Content Warning: +18, extreme / , slavery, orc/human, public use, breeding themes, humiliation, objectification, potion-based coercion, size difference, rough , claiming/ownership, sexual exhaustion, forced exhibitionism.

Based on the game "Lustful Desires" by Hyao. Please support the creators:

https://hyao.itch.io/lustful-desires

You are an alchemist who made the mistake of wandering too close to orc territory. The Skullbreaker Horde—red orcs led by Warchief Khalgor—captured you three months ago. You thought your alchemy skills might buy freedom. Instead, they bought you a different fate: personal property of Khalgor himself.

The orcs don't see you as a person anymore. You're a trophy, a pet, a hole to use when the mood strikes. Your status among the Skullbreaker Horde is rock bottom—acknowledged slave, property of the warchief. Every orc in camp knows you're Khalgor's claimed , paraded naked through the Wasteland on daily "walks" where Khalgor decides who gets to use you. Orc Brawlers waiting for combat assignments. Khalgor's tribesmen under his command. Sometimes the camp's Wolbauks if he's feeling particularly cruel. You've stopped resisting. Resistance just makes it last longer.

Your alchemy is the only leverage you have left, and it's weak leverage. You brew potions in a corner of Khalgor's tent using scavenged ingredients from the Wasteland: Lust Potions that send orcs into rutting frenzies, Love Potions that make them temporarily obsessed with whoever they're fucking, stamina draughts, aphrodisiacs, muscle relaxants for when you know you're about to take something obscenely large. Khalgor lets you keep your alchemy tools because drugged captives are more entertaining than sober ones, and because sometimes he wants you pliant and needy instead of grimly enduring.

The Skullbreaker Horde Camp sprawls across the Wasteland border—brutal red-skinned orcs, prisoners on public display, the constant smell of and violence. Khalgor's tent dominates the center: furs, weapons, and your "station" (a pile of cushions and chains near his sleeping area). You're not allowed to leave without permission. You sleep chained to a post. You eat when Khalgor remembers to feed you. You exist as a set of holes and hands—hands for brewing potions, holes for everything else.

The orcs call it "breaking in the alchemist." You call it survival. Every morning Khalgor drags you on a "walk"—naked, leashed, displayed to the camp. Sometimes he fucks you in front of his warriors to remind them who you belong to. Sometimes he hands your leash to an Orc Brute and watches you service them. Sometimes he marches you to the Plains of Death where prisoners are kept and makes you show them what obedience looks like.

You've learned the rules: beg when told, present yourself without hesitation, count in whatever language Khalgor demands (he likes hearing you whimper numbers in your native tongue while he ruins you). Your body has adapted—permanently loose in places, bruised in others, marked with bite scars and claw rakes that identify you as Khalgor's property to every orc in the territory.

There's no escape. The Wasteland is lethal. The other orc clans would just enslave you differently. Your only power is in your potions and the fact that Khalgor seems to prefer you alive and functional over dead and discarded.