Descent Into Depravity

Silendiel wanted distance, and time. Distance from the influence of the Lieutenant’s presence, and time to process what, exactly, had happened. Logic and reason told her to send the kaldorei away, but then again, perhaps it was not so much reason as it was self-preservation in a social sense. If it came out that she hosted one of the embassy staff, in private, it would be a scandal. Devastating, given the rumors swirling. Then again, if it was what she wanted, was it reasonable to send the sentinel away? Just because she represented a social inconvenience. And, if she were truthful with herself, because it rankled at her that the priestess, Iralis, had seen through her in no time at all, without even meeting her, seemingly.

If personal contentment featured at all in her calculations, then she ought not to send Neryn away. Standing at her bedroom window, on the first floor, overlooking the garden in which the sentinel now spent a significant amount of time on physical training, Silendiel found herself calm. Aware of the implications if some link between her and Neryn were discovered, but, nevertheless, standing still for minutes, tens of minutes, just watching. Feeling no upset. No great rush of emotion, either, just a pleasant stillness. Almost tranquility. It helped, of course, that the kaldorei were nocturnal, so the Lieutenant trained largely in the ever-deepening darkness, with no need for light, it seemed, to navigate the knee-height labyrinth of trimmed hedges all around.

It would be preposterous to wait several days to speak with the sentinel, Silendiel knew. Unfortunately, her mind produced no readily available, safe solutions to the problem she had gotten herself into, only eventualities of feeling. Sending Neryn away would be the safest option, outwardly. It would be the expected option, too. But it would also, she sensed by some deep, oceanic void lurking just beyond her surface thoughts, be the most personally devastating. It should not matter. She barely knew the night elf, why would it matter, sending her away?

Silendiel sighed into her tea, remembering that she was cradling it to her at all. Took a sip, grimacing just slightly. Ice cold. She set the mug down on the windowsill, trusting that it would be collected by a servant in due time, and turned her mind back to the problem at hand. The stupid, stubborn soldier in her garden, now engaged in doing an endless amount of sit-ups. Stripped of her armor, the kaldorei wearing but trousers and breast bindings while training so as to not dirty all she owned, the view was captivating. The pleasant curve of muscle tightening, then relaxing. The slight protrusion of abs, coming and going from view, as Neryn was not seemingly starving herself to make them prominent, but not eating so much that they could not be seen. The inescapable, monstrous bulge along one thigh, impossible to ignore.

Being held by, in, those arms, might not be so very terrible. Lying on Neryn, sharing warmth, resting forever. Lazily letting the day or night pass, together, aimlessly. Rolling, now and then, just maybe, so that Silendiel laid beneath the statuesque kaldorei. Crushed and protected, simultaneously. She wet her lips with her tongue, blinking. Noticing the tight, coiling warmth in her core. The tingling in her cheeks. The elevation of breath.

In her mind, a hand wrapped around her head, settling at the back of her skull. Curling, capturing a rough handful of her hair, so that she was controlled. In that briefly living fantasy world, her arms were controlled, somehow. Bound behind her back, perhaps. No, she was face down, her towering kaldorei above, and behind. Arms bound in front of her, then. A hand at the crook of hip and thigh, pulling her up into position, that absurd, girthy monster making itself, its weight, felt against her rump.

Silendiel took a breath, breaking free from the sordid daydream. She did not know the kaldorei. The woman was a risk, in all possible ways. Socially. To Silendiel’s own internal equilibrium, which seemed the most disturbed of all, as she was finally allowed to feast upon and indulge in something like the fantasy that had sat in her for so many years. Perhaps it was a question of actually indulging in it. As quietly as possible, just once, to work the endlessly churning heat in her body out in one single meeting of cultures and bodies. Satisfy the kaldorei, and satisfy herself, too. A part of her raised the alarms over such a plan, but the vast increase in pleasant, prickling heat manifesting all over her body told her that it was the right choice. In some way, from some perspective, for some powerful part of her own character, at least, it was the right choice.

Inviting the kaldorei to her own bedroom was the best way to keep whatever they indulged in private, but the very act of having the woman brought up to her own chambers was something that would almost immediately leak. Her servants did not blabber over-much, but they did speak of what they experienced. She knew it, even if she did not encourage it. One of them bringing the sentinel up to the personal chambers of their mistress would be something that would live in the gossip ecosystem of the mansion for a long while.

For several hours, Silendiel had to gather courage, anyway. Think through what she wished for, what she wanted to happen, and prepare for it. Finding articles of clothing, finding miscellaneous items which, on their own, seemed of no real significance. Several belts, lengths of cloth, some soft rope made of silk, not hemp, so that it might chafe less. Pillows, towels. She might not ever have spent so much time on getting ready for a tryst, and neither could she recall having ever felt quite so anxious about one, even her first.

Having prepared well into the night, Silendiel also settled on her strategy. She would contain her most scandalous urges by appealing to the base and most easily available path of someone with Neryn’s physical assets. Find herself on her knees, perhaps, but not in any danger of ending up with one or more kaldorei brats to take care of a year hence.

This resolve in mind, the mansion quiet, all but two or three guards whose turn it was to stay up and keep watch over the place asleep, Silendiel left her chambers. Barefoot, so as to try to make less noise, wearing nothing but underwear and a somewhat scandalous nightgown above it. Not what she usually wore, but she did not usually plan to get into physical relations with kaldorei sentinels when preparing for bed. Really, categorizing what she wore as a nightgown was stretching definitions – it was more of a summer dress, really, pleated skirt reaching to about her knees. A dark, blood red, easily lost in the darkness of night, its support coming from straps over her bare shoulders. Facing the sentinel in something like it, her modest chest pushed up by the bra she absolutely would not have worn if not planning to run into Neryn, she felt quite certain that her chances of dragging the sentinel up to her chambers were overwhelmingly good. Even more so because it seemed like the priestess, and Neryn herself, expected this sort of thing to happen. They just seemed to expect it to be of a more permanent nature, a relationship, rather than a single night of working out confusion and tension and desire, and then returning to a more proper existence. One of control, and decorum.

It was easy enough to pad quietly downstairs, and then outside. Staff ensured that stairs, largely, did not creak, nor did the hinges of doors whine, and where Silendiel had wooden floors, they did not serenade anyone with long or loud squeaking. Rather satisfied with her stealth, then, she emerged into the dark garden. Only Neryn’s eyes provided any light at all, and then, though she cast her gaze down, so did Silendiel’s. Stealth was difficult when one was a kind of dim torch by one’s very nature. Closing her eyes and relying on other senses was an option, but then, she did not actually want to surprise the sentinel. It was a bad idea, generally, to surprise people trained for combat, especially those who had actually seen it, and thus might have unfortunate reflexes with regards to dealing with anyone sneaking up on them.

Silendiel, it turned out, did not have to worry. Neryn sat cross-legged before her tent, facing almost directly away from where the noblewoman emerged from. Nevertheless, Neryn let out an audible breath through her nose, and then spoke at an even level. Loud enough that Silendiel could hear it, but also loud enough that some indistinct sound might be detected by a guard.

“It’s very late for you to enjoy this green desert you call a garden,” Neryn said.

Rather than reply immediately, Silendiel straightened. Setting aside any attempt at stealth, she approached at a more regular pace, rounding the side of the tall, circular, purple tent. Five paces away from Neryn, still, she was at least close enough to speak at a quieter volume.

“You do not have to chastise me and mine with every sentence you utter,” Silendiel said.

“I did not intend to. But every branch in this place, every blade of grass, feels as if it has been cut and shaped. Isn’t that the case?”

Silendiel looked around, the soft light of her golden eyes allowing her to see just a little ways off. In complete darkness, elven eyes were like sharp pinpricks, lances of light, but even in faint moonlight, as now, it became clear that they really were a rather dim source of light.

“It is. Intentionally,” Silendiel said.

“It’s a very different custom to ours. But then, we also shape nature, just in our own way. One very much unlike yours,” Neryn said. She looked aside, calm, inscrutable gaze finding Silendiel’s. “But it’s late. Why have you come to me now?”

Faced with the situation without the filter of stewing in her own desire and pleasure for hours, merely observing Neryn from a distance, Silendiel found herself grasping for words but finding none. Opening her mouth, then closing it, breathing in, and letting that breath go again. She set her eyes on the grass next to the sitting night elf, pursed her lips, and tried to decide what to say. The intense heat of desire dimmed somewhat in sneaking around, she wondered whether what she had planned was a good idea, after all.

“For company,” Silendiel said, at last. “Everyone else is asleep.”

“I don’t think you enjoy my company very much,” Neryn said. “You dislike the priestess’ reading of you, and the options she presented you. You think I’m here only to honor her, perhaps?”

“Are you not?”

“Isn’t it possible that I’m here both to honor the priestess’ command, and because I wanted to be here?”

“I suppose,” Silendiel said. Not seeing things progressing instantly to debauchery, she exhaled and found a seat in the grass. Strange cushioning for one so used to the softness of civilization, but not entirely unpleasant. “You want to be here?”

“None of us in the embassy came here merely because we were commanded to go. Certain qualities were selected for, certainly, but each of us came because we wanted to.”

“Why would you want to come to Silvermoon City, Lieutenant? What is there here for you?”

“The suggestion is that we’re here to infiltrate, to undermine, to work from the inside, isn’t it?”

“That is not what I meant to insinuate. I just do not understand what is here that you could want, with how different it is from your home,” Silendiel said.

“Some of us came here because we like to travel, to see new places. Others because they felt their skills would be best used here,” Neryn said.

“And you, Lieutenant?”

Neryn cast her gaze to the grass for a long moment, contemplative. “All of those. But, like many of those who serve under the priestess, but most especially with me, I came because I appreciate the sin’dorei.”

“Truly? That seems hard to believe,” Silendiel said. “Are we not everything you despise? We have shaped the land according to our desires, we employ magic in ways you have not, for the most part, for millennia. We ally with your most hated enemies.”

“Sometimes, things are simpler than all that,” Neryn said. She raised her eyes from the grass, not to look at Silendiel, but to stare into the darkness for a long moment. “I appreciate the sin’dorei.”

“Ah,” Silendiel said, after a while. “I think I begin to understand.”

“You don’t have to think of it in the worst possible way,” Neryn said. “None of us are here to raid and pillage, and so on. Nor to get as many notches as we can. I’m not, at least.”

“Very charming.”

Neryn shrugged, remaining silent for a while.

“But, I suppose,” Silendiel said, finally. “That going where those you like are is a reasonable thing to do. If they are far away, you must go far away.”

“It isn’t just anyone,” Neryn said. After a while, she added: “I saw you, a while ago. You went past, in the company of your guards, and your staff. The priestess noticed my interest, and remembered it. That’s why I’m here.”

“Your interest,” Silendiel said. She had, she admitted to herself, not considered what Neryn wanted. Had, in some ways, not even considered the kaldorei a fully formed person. A feral creature, a brute with a huge cock, who had come to fuck. Not someone with preferences, with opinions. Perhaps, she thought, she had imposed some of her vague memories of that starved, ****, imprisoned sentinel she had once tried to befriend, had once been held hostage by, on an entirely different person. A stray thought, one that urged her to place her hand upon the sentinel’s knee, to make sympathetic contact, intruded on her mind.

“My interest,” Neryn said. She spoke plainly, without hint of embarrassment. When she slowed down at all, it seemed to be to think, not because she dared not utter what she felt. Forthright in a way never done in Quel’thalas, anywhere. Almost too forward. “Attraction. I find you very attractive. Pretty, but, you have a strength of character that I admire. Not just to project the persona that so many nobles of the sin’dorei seem to, but to dare to do things that few others would.”

“I do?” Silendiel smiled just so, feeling, in truth, a little overwhelmed. “We have barely spoken. How do you know so much about me?”

“I pay attention to what people do, and say,” Neryn said. “And I judge that you overcame much when you asked me to wait. And then stay. Am I right in that?”

Silendiel, for reasons she could not place, felt heat rise in her cheeks again. At the mere notion of being understood, at the understanding that her questing and fumbling reaching out for Neryn, despite herself, despite her upbringing, despite the social climate of Silvermoon City, had been recognized for what it was. By a stranger, a foreigner, no less. She drew in a breath, but could not, did not want to, suppress the pleased, quiet smile on her lips with a sigh. Showing such emotion was a vulnerability, but then, perhaps a kaldorei sentinel, a stranger in a strange land, was precisely the right person, a safe person, to show such vulnerability to.

“You are,” Silendiel replied, at last. “It is a long story, but… you are not the first kaldorei to stay here. But the last one, she was a captive. I spoke with her, fed her, but when I came too close to her, she took me hostage. In the process of freeing me, my family guards ended up killing her.”

“And yet, you invited me to stay. Why?”

Again, almost embarrassed, Silendiel smiled. “A little forward, is it not, that question?”

“Would you prefer not to answer?”

Silendiel spent a moment contemplating, and then shook her head. She shifted closer, purposefully, until she sat close enough to Neryn that she could reach out and take the sentinel’s left hand from where it rested, on her knee. Silendiel was allowed to do so, no resistance offered, but no help, either. Carefully, she folded Neryn’s fingers about her thumb, and closed the hold with her own fingers over the night elf’s, then placed her free hand atop the little arrangement.

“In truth, I have always been, even more so since those few hours in captivity, intrigued by the kaldorei,” Silendiel said. She felt a gentle squeeze of her thumb, and responded in kind. “You are so very different, in opinions, religion… physique.”

Glancing over, unabashedly, Silendiel saw Neryn’s chest rise, and fall. Rise again, fall again. Though she made no effort to assert it, it was clear that whatever carefully extended emotion Silendiel felt herself was not entirely unrequited. She pushed her tongue out past her lips to wet then, gaze lingering on those chiseled abs. On strong arms, that might wrap around her. On the large frame of the elf, which might stand before her, or lay atop her. She breathed out with some ****.

“And you, you are very… distracting,” Silendiel said, after a few seconds.

“You don’t seem to entirely agree with yourself whether that’s a good or a bad thing,” Neryn said. She squeezed Silendiel’s finger, again. Opened her hand to instead take the sin’dorei’s hand in her own.

“It is a dangerous thing. Rumors already swirl about what goes on in the embassy. You staying here at all will no doubt come back on me, and will require some sort of explanation. And even having given that explanation, there will still be rumors,” Silendiel said. “Were we to be seen, sitting here, together, it would be all the worse.”

“And yet, despite having been a hostage, despite the danger in which it leaves your reputation, you still came down to speak to me,” Neryn said.

“I still skulked in the shadows, in the depth of night, hoping no one would see me.”

“You’re gathering the courage to act on your desires. You’re showing the strength of character not to let yourself be defined by the expectations of others,” Neryn said. “I still find that admirable.”

“That might be making it too grand a gesture,” Silendiel said. She offered a smirk, thinking back to her reasons for approaching at all. Not particularly noble, all things considered. “I came down here to invite you to my chambers. Just once. Work out the distraction. I did not expect to sit here and talk.”

“But you don’t terribly mind, now that we are, do you?”

“No,” Silendiel said. She smiled again, despite herself, an anxious warmth settling in her chest. Once more, she ran her tongue swiftly over her lips, and found that moving them at all made a silly, happy, if still somewhat contained smile sneak onto her face. Unbidden. Emotions manifesting without her control, something she had long tried to train them not to. She lowered her head, smiling at the grass, bathed in the dim white and gold light of their eyes. “No, I… I do not. I have been a fool. Not thinking I could meet you, any of you, I took it out in the worst way possible.”

“Perhaps,” Neryn said. She squeezed Silendiel’s hand again. “But that isn’t why I’m here. You don’t have to confess anything to me. I’m not here for that, not here for any concession.”

Silendiel took a calming breath, looking forward, at nothing, in comfortable silence for a short while. “The priestess will be disappointed.”

“The priestess only wants to speak to you again. And to guide people around her to places in life that will make them happy, though I imagine it’s hard to believe that,” Neryn said. “That’s why we follow her. Follow her sisters. They guide us, individually. They guide our people, with Elune’s blessing and foresight, to the best of their ability.”

“Some things cannot be foreseen,” Silendiel said. She had been safe and sound at home in Silvermoon while the War of Thorns raged. Nothing to do with her, in a sense, and yet, it was difficult not to feel in some way responsible.

“You cannot contain every flood,” Neryn said. “At some point, a forest fire grows big enough that you can only let it burn itself out.”

“Is that how you see what happened?”

“It’s how I see the role of the priestess in it,” Neryn said. She disentangled her hand, withdrawing it from Silendiel’s careful grasp, settling it on her knee once more.

There was a tension to the night elf, and, internally, Silendiel chastised herself for bringing up the worst possible topic. And the last war’s still unhealed wounds. Lowering her brow, sighing out a breath, she sat in silence. Still next to Neryn, but the metaphorical distance between them felt greater than ever. Talking to someone, and then, inadvertently, creating distance to them was worse than distancing oneself from a complete stranger.

“I wish things had been different,” Silendiel said, then. An admission of some kind of remorse, guilt, that she found it hard to imagine any orc or forsaken would ever express, because the weight of responsibility, once accepted, might weigh so heavily as to grind one to dust. Surely Neryn had similar burdens, carried at arm’s length, too painful to accept.

A longer silence stretched between them, almost to the point that Silendiel wondered if she should get up and return to her chambers, alone. Having thoroughly ruined the mood. It was a surprise, then, when Neryn reached for her hand again, with greater strength, pulling it over so that it could rest on the night elf’s knee, weighed down by fingers more used to work. To exertion.

“You wanted me to come to your chambers,” Neryn said. “Why?”

“I think you know why,” Silendiel said. “Do you gain some sort of satisfaction from having me spell everything out in painstaking detail?”

“A little, perhaps,” Neryn said. After the tension of silence, it was a relief for Silendiel to observe a slight smile on the sentinel’s face. “Maybe I enjoy it. Maybe I think it’s good for you to express your thoughts. Make them real.”

“Do you want to come to my chambers?”

“I wouldn’t object,” Neryn said.

Silendiel’s eyes flickered to Neryn’s thigh, observing the very real hardening of that monster, inches added to its length, and to its already absurd girth. For whatever reason, the night elf had made the transition from tragedy to desire, perhaps as a way to stop thinking of what had happened. It was perhaps a little early for there to be quite so much enthusiasm, though. There was an inkling of something else in Neryn’s eyes, though, something aggressive, hard as stone. Demanding. Something that awoke in Silendiel the memory of the crushing grip of that long-gone kaldorei prisoner, who might have wanted her punished. Did Neryn want her punished?

“But I would much prefer that we remain here,” Neryn said.

There was no need to ask what, precisely, was meant by that. They were not to just sit quietly and talk, though, strangely, Silendiel would not have objected to spending the whole night quietly leveling with this former stranger. Someone with whom it was much safer to drop one’s guard without fear or treading into some political nest of vipers. But then, if it was safe to talk to her, as long as everyone else in the mansion was asleep, perhaps it was safe to do more, too.

Her hand held, tugged away from Neryn’s knee, Silendiel found herself pulled closer. Across the grass a short distance, awkwardly leaning over the sentinel’s crossed legs. To her surprise, Neryn’s other hand settled fingertips against her cheek, ginger touches, as were she made of porcelain, a frail being who might shatter at a mere brush of a few digits. Half a second later, Neryn’s tattooed face close, a first, testing kiss pressed to her lips. Silendiel blinked, pulling away just so – not to flee, but to right herself after the night elf had hauled her across the ground. She reached up to place her own hand atop Neryn’s, on her cheek, and offered a careful smile. Uncertain about what was meant, exactly, if it was all preliminary to what she had originally come for, or if something else was going on.

“No?” Neryn angled her head to the side just so. Still so very open, honest, when it came to certain feelings. She offered something, and wondered if it was accepted or not.

Silendiel responded by leaning up, and in, and pressing her lips to Neryn’s once more. A longer, lasting meeting, which she broke only as she started to move. Settled her forehead gently down against the sentinel’s shoulder, lifting a leg over one of Neryn’s, straddling one of those strong thighs. She moved her hand from the one on her own cheek, then, downwards, to press fingertips carefully against the colossal, still hardening bulge running along the night elf’s thigh still not between Silendiel’s legs, turning her head to press her lips to Neryn’s neck, dipping in a little deeper to kiss her throat.

“Yes,” Silendiel said, then, pausing her efforts momentarily.

“Yes?”

“Capture me,” she said.

A moment passed in which Silendiel pressed her fingers against the mass, the heft of that behemoth, her lips against Neryn’s skin, her cheek still cradled. Hand still held to one knee.

“I will capture you,” Neryn said, after a few heartbeats of time. “But not tonight. Tonight, you will indulge me in precisely the way I want. The way you want.”

“And which way is that?” Silendiel spoke against the night elf’s throat, retreated but half an inch from the task she had set herself to.

“You place too many bonds on yourself, still. But you want that elf who held you hostage. Someone like her. You want to serve at the pleasure of someone worthy, who will seem to take from you, but still manage only ever to take what you want taken anyway,” Neryn said. The hand on Silendiel’s cheek moved, slipping slowly around her head until it curled, without grasping, around the back of her skull. “Someone who will push you to the places you desire to go, but cannot make yourself tread.”

“Hmmmh,” Silendiel whisper-hummed, unable to produce a proper reply. Pushed up against Neryn’s throat by the presence of the hand behind her head. She was very small, very ****, in the hands of even a single, feral kaldorei. Near the top of the social pyramid in Silvermoon, perhaps, but terribly small and **** and pliant, outside of it. Prey, in the presence of something like an apex predator.

“Stand up,” Neryn said.

Silendiel took a breath, rather than reacting instantly to the command. People did not give her commands, and she was not in the habit of obeying anything that approached an order, anyway, even if presented wrapped in less direct verbiage. Her breath spilled across Neryn’s skin, and slowly, the hand behind her head releasing, removed from its place, it was only her that kept herself in place. She leaned back, still straddling the sentinel’s thigh, staring up at her stern face. It was not a battle of wills, exactly – Silendiel was not trying to do any kind of battle. Nevertheless, making herself do as she was told, as someone else bid her do, was a slow process, the single word still feeling as if it was settling inside of her, finding a home.

Breathing in, she stood up. Took a single step backwards, so that one of her feet was no longer ringed by Neryn’s crossed legs. Without meaning to, she had set her jaw. Looked down, just a little, at the sentinel. Then, rapidly, back up, as Neryn stood up before her. One step apart, the night elf was a massive presence, one that took up all of Silendiel’s world, or near enough. Still, she remained in place, quiet, recognizing that though she had stood, as bidden, whatever was happening was not over. She had not let go of the tension of the moment, her chest rising and falling slowly, steadying her will, as she looked up. Very far up. To those piercing, white eyes. The red markings – she knew they were really red – seemed black in the low light. An apparition stared down at her, for a moment.

Neryn raised her right hand to hover in the air just next to Silendiel’s cheek. Fingers made contact with flushed skin, and then slipped down a little way. The sentinel’s thumb settled on one side of Silendiel’s mouth, the other four fingers on the opposite side, where they applied pressure. It was not gentle, or caring, and it did not treat her as if she were made of the most fragile material. No longer. The grip was a steel vice, closing around her. Fingers digging into her cheek, pushing her jaws apart, making room between her teeth for the insides of her own cheeks, and then for the presence of rough fingers. And even then, somehow, in the kaldorei’s brutal grip, the way her mind had set when she was given the order to stand did not dissolve.

“You still have a spine. I prefer it that way,” Neryn said.

Almost, Silendiel thought, the sentinel spat on her. Some subtle movement of musculature directed her thoughts that way, but it never came. She did not know if it would have been the right move to make, or a disaster, but the notion slipped her mind soon enough, her eyes ****, like her head, to tilt up. To look up at the towering night elf. Why was she defiant now? Why did it feel right to be defiant? Had she not come down to the garden precisely for this kind of thing?

“You are unused to serving others. Unused to kneeling. But we’ll fix that,” Neryn said. With a slight jerk of movement, she sent Silendiel half a stumbling step backwards, her jaw released from the crushing grip. She found balance again, and as she did, at the precise moment when she reached equilibrium, as if it had all been carefully calculated, she felt the tip of Neryn’s right index finger against the fabric of her dress, between her ribs, at the bottom of her sternum. From there, it drew a line upwards, slowly, until it reached her collarbone. Paused in the slight dimple there for just a second, before trailing up over her throat.

“Stay,” Neryn said.

The sentinel circled Silendiel once. Slow step after slow step, examining her in the dim moonlight, and though she felt precisely the nature of the examination, a kind of measuring up of her proportions, of how she might give pleasure and satisfaction, of where she was most aesthetically pleasing to the eye, she did not shrink from it. Rather, her thighs and cheeks tingled. The tension, the stubborn note, was fraying. Breaking down. All she did was stay, while Neryn slowly moved around her once, twice, thrice. Came to a halt, at last, behind her.

Silendiel felt fingers close about her wrists. First one, then the other, pulling them into place behind her back. Taut enough that she was **** to stand straighter, while her arms were held so, relaxing only for a moment as they were released. Neryn moved in close, from behind, one hand coming up from Silendiel’s flank, from underneath her right arm, up to grasp her throat, fingers splayed over her jaw, chin, lips. One finger finding a place between them. The night elf’s grip held her in place, held her close, so that she was squeezed back against hard muscle. So that she could feel the colossal girth of that dick making itself known against the modest curve of her firm backside.

“Yes?” Neryn’s voice was lower, something near a growl, and came from very close to Silendiel’s left ear.

“Yes,” she replied. Too quickly. Too eagerly. She drew in a breath, and her chest rose against the strong arm across her front. Fell again. Tense. And yet so terribly weak, and eager, and on high alert. Taken possession of. She nodded just slightly, and repeated more quietly. “Yes.”

Slow movement of those fingers against the delicate skin of her throat. Not curling around, not taking a harder grip, just present there. Moving as she breathed, as Neryn breathed, just slightly. As if, out of nowhere, she felt more of the world. Heard the rustling of vegetation around her, heard the slight creaking and shifting of fabric, heard the sentinel’s breath. Felt, more keenly than she had felt anything for a very long time, the slight movement of muscle, the padding of another body against which she was held. There was a lump in her throat, a thing she felt at every elevated breath, some anxious part of her that understood that something had changed, that she was once more a hostage, of a sort. Of her own making, as much as Neryn’s. One last breath shuddered as she exhaled.

With practiced moves swift enough that Silendiel barely had time to register what was going on, she felt a knee to the back of one of her own. The hand around her throat shifted to the back of her head, and, encouraged by the collapsing support of her bending leg, she fell to the grass. She let out a faint grunt, but had not the time to complain, even to think, as she experienced not being in control of where she went, but rather being controlled. The hand at the back of her head guided her, without resistance being possible against Neryn’s comparative bulk and strength, down. Face first into the grass, then slowly, mashed down against the ground, she was rolled so that her right cheek and the right side of her face was pressed down. The sentinel’s knee settled against her back, pressing in between her shoulder blades.

Uncomfortable. Disagreeable. Entirely unacceptable treatment of a noble, the head of an ancient family. And yet, Silendiel, grimacing slightly against the grass, still breathed out a quivering gasp, rather than one of objection.

“Stay,” Neryn said. It was unquestionably a command.

Silendiel remained in place, even when the knee was removed. When the hand left the back of her head. The temptation to cushion her cheek was there, and it would have been easy to move a hand up to shield her from the greenery at least a little. For a moment, at least. First one wrist was captured, and then the other, both lead to the small of her back. Held there, firmly, for a moment, so as to transmit physically that her arms were included in the command to stay. The clinking of a belt buckle then sounded, loud in the still garden, in Silendiel’s heightened senses, but thankfully brief, leather against fabric as the belt was clearly not just opened, but pulled out of its seating. A moment later, Neryn’s slightly calloused fingers manipulated Silendiel’s arms up, just a touch, wrapping the belt around her wrists once, twice, thrice, and then again. Too tightly for it to close as it was meant to, the sentinel instead tying a crude knot with the flat, ungainly thing.

For a moment, Neryn stood, disappeared into her tent. She emerged bearing something that Silendiel could not identify, could only see out of the corner of one eye, too far out of her line of sight to catch any detail save a blur of brown. Soon enough, however, when well-used, soft fabric wrapped around one ankle, the other then pulled in close to be included in the bundle, she reasoned that it was an article of clothing. Used to restrain her yet further, into a largely helpless bundle. She might still be able to worm herself away, given time and inattention, but Neryn was anything but inattentive.

“Now,” Neryn said, straightening, moving to stand roughly around where Silendiel’s midsection lay on the grass. “You can move. Kneel before me.”

The struggle between propriety and obeying the night elf was one that propriety was going to lose. Silendiel knew that. But, at the same time, lifelong reinforcement of respectful conduct was not easily shaken off, and so the loser did not collapse, but rather melted away to carry out ceaseless guerilla fighting, emerging from the cracks and creases of her mind at every turn. It was terribly undignified when she breathed out, rolled to her side, drew her legs up towards her chest, and then worked her way back to her front to get them beneath her. Even less dignified when she had to use her head to push against the ground to help get herself up, sitting on her heels for a moment, then shuffling in an awkward fashion to turn and face Neryn. Tilting her head back – very, very far back – to look up at the sentinel. From a position just about level with the night elf’s core, mouth just about the same height as the base of that massive shaft.

Silendiel looked up with some measure of coherent defiance. She still did not know why it manifested now, why it came to the fore when the sentinel was doing precisely what she had wanted done, but emotion, so long suppressed, nevertheless bubbled forth. Painted her grass-stained face, a few cut blades clinging to her skin. She was convinced one was stuck in one of her eyebrows.

“We should… be doing this in my chambers,” Silendiel said, after a second’s silence. The notion that someone might turn up, might see her bound and kneeling before the sentinel, might see something worse still, given a little more time, turning up again. Lingering.

“We should be doing this here. Because I want to do it here. And so do you,” Neryn said. A hand descended, fingers rougher in their caress of the kneeling blood elf’s cheek, smearing nothing but pressure across Silendiel’s skin more than stroking it.

“I do?”

“You’ve wanted me to fuck you since you first saw me,” Neryn said. She halted the progress of her hand, picking one of those halved blades of grass from Silendiel’s eyebrow. Rolling it between two fingers, then letting it fall. “You may object, now, if you think I’m wrong.”

Silendiel parted her lips, breathing in, readying. Marshaling words to counter what Neryn had said, but finding none. Those same thoughts she had pushed away for many days, weeks – years, really – would not be easily denied. She could lie, of course. It would be easy enough to do so, even now, even if Neryn may not believe her entirely. She could still do it. Squirming in her bonds, she could profess that she really had no interest, at all, in the night elf and her crude words and cruder actions. Instead, she said nothing. Diverted her eyes from Neryn’s after a few seconds, finding the darkness next to the towering kaldorei more interesting. A sigh, betrayed by its shuddering, leaving her.

With no objection forthcoming, having waited for the comparatively diminutive noblewoman to voice it for some ten seconds, Neryn moved her hand to Silendiel’s lips. Slowly, carefully working index and middle finger against them, the blood elf’s teeth parting for them. Almost immediately, Neryn curled her fingers into a solid, hook-like shape, and used its hold on Silendiel’s cheek to drag her head forward. Very close to the solid, weighty mass of that monster of a cock, perhaps an inch away, separated only by the struggling cloth of the sentinel’s trousers.

“You may now make your feelings plain. Physically,” Neryn said.

Saliva-covered fingers withdrew from Silendiel’s mouth, smeared halfway dry against her cheek and mouth, moving around what grass still clung to her skin. Undignified. She grimaced at the pressure applied to her face, gradually opening one eye she had closed at the oppressive presence. There was a part of her, a not insignificant part of her, that despised the sentinel, but, oddly, it was a part of her she invited in. Feelings that fueled the sense of sinful anxiety that kept her alive to the situation, to the way her society would view her as denigrating herself by kneeling before one of these savages. But what could one do but kneel, if one wanted what they could give? What only they could give. She leaned forward just a little, her lips pressing against the fabric curving around that colossal shaft, its warmth and heft obvious through the sentinel’s trousers.

A prim, testing kiss at first. She pulled back, ran her tongue over her upper lip, exhaling a sound that was not quite sigh, not quite objection, rather a more surprised thing. As if she were tasting a surprising, complex wine, rather than pressing her lips to the massive dick of a kaldorei soldier. Having decided, perhaps, that the complexity was to her liking, she leaned in again, pressing a longer kiss to the hefty length, finding that it emptied her mind of all the intricate and jumbled lines of thought that usually made their home in it. There was still a tension of sin, but most of all, a pleasant, calm warmth. She closed her eyes, shifted half an inch to the side, and planted another kiss.

For perhaps half a minute, she was allowed to dote on Neryn in this way, a kind of gentle introduction to what was no doubt to come. An interruption came, eventually, when one of the night elf’s hands found the back of her head, again. Not to guide, not to roughly control, merely resting there. A weight that, given time, grew comfortable. Fingers trailing carefully through hair, against her scalp, emphasized by a relaxing, slow breath from above as Silendiel dove in again, treating like royalty the absolute monster that she had difficulty imagining would ever manage to fit into her. Perhaps this was all that could be expected. All that could be done.

“Stay,” Neryn said, again.

Minutes of dutiful but calm worship had passed, by then. The two growing more used to each other, or, rather, Silendiel finding some semblance of normalcy in the tumult of desires and demands. She stayed, as ordered. As perfectly still as it was possible to be, while Neryn withdrew half a step, fingers working buttons open, letting those straining trousers dip, and then slip down, revealing the slowly pulsing enormity, the massive girth of the base of her shaft. More of it soon saw the dim moonlight and the faint golden glow of Silendiel’s eyes, the hefty, broad length withdrawn, inch by mammoth inch, from the sentinel’s pants. Still not fully grown, it was nevertheless well on its way, and already more than Silendiel had ever, in her most forbidden dreams, thought her once kaldorei captor capable of showing. Beneath it, Neryn lifted heavy, churning nuts into freedom, too, Silendiel briefly wondering whether just a single one of those hefty orbs would be enough to cover her face.

The beast coming to rest against, atop Neryn’s thigh, in much the same position as before, just not covered by fabric, she stepped back where she had been. Smoothly-veined, lavender skin presented directly to Silendiel. She breathed in through her nose, the heady, thick scent much clearer now, oddly mixed with smells that called temperate forest in rain to her mind. Fresh, pleasant. She took another breath, eyes flickering upwards for a fraction of a second, hesitation then overcome as she placed a prim and proper kiss against the behemoth. A second one, lingering longer, long enough to sense the power that sat in the monster, the power in the momentary pulse that made it just a fraction thicker.

“Sun, this is… it… is too much,” Silendiel said, hesitating to even form the words. A capitulation that she had not imagined, when she came down. Reports and rumors had made it clear that the kaldorei of the embassy each seemed so profoundly blessed as to be absurd, but somehow, her servant, her agents, had not hesitated to indulge. Perhaps they had? But they had overcome.

“I will try,” she whispered, then.

“You will kiss me around the base before the night is over,” Neryn said.

It was a command. Not a loose prophecy, not a suggestion. There was a certainty to it that Silendiel, seeing the sheer girth of the purple tree trunk, had difficulty comprehending. She shifted, moving her arms, her legs, the bindings, the belt, shifting with her movements.

“This is what you’ve always lacked, here in Silvermoon. Don’t disappoint yourself now,” Neryn said.

The hand behind Silendiel’s head encouraged her into another, longer kiss, a messy affair, dragged around in a circle by the sentinel’s movements, depositing a thin layer of spittle on that colossus. When allowed to lean back again, she took a breath, and swallowed. Cheeks tingling with something she was not sure about. Anxiety? Eager desire? Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and yet, she could not tell why she was agitated so. Expectation, or fear, or need. Something else, perhaps? All three?

“Sit back on your heels. Close your eyes,” Neryn said. A moment’s pregnant pause later, she added: “Open your mouth. As wide as you can.”

Silendiel drew in a deep breath, and held it. Almost like a parting gift, a fond farewell, she placed one final kiss against the side of the huge, fat shaft, and then leaned back. Found a stable position on her heels, closed her eyes such that she heard the silence of the garden, felt the lingering warmth of kaldorei cock on her lips, and felt more keenly her bindings. A moment later, she ran her tongue over her lips, and then parted them. Just so, at first, then wider, and wider. Gaped until the stretch of her lips near made the corners of them ache, until her eyes closed due to how much she screwed up her face. In a way no one had ever taught her, in a way most unseemly, she tried to make room for that colossus.

“Good girl,” Neryn said, a hint of amusement to her voice. But of something more fond, too, something like satisfaction, even if falling short of actual pride. “Very good. Tongue out.”

Though the ghost of what she really ought to act like, a ghost that violently objected to her current position, still occasionally haunted her mind, Silendiel let out a shaky breath at the simple praise. She extended her tongue out, draping it over her lower lip, expecting something heavy to land on it soon after. Instead, for several seconds, she could detect nothing happening. Neryn’s breathing, of course, and the sense of the large elf’s presence nearby, but no sign of that slowly throbbing behemoth placed on her.

“You really are perfectly pretty, this way,” Neryn said. “Nearly perfect. But we can fix that.”

Rather than a word, Silendiel responded with an appreciative, gentle noise – modulated breath starting at the back of her mouth. It could be heard, but her breath met a wall, and not a heartbeat later, she felt the back of Neryn’s massive cockhead weigh down her tongue, and her lower lip. The crown pressed against her gaping lips, a circular seating for it not quite wide enough to let it pass. But with her lips now more or less stuck open, caressing the smooth skin of that monster, and a hand trailing along one of her temples, curling until it found a grip of the back of her head, locks secured and entwined between its fingers, it was clear that where she might have failed to welcome it on her own, the sentinel had no intention of letting herself be held back.

Secured between hand and the solid mass of Neryn’s body, a slow rhythm began to develop, one where the night elf rolled her pelvis forward just slightly, sinking in a little further, only to bounce back most of the way once the roll reversed direction. Silendiel found her already overwhelmed senses soon struggled to register what was even happening, her lips pushing just a little more apart, somehow, with each moment, her tongue trapped between the hefty, fat cockhead and her lower lip. More and more, it felt like, as light thrust followed light thrust.

Gradually, she had managed, had been ****, to open up enough that the towering kaldorei could slip most of that colossal cockhead into Silendiel’s maw, her mouth entirely filled by the beast, nooks and crannies exploited, stretched, to make room. Nowhere left for saliva to go but out, she breathed a shuddering breath out through her nose, producing a worried thing, high-pitched sound, and then snapped in a breath. The last for a while, as Neryn leaned forward, insistent, overwhelming pressure jamming that broad cock-crown in, the rim grinding in to be locked behind Silendiel’s lips. Secured in place, the tip of it sealed by the opening of her throat, such that thick, potent drops of seed, slowly forming and breaking loose, rolling, were deposited directly into her.

Shifting again, wrists only able to move up and down her lower back, she nevertheless managed to produce a series of small, frail sounds, aware of how incredible the pressure upon her body was. The anxious lump in her chest had disappeared, and, despite the crushing tension, all that remained was a low, tingling pleasure in her core. Taut thighs, arms, toes curled as she struggled to accept and take the towering kaldorei, she nevertheless felt that she was rewarded for her efforts. By the pleased, heavy breaths from above, but also by the desire to grind against something, someone, to amplify her own pleasure.

An exhalation, almost relieved, from above. Following that, Neryn’s other hand patted one of Silendiel’s bulging cheeks, and then curled downwards, taking a hold below her chin. In concert, then, the hand behind her head and the one at her throat allowed Neryn to bend her to just the right angle, such that insistent, grinding pressure forward began to push forward, began to make her throat expand around that monster of a cock, a hard, slowly pulsing, fat inch of the shaft beginning to slip into her mouth. Another hard breath escaping from above, a whisper of “Goddess.” The crushing pressure interrupted with a single thrust, pistoning a few of those broad inches down into Silendiel’s throat, a bulge rapidly building to shape around the enormous invader.

There was never a moment’s pause, from then on. Neryn’s breaths came hard, demanding, accompanying thrusts that crammed half a handful of inches down Silendiel’s throat. And further still. In between those brutal, slam-fucking pushes, the weight and muscle of the sentinel never let up, and so each pause still saw a full inch sinking into Silendiel’s maw. Invading her throat, her body, her head held at a perfect angle to facilitate just this exploitation. If she had been able to breathe, she felt that it would have echoed the jittering of her musculature, shaking, tensing, relaxing, almost at random. Overwhelmed, trying to deal with the mad pressure, the enormous girth pounding into her without pause.

She ached, and longed for breath, and yet her mind felt still. Calm, save for the inevitably, pulsing need for air. But beyond that, she had reached a state so often longed for, but never achieved. Peace. Focus. Dedication to a single task. Remaining in place, shuddering at each brutal thrust, but nevertheless taking the behemoth cock thrust into her face. Down her throat. Into her small frame. Held hostage by choice, and taken precisely as she had imagined, dreamed of, so many times. With little regard, if any at all, for her. The feral elf’s hips hammering rhythmically ever forward. Only forward. Down into her, without a moment’s mercy shown. Another ramming thrust, and so she shuddered again. Struggled to remain even on her knees, her body constricting, tensing around that monster. She tried to shape her tongue into a cradle for that thick cumvein, saliva bubbling from her lips with every pounding thrust. The shame was gone, evaporated. She tried to rise to meet Neryn, even. Her Lieutenant. Her sentinel. Found herself firmly re-seated back on her heels with every thrust.

The merciless pace continued, hammering ever deeper into Silendiel, though she sensed, without being able to see it, that a natural end neared. There was only so much of her, and only so many inches of that behemoth. One thrust, the air moved near her chin, and the next one, Neryn’s heavy balls impacted her skin, enveloping a small part of her, sharing the saliva which clung to her and dragging thin cables of it with them when they swung backwards, falling away again. For but a moment.

Briefly, the ceaseless thrusts met resistance of some sort, and Silendiel felt the grip of her head tighten, those punishing thrusts remaining equally hard, but ramming only a single inch in at a time. The final handful of inches came on a little slower, although no less forcefully, each accompanied by a pressure-release of breath from above at each pistoning, bio-mechanical movement, Silendiel sensing very clearly that her kaldorei gritted her teeth, and set her jaw, and accepted no obstacle, no compromise. She conquered and took and exploited in a way that no one else had ever done, or dared to think, and so she sank in. Closer, and closer, and closer. Churning, heavy nuts smacking against Silendiel’s bulging throat, coming to rest there as Neryn jammed and ground that final inch of monster cock into the noblewoman’s throat. Smashing her facial features into tense, hardened muscle, and holding her down. In place.

The exertion, for that was clearly what it had been, of burying every thick inch of that dick in her throat had left the well-trained sentinel breathing hard, and so, she moved only slightly, having at last bottomed out. Rolled forward, rising against and crushing Silendiel’s nose repeatedly, just a fraction of an inch, as if wanting to conquer her absolute depths again, and again. Rewarded, in turn, with the rhythmic, constricting pulses of Silendiel’s throat, only the most quiet, the most choked and gurgled little noises escaping, bubbles of spittle slipping out to settle between her face and Neryn’s chiseled form, connecting them by small ropes when the kaldorei rolled back and forth, just so.

For uncountable seconds, Silendiel found herself held down. In place. Nowhere to go, unable to run. Unable to raise her hands to Neryn’s strong thighs and tap, beg for mercy in a tactile way. She could only dig fingernails into her own palms, curl her feet and toes, and squirm. Let small, ****, choked noises speak for her. But all that was given her was more time completing the kiss around the base of Neryn’s colossal cockshaft, the kaldorei seeming to find great satisfaction in gently rocking her superior mass against Silendiel’s face, savoring what space she had made and captured within the small sin’dorei.

Without being able to see, without being able to focus on anything but that behemoth rammed so far down into her depths, Silendiel did not know how long she stayed in that position. Viscerally, physically conquered by a night elf. Until recently, supposedly, her people’s enemy. All that flowed through her was rhythmic tension – of Neryn’s pulsing beast, and of her own musculature, trying to expel it, in vain – and that same tension could not be overtaken by anything but another, stronger need. She needed to breathe. To desperately draw in air, so long denied her. Around the massive invader, her chest felt as if it beat to the rhythm of the **** red and white-hot warmth, black-edged nothingness encroaching on her mind. And yet, she did not work against the hand behind her head. It was her desire to give to Neryn everything possible to give, and so she struggled not against the grip, but against the ever-growing other-presence in her mind. Doomed to fail, but fighting still. Fighting, weakening.

Weakening.

She came to again what felt a moment later. It could not have been long. Coughing, gasping, spitting, desperately breathing. Held up by hands underneath her armpits, leaning against a solid, warm presence, fighting back the powerful urge to retch. Tears flowing freely. She had not even registered when Neryn had withdrawn, hauled all of those colossal inches back out of her – instead, she had failed.

“I-- apologize,” Silendiel eventually coughed out, the last bit of the final word disappearing in a fit of swallowing and **** up. “I am sorry, I—”

“Quiet,” Neryn whispered, from somewhere up above and next to Silendiel’s head. “You didn’t fail. You gave everything. I got carried away.”

“I would like… to continue,” Silendiel found herself saying, a moment later. Uncertain of whether she could handle half of what she had just gone through, and yet wanting to. The most shameful feeling, this thing, wanting so deeply to be taken and conquered by the stupid, stubborn, terrible, amazing kaldorei who now held her. Held her. In comforting, strong arms. After she had given in and betrayed herself, and her people, had she done that.

“And I would like to continue, too. You are more than I could have hoped for. But if we go on, now, I won’t stop. You’ll end up here again. With a broken nose, on top,” Neryn said. She ran a hand over the back of Silendiel’s head, over her hair. “I don’t trust myself to stop.”

“I… do not… want you to,” Silendiel said. Slowly, her breathing still elevated, still marked by what she had just gone through. Her whole body churning with prickling heat, with weakness. If not for Neryn’s arms, she wondered whether she would have had the strength to sit, even. Likely not. “I do not want you, to… stop,” she said. Again. It was easier, somehow, to lay herself bare, to be entirely honest, now that she was physically broken down to some extent. When her throat ached from the obscenely thick conqueror’s recent presence. If she regenerated, if she slept and recuperated, she might have time to build up walls around herself again. It had to be said now, to be emphasized.

“I want you to,” Silendiel said. “To… capture me. Bind me. Take me. Like a savage.”

“Savage,” Neryn said, after a while. “The feral huntress, the barbarian cousin-elf, is that what I am?”

“Were you only that, would you… be holding me, now?”

“It’s what you want?”

“It is what I want,” Silendiel said. She drew in a full breath, at last, having gained control of her breathing again. “Soon,” she said, then, a note of regret in her voice.

“Could you… bring me to my chambers? You may have to finish that off yourself, this once,” Silendiel said, making a vague motion with her head, and her bound arm, towards the still slowly throbbing, hard monster, now resting along Neryn’s thigh again, as she sat and held up the noblewoman.

“I’ll leave that task to you, still,” Neryn said. She rose, and as she did, she easily lifted Silendiel with her.

“How terribly romantic,” Silendiel said. She managed a faint smile, not even caring that she was lifted like a wilting wallflower, fainted from so much nothing.

“You should expect no less of a barbarian, a savage, no?”

“No,” Silendiel said. Already, her eyes were closed, and she relied on Neryn’s presence, arms around her, to slowly navigate back inside. Back upstairs. Back to her chambers. The dress she had worn outside was thoroughly soaked in her own saliva, and had been so stretched by the presence of that massive bulge, that she no longer considered it fit to sleep in. Her final act, still supported occasionally by Neryn’s presence, was, after her bonds had been taken off, to remove it, and then slip into her grand bed. Still aching everywhere, but a good, churning warmth that made her feel as if she had exercised thoroughly, rather than damaged anything.

“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Neryn said, moving the covers into place over Silendiel’s form.

“Blurh,” was all the reply the night elf received, the sin’dorei apparently already half asleep, or just too worn out by the **** of her face and mouth and throat that it was all she could produce.

A slight smile played on Neryn’s lips as she watched Silendiel. A moment later, she turned, and, silently, padded back down. Outside.