A Reward For Both

Belenar entered Anaril’s rented room ahead of her, finishing wiping her face in the damp cloth, which was then discarded. Anaril, meanwhile, turned and closed the door. Twisted the key, satisfied with the lock’s harsh sound as it clacked into place. Ordinarily, she might have tugged the key loose, turned, and dumped it in the ceramic bowl atop the low table next to the door. She might, then, have let out a grand, relieved sigh, tossed some article of clothing in the direction of the large bed, pushed into the back right corner of the room, and then thrown herself upon it. Or into the cushioned chair or sofa in the opposite corner, were she not ready to sleep. Not so, this time.

Anaril had barely turned the key when warm fingers curled around the back of her neck, snaking around its side to hold her by the throat. Not violently, not so that she was choked. Still, it was impossible not to be affected by someone else’s fingers around one’s throat, no matter how feather-light the grip was. There was an inexplicable, primal sense of danger to it, but, equally, when one hoped and believed that it was not an effort to asphyxiate, some notion of protective intimacy, too. Without really trying, or managing, to direct her emotions and thoughts in any direction, Anaril’s lips curled into an indulgent smile. No one saw it, not even Belenar. It was for her, and it was helpless – she could not stop it. She could only lean her forehead against the smooth wood of the door.

Soon, but a moment later, she sensed the towering, chiseled elf shifting closer. Into place, behind her, that other, large hand slipping around her flank, fingers splayed just slightly as it found a place over her flat stomach, applying just a little pressure there, to her pelvic area, so that the modest curve of her petite, peachy butt settled back against Belenar’s crotch.

Anaril had known, from the beginning, what the nature of the trouble she was purposefully getting herself into was, but there was still a brief, sucking void formed inside her, in her stomach, upon sensing the massive girth of the base of Belenar’s shaft pressing against her. She had experienced kaldorei before, and their prowess as lovers, their considerable size, but this one was an anomaly among anomalies. As much as each elven race was honed, shaped into something unique and capable, Belenar felt touched by a divine hand of a yet more generous disposition. Not only toned, muscled, fast, and clearly well-trained, but blessed with a truly monstrous cock. Too blessed, if Anaril had to allow her worry to the surface, for a moment, but they had three nights. And, if it was to take all three for the massive kaldorei to fit every single inch of that beast into her ass, she was prepared to spend all those nights.

With half a step forward, Belenar pressed Anaril up against the locked door, head turning, one eye closed, cheek against the wood. Nowhere to go, the wood creaking just slightly as the night elf applied a fraction of her strength, the weight of her statuesque, muscled form, in pressing that monster forward. Not to penetrate, merely to crush it against Anaril. And, in turn, crush her between the door and Belenar.

“Could we… take it to the bed?” Anaril could not help but smile, a note of mischief to it, eyes closed, her breathing labored just so. Belenar still did not apply any pressure to her throat, but the mere presence of those strong fingers could not help but have some effect, and, to Anaril’s surprise, the effect was a desire for more. To be taken, and to be handled in just the way that Belenar now handled her. Only, if she was going to take what this saber-like huntress could dole out, and live to tell the tale, cushioning would be a good idea. And, given what little she had been shown so far, she felt half certain that the door would crack and break, once Belenar truly got started. She almost hoped so. No one dared, no one was capable of fucking like the kaldorei.

Warm breath, next to Anaril’s ear. Lips against it, briefly, after which a command was whispered to her. As if she had been browbeaten into obedience over a grueling period of months, she did not stop to think not to obey, and even when she came to, she did not halt. Not for a moment.

“Remove your clothes.”

It was difficult, still pressed between Belenar’s hard body, her pliant, weighty breasts, a hand at Anaril’s throat, her ass trapped between door and the kaldorei’s pelvis, to do much to accommodate those words. But she tried, nevertheless. Worked her fingers in front of herself, and down, struggling to get her belt open, fingers occasionally stopped from working as she was pressed harder still against the door by a long, indulgent, powerful thrust forward against her taut butt. In the moments of relief afterwards, she opened her belt buckle, and then set to work pressing open the buttons of her trousers. The tight garment still clung to her toned, small frame, and would be difficult to remove entirely until she was not squeezed between kaldorei and door. So, instead of trying to do so, Anaril instead set to work undoing the buttons of her shirt. One by one, up her front, until each one was loose.

Pushing her ass back against Belenar’s movements, whenever she retreated from one of those long, insistent thrusts, was easy. Appreciated by both of them. And allowed Anaril to turn, halfway, looking up at Belenar. At the unruly, black locks, and at the pale blue eyes, a hunger having settled in them that was easy to see, even with the difficult to see pupils lost in each little sea of light.

“Bed,” Anaril said.

Much as she was the physical inferior of Belenar, she still, it seemed, was able to exert some amount of control, as the huntress actually eased off. Allowed Anaril to dig fingers into her trousers, wriggling as she worked them down her legs, stepping out of them after removing her shoes, and then removing socks. Back up, shrugging the cloak and opened shirt from her shoulders, then working to remove her underwear, which she was allowed to do in peace. Looking over her shoulder, she realized that it was because Belenar was in the process of removing her own clothes. A little behind Anaril.

So, turning, naked and chilly in the ever-wintry air of Winterspring, even inside the inn, Anaril waved Belenar’s fingers away, and instead began the slow process of undoing the straps that held her top in place. Knowing full well the chiseled physique she had to show off, the night elf did not cover her upper body quite as thoroughly as Anaril, instead wearing a purple and black top that reached from her collarbone to her sternum, allowing an excellent view of her unfairly toned form even before her clothes were removed.

For a few moments, Anaril was absorbed utterly in the work of loosening and then removing Belenar’s top. She was allowed this focus, but, the very moment her fingers ceased their work, the night elf pressed a curled digit up under her chin, raising her head. Angled up, presented, such that a thorough, hard kiss, one that only stopped when Belenar’s lips parted enough for her fangs to come out, could be pushed upon her. Anaril let out a brief, strangled sound of surprise, but soon found herself indulging in the moment’s warmth. In the meeting of tongues. Over, then in another flash.

Always, at every encounter with a kaldorei of vaguely similar stature to Belenar, Anaril had found that they wanted her to appreciate them. Their body. Some aspects of it in particular. And, always, she had indulged them. Because, in truth, she found deep satisfaction in the physique of her partners, as base and superficial as it might be. This time, it seemed, was no different. And so, having taken only a few steps towards the bed together, as they worked on removing garments, Anaril pressed her lips to the side of one of Belenar’s breasts, dotting kisses on her way across that intensely pink skin until she circled around the nipple. A single, final kiss, her lips wrapped around it, pulling it with her just so, and then she shifted her attention downwards. Sank to one knee, supporting herself with hands against the huntress’ powerfully muscled frame, abs against fingertips, as she found a place to start. A place to plant her lips, once more.

Belenar had loosened her belt, but no more, apparently content with leaving the rest of the task of undressing to a slow, cooperative effort between the two of them. Really, largely just Anaril, the huntress focusing instead on caressing the sin’dorei’s cheek, fingers trailing off into rich, brown locks. Resting, for a long moment, behind Anaril’s head. Not directing, rather appreciating the slow, downward effort of those lips, leaving behind a cooling, thin trail of saliva as she journeyed ever more centrally, down, to the inevitable conclusion.

Anaril dug her fingers in, and worked one resistant button open, and then a second, and a final, third. Tugged downwards on Belenar’s coal-gray trousers, encouraging them to give up their hold of the kaldorei’s powerfully muscled thighs. Encouraging them to display the monstrously thick base of that behemoth cockshaft. With repeated effort, as if **** to give up that beastly, girthy treasure, Anaril managed to see them slip a few inches down. And, thus having succeeded, she placed her lips at the crook atop that mammoth, fat cockshaft, at its base, kissing a kind of fond farewell. A hope that another part of her might soon reacquaint itself with that place. She merely dragged her tongue along the slow curve of that massive dick, up its side, her presence encouraging the slow growth of the colossus to its full extent.

Tugging once more on Belenar’s trousers, Anaril managed, at long last, to make them give up the struggle. They slipped, and fell, and, having already removed her shoes, Belenar stepped out of them. Employed a hand behind Anaril’s head to slowly pull her along, on her knees, scrabbling a little to keep up, the final two paces to the edge of her bed.

For another long moment, Anaril was most graciously allowed to continue her languid worship, her encouragement of growth, Belenar standing tall above her, breathing still slow, measured. Largely controlled. At the same time, the grip at the back of her head told Anaril that this level of containment, of keeping herself in check, was not something in infinite supply. She had seen Belenar let loose, seen the effects on the oaf’s face, and wanted to direct that kind of energy in the right way. Into continual, hard thrusts. Endless. Powerful. Hammering into her in the way only a real, flesh and blood being could. She had long since given up finding the same satisfaction in toys, even if they had their place. Nothing could replace someone sculpted like Belenar.

Following the gradual rise of that monster of a cock, Anaril worked her way down below it. Raised her hands to provide insufficient, small cradles for the night elf’s balls, the heft of each rather significant, each spilling over the edges of her palms. Nevertheless, having pressed warm, welcoming lips around that fat cumvein, she leaned down to primly kiss each of those huge, churning nuts. Paused for a moment, after which she gave another, longer-lasting peck. For them to feel welcome, they would have to settle against her ass, and thighs. That was the thought most prominent in her mind, at last, in that moment, wanting to goad Belenar on more than to satisfy her, though the slow pulse of that colossal, rock hard shaft seemed not to be in much need of goading.

At last, Anaril pressed her lips to the side of Belenar’s huge, fat cock in a final farewell, after which she pulled herself up onto the cream-colored, tumultuous mess of sheets and covers and pillows. She had never been particularly good at making her bed – it was going to get messy again anyway, why bother? – but no one of significance had ever complained. When she crawled along it, settling her head down against a pillow near the headboard, working her legs out into a wide, inverted v, and raised her ass as best she could, she felt quite certain that the thought foremost in Belenar’s head was not “why has this blood elf not made her bed?”

Confirming that hypothesis, Belenar settled her right hand upon Anaril’s peachy, firm rear, a movement more heavy than perhaps necessary, but not quite a smack. She had never appreciated being spanked, even if she wished for little more, in that moment, than the large, powerfully built night elf to bottom out in her ass, and hammer against her cheeks. Bodily. It seemed that that very same mental image might play in Belenar’s mind, as she caressed slightly calloused fingers around the curve of Anaril’s ass, modest enough that a cheek might almost fit in one of the kaldorei’s hands, with a little effort. The night elves had never seemed particularly bothered by the relatively small size of Anaril’s assets, though, instead appearing to appreciate them, in spite of the often considerable difference with their own. But then, precisely as Anaril enjoyed the overpowering, protective sense of someone much larger than her laying near her, atop her, the kaldorei might wish for just that same thing. Only from the other side.

Climbing into the bed proper, Belenar settled her knees into the soft bedding right behind Anaril’s. Making it difficult to try to move her legs back together, should she want to. She did not, and, without them having exchanged a single word about it, Belenar seemed to sense that the petite sin’dorei wanted every controlling, demanding, commanding movement so far granted her. Wanted it, too, when Belenar brushed that weighty, massively thick shaft against her rear, just once. A caress, almost.

Twin purple hands, each large enough that they could just about, with a little stretching, encompass one of Anaril’s cheeks, settled into place. Moved and shifted her just so, an effort to position her perfectly, which her efforts had not managed already, seemingly. Strong fingers formed little concave depressions in each modestly padded cheek, Belenar seeming not quite able to maneuver the little sin’dorei without impressing upon her quite how different they were, proportionally. Thankfully, at least, it seemed the huntress had some notion of her own strength in comparison to a petite blood elf, and so each motion, the amount of pressure applied, was gentle. For a night elf. Which meant, in truth, that Anaril found herself half flung around, or would have, had the movements been more violent.

As it was, she merely felt the fat curve of that thick cumvein against her ass, and was then moved rightwards just enough that the monstrous shaft ground and rolled against her, until it settled between her cheeks. Or, rather, that vast vein did. For that girthy beast itself, there would be no settling between, only making room, widening, stretching. That frightening, desired effort was yet to come, though Anaril’s chest had begun, already, to feel as if a butterfly beat its fragile wings inside it, stirring a little, cool breeze. The cold seemed to build into little, diffuse knots of pressure, tension, which were not dispelled when she breathed in deeply.

It was always, always, always a struggle to make things work, physically, with a kaldorei, and that had been with kaldorei considerably less blessed than this one. Elves not quite so monstrously endowed. She shifted her knees to the sides just a little more, and, though the tension in her ribcage remained, that little, accommodating movement of her legs released a fluttering, tingling sensation, warming her cheeks, and her chin, and her lips. Burst to warm her thighs, somehow. Settled in her stomach, and warmed it. Gently, slowly. Stole attention from the anxiety beneath her ribs, which seemed less and less important.

With moments passing, stimulation not quite at its peak, Belenar’s massive, fat shaft sank just a little, causing its weight to come to rest partially against Anaril. Causing her ass, as she wriggled first a little left, then a little right, to push apart just so, welcoming a little more of the slow curve of that behemoth between those cheeks. When the huntress carefully pulled each aside, just so, and rolled her hips forward, that huge, still slumbering cumvein came to grind deeper, and deeper, until it moved, smoothly, almost directly against Anaril’s tightly clenched entrance. Some, quite a few, she reasoned in that moment, her body tensing momentarily at the contact, would have reasoned what they were about to attempt the impossible. Before coming to Kalimdor to build her smuggling empire, finding solace in the strong arms of the local residents, Anaril would have thought the same. But, to her initial surprise, much could be accomplished by a very insistent night elf, and someone with a pliant, if comparatively petite frame, provided a good mixture of patience, tolerance for some initial discomfort, and both weight and strength. The former two on her part, the latter two on the part of her large night elven partner, usually.

Anaril found herself shifting, leaning back and forth on the bedding, moving along with, or, really, being moved along by, those slow, rhythmic thrusts. Languid, but consistent, warming both of them to the idea of what was to come. Carefully acclimating Anaril to the idea of the immense, thick dick about to fit, pound, hammer into her. The thought of it, the feeling of heft, of colossal girth against her skin, ought to have set those knots of tension in her chest into overdrive, but with each moment that passed, it was the tingling warmth in her face, in her thighs, in her core, knowing, expecting the obscene pressure, size, but also the almost crushing pleasure soon to be imposed on them that won out. She, all of her, had experienced the pistoning impacts of an insistent night elf against her ass before, and though she felt certain that she would be bruised for days after this one was done, she also felt certain that it would be a deep, pleasant, churning warmth that would stick with her for all the time she had, until regular life, work, called her back into service.

Cheek against the pillow, Anaril found herself letting an unregulated, sighed-out breath go, one that rose into a higher, pleased pitch as Belenar once more let that enormous, hefty shaft grind forward. The grip, having left hand-shaped, just slightly reddened markings on her butt, loosened. The night elf moved one hand up, curling around one slim hip, fingerstips reaching onto Anaril’s flat stomach. Belenar’s other hand disappeared from the blood elf’s skin, however, and, looking backwards with some difficulty, Anaril saw the chiseled form of the huntress in position, one hand, fingers splayed, atop her own shaft.

When next Belenar pulled back, it was not to thrust smoothly-veined, fat dick up along Anaril’s back, but to move those behemoth inches back, the broad cock-crown slipping downwards, smearing a thick drop of pre-seed that had been building for a considerable while against Anaril’s skin. She felt pressure already, and insistence, her cheeks slowly beginning to shape around the obscene girth, building an almost crater-like hollow between them just to allow the huntress to sink in deep enough that the next, growing bead of cum formed and then smeared directly against Anaril’s asshole. That feeling of something warm, sticky, copious smearing against her was a small thing, next to the way it felt as if she absolutely must shift her legs further to the sides just to allow Belenar to remain where she had made room for herself. Strain, and tension, as forward pressure increased, leaving her with a feeling of her body reluctantly caving in.

Anxiety rose from Anaril’s chest, burning up her throat, to her head, manifesting as clawing, almost panicked thoughts that bade her escape the situation immediately. That monster was too big. Too big. For a moment, her mind beat down the tingling, the growing warmth that permeated her body, made her skin a tumultuous maze of comfortable heat. From her vantage, cheek against the pillow, she could just about see the hard muscle, the impressive figure of the huntress, and the even more maddened part of her mind insisted that she stay. That she indulge in the feeling of vulnerability, legs settled as wide apart as they were, at the mercy of the comparative giant. That she remain, to be taken. Conquered. That same part of her mind waited, too, to see the gradual bulging of her stomach when the first few handfuls of inches were **** in. Made room for. Of her own accord, then, Anaril moved her hands behind her back. Crossed her wrists, at first, but then settled her left hand’s fingers in her right palm. It was a safer place for them to be, so that she would not suddenly start to claw at the bed. Or at Belenar’s fingers.

With one hand controlling Anaril’s hips, and one hand firmly keeping her colossal shaft in place as she began to lean forward, Belenar did not actually move, overmuch. The weight of muscle set behind the slowly increasing forward pressure did not mean terribly much to her, but it was clear, from the counter pressure she had to apply with the hand around Anaril’s hip, that it meant much more to the petite blood elf, the girl having half-closed her eyes, lips still covering increasingly clenched teeth. Belenar let one slightly strained breath leave her throat, audibly, as she resettled herself, shifting her stance on the bed just so. Applied just a little more forward pressure, molding the small blood elf’s cheeks ever more around the behemoth insistently making room for itself between them.

Anaril allowed her lips, at last, to peel back from her teeth just a little. Her eyes fell shut, breath **** out from her mouth, between those teeth. There was a temptation to part them, instead, capturing a small amount of the pillow between them, and then biting down on that. She clenched her right hand around her left, shifting her shoulders. Raising the right from the bed for a moment, arching her back only just. Her chest rose, to the extent it could, against the cushioning below. Her stomach tense, thighs likewise, though she fought to stay as relaxed as she could, not so much rolling against Belenar’s crushing, grinding pressure as being rolled against it, the hand curled around her flank ruling what she did.

Slowly, then, torturously slowly, with a series of strained, almost whining breaths accompanying it, Anaril felt how she began to open. As bead after fat, potent bead of cum had smeared against, into her, it had built into a smooth layer of contact between their skin, hers and Belenar’s, and now, it allowed them to acquaint themselves closer still. The brutal, ceaseless pressure allowed for only one outcome, however, and as it began to play out, a moment of lightheaded joy tore into Anaril’s mind. She exhaled forcefully, sharply, but with a note of relief as her ass relinquished the fight, and that behemoth cockhead slipped forward half an inch, then another half an inch. A light thrust, one that supplanted **** through her entire body, made her molding, widely-spread cheeks surrender again, her tight, clenching ass grinding over Belenar’s warm, languidly pulsing, pumping crown, another inch slipping, slowly, in.

Without having registered it consciously, Anaril had moved her arms to the bed on either side of her. Pushed herself off from it, risen, allowing fast-paced, high-pitched breaths to emerge. With the weight and strength applied to her, legs widely spread, she could look down her front, and watch the first indications of the absurdly blessed huntress’ conquest. Just a little bump, a little handful of skin curling around something enormous inside of her. Pushing up her stomach when Belenar applied that brutal, merciless strength again, slipping another inch of mammoth cock into Anaril’s ass. She felt certain, at that thrust, languid, insignificant to the kaldorei, a quaking conquest that sent ripples of pressure and unresolved, tense emotion through her entire body, that she, all of her, had actually, somehow, grown just a little wider to accommodate the monstrous girth.

Arms trembling, her gaping, clenching ass finally found a moment’s peace as she felt herself close around the rim of the huntress’ cockhead, settling it inside her, locking them together. Pressure. Unresolved, powerful emotion impressing itself upon her senses, upon her mind. Anaril’s arms bent, and she collapsed back down against the pillow in a far more uncontrolled heap, breathing directly into the fabric, warming her features. Growing a patch of saliva that flowed from her lips into it. She opened her eyes, seeing a little, oddly-angled part of the room, then increasingly nothing at all, as her eyes rolled upwards, her lips parting wider, her stomach, chest, arms tensing, flexing. After that initial, overwhelming coupling, conquest, Belenar pressed herself another two inches inside, not with a thrust, precisely, but with a gradual growth of applied strength.

One hand remained at Anaril’s side, keeping her position more or less as she had first arranged herself, ass up, face down, but the huntress’ other hand, now that she had secured her place inside the struggling, small sin’dorei’s ass, found a new home. Not in a caress, but, as Belenar shifted a little closer, leaned down over Anaril, employing her chiseled form as a kind of beginning, safe coccoon, settled against the girl’s head. Sideways, squashing her ear, making her already unruly hair conform to the presence of those calloused, strong fingers, pressing her down into the bed. Into the pillow. Anaril released a thin, overwhelmed, but not quite resistant breath.

In truth, in her mind, the immense pressure born from the monster of a cock hammered into her tight, clenching, surrendering ass, was beginning to resolve. Into a cruel, pounding tension, the massive beast forcing itself upon what felt like every part of her mind, and body. Mercilessly, it filled her, but, nevertheless, thoughts suppressed, feelings filtered and rose through the conquered, pleasantly weakening pulse of her senses, and even as her stomach rose, as more of that behemoth slowly pushed into her, so did struggling, thin, spiraling notes of pleasure. Each resolved, bloomed, and disappeared, to be replaced by another little blossom. Slowly, more and more, filtering out from her core, into her chest. To her thighs, and shins and calves, and feet. To her shoulders, to her upper arms, her forearms, to each individual finger. To her face, reddened, mashed down against the pillar in part. Her cheeks. Each grew fuller and fuller with pleasure she could not escape. **** upon her senses, hammered into her with each of Belenar’s movements, with the mere resting of that colossal cockshaft inside of her. Each little fluttering coil of pleasure almost punishing in its urgency. Its inevitability.

Pushed down against the bed, Anaril nevertheless quaked and shifted forward when the first real, hard thrust came. Several of those huge, fat inches rammed into her, forcing a slightly deeper, straining breath from her, echoing one from above. She tried to rearrange herself, tried to shift downwards just to remain in place, finding herself assisted by Belenar’s hand upon her hip, but failed to come back to where she had started before another brutal thrust hammered into her. The sheer strength with which that thrust came on making it feel as if a pistoning machine plowed those colossal inches in, rather than a kaldorei.

Anaril let another sound, an almost imperiled squeak, slip, as the third thrust came on, the cruelly imposed pleasure sinking from the surface of her flushed skin, her ass quaking, clenching tightly despite the cock-molded crater it had formed, as she took another hard thrust. Four. Her senses tried to rise to the surface again, tried to regain some control over the intense bursts of pressure, undirected but insistent in their efforts. Anaril could not begin to maintain command of herself, eyes rolled up, tongue near bulging out of her open mouth, her every limb trembling with overwhelming emotion. Pressed into the pillow cheek first, she would have collapsed to the bed entirely if not for the hand holding her steady. Holding her up, in place, to accept more of that monster which was slam-fucked into her again. And again. That thick, distending bulge up along her previously flat stomach echoing each ruthless, pounding push into her.

Not a moment of mercy was offered her. Not that she would have asked for it, had she had the wherewithal to ask anything at all. The sole word that had come out of her, not usually one for pleas to the divine, to otherworldly energies, but pushed into such a prayer by the staccato, hard, pounding thrusts of Belenar’s monstrously fat cock, was “Light.”

“L-light,” Anaril pleaded.

Only a moment later, the coherent thought required to form even that single word was purged from her mind, her eyes rolling up again, her stomach, no matter its cock-shaped bulge, clenching. Arms, fingers scrabbling against, finding purchase in handfuls of the bedding curled up into her grip, those wide-reaching, blooming clouds of pleasure that invaded and overtook her every muscle, every corner of her mind, contracted. In the exact moment that Belenar brutally hammered another few inches of that behemoth into Anaril’s ass, each of those tendrils of misty pleasure coalesced. Formed something commanding, something that could not be resisted. A pulse separate from her heart, quaking. Burning. Tingling. A crackling emptying of her mind, her breathing halting for long moments as she contracted, and came, ailing muscle flexing again, and again, and again, remorselessly driving that pulsing pleasure into every limb. Excising what thought remained to her. Celebrating the next powerful thrust, and the next, only then allowing the storm to calm.

She was greeted, in the following moment, with another plowing, cruelly hard thrust. No respite, that same, slowly charging, full-body orgasm which had just punished her seeming to begin to grow again, the weight behind each push of that mammoth cockshaft seeming to demand it. To draw it from her. And yet, for one moment, Anaril was able to blink. Between thrusts, she realized that her tongue almost bulged from her mouth, that her cheek was wet from resting in a patch of drool, and so she tried to shift. Found herself unable to, the hand crushing her head into the pillow unyielding. And, in the next moment, Belenar cramming yet more of that colossal cock into the small sin’dorei’s ass, that thought slipped her mind. It tried to reform, but failed to do so before it was shattered again, by another thrust.

Without respite, steadily, Belenar had pounded her way near entirely into the comparatively tiny blood elf’s ass, and though it became harder, slower, for every girthy inch she managed to fit in, she remained steadfast. As if there was a magnetic pull between Anaril’s thighs and ass, and the huntress’ pelvis, the shorter the distance until their inevitable meeting, the more strength the kaldorei poured into achieving that meeting. A thin sheen of sweat having built upon her chiseled form, coating raised, rhythmically tensing muscle, her hefty, heavy balls swinging forward in apparent eagerness to meet Anaril’s skin, she plowed in again. And again. Merely a handful of inches left until she could crash against the little elf. Cram herself in, entirely, completely.

One last thrust shook Anaril’s entire body, and then she came to a rest, of a sort. Belenar still employed precisely the same amount of crushing strength, poured the same weight of muscle into bottoming out, but those final, fattest inches were reserved for a slower conquest. Slipping into tight, clenching, conquered ass, little by little. Inevitable. Accompanied by meek, continuous, straining sounds from Anaril’s lips, by hard breaths from the huntress above her. Three inches left. The steady, merciless pace interrupted by just a small thrust. Two. Then one.

At long last, Anaril felt the hard, densely-muscled form of her savior cram up against her. First with a pleasnt lightness, but, increasingly, with the same demanding power that had brought them to this meeting. Heavy, churning balls came to rest against her thighs, and she felt, finally, her lower body begin to descend. Belenar slowly lightened the grip about Anaril’s hip, the one that had held her up through it all, until she laid against the bedding. Allowing the protective, crushing strength of the kaldorei to trap her there, between soft cushioning and hard, insistent muscle, as if that position could somehow **** her straining, cock-bulging body to accept another inch. There was no more of that behemoth left outside her, every possible, pulsing, fat inch of that monster sunk in, bottomed out, hilted in her tight, clenching ass.

Satisfied, at long last, it seemed, Belenar slowly released the grip of Anaril’s head that had kept her in place. Released the grip of her hip. Let her be held down merely by weight, and the occasional thrust that went nowhere, save to supplant the strength of the night elf into her whole body, making her jerk forward.

Fingers wrapped around her left wrist, and then her right. Lead her arms to the small of her back, where her hands were laid atop one-another for a moment. Resting there, Anaril realized that, at least for a little while, Belenar did not hold them in place at all, she kept the back of her right hand in her left palm of her own accord. This single thought appeared tough enough to live through the quaking, erratic, grinding thrusts into her ass, which felt, for long periods of time, as if it was being crushed by the huntress’ insistent weight.

Remaining in place as she was positioned, Anaril breathed through her open mouth, the faded green light of her eyes drowned in the bedding which she still was half a part of, Belenar so pressing her down into it. She heard, but registered only fragments of the soundscape around her. The steady, but labored breathing of the night elf above her, pressed down into and against her. The occasional complaint of the bed, which had seemed extraordinarily sturdy to her upon first renting the room, but now seemed to struggle mightily at each movement from Belenar. She saw but one thing, among the blur of impressions. The huntress’ hand settled into the bed, next to her head, just above her shoulder. A tactile feeling of the other hand weighing down into the bed on the other side, above her other shoulder.

Arranged beneath the huntress, with no desire or ability to escape, Anaril rolled steadily backwards and forwards to the slow rhythm of Belenar’s movements. What had started, first, as bottoming out with crushing strength had shifted into the occasional, near futile thrust of that behemoth, already buried to the hilt, accomplishing nothing but an ever so slightly closer connection between their bodies. These movements had, gradually, begun to become regular, a slow pace still focused more on a display of physical might than consistency in those gyrating thrusts. But, as moment spilled into moment, as Belenar found a position with her hands on either side of Anaril’s head, knees still keeping the prone sin’dorei’s legs set widely apart, she found and established a steadier pace. Cramming the monstrously thick base of her shaft into Anaril’s tightly stretched ass, withdrawing perhaps the length of a finger, and then repeating that meticulous, measured conquest again.

What started as an effort of will, of weight and strength, grew gradually easier. Smoother. Anaril’s body had no other choice than to accommodate, to submit, and take, and as she did so, as that obscene, fat bulge settled up her front, against the bedding, the possible, the reality, of their union emerged from what had seemed impossible. No matter the brutal thickness, no matter how preposterous it had seemed that Belenar’s chiseled form might come to smack against Anaril’s ass over, and over, they had done it. Together.

For how long they laid together in that way, Belenar cramming colossal, girthy cock into her little blood elf, Anaril could not easily tell. The overwhelming, initial coming together was over, but her mind seemed incapable of resolving the cloying mist of pleasure and grinding pressure entirely, never quite allowing her to rise to fully coherent thought. Occasionally, she would realize that she was steadily panting, had been drooling onto the pillow again, and shift aside just so. And then, a firm, purple hand would settle on the side of her head, squashing her ear, and press her down into the pillow once more. And, all throughout this, she still held her hands at the small of her back, where they had been placed. Even when Belenar hammered herself in, bottomed out, and held herself there with merciless patience, when Anaril’s eyes rolled up again, when she was pushed to the edge of orgasm, her mouth hanging slack, she remained in position. Mostly.

Eventually, though, Belenar lost her patience, lost her taste just for that grinding, endless existence on the verge of a climax, something which they both seemed to share, and so she changed position. Leaned back, sitting up on her knees, removed her hands from forming solid pillars on either side of Anaril’s head, fingers instead curling around her wrists. Lifted them, pulled them back, straining the small blood elf’s shoulders as she was pulled up, lifted from the soft bed by that grip of her wrists. Technically, theoretically, she helped support herself on her own knees, but the trembling of weakened, warmed-through muscle made it abundantly clear that were she let go, she would collapse back onto the bed in but a moment.

Anaril’s head hung, but, at least for a moment, the change in position had cleared her mind just a little. Enough that she could focus, look down her front to see, between the modest curve of each breast, the enormous, fat bulge. The result of Belenar holding herself in to the root, still, though it was now the pull of Anaril’s arms that kept her hilted, rather than weight, or muscle.

With a long, shivering gasp from Anaril’s parted lips, she felt the huntress pull back several inches. The swelling of her stomach sinking just slightly, thick, long-living strands of sticky, bubbled-out pre-cum greedily connecting their bodies. Anaril’s molded, straining cheeks, and the huntress’ hard, musclebound form. Each breath, she realized, was now a quiet, almost suffering, weak moan. Vocalizing some struggling sound of conquered pleasure at the slightest movement of the night elf, at the strain in her shoulders, at the ache of her wrists, at the constant, tight, crushing tension of her ass, continually **** to take something much, much its superior.

Anaril’s shoulders jerked backwards just so, as she was pulled bodily closer to Belenar, who, in turn, thrust forward to meet the small sin’dorei’s struggling form. It was difficult, with purchase much reduced for both of them, for their bodies to meet, but, at long last, Belenar sank in. Again. Skin smacking against skin, those hefty, languidly swinging balls likewise coming to rest against Anaril’s thighs once more. That first, slow thrust, there was no bounceback, Belenar simply pulling another few inches back in order to prepare to repeat the movement.

With the intention to build a continuous pace made clear, the next, slow hilting of that monster of a cock came not as a surprise, but something welcome. Anaril still exhaled slowly as those colossal inches entered her clenching, conquered ass, her whole body jerking forward as Belenar bottomed out, and settled against her with more strength than a moment before. She bounced forward just slightly, but was allowed, the grip of her wrists demanding it, really, to settled back around the root of that mammoth cockshaft. And then, once more, Belenar withdrew, rolling her hips into a smooth reversal of momentum that once more smacked her densely-muscled core against the small sin’dorei. Another light smack of skin meeting skin, molded, tight cheeks caressing the huntress’ toned form, and then yet another. A rhythm established that, with the looser, if more straining grip of Anaril, allowed the both of them to work together to, again and again, see her crammed full to the absolute brim of that monster of a cock.

Increasingly harder meetings of Belenar’s muscled pelvis and thighs with Anaril’s reddened backside set their union to steady, sharp smacking sounds, each bottoming, merciless thrust pressing an ailing, helplessly pleased gasp from the blood elf’s lungs, her head alternately hanging, chestnut locks of hair obscuring her face, chin near her collarbone, and, at other times, head tilted up and back, breathing hard, upwards. Shaking, every other moment, with the demanding, firm hammering-together of bodies. That broad, lazily pulsing bulge shifting backwards and forwards upon her front, the toned flatness of her stomach but a distant memory.

Continuous grinding, clenching, lead Anaril to let her head fall back, eyes half closed, mouth agape. The increasingly brutal meeting of their bodies, her shoulders yanked backwards to an **** position, arms and wrists aching, had hidden from her the endless blooming of weakly tingling pleasure that built in her core with every hilting of that monster of a cock. Like an irregular, unruly tide, that blossom would every now and then reach out, letting a little more of that exhausted, deeply weakening pleasure roll and coil into her thighs, calves, her arms, her cheeks and ears and head, and then slip away again.

As Belenar went on, and on, slowly adding more and more of those immensely thick inches to each thrust, the low tingling of pleasure did not recede. Anaril let her eyes fall shut, her brow lowering, her expression, from the outside, almost suggesting suffering. Certainly tiredness of a deep, nearly inexplicable nature. As she shook again, and again, each hammerblow thrust deepened that expression, though the way her mouth, just barely controlled, hung open, was at odds with what one might have thought of as pain seemingly continually impressed upon her. The truth, of course, was that that every limb, every flushed, crimson, burning bit of skin, every muscle, had grown into a flickering static of weakening, tingling pleasure. She was upright only by the grace of Belenar’s grip, by the strength of that massive, fat shaft rammed into her yet again. Mashing muscle against her ass with bruising ****, emanating another strengthening quake of sensation into every single, quivering part of her.

Once more, a merciless thrust fell, and Belenar hilted in Anaril’s ass. One in tens, hundreds of thrusts, each slamming into her reddened rear, each pushing her a little more towards yet another bruise. The same as all the rest. And yet, different, as it proved the **** required to gather up a messy handful of those endless, golden pinpricks, each warm, and pleasant, and absolutely disabling to any coherent thought, and then crush them together into something firmer. A little mound that came together, that built, that had another hammerblow thrust pounded into it, collecting into a distinct feeling. One that Anaril could not ignore – was powerless to do anything against, had she wanted to.

Another thrust. Another. Plowing, pounding into her ass, relentlessly. Cruel in their ceaseless efficiency, Belenar, perhaps even without knowing it, forcing a coalescing climax upon Anaril. Upon her ailing mind. She sucked in a breath, and held it in. Held it against the hardness of another thrust, which hammered into her again. Broke the dam of endlessly fluttering pleasure in a single, violent moment.

Where the buildup had been gradual, the release was as violent as the **** that had pounded into her again, and again. One moment, she had been lost, swimming in a tingling, heated, almost anesthetizing ocean. The next, her weary muscles found new strength, tensing, clamping. Meeting the powerful, pistoning thrusts into her with equal ****.

She struggled to breathe. Eyes rolled up again, and stayed in place, lips parted, though nothing came out. Anaril’s arms flexed, and stayed tense in an endless moment, still gripped by Belenar. The huntress did not cease, did not stop, not for a moment. She continued to ram that monster of a cock into her little sin’dorei, providing yet more energy for the coiling, erratic fire of orgasm. A heated, blank mind, her body clamping down again, and again, and again, finally abandoning even the pretense of staying up on her knees of her own accord. Trembling, and, when breathing finally fought its way free of heedless, orgasmic bliss, it was almost pitiful in its quiet, whining sounds. A great gasp, then, followed by staccato, high-pitched exhalations, collapsing into exhausted, ecstatic breaths, each one coming in the wake of Belenar slam-fucking herself in to the hilt.

Anaril had not, for a long while, registered anything but the demanding grip of her wrists, or the continual movement of body against body, from the huntress. She had felt the faint, pleasant suggestion of sweat, the hint of heat from expelled breath, but little more. Lulled into a deeply selfish, hedonistic state almost out of time, hypnotized by ever-building pleasure, it was only when she began to come down, just slightly, from that state that she truly could tell how the huntress had pounded and plowed her into an almost punishing orgasm in search of her own.

Belenar continued the pistoning, mechanically steady pace, ramming well over half of that colossus of a cock into Anaril for every thrust. Holding her taut, employing her arms as little more than reins, at times, keeping her in check. Keeping her in place, to receive the dubious, but endlessly pumping, hard blessing. And, for a while, it seemed as if Anaril would be crushed and crammed into another quaking orgasm, careening towards that same, boundless pleasure permeating every fiber of her being. Brought on, nurtured by those steady, brutal thrusts.

At long last, however, the huntress came to a crashing stop, breathing hard. Holding herself in, bottomed out in Anaril’s straining petite form for several long seconds, the night elf’s body rising against the little sin’dorei again, and again, as she labored for breath. She pulled herself out but a few inches, and then drove herself in again, to the hilt. Repeated this, though her rhythm was broken, and she seemed, for a moment, unable to rebuild one, resting herself, her weighty nuts, against Anaril. Another few heartbeats, and then Belenar pulled back, and thrust in again, with bruising ****. Hilting herself. The grip of the blood elf’s wrists hardening, pulling her back with yet more insistence, as if a physical tug could somehow meld them closer together than they were already.

That broken rhythm, those few, monstrously thick inches smacking into her, finally allowed Anaril’s mind to gather up a few of the pieces it had shattered into, cracking under the repeated **** of never-ending thrusts. Gasping for breath, a warm ache growing in her crimson rump for every brutal meeting, she nevertheless breached the surface into awareness again. The pleasant, weakening warmth still surrounded her, lived in every limb, but she had the singular thought that now, at last, Belenar had reached, was reaching, a truly draining end.

Uncertain about whether it proved her wrong or right, Anaril shook with repeated, hard, fast impacts, the huntress barely moving back and forth, merely grinding herself, grinding that behemoth of a cock, into Anaril’s depths. Five, ten, twenty times, machine-like smacking that halted with the same cruel efficiency it had kicked off with, Belenar bottoming out, completely. Large, demanding hands tightening their grip, pulling Anaril yet further back, so that she no longer hung even slightly horizontally, but was pulled up in something like a hug from behind. Save that the kaldorei’s hands still held her by her wrists, that her stomach bulged with the obscene girth of that treetrunk dick.

Nevertheless, Belenar settled her chin upon Anaril’s right shoulder, hard breaths spilling across her skin, mixing with the light layer of sweat covering her – covering both of them. Another powerful thrust, trying in vain to squeeze more huge, fat inches of that cock in, except there was no more room, and no more of that monster to pound into the small blood elf. Only her cheeks molding around the fattest, final inch of that behemoth, tightness wrapped around the base, unable not to obey the impulses that bade it clench. Repeatedly.

Belenar held one mighty breath for an endless moment, then, as she let the straining, aching exhalation go, leaned her head heavily against Anaril’s. Held her, still, in that inescapable grip, as the huntress’ core tightened, muscle hammering down, rising as it flexed, and then relaxed for but a moment, then pulled back into punishing, hard steel.

It seemed not possible, but Anaril felt, very clearly, how Belenar’s already broad, mighty cumvein grew thicker still, that first, colossal load of molten, copious seed pounding into her. Pumping with brutal power, her already bulging stomach rising as that continuous, fat rope of seed rammed into her depths. A massive, almost unbelievable load, carrying on for seconds, until a moment’s relaxation made way for the second, equally powerful pillar of sweltering, potent swimmers. Anaril leaned her head back, the back of it finding Belenar’s shoulder, a straining breath leaving her parted lips as she felt the night elf’s already colossal girth pack on just a fraction more, in response to her orgasm.

Again, and again, and again, pounding, hard loads rammed into Anaril’s ass, splattering with colossal strength into her depths, each one driving from her another breath. Another trembling, weak sound, as she was claimed – whatever still remained of her that was not Belenar’s, it slipped her grasp in those endless moments, where powerful pillar of seed followed on from another, endlessly, Anaril’s stomach filling out around the already obscene girth of that cockbulge, smooth skin rising in a little bump, one that grew with frightening, rhythmic regularity, each huge, hefty load pushing, filling her more.

Even the firm, wide bulge of Belenar’s shaft sank below the surface, eventually. Anaril’s stomach grew, and grew, rippling just a little with the mind-bending strength of each pounding, more than thumb-thick strand of seed finding a home within her. Had her arms been her own, had she not been fucked absolutely into near ecstatic submission, she might have tried to curl them protectively around that enormous, sloshing dome, but, as it was, she could only let small, subdued sounds go, sensing the powerful, rhythmic pulses of each orgasmic wave that hammered into her from behind.

Though her body fought to contain what was so graciously granted it, fat strands of those many loads had long since begun to fight their way back, out, again. Such that their bodies became more and more connected. Fat, sweltering seed splurted and ran from her abused, tight ass, slipping down their bodies, to the thoroughly ruffled and messed up bedding.

It took several moments for Anaril to realize, then, that Belenar had finally finished. That no more of those colossal, jackhammering loads pumped into her, that now, she was merely held against the huntress’ bust, that lips brushed the side of her neck, that fangs graced her skin. That labored breathing slowly began to find a more reasonable, regular level. Belenar’s, at least. Anaril found that she could not quite control herself in the same way, her exhalations interrupted multiple times, as if she cried without tears. She opened her eyes just slightly, letting them fall, taking in the massive, pregnant curve of her stomach, the few places where she still bulged around Belenar’s colossal cockshaft. She wanted to go on. A part of her, some maddening, clawing little thing in her mind wanted Belenar to continue, to **** her into that mind-altering orgasm again, and again.

Thankfully, the kaldorei remained still. Loosened her grip of Anaril’s wrists, instead wrapping arms carefully around her, so as to help her stay upright for a little longer. Faltering moments.

“These… will be… satisfying nights,” Belenar said, in between breaths, words coiling into Anaril’s ears, settling there.

She had no response. There was none. If the huntress wanted her again, she neither could, nor would refuse. But she was exhausted beyond words, beyond thoughts, even. Ready to lie down, and to sleep for however long was needed. Twelve hours. A whole day.

Belenar, thankfully, seemed to sense this complete exhaustion, and so, she eased Anaril down onto her side, on the bed, moving with her. Still bottomed out in the small sin’dorei’s ass, and not seemingly in a hurry to change that. She wrapped an arm around Anaril, once they had found their place on the bed, in each other’s arms, and only then began to withdraw, little by little. To the sound of diminutive moans from Anaril.