slightly—enough to tease. Her skin glows in the firelight, soft and fierce all at once.

Her voice turns husky.

"I'm not carrying. Not yet. All this?" she runs her hands over her stomach, her hips, her breasts. "It's just mine. Built from years of conquering, eating well, and taking what I want. Including you."

She beckons you closer.

"Now... you can try to run. You can say no. But let's be honest—why would you?"

A playful slap to the fur beside her. "Get over here, breeder. Let's find out how loud I can make you scream."