Shadowheart's Blowjob

The surf hissed against the rocks behind her, but Shadowheart barely registered it.

She knelt in the sand, gauntlets cast aside, mace resting at her hip, and the world narrowed to the brute fact of what loomed before her.

It was grotesquely oversized, jutting forward like a length of living meat, veined and ridged, its leathery skin pulled tight with blood. The glans was broad and flat as a ram’s head, flushed a dark, violent red. The foreskin dragged back and forth as it throbbed, heavy enough that each twitch made it swing. Heat rolled off it in waves; the air itself smelled musky, rank, undeniably male.

Not that she’d paid overmuch attention to horseflesh, but the comparison came unbidden. Stallion-sized, yet fixed to the hips of a man, which only made the proportions more obscene. Any other time she would have smirked at the absurdity. Now, with Shar’s words etched in her mind, the sight felt ritual. Binding.

Shadowheart swallowed, dry-mouthed with the brine on her lips. She’d been on her knees more times than she could count, lips wrapped around initiates, handlers, priests, strangers in the cloister’s shadows. By the thousands, a holy act, a simple one. But those cocks had been ordinary things. Slender, forgettable, sometimes fat enough to ****, once or twice impressive. Here she found herself parked rather far away from his hips, staring down a length that seemed to belong in some perverse stable rather than on a half-orc.

She set her knees, squared her shoulders, and looked up the line of him with cool, assessing eyes.

“Requests?” she asked, tone dry as old parchment. “Before I… begin.”

His grin sharpened. “Aye. Address him by name. Apologize to him. Give him a sweet kiss.”

Her mouth tilted in a faint, unimpressed smile. “Ridiculous.” A beat. “Very well.”

Shadowheart turned back to the thing itself: massive, blunt, animal in its certainty and lifted both hands. Even stacked, her fingers couldn’t meet; they simply framed the living weight. The foreskin rode back a thumb’s breadth, and the head showed. The piss-slit wasn’t a neat line at all but a lewd, gaping mouth, wide enough that some lesser men could have stuck their whole glans in it. It already drooled, a thick, pearly rope that drooled down its face.

She leaned close, breath steady despite the iron musk filling her nose. “Wombreaver,” she murmured, voice low and precise, as if delivering a rite. “Forgive me. I’ll not neglect you again.”

Then she kissed him and licked in the same motion, her mouth sealing to the swollen cockhead. Her tongue swept up the drooling spill and curled into that obscene opening catching the fresh welling of pre like cream, salt and copper and something unapologetically male rolling warm across her tongue. The act was a religious duty: the white of Selûne swallowed into the dark where it belonged.

Heat and wet closed over the head, stretching her lips wide at once. Vurog’s breath rumbled out of him, half growl, half laugh. Her tongue nailed the underside seam immediately, tasting salt, musk, and the faint blood of some earlier scrape from running around and fighting in the nude. She sealed her cheeks and drew, hard, pulling spit up from her glands to flood around the cockhead, jaw working steadily to ease the flare past her teeth.

She used both hands because she had to: double-fisted around the base, slick palms twisting in opposite directions, wrist to wrist, creating a relentless, sliding torque. Each shove of her fists **** the foreskin to roll and bunch; each pull bared the head again so her mouth could claim it. She didn’t rush. She managed him, practical, concentrated, clinical in her thoroughness, putting the harsh lessons learned at the Mother Superior’s feet to work. A low, quiet hum vibrated her throat when she found a pulse-point that made his stomach jump.

“Good cleric,” Vurog rumbled, looking down at the black hair clinging to her jaw, the polite line of her nose crushed against his ridge as she pressed deeper for a breath. “Worship my cock.”

She’d heard worse muttered by panting acolytes and cocksure initiates; men always mouthed off when their cocks were tended. Still, none of them had carried the right to boast like this one

So she answered by angling her chin and edging a fraction farther. The head bumped her palate; her eyes watered, and she blinked it away with a small, measured exhale through her nose. Control stayed on her cool and determined face but the flush across her cheekbones betrayed the heat licking under it. She drew back, took three short, fast bobs that dragged her tongue hard across the underside, then dove again with a wet schlk that swallowed him to the ring of her lips.

Her hands never stopped. They glided, pumped, and wrung at the thick base, keeping the whole monstrous length engaged. Spit strung from her knuckles to his shaft; drool leaked from the corner of her mouth and pattered onto her cuirass. She caught the slide of his foreskin with practiced fingers and used it, turning the sheath into a second mouth, pulsing it back and forth while her actual mouth bred suction on the end until the broad head throbbed and puked forth still more sticky thick pre.

She sank her lips again. Deeper. One hand slipped to his balls, testing their weight, then supporting them with a steady lift. Massive, pendulous, hot against her palm while the other hand worked the root with short, grinding pumps. Her rhythm tightened: three long pulls to the ridge, twist the fists, press her tongue flat and drag, then one greedy plunge to bruise her throat on the broad crown. She gagged once, a sharp glluck, and didn’t back off. She angled her jaw, breathed through her nose, and **** another inch, feeling the huge, pliant head bulge and turn, pressing into the tight drop of her throat.

Vurog planted his feet in the foam. The sight, this severe, armored cleric kneeling in the surf, hair lacquered with spray and spit, mouth stretched around a slab of orc cock like it was the most natural thing in Faerûn, lit something bright and cruel in his belly. He rolled his hips forward carefully; she accepted the hint and set her hands wider, bracing on his thighs, using him for leverage so she could meet the push instead of being driven by it. She was skilled. Too skilled for happenstance. It didn’t matter if the skill came from doctrine or memory; it was in her now, and it served.

“Deeper,” he ordered.

She drew a breath, tightened her grip, and obeyed. The head slipped past the hard gate of her throat just for a heartbeat and she **** herself to hold there, throat spasming around him, eyes squeezed shut as tears pricked, hands milking the inches she couldn’t take. When she pulled off again, a long rope of saliva bridged mouth to glans. She coughed once, quietly, and then swallowed the string back with a steady, unashamed lick.

“Again,” she said, almost to herself, as if calibrating. “I have it.”

She did.

The second push went smoother and she speared herself down the shaft until several thick inches slid into her throat, air cut off at once; her nose flared uselessly, neck bulging obscenely around the invading crown as her eyes streamed and her fingers clamped to hold the angle.

She eased back with a wet peel to gasp, then drove again, the third push smoother still as she found the line that let her throat open and cradle him for long, breathless heartbeats. Once she had the measure, her pace sharpened: efficient, relentless. Mouth, hands, tongue, throat: every part working its task. The beach filled with waves and wet, obscene suction as she fed him heat and pressure from every angle; his feral musk wreathed her, her breaths came short and ragged between plunges, and her cheeks hollowed like she meant to draw his pulse straight through that gaping, drooling hole at the end.

The build hit like a hammer up Vurog’s spine. He warned her with a grunt that turned into a growl; Shadowheart’s eyes flicked up, reading it a beat early.

She cinched everything tight, drew back until only the huge cockhead rested in her mouth, lips clamped hard, both fists stacked to her lips to seal their connection. Cheeks hollowed; chin lifted for the angle. He roared above her, big hands in her hair, hips flexing, then the first thick flood slammed the back of her tongue. She swallowed in hard, rolling pulls, keeping the head locked behind her lips and her double-fisted seal unbroken so nothing would spill, milking him through each pulse until the heat just kept coming.

Hot, thick jets flooded her mouth. She gagged, but she swallowed by reflex, by commandment, by faith. Each pulse of seed filled her throat until it ached, belly swelling with heat and liquid. White like Selûne’s pale face, but devoured, swallowed, buried in the darkness of her. A brutal surge hit wrong. She choked, coughed hard against the glans, and a burst of cum blew past her seal in a hot splash across her lips and knuckles. She rallied instantly, re-clamping, sucking greedily, hauling the next gushes straight down. More spills slicked the corners, spattered her chin but then the **** ebbed. The roar of it faded into a heavy, molten trickle, warm and ceaseless, and she drew it in with steady pulls until the flow thinned and finally tapered to a slow, syrupy seep. An idle, wry thought flickered as she swallowed the last of it: if he was half human, he was certainly all orc down here.

Her stomach felt full to bursting. Bloated, nauseous, just as she’d complained to him about before. She sat back on her heels, lips smeared with spit and seed, breath ragged. Cum clung in strings from her chin to her breastplate. Her belly sloshed uncomfortably, heavy with what she’d taken.

Vurog chuckled, tusks flashing. “I told you, you didn’t have to swallow.”

“I always swallow,” she said flatly, voice hoarse but steady. She pressed a hand against her stomach, then smirked faintly. “Besides. I don’t need a meal now.”

He guffawed louder and patted the top of her head with his hand as his great member sagged under its own weight, softening but still monstrous, sliding back into its heavy sheath. Less a raging dragon now than a slumbering serpent, obscene in its scale even at rest as it hung low from his groin.

She caught his wrist before the pat could turn patronizing and guided his hand away as she wiped her mouth with the heel of her hand. She rocked back to her feet in one smooth motion and slid her gauntlets on with two sharp clicks. The shield came up from the beach in the same breath, tested on her forearm, center of balance found, satisfied. Her face settled into its usual cool line, the faintest color still high on her cheeks and already fading.

“Good,” she said, voice steady again. “Now that I’ve dealt with one head, perhaps you can put the other to use for at least the rest of the day, yes?”