Ever More To Come

Twin nights had passed since that first, feverish meeting, where they had indulged in one-another, where they had accepted, and gotten to know one-another, and Kael’thas had then realized that much of what she thought of herself, of how she ought to behave, had either been dictated by others, or dictated by an environment that never deigned to give her the kind of partner deserving of anything else. Tyrande did not need her to find motivation to behave differently, it rose within her of its own accord. So, sat upon a small pillow on the floor, between the strong thighs of the High Priestess, she leaned in. Offered an indulgent kiss to the side of that colossal cockshaft. Its might near eternal, seemingly. Certainly, with her occasional ministrations, it seemed never to grow truly dormant, and so, Tyrande had fucked her into the ground, into various pieces of furniture, with regularity.

More than once, others – kaldorei – had entered in the middle of their coupling, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the High Priestess had perhaps slowed, had ceased to move, but otherwise not disengaged from the all-important task of plowing the Princess of Quel’thalas in every conceivable position, and hole.

So it was, that second evening, when a sentinel pushed aside the flap of the tent, entering it. It could no longer be a surprise to anyone in the camp that Kael’thas now spent her time in the intimate company of Tyrande, and yet, the sentinel glanced to the seated, naked Princess. Several seconds passed before she recovered focus, seemingly in order to deliver some report to the High Priestess.

In the distant past, several days ago, Kael’thas would never have let information pass her by. Truly decadent, declining monarchies and empires turned inwards, pretended that reality warped itself around personal desire, and so no longer sought or needed contact with the world. An effective monarch not only had a spymaster, but, to a certain extent, was one herself. Just that moment, however, she struggled gently against Tyrande’s fingers, draped loosely over her head, down over her eyes, on either side of her nose, in order to both rest against her High Priestess’ thigh and kiss the ominously, slowly pulsing side of that tree-trunk shaft. With her focus thus spoken for, only fragments of understanding settled in her mind.

Until, of course, Tyrande patted her cheek just so, bringing her to attention. To hear what the sentinel reported, having apparently halted mid-sentence at the High Priestess’ silent request. So that the Princess, too, could hear what was said, slowly, apparently so that she could keep up.

“High Priestess, the Silver Wind is moored at the city docks. Under our supervision, the high elves are carrying out repairs, refitting, and readying provisions for the return journey,” the sentinel said.

Tyrande caressed Kael’thas’ cheek, a feathery movement so light as to almost tickle. So very different from the brutal strength those digits could just as easily carry. That seemed, however, to be the only sign the High Priestess made in response to the report.

“The Captain estimates that the ship will be ready to depart in a few nights,” the sentinel continued.

“See the preparations done. The Captain and crew may then be free for ten nights, while our diplomatic overtures play out,” Tyrande said.

With only a momentary drifting of eyes to Kael’thas, to her bared chest, to the possessive imprisonment of her face by Tyrande’s fingers, the sentinel nodded. Caught herself, then, bowed her head, bowed from the waist, and then withdrew slowly, step by step. It seemed that, however free the kaldorei were, there were limits to what was usually put on display, certainly when it came to the High Priestess, and perhaps equally, to the locals of Quel’thalas.

Before the sentinel had left, as if to thoroughly underline her right to do so to both the other kaldorei and to Kael’thas, Tyrande’s fingers shifted. No longer draped loosely over the Princess’ face, they instead found purchase at the back of her head, cradling her skull so as to better smear and mash her somewhat abused lips against the steely, huge girth of that shaft. Kael’thas let out a mildly protesting breath through her nose, but soon settled into Tyrande’s desire, her mouth drawing out a slippery line of saliva down the behemoth’s side.

For a time, at least, as the hold of her head pulled her upwards, so that her throat stroked the beast for several long, thick inches. Only when she neared the base was she corrected, and allowed to push an indulgent kiss to the thickest, bottom-most inch of that monster, sensing Tyrande’s steady heartbeat through contact, through the contact of smooth, soft skin against her lips. Having proven herself capable, yet again, of serving in the required fashion, Tyrande’s grip loosened. She took, instead, to caressing Kael’thas’ cheek, and hair. A feeling of calm before the storm – no doubt, the High Priestess desired to feel the Princess’ lips wrapped around the base of that behemoth once again, quite soon.

“We have two weeks, Princess,” Tyrande said. “Will you enjoy them as much as me?”

The polite thing to do would have been to answer with devoted, heartfelt words. Kael’thas might have offered one more kiss, and then sat back on her heels to look up, far, far up, to her towering High Priestess’ eyes, after which she might have said something as simple as yes. She resolved, instead, to decorate the slow curve at the base of that colossal shaft with long, dedicated drags of her tongue, deluding herself into thinking that she not only drew those slowly thickening pumps forth, but rewarded them with each meeting of the beast’s root and her tongue.

It was important, after all, to get as much as she could out of diplomatic proceedings. It would be a decade, if not more, until she might meet the High Priestess again, in Quel’thalas. So, breathlessly, her lips painted with her own saliva, she took less than a second to sputter out a raw “yes” that drowned in her base desire to please, to indulge, Tyrande.