Alliance Cemented

They laid together, next to one-another, resting. Always, Tyrande’s arm was around Kael’thas’ shoulders, and always, she was safely ensconced within that embrace, cradled and kept safe, and warm, her head resting against the side of the Tyrande’s chest. Breathing quietly, as quietly as she could, while slowly processing that titanic gift, pumped directly into her stomach without mercy.

What became apparent, however, hours passed and belly somewhat, but not entirely, shrunken, was that the High Priestess was not sated. Not, it seemed, even close. While her gentle treatment of Kael’thas, of her bruised face and reddened throat, had been genuine, so too was the obvious need not exactly returning – it had never left – to the only slightly dormant behemoth resting between Tyrande’s thighs.

It was a relief, Kael’thas quietly admitted to herself, in her thoughts, that the High Priestess did not seem intent on fucking her already abused throat once more. She wished to serve, and heated, prickling desire flared within her limbs at the bottomless lust for her displayed by Tyrande, but even so. Her face could only take so much punishment, she reasoned, in a single day.

Tyrande disentangled herself from their comfortable, easy embrace, rose, stalked a half circle around the chaise, and the prone Princess, taking a hold of her thighs to drag her into place. Turning her so that she laid across the chaise, rather than along it, legs splayed wide open, the High Priestess taking her rightful place between them.

At some point during their hours laid on the chaise together, no doubt because it was sodden and ruptured and no longer a suitable piece of clothing for a Princess, Kael’thas had removed and squirmed out of the ruined summer dress. She had, for a time, enveloped herself in a thin, smooth blanket, more for her own lingering sense of shame, should one of Tyrande’s fellow kaldorei enter, than because she wished to cover herself when near the High Priestess. The pale, somewhat worn square of cloth proved easy to get out of the way when such was needed, however, and so, as she was turned upon the chaise, she had only to wriggle just so to slip the blanket from her calves and feet, lying naked before Tyrande. Who wasted no time in emphasizing the position they were in, no doubt to her own pleasure.

Kael’thas understood, in some distant sense, the enjoyment that Tyrande might feel when she allowed that hardening, girthy monster cock to settle with a hard smack against a little quel’dorei’s stomach. A dome like an upturned washing bowl still remained, and provided the High Priestess with a slightly bouncy rest for the behemoth to come to a stop on, the weight of the lazily pulsing, fattening colossus redistributing the churning mass of what remained within the Princess’ belly to the sides, just so. It was that display, specifically, she reasoned. The sight, the tactile feeling of that huge, thick dick against pristine quel’dorei skin, that Tyrande desired, and sought. Deep purple on a pale, pliant canvas, demonstrating her physical might, and size. Her conquest. The latter, particularly, as she shifted forward, that weighty, wide cockshaft slipping upwards, smoothly-veined, warm skin grinding just so against Kael’thas, pushing up to rest almost between her firm, modest chest.

If the sordid tales and stories she had read, over time, were to be believed, ostensibly she might then have pushed her breasts together in an effort to grind that monstrously thick, kaldorei cock between them, pleasing Tyrande. She had not the mass, in that particular department. And, in truth, the High Priestess seemed rather more interested in rocking back and forth, her strong thighs meeting Kael’thas’ inner thighs, those heavy, still sloshing nuts coming to rest, to rise up directly against her cunt.

An echo of something said, earlier, returned to her. Not to disappoint herself. And so, on the cusp of producing some little verbal jab, some encouragement for the lustful but focused, taciturn High Priestess to seduce her, to weave words together in a pleasing way, or merely to command. To do anything at all. They fell away. In the moment following, Tyrande reached up, tracing a slow, possessive caress with her right hand across Kael’thas’ right cheekbone, down to her lips. The thumb that was presented to her, that she parted her lips and teeth for, that curled to take a most undignified, fish-hook grip of her cheek, informed her that the way she would be wooed had nothing to do with social or status games. They were compatible. They wanted each other. It was simple, almost animal. Far removed from the complications and endless layers of everything to do with Quel’thalas, or Silvermoon City.

Kael’thas responded by raising her left hand, curling fingers around Tyrande’s wrist. Not to stop the gesture, merely to be in contact with it. With the High Priestess. Kael’thas raised her lower back from the chaise, too, as much as she could with the behemoth’s weight upon her, pressing herself down to meet the base of Tyrande’s shaft. Physical encouragement, and demonstration of her desire for the savage kaldorei to mate the delicate quel’dorei, as in the illicit, dark romances that she read, and then incinerated, so as to not be found out.

What ought to be crude and denigrating to her in almost all possible ways instead nurtured the heat in her core, the thing which the brutal facefucking had not been able to unleash, but which Tyrande’s strength promised might nevertheless find freedom if they were to grind and ram together for longer. Kael’thas tightened her lips around the finger in her mouth, the unoccupied cheek caving in as she sucked on it, likely to the point of discomfort. It was not removed, seemingly no matter what she did. Only when she tested settling her teeth against the skin, not quite biting, did she feel a hardening of the other fingers still resting against her cheek, as if preparing to capture her whole face in a hold which might crush her, should she carry out the threat. She was given time to consider her actions, however. Others might have withdrawn the finger, might have felt the need to assert themselves, to loudly and crudely show her the error of her ways – perhaps slap the supposedly insolent girl. Not Tyrande. Instead, she looked, swirling, luminous eyes transfixing Kael’thas, seconds passing as she slowly released the slight grip of her teeth.

“Good girl,” Tyrande said, at last.

How many times had those two words been whispered as they laid together, as Kael’thas recovered from the ordeal which, in hindsight, she realized, had been the tiniest fractions of strength from breaking her nose under the strength of Tyrande’s thrusts? Thick, cloying, pleased emotion welled up in her at them, now, though to call the Princess a girl was its own denigration. One that ceased to register as such only because it came from the High Priestess’ lips. One that, instead, made her once more grind down against those heavy, fat nuts, her eagerness in turn seeming to prompt the first hint of a thrust from Tyrande. Only a hint, however. And a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Woht?” Kael’thas had opened her mouth around the thumb still inserted, hooking her cheek, to clarify what was asked of her. What Tyrande wanted, which she had not understood. Weighed down by that fat shaft already, acquiescing to the finger in her mouth, meeting that faint thrust, what else should she be doing to make the woman understand that she wanted to be fucked?

“Confess your desire,” Tyrande said.

“My…” Kael’thas caught herself, taking a deep breath. Was her desire not obvious enough, as it was? Perhaps it was another step in the dance of the savage, rather than the civilized Silvermoon socialite, and so, she metaphorically kneeled before the towering, statuesque High Priestess, and spoke around the thumb, again. “Fuck me. Please.”

She was allowed to rest for a long moment, to feel the weight of those words settle in her. An oddly light sensation, in truth. Vague ideas of moments such as the one she found herself in just then convinced her long ago that she would feel some immense blanket of submission and subservience suffuse and hold her down, but though there was a warm tingling in her limbs, she was not overwhelmed. Heat and color rose to her cheeks, that much was evident in the dancing, prickling feeling in them, but could anyone even tell? Could Tyrande? Already, Kael’thas’ cheeks were crimson from the long and serious punishment her face had suffered, even if she had been allowed hours in which to recover. What was a little more red? Did she feel any different, any less desire, or more? No. The same droning, churning heat, the restlessness that drove her to continue to grind against Tyrande, as if any more proof of her desire was needed.

At long last, the thumb was removed from her cheek. Withdrawn, held between her lips for a moment, so that she could kiss its tip when it pulled back a little further. And then smeared roughly against her lips, spreading spittle in an irregular, circular pattern upon her skin, once again. Tyrande seemed to enjoy specifically that kind of vandalism. The undoing and tearing down of the delicate, and the regal. The thought that, in another world, Tyrande might have been the type to go around tossing paint at statues, just to take joy from the change. She might then clean it afterwards, conscious of the mess she had made, for she did not seem to want to destroy a thing. Only to claim it in the way that non-permanent defacement did. After all, was power to deface a thing not one of many ways in which she could display ownership of it? One might use one’s things roughly, but nevertheless care for them.

Ownership. Of Princess Sunstrider. Kael’thas near smiled, would have smiled, if the High Priestess had not chosen that precise moment to lay a harder thrust against her, causing her to rock backwards several inches upon the chaise. Forcing from her a straining burst of air. Not so much as to violently empty her lungs, but, having not been ready, she swayed back and forth. The slowly diminishing remnants of their first coupling, the churning, weighed-down bump of her stomach, sloshing just so.

Tyrande held herself at the apex of that thrust, swirling blue eyes locked upon Kael’thas’, demonstrating once again the physical conquest to come. Just how deep she might go. Would, no doubt, go. There would be no stopping her, not that Kael’thas wished to stop her most exquisite kaldorei from doing precisely what she wished. What they both wished. They breathed together, almost in unison, heavy, and needy, no longer as languidly, no longer as indulgently, or slowly. When Tyrande then withdrew from that thrust, she did not stop, instead letting massively thick inches trail down over the Princess’ front, leaving a trail of intermittent, small, sluggishly flowing pools of seed in her wake, each a gifted drop that heated her skin, drawing a line that would surely, given a few minutes, bulge with that monstrously fat cock.

Withdrawn enough that the broad, heavy cock-crown smacked down against the edge of the chaise, a few inches of cushioning left to hold it aloft and between Kael’thas’ legs, Tyrande let out a slow, calming sigh. Something like forced relaxation, shoulders sinking, eyes half-lidded, hands repositioning to slowly curl around the Princess’ thighs without gripping hard. Content, for a little while, to let those steadily pumping beads of cum be produced and then smear against royal skin, slowly aligned so that Tyrande’s relaxation nevertheless allowed her to roll forward and let potent, Elune-blessed kaldorei seed pulse directly up against the Princess’ pussy.

Quel’dorei and kaldorei were compatible, capable of interbreeding, and it was not a matter up for debate. The guards placed specifically in order to keep curious locals and adventurous night elves apart, after many incidents attempted suppressed and vilified both officially and by local authorities, were evidence against the official story. Kael’thas did not care. She did not come to Tyrande to bear a child, but all those unworthies in Silvermoon, with whom she would have lowered herself even if all she had done was seek pleasure, could never hope to compare. If the kaldorei seed was to take, it would be no more than right. And if it did not, perhaps the king would have one less thing to worry about. She wished only for Tyrande to complete the mating, regardless of its result. No-- if she were to be honest, the risk was part of the thrill. Not knowing, but suspecting what might happen.

Tyrande’s hands curled around Kael’thas’ thighs, at once an unbreakable set of shackles, and still twin caresses of soft, supple skin. The Princess’ heart rose slowly in that grip, beat by beat, until it seemed to beat a cold hint of bile in her throat. The pain of anxiety, of what was to come. Allowed to live for mere moments, and then suppressed when the High Priestess pressed ahead. Leveled what grew from nothing to cruel strength in a few short seconds, causing Kael’thas to snap for a breath that, seemingly as a mere unwitting side effect, extinguished that coolness in her. In its place grew a cloud, an irregularly shaped blob of wool and steel and throbbing heat. Heat which rose to her cheeks, and her forearms, as she instinctively reached down to place her fingers upon Tyrande’s hands. Taking a firm grip of them, as if she might, by it, regulate the inevitable conquest. As if she might do more than occasionally grit her teeth, and then gasp, hissing, and then suffusing warmth into her mind, at the slight, initial thrusts. She rocked backwards at each, bodily shifting in response, yet could not help but tense her rump, rising against the behemoth.

Without remorse, without stopping, Tyrande rolled thrust after thrust against Kael’thas, never quite settling, never allowing the pressure to ease off, the comparatively petite Princess’ body allowed only the option of dealing with the obscenely girthy monster which demanded entry. Again, and again, rolling, grinding, shifting, plowing inwards. Taking what was offered, little by little, Kael’thas’ gasps rising to a higher and higher note, breathing staccato, held, hesitantly released as the aching pressure grew. Barely noticing that, throughout it all, the High Priestess had pushed in, fraction by fraction, until one, then two, then three of those colossal inches had found a home in Kael’thas’ clenching cunt. Thickly-flowing, white and blue seed smearing, splurting free from around that broad crown at every movement, more pumped in for every one of Tyrande’s heartbeats.

The hands about Kael’thas’ thighs – Tyrande’s hands, the thought of who they belonged to seemed somehow important – tightened their grip, and yet, the distance between them made them a poor handhold. Too much tugging would merely get the Princess to close her legs, rather than maintain the passive, comfortable, widely-spread welcome, and so, the High Priestess gradually shifted her hands up. A looser hold almost immediately caused that crushing pressure to push Kael’thas across the surface of the chaise, inch by inch, so that, by the time Tyrande’s hands found purchase about her waist, her head and shoulders hung over the opposite edge, unsupported.

She was not, then, pulled back into position. Kael’thas squirmed, releasing strenuous breath after strenuous breath, shifting, fingers settled atop those digits now about her waist. Digging, just so, into the small remnant of the dome that had swollen her belly to obscenity. She did not want Tyrande to stop, not exactly, but the sacrifice involved in the High Priestess’ desires stole every part of her waking mind, focused her attention upon the effort of tolerating it, just about, but a scrap of thought left over to note the churning, waking heat in her core. A thing discarded, for all the insistent life and warmth and spreading tingling feeling, as she was forced, by another brutal, rocking thrust, to let out a thick gasp.

Tyrande sank in another inch. There was nowhere for her to go but into Kael’thas’ depths, held in place as the Princess was, her stomach rising once again as the moments passed. Not in that frighteningly steady, copious wave of orgasm, but in a fat, cylindrical shape, the outline of that monster’s shape as it plowing into her tight, rhythmically clenching cunt. Another inch, then, and another. And, soon enough, the expected, the most dreadful thing happened. Tyrande’s fat, hefty cockhead smeared, battered into her cervix, and did not cease to move. Rolled backwards just so, and then came on again, harder. More insistently. Sending a violent, jittery jerk of uncontrollable motion through Kael’thas – a thing both physical and emotional. A cold lance that resolved to pressure, to sensation so all-encompassing, so overwhelming, that she could not break it down into a comprehensible thing just then. Not at first, and not at the second, the third, or the fourth rolling, grinding thrust. All that emerged from her, in the end, was a long, raw sound, a rasping, almost braying sound, something her conscious, royal self could never have produced. Interrupted, broken apart, only by the next insistent thrust, rising her previously pristine, flat stomach yet again in the shape of the High Priestess’ absurdly thick cockshaft.

Without willing it, Kael’thas realized, through the pain of tension, that she had held Tyrande’s hands in a deathgrip. That she had, as the unceasing, rolling, powerful thrusts went on, and on, grinding, mashing against her cervix, begun to prepare for the impossible that she had yet always known the High Priestess desired. Without conscious thought, her fingers had known. Her arching, flexing feet had known. The glassy-eyed stare, eyes rolled halfway up her skull, had known. Every part of her, including the anxiously churning feeling in her core, a kind of pleasure afraid of itself, which simultaneously shrank in fear and boldly fed on every meeting of that protective wall within her and Tyrande’s huge, fat cock, had known. She, the presence inside her head which she thought of as herself, under pressure from intense physical conquest, was the last to learn anything.

The fingers about Kael’thas’ waist tightened, and, with a hard, growling noise emerging from Tyrande’s throat, the final, crushing meeting of battering ram and gate occurred. The High Priestess did not let up, any longer, did not relent, did not ease off the pressure, causing Kael’thas to produce what started as no more than a strained exhale, but grew into a shaking, tremulous, high-pitched breath, spilling air she did not know she had within her as it went on, and on. As she tensed, let her head roll back, fall towards the floor without quite reaching, as the brutal grasp of her slim waist offered no possible retreat, she at last gave way. Tyrande’s tree-trunk cock, the crown of it pushing first, ground into, past Kael’thas’ cervix, until the clenching, tight wall clamped down behind the ridge of that vast cockhead.

Quite without wishing to, Kael’thas moved one hand to her stomach, to the fat cockbulge that had risen another few inches, had deepened its reach, feebly pressing against it. As if she might control, blunt Tyrande’s progress by that effort. Not that she could even see it. Nor entirely decide on what she wanted. The immense pressure, the jolting, jagged lashes of emotion, of overwhelming sensation that seemed to teeter on an edge that promised agony on one side, and cruel pleasure on the other, could not be resolved. She stumbled, struggled to balance, and yet knew that she would fall. Only Tyrande’s strong hands, that grip that kept her grounded, kept her pressed to the chaise, held her over its edge, guided her, allowed her to let out a straining, gasping breath at a first, hard thrust. Two more incomprehensibly fat inches of kaldorei cock plowed into her, no doubt depositing as yet unfelt, thickly-flowing drops of seed directly within her womb.

Kael’thas tried to speak, tried to form words, not knowing what she wanted to say. All that came out was ragged breathing, half strained suffering, half weakened, pleading pleasure, her fingers splayed against the monster that yet again moved within, hammering another two, colossal inches in. With such force that, despite Tyrande’s grip, she slipped up the chaise just so. And, again, at the next thrust. Again, and again, until the back of her head made contact with the floor, and then her shoulders, the High Priestess gradually working her way across the lounging chair’s surface as she both crammed that absurdly thick cockshaft into the Princess, pounding languidly pulsing inches directly into the until-then pristine, royal womb. Eventually, in what seemed the most exploitative, undignified pose yet, Kael’thas felt that each thrust no longer moved her – was no longer allowed to shift her forward. Tyrande had found her position, feet planted on the floor of the tent on either side of Kael’thas’ shoulders, pressing down into the Princess, who compressed, and yelped, and breathed with almost indignant, strained pleasure, so cruelly made to serve the High Priestess’ desires. And, she admitted, her own. For all the apparent denigration, debasement. Her own.

Tyrande’s efforts brought her ever closer to bottoming out in the Princess once again, though as she moved, as every pounding thrust sank more of that behemoth in, the disadvantage of the position became clearer. Domineering, perhaps, in that it allowed the High Priestess to tower and loom over Kael’thas, to thus assert her physical superiority, it nevertheless also made those regular, ceaseless thrusts a more awkward movement, and so, they slowed down. Rocked back and forwards still, but clearly with effort spent on Tyrande maintaining her position.

Kael’thas rose from the floor, just so, in order to meet the plowing, hard thrusts, not of her own accord, but due to those hands, still locked around her waist, pulling her up to meet the kaldorei’s thrusts. So she settled back down again, and again, each moment with more of that beast hammered into the clenching deeps of her womb. An almost unsettling feeling, something within her that she did not often think of taken over, conquered, and bloated with that monster’s presence. Nevertheless, she found her fingers curling around Tyrande’s ankles, rather than desperately trying to push against the fat cockbulge.

She sought to steady herself, to steady the High Priestess, not to escape. Sought some measure of stability, her stomach desperately tensing, flexing, unable to suppress the thick, cylindrical swell of Tyrande’s girth, and nevertheless rhythmically attempting to. Gathering heat, and strain, and ache, compressed at each thrust, and yet continuing. Breath spilled from Kael’thas’ mouth as, at long last, the High Priestess bottomed out, crushing her beneath strong thighs, and the weight of muscle, and the insistent pressure of fat dick and the effort required to cram it into her very depths. And, in the long moment of stillness that followed that first bottoming out in her, strenuous breath briefly moved to the pace of those merciless contractions in her core.

In a cruel, sweet way that having her face and throat brutally fucked could not have produced, beneath Tyrande’s efforts to fill her womb, she suffered the sating, weakening, terribly pleasant waves of gathering ecstasy. What should have been vicious, savage, instead prompted her body to rise in response. Kael’thas found her chin sinking towards her collarbone, a long, almost ailing breath that she refused to acknowledge as a strained moan leaving her lips, all accompanying Tyrande’s pulling back of one, then two handfuls of that behemoth cockshaft. A thick feeling, something close to visceral, raw unfairness, bubbled and built and filled her throat, and tears knocked, demanding to be let out when the High Priestess pressed that immensely fat, conquering dick back down, and into her.

Again, breath spilled from her, forced from her lungs, her chin rising from her collarbone for only a moment, freeing that tearful knot in her throat, only to reform it again a moment later when she settled. When the High Priestess found her home, crammed in to the absolute hilt, applying crushing, selfish, inconsiderate pressure, so much so that those clenching muscles of the Princess’ stomach could no longer relax, could no longer work. They knotted, like her throat, seeming to move only partially to the tune of her pulse. But that light feeling was enough. Enough to call up boiling, joyous, freeing bubbles of emotion.

Without her mental command to do so, Kael’thas found her lips parted. Found her eyelids twitching, found that she had to struggle not to have her eyes roll up. Beneath the crushing force of Tyrande’s conquering bottoming out, moving only slightly, a rolling back and forth, up and down, while remaining completely unified, those heavy, weighty balls settled against the Princess’ ass, there was only one escape. An irresistible calling up, something immaterial, ethereal, that nevertheless rose from her core, taken over, filled with that obscenely thick dick, and escaped up her throat. A lightness that pushed its way free, carrying with it prickling, white-hot little stars, spreading into every limb.

Terribly, without a chance of control, of resisting it, she came. In hard waves of mind-numbing pleasure, making her produce, she realized only slowly, the most indulgent, high-pitched, almost whining breaths. Every three, four waves, when her body could no longer make shaking, shivering muscle comply, a few moments were allowed in which she could breathe, and blink moisture from her eyes, and look up into those piercing, blue eyes, swirling in the dusky, low light of the tent above her. Hard, stern, as if commanding her to orgasm, as if that punishing climax was a benevolent gift from the High Priestess herself.

Pitilessly, Tyrande did not keep Kael’thas compressed, bent and folded and trapped in rhythmic, rolling orgasm, did not remain in place, merely gyrating her hips slowly to emphasize the seemingly endless climax. After a time, seconds, minutes, Kael’thas did not know, the High Priestess withdrew, rising up, only to fall back down. A hammerblow thrust, an intentional depth charge that jammed that colossal, still steadily throbbing cockhead into the depths of her womb. Sealed them together, again, a hard smacking of skin against skin emphasizing their unity. A hard, inevitable thing – a huntress claiming her prey. Repeated, then, a second time. A third, and a fourth, well over two handfuls of inches of colossal kaldorei cock soon slam-fucking into the upside down, helplessly gasping Princess, breaths pleading for something. Anything. Mercy, and the absence of it. The cruelty to go on, and on, and on. She did not know. Could only hold on, knuckles whitening in their grasp around the ankles of the High Priestess.

It was clear that, having induced the Princess to shivering, sating orgasm, Tyrande sought her own. More fiercely, even, than when she had rammed into Kael’thas’ face, threatening to break her nose in the process. No such care was applied, nor needed, muscled physique crashing down to meet pliant, delicate, pale skin. It was unavoidable, for each hilting thrust, each time the fat base of that behemoth was enveloped by the Princess’ tight, clenching pussy, for breath to be driven from her. A straining thing, hesitant, for she tried to keep it in. Tried, but was repeatedly overtaken, her body bending just so, made smaller beneath the comparatively huge kaldorei. Taking, with effort, with rising, jolting sensation, each plowing, pounding thrust.

For the first time, then, as Tyrande hilted in her, and then came to rest for a few precious moments, Kael’thas sensed the exertion required by her continual conquest. Though the High Priestess’ breath was thick with rising need, with the undeniable, grinding pleasure imparted upon her, it was labored, too. Between them, sweat made each slippery. Beneath fingertips, around Tyrande’s ankles, she felt the same – a thin sheen of it, the effort bringing it forth. A natural ending called upon, if not because either of them might wish it, then because there was a limit to what the Princess could take. And for how long the High Priestess could give it.

A moment later, she resumed her steady, ceaseless thrusts, that tree-trunk colossus hammering inch after fat inch into her, pressing her shoulders and head against the floor at the apex of each meeting, gathering up a knot of pleasure which overflowed and spilled out into her, before easing off, pulling back in preparation for the next thrust, and the next. One brutal, grinding movement slipping into the next, Kael’thas only vaguely aware of them. Not because she could suddenly handle the High Priestess’ mammoth shaft, but because those repeated, spiraling knots of pleasure, when freed, carried her mind with them. The aching closeness, the absurd girth, carried with it that thought-numbing, repeated impact which promised sating, weakening pleasure, and so she let herself be carried aloft by that. Turning, tossing her head, curling her toes, her heels bumping against Tyrande’s upper arms, bent backwards each time the High Priestess descended on her.

It was not a violent rush to the finish, the second time. First, growing from near nothing, from a little pulse within, Kael’thas groaned. Let breath hiss past her lips as the High Priestess bottomed out again, and thus made the blossom of rapturous, bodily bliss grow, and then burst. The pulse seized upon that explosion of pleasure, pumping it throughout her body, suffusing her with rushing, heated pinpricks, skin tingling, muscles near seizing. Again, her body, trembling from effort, tried to clamp upon the monster hammering into her depths, and failed, but nevertheless kept trying. Kept tensing, each quake sending a renewed, sweltering wave of inexplicable, irresistible, orgasmic butterflies through her. Again, and again, encouraged and renewed by those final, powerful thrusts.

Tyrande allowed herself to sink down, at last, less so than violently thrusting those final, fat inches of monster cock into Kael’thas, breathing hard, snapping, straining for air as the third last, then second, then last, immensely thick inch ground, settled into the Princess’ cunt. Muscle honed for centuries, millennia, contracted, abs standing out, that behemoth near milked by the consistent force of Kael’thas’ orgasm, and, soon enough, the endless calling found its apex.

Those hefty, churning balls rose against the Princess’ rump, the High Priestess cramming herself down harder, some primal part of her seeking to find yet unconquered depths, but finding nothing. Continually trying, with the insistent, mindless determination of something more ancient than even the first waking kaldorei. Beneath her, Kael’thas still came, previously flat stomach clenching around that fat cockbulge, leading inexorably towards Tyrande’s hard, almost aching, first breath. Accompanying a quake of muscle, that fat cumvein grew, and so did the already obscenely girthy shaft, and, in the next moment, what they prepared for came to pass.

A molten, copious rope of moon-blessed, powerful seed hammered from the High Priestess, thundering down that thick cockshaft, a bruising, hard pillar splurting from its head, pumping potent swimmers directly into the Princess’ womb. Enough, in but that single, sweltering strand to overflow Kael’thas’ cupped hands, twice over. With inevitable, bio-mechanical certainty, the second, plowing, pounding rope followed the first, Tyrande’s straining exhalation following it, and every subsequent load. The third came, and the fourth, and yet more, each one adding to the churning mass already trapped within Kael’thas, each one building the beginning bump into a hill, a dome. Rising, fighting against the steady contractions of orgasm, eventually conquering even those.

Helpless in that moment, eyes rolled up, squirming, powerless with pleasure, Kael’thas could only whimper at the combined sensation of brutal orgasm and the ever-rising, filling tide, her belly bloating, conquered, hiding that fat bulge of the High Priestess’ pulsing, fat dick, her stomach growing, the hemisphere so full that it began to spill but an inch down her flanks, even as it rested also against her chest.

For how long the two came, nestled, hammered together into one, she did not know. Long enough that, at some point, she had released Tyrande’s ankles, hands and arms instead feebly cradling, trying to direct and contain, the churning, sloshing bulge of seed, nevertheless stuck beneath the High Priestess. Who did not, it seemed, intend to release her, nor pull out, any time soon.