Besieged

Surielle stood fifty paces from the supposed embassy’s double doors. Once a sin’dorei mansion, the place now a foreign blemish upon the city’s recovering unity. What had been white walls now colored purple, already cracked in several places. From inconsiderate, low-caliber craftsmanship, or from the interminable vines climbing its front, entering and exiting twenty different places. Into and out of windows, or up and down from some place on the roof. Emerging, seemingly, from the walls in places – the whole edifice seeming as if it may come crashing down at any point, as if the vines themselves were integral, load-bearing. A disgrace. A thorn in the eye of the city.

It would come to an irrevocable end, that night. Months of warning had allowed the guard to summon and prepare not just its own forces, but those militia who could be called when there was a need. So there was, this time, and so the several squads of city guard were enhanced not just with six arcane golems, but with several more ready fighters. Arcanists, and Blood Knights, and more besides. Even, somewhere, on the leash of a priestess of the Sunwell, a solitary **** Knight, so vile a being exuding **** and hunger and desire for pain that Surielle had placed herself on the far side of the loose formation from it.

There was no point in trying to sneak up on the kaldorei. So the Captain of the guard had informed her many times, over the course of months. They were attentive, and relying on surprise or ambush against them would be stupidity. Besides, it was, nominally, a peaceful task, the business of ousting them from their embassy building, and from the kingdom. They had been tolerated, allowed in, and that toleration had then been rescinded. The savages ought to recognize when they were no longer welcome, and yet, here she was. Stood outside, in the autumn evening, under the awning of a closed eatery opposite the revolting building, exposed to the elements. The cool breeze, and the feeling of water in the air, a threat of rain rather than the real thing.

As there was no great hurry, they had arranged themselves on the street after blocking pedestrians from both sides. The various combatants had constructed little points of resistance, fortifications from which they could loose their arrows, or bolts, or spellwork, with some certainty that they were sheltered against reprisal. Tufts of shields crammed together, specially-made frames allowing them to seamlessly interlock. All very artful, careful engineering which the Captain – Surielle cared not for his name – had spent a fruitless few minutes trying to explain. Until realizing, at last, that she cared not one whiff for the specifics of his work. Used, perhaps, to the noble men who more often played at martial effort and experience. Who would put on a very serious pretense of both knowing more than the Captain, and yet listening intently to his explaining the basics to them.

When the double doors of the embassy opened, like a maw into the unknown darkness, hostile, eating the light, the guards scrambled, readied, raised loaded crossbows, hands flaring into life with fire and holy energy. It was, however, a sin’dorei woman of average height. Blonde, with golden eyes, with refined, graceful features, clad in a shameless, coal-black contraption of a dress. The stomach free of any constraint, straps instead holding the garment in place on her back, so that neither the top or the skirt fell. Delicate hands cradled the bump of her belly – pregnant. Silendiel. Affecting nonchalance in the presence of so many weapons pointed in her direction, then gradually, reluctantly lowered.

She stood there, in the half of the double doors opened, surveying, appraising the gathered ****, until she found a nearby guard of some rank. Surielle knew enough to tell that the ashen-haired man was a Lieutenant, but not to recall his name. He spoke with Silendiel for a few moments, or, rather, listened to her, then nodded, and turned, working his way through the shield-cluster terrain to his Captain. To Surielle, who remained near the center of things.

When the Lieutenant arrived, he appeared uncertain of who to talk to. Looked to Surielle, first, but then to his Captain. Then back to Surielle. “The Lady Flameborn says she wishes to speak to Lady Silversong, sir,” he said. Then, with yet another flickering look to Surielle, added: “My lady.”

An exasperated sigh preempted the Captain’s response. Surielle took a step forward, nostrils flaring just so, looking down her nose at the Lieutenant. “I will speak with her. Perhaps you will finally gather the courage to charge a handful of our enemies at the back of an untrained noble, then, good sir?”

There might have been an expert reply to her jibe forthcoming, but, when dealing with commoners of some skill, some irrelevant rank, Surielle had long ago learned it better not to allow them the time to begin trying to assert station they did not have. She weaved past several clusters of shields, of guards and other combatants, stepping out into the semicircular space before the crumbling mansion’s doors. There, she waited for just a moment, wondering whether Silendiel would stoop so low as to lure her out just so that she could more easily be shot. When no arrow was forthcoming, Surielle huffed, letting welcome disdain fill all the hollows within that might otherwise have seethed with fear, or anxiety, or something less welcome still.

“Is the display meant to make me believe that you love your savage so, Silendiel?” Surielle spoke before she had come to a stop before Silendiel. It was better to go on the offensive, generally, but even more so when one had actual soldiers behind oneself.

“It is no display, Suri,” Silendiel said. “Nor an accident.”

Surielle caught a momentary flare in Silendiel’s eyes. Time spent among the kaldorei had, perhaps, weakened the control that Surielle had always so admired in her. The thing which had made her a peerless ally, setting aside their previous overlapping opinions.

“Of course,” Surielle said, conveying the depths of her disbelief in two simple words. Not only was Silendiel fallen, but she did not even comprehend the degree to which she had fallen, so indoctrinated, so thoroughly taken over was she. “Regardless, the time is up. The Flameborn word cannot undo or remove the need for the kaldorei to vacate the embassy. Nor the need for them to set their ‘staff’ free.”

“No one is here against their will,” Silendiel said. “Enter, and see for yourself.”

“So we shall,” Surielle said. She raised her right hand, examining fingers still lazily half-curled, and then waved towards the open door twice. For just a moment, long enough that she wrinkled her nose in disappointment, in annoyance, nothing happened. Then, as the moment came dangerously close to deflating, she heard, at last, the Captain commanding his people to push forward.

Before Surielle, Silendiel took an obvious, deep breath. Eyes scanning, rather than flicking with panic, over the advancing guards, golems, arcanists, and more. She looked with emotionless eyes to Surielle, then, some measure of that old powerhouse, the woman always in control, always cold and calculating and light and joyous only in a superficial manner returning. And then, she was gone. Retreated back into the darkness of the embassy interior, which somehow resisted the entry of the fading evening embers outside. Fitting, really, that the sun was not welcome in that place.

Surielle stepped aside with a disaffected sigh, deigning to lean her shoulder, and then the side of her head, against the arched wall which held the double door. The first two guards pushed in, then the next two, who set to fully opening the door. This done, the flood of armored bodies intensified, flowed, and then ebbed, and it was in that first ebb that she inserted herself. Followed along what promised, now, to be a decidedly less dramatic eviction than she had hoped.

The double doors past the entrance were opened, too, and once more the guards streamed in, two lumbering golems who had to compress themselves almost comically, in a way only mechanical things could, to squeeze through the doors. They, too, spread out, surrounding the kaldorei within.

A full twenty two, towering, shaded night elves stood within, backlit by azure and white, ever-moving light from the first floor, two braziers of glass and crystal and stone spheres emitting light forever, and ever. Twenty two luminous pairs of eyes, most some shade of pale blue, a few white, a few with tinges of purple, even a few with golden hues. And, at the side of one of the two kaldorei stood in front, presumably the officers, was Silendiel. Surielle recalled, then, the shock of purple and red which Silendiel had brought along when they had last seen each other. The creature responsible for her friend’s present, most compromising state. A Lieutenant.

Curiously, none of the comparatively massive, statuesque kaldorei reacted. Clad in armor, bearing weapons, clearly capable of using them, of tearing their enemies apart with hands and teeth if necessary, they nevertheless stood inert. Only when one city guard came a little too close to a night elf in the back row did one react, baring teeth, letting out a growl. And so it became apparent to Surielle, at last, that they were not fighting. But also not letting anyone up the central stairs, to the first floor. Where, presumably, the ambassador reposed.

“Is she worth your lives, kaldorei?” Surielle looked from sentinel to sentinel, and only then, once she was done, to the officers. To Silendiel’s pet creature, and to the other one. The leader.

“The priestess has decreed that we are not to fight,” the officer said.

The savage spoke not to Surielle, but, though her attention was forward, clearly to the outwardly reacting sentinel at the back. The officer was, as they all were, tall. Chiseled, immaculately carved physique. Wing-like facial markings, green, like her hair. At the bottom of blue eyes laid a darkness only just glimpsed, if one studied her. Surielle saw in the woman precisely the savage which she expected. Someone with pretenses towards honor, and yet raised without a structure within which to understand what the word meant. And so, it was merely an excuse, a way to paper over cultural and personal lapses. The kaldorei, really, were much like the orcs, only somewhat more pleasing to look at. Better at hiding their cavernous faults. Speaking, at least, a language which one could understand, given a little effort. The officer then turned her attention upon Surielle.

“The priestess Iralis invites you to her quarters, to speak. She asks that you halt the intrusion into the embassy while you talk,” the savage said.

Surielle looked up the stairs, to the portal-like door, embedded between myriad leafy vines, between the two braziers that did not burn, a crescent-moon symbol carved into the door. Then back to the towering warrior.

“Upon the conclusion of the conversation, the priestess promises that, if the embassy’s closure is still desired, it will happen. Operations will be shut down, and we will leave.”

“And so they will now,” Surielle said. “Whether I go and talk to her or not.”

“What have you to lose, then?”

Surielle looked up at the officers blue eyes. Self-assured, never wavering. Stern. She looked, then, to Silendiel, who stood next to the other officer. The purple-haired one, with the red markings, like bloody fingers dragged vertically down over her face, now locked in place. Pale purple skin. All of it difficult to see in the low, interior lighting. But Silendiel had taken a few steps forward so that she now stood next to her savage, and the creature’s hand rested not on its weapon in that moment, but upon the small of Silendiel’s back.

Brows lowering, nose scrunching just so, Surielle looked back to the first officer. The Captain, or whatever the night elves called such a position. It would be easy to ignore this silly request, the conditions which offered what the kaldorei would have to do regardless, but it would be the hard route, too. A battle of wills settled at the point of a spear never truly ends, her father had once said. Something to that effect. Perhaps the priestess would provide some insight in what it was that had so gripped Silendiel, and made her lesser.

Surielle took a moment to appraise the savage. The Captain. Inhaled, with just a hint of a shake to her breath.

“I will speak to your priestess. And it will change nothing,” Surielle said.

The kaldorei Captain lowered her head in so small a gesture as to almost not be detectable, as if what Surielle said made little difference. The savage seemed continually self-assured despite facing overwhelming ****, being outnumbered three to one, without counting the automatons, or the arcanists. Certainly, the kaldorei were disciplined, well-trained, and obviously knew how to fight. But such confidence was not born of decades or centuries of experience. That, at least as far as Surielle had seen, produced something more like humbled practicality. Recognition that every fight ought to be taken seriously. This night elf, all the ones next to her, displayed none of that. They were, instead, fanatics. Zealots. **** cultists, of a sort.

A natural conclusion, and one that spurred Surielle on yet more. The best way to disarm and deflate such zealotry was to prove it based on not a shaky foundation, but none at all. This she could do, at least, in speaking to the priestess.

The kaldorei formation parted, just so. Enough that a single blood elf could pass through. When the guard Captain made motions to send people with Surielle, the sentinels once again closed ranks around her, leaving her stranded amid towering, chiseled, pillar-people. Several feet her superior in height, it seemed. Armored, armed, merely choosing not to make use of either, in that moment. There was a strong temptation to call for the guard, just then.

“No,” the officer’s voice came. “She goes alone. You will not follow, nor will I.”

That, at least, Surielle could take some comfort in, as she started again, passing through the final rank of five sentinels, emerging onto the first step of the stairs. She ascended five of them, then turned to look over the heads of the kaldorei, finding the guard Captain’s eyes. There was no gesture, none necessary, as she did not technically command him in any real way. Save the most important, of course. She was noble, of good birth, with the resources and influence of a long-established lineage behind her, and could make his life terribly miserable if she so desired. Therefore, he was eager to look into her eyes, and to receive the single nod she spared him. A wordless command to stay, while she took matters into her own hands. While she allowed personal curiosity to delay an official operation.

Surielle turned and walked up the stairs. Came to the door, flanked by the twin braziers, surrounded by no wind at all, which somehow still made the leaves at either side susurrate. An effect which failed both to impress, and scare, and left her somewhat annoyed. Not at the mere presence of the vines, but rather that some foreign cultural statement was being made in her home city. Regardless, there was nothing guarding the door, no lock – it stood open, half an inch, so she pushed it open all the way. The hinges had been oiled well enough, however, and so not even a whisper came from it as it swung open to a room lit less than even the hall outside. Darkness, a few of those paltry, azure-shining pebbles scattered in a bowl on a table to the right. The place lay waiting for anyone to enter into it.

There had been some vague attraction to the notion of entering the priestess’ sanctum in order to gloat, perhaps to try to goad some reaction from her. Not that Surielle wished for a fight, as such, but she did need a demonstration of why the savage, supposed cousins of the sin’dorei were not to be trusted. A reason for why they should be kept out, not just ousted because they had managed to ensnare a few irrelevant commoners and a more relevant noblewoman.

Inside, however, close to the far wall, leaned against and sat upon the front edge of an expansive, solid wooden desk, was a kaldorei somewhat different to the sentinels outside. She shared their increasingly infuriating self-assured calm, but was not in armor. Bore no obvious weapons. Clad in a white robe that hung from her shoulders, cinched at her waist. Dark blue hair, pale purple skin, and a face unlike her servant-soldiers below. Kindly, though marked with a hypnotic, blood red swirl for a facial marking. Had the savages no concept of how ruinous their practice of crudely painting their faces was? Surielle straightened, though, as ever, she could not measure up to any kaldorei, even one such as this. Reasonably toned, without being carved from idealized marble such as her sentinels. Just a touch more motherly. Rounded pleasantly, here and there.

Surielle stepped forward, yet to greet or acknowledge the priestess. Iralis. Her attention remained on the white-clad woman, however, and so she failed entirely to notice that a third person was in the room. Materialized, bulking out a shadowed wall until there was a person there, this inky shape then taking on kaldorei proportions as it separated. Eyes opened, shedding light. All in the space of half a second, perhaps less than that, causing Surielle to halt. To breathe in, knowing that her chest rose visibly as she controlled her emotions, looking up at the figure.

“This is Istaria,” Iralis said, her voice calm, as if she were introducing a friend of them both.

A hint of amusement to her voice, too, though Surielle failed to see the joke in the sentinel’s appearance. As towering, as chiseled as every warrior outside, down on the ground floor. Before Surielle could concoct a suitably venomous reply, Iralis went on.

“Newly-arrived Lieutenant. She prefers Ista, though I imagine you care little for her preferences, my Lady,” Iralis said. “My existing Lieutenant, Neryniael, whom you have met accompanying Silendiel, has asked for leave, which I have granted.”

“Leave?” It was not what Surielle wanted to say, or, rather, the composed self, the one she embodied at most other times, when not presented with a clearly angry kaldorei warrior so very close, had wanted to say something more biting. Something not asking for the priestess to continue her monologue. But, for a time, that part of her had fled, taking shelter beneath, behind a more quavering, impulsive, emotional self. She felt a brushing, rising cascade of prickling in her chest when the sentinel looked to the priestess, and then back to her. Little her.

“Neryniael wishes to be with Silendiel, who, I think, deserves to be in her family home, in her state,” Iralis said. A calm, collected, placid smile settled on Istaria, and then drifted back to Surielle. “An understandable desire, do you not agree, Lady Silversong? For her and her mate to wish to be together, now that a child is coming?”

Surielle took another breath. Failed utterly to make it a deep one, and so, soon enough, found herself snapping again. Superficial breath, after breath.

“Ista, your presence seems to confound our guest. Take a step back,” Iralis said.

“Yes, priestess,” Istaria said. Without delay, she took two precise steps backwards, away from Surielle. No longer half blocking the path between priestess and noblewoman.

It was then that Surielle realized that she had been suspected an assailant. The idea struck her as so incongruous that it proved both frightening and amusing at the same time. Frightening in that she was considered a threat, and might then be dealt with as one. Amusing in that she had always had people to do any martial tasks for her. Had held weaponry but a few times in her life, and always wielded it only for ceremonial duties.

With the bulky, muscled sentinel withdrawn those two paces, Surielle’s faculties gradually returned to her, crawling out of their hidey-holes to populate her mind with thoughts that felt more her own again. Making no mention, acknowledging not for even a second, their complete abandonment of her in those moments where she had been terribly close to the sentinel Lieutenant. Ista. She turned her attention back to Iralis.

“That is… understandable,” Surielle said, at long last. Less biting words had not been spoken by her, in such a situation, for many years. And yet, there was some sense of a little stone chipped from her heart, and mind. Uncommon taste set aside, perhaps Silendiel understood the kaldorei to be rather more reasonable than Surielle suspected them to be. Not that that would change a single thing about what had to happen, but it went some way towards explaining Silendiel’s apparent fall.

“Ah,” Iralis said, rising from her casual rest on the edge of the desk. “You will have to excuse me, for a moment, my Lady. I must go fetch something for you.”

“Gifts will not change my mind.”

“I know, my Lady,” Iralis said, offering another placid, awfully disarming smile. She walked past Surielle, then.

Somehow, without a single substantive objection, the woman, the priestess, had abandoned the meeting with the feeblest excuse possible. And, equally incomprehensible, Surielle had not noted it, had not really spoken against it, had barely even realized until it was too late already. Until it was just her, and the new sentinel, the Lieutenant, Istaria, left in the ambassador’s quarters. Surielle breathed in, finding herself unable to tear her eyes from the savage creature that now seemed to lie in wait, not to ambush her, exactly, as she knew of its presence, but ready to attack, regardless. What good did overwhelming **** do when it was not at her side? She wet her lips, the thought of calling for aid brushing her mind, but then slipping her grasp.

Ista, despite being in full view, still gave off the impression of stalking through invisible underbrush as she moved up. Looking down with disapproval, eyes appearing to burn, and yet, their light intensified the darkness, rather than dispelling it. Surielle found her attention captured, the first prey successfully hunted down, the towering sentinel menacing. Not a step away, before her. Easily within stabbing distance. Why had she not brought a weapon?

“Will you now throttle me, creature?” Surielle swallowed, undermining the effect of her defiant words, somewhat. Not that she had planned to speak them. They had escaped her, in a rare unguarded moment.

A snarl, the savage’s expression contorting into something wilder, more feral. The sensory impression of a saber baring its teeth, warm breath spilling over Surielle’s features. Nevertheless, as she had yet to be killed, or choked, or taken hostage, she prepared a more barbed retort to the wordless attempt at intimidation. It worked, she had to admit. But one had to stand firm in the face of such beings, or they would think themselves forever superior.

Ista’s right hand shot forward in a movement too swift for Surielle’s untrained reflexes to react. Even had she been prepared, trained for such a moment, she wondered if she could have reacted in time, though the thought dissolved when rough fingers curled around her chin, her jaw, digits pressing against her skin, such that her cheeks caved in ever so slightly. Had she not been about to speak, she might have resisted. Instead, the kaldorei’s crude, undignified **** met with some success.

For a time, then, they stood in the silent near-darkness, Surielle’s hardened, golden eyes meeting the odd, inky black pits of Ista’s gaze. In the wake of Teldrassil, she had heard gossip describing kaldorei such as this one. Creatures of vengeance, and ****, who would not let go what their people had suffered, that blessing from their goddess manifesting in eyes that reflected the night, rather than the moon. Surielle tried to maintain eye contact, even as those relentless fingers pried her mouth slowly more and more open. She could not bite down to prevent it, or she would chew her own cheeks to bloody ribbons, so, instead, she stared ephemeral daggers up at the savage, for lack of real ones. In turn, she was appraised, in some way. Physically, but, she had to imagine as the staring contest dragged on, mentally, too, somehow.

“We are no more than a feral people, to you,” Ista said. “Barbarians.”

Her voice was hard, matter-of-fact, emotionless. And, Surielle had to admit, correct. Despite what she had just witnessed from the priestess, the desire to take care of and protect and nurture Silendiel, she had maintained a firm grasp of the very vision of the kaldorei that Silendiel had spread throughout the city. The very image reinforced by Lady Flameborn but a few days after the first rumor of a kaldorei in her estate had slipped out, which she had then worked to extinguish.

“This is what you want us to be,” Ista said. “You desire us to be savages, invaders. Even now, you wish us to fight, to take you, as you imagine the other noble to have been taken.”

Surielle could not countenance the idea of trying to speak while her mouth was pried open, cheeks caved in, and so she continued to stare up at the creature. Golden eyes narrowed, nostrils flared just so, working subtly to pour every ounce of disdain into that shared gaze.

“This image, the one created by Neryniael’s mate, you now perpetuate it. You want very much for everyone to know that it is true, rather than the artifice you know it to be,” Ista said. Without warning, she dragged a stumbling Surielle a few steps with her, pushing the much smaller sin’dorei up against the dark wall against which Ista had, presumably, leaned. When she had been hidden.

“You are malicious not because you want to be, but because it serves your desires. You craft this reality because you are spurned. Unfulfilled. Ashamed to indulge, as Neryniael’s mate has,” Ista said.

Surielle took a shaking, deep breath through her nose. The disdain drained from her, irrevocably, no matter what she tried to claw it back into being. To the extent that she could, Ista’s fingers still caving in her cheeks, she shook her head. And yet, a needle of purest ice seemed to hammer its way through her sternum and into her heart for every crude word leveled at her. The country bumpkin quality of Darnassian, each syllable of which one seemed to have to work to understand, could not prevent, could not remove, the piercing quality of the black-haired, black-eyed, enormous savage’s words.

“But we are alone, little creature,” Ista said, leaning closer. Tilting Surielle’s head upwards, so that their eyes, mere inches from one-another, could meet. Almost, the night elf’s nose bumped against Surielle’s. “In the chamber of the priestess, with all the time we could possibly want. Alone. With the savage of your dreams, and so, you may indulge.”

“Release… me,” Surielle croaked, her words slurred, though she worked hard not to sound as pressured as she was.

The mask threatened to crack. The narrowed eyes, the messed-up sneer, so difficult to maintain with the kaldorei’s fingers ever jamming into her cheeks, filling her mouth. Cheeks prickling invisibly, the needle having long ago cracked her heart open, a bare, pulsing, tenuous warmth building there. That same warmth manifesting in her forearms. In her thighs. Something quaked within. She knew her hard eyes to flag and fail, then, not into wanton desire, but into quiet neutrality. Into receptiveness. What else was there to do? They were alone. No one was coming to help her. She had not even tried to resist the savage, at any point. Why had she not?

“What do you… want?” she managed, struggling, still, not to have every word be a breathy, unclear mess, and failing.

“I want you to admit to me what you desire, little creature,” Ista said.

“I am-- Suri,” Surielle said, indignantly. For the barbarian to call her creature. Unbelievable. And yet, it seemed not at all to lessen the embers that burned within, still. The heat and uncertainty combining, rising. Anxiety, and, she reassured herself, nothing else, no doubt making her cheeks more crimson for every passing moment. At least it was dark. Very dark. Hidden in a corner, where the steady, minuscule light of the glowing stones did not reach.

“You are a little creature. You want to be taken, and you will admit it to me,” Ista said. The grip of Surielle’s cheeks actually eased off, just so. “You want me to hold a knife to your throat. You want me to fuck you. You want to be bruised, and hurt, and used. You wish nothing so much as for me to be the savage you imagine.”

Despite Ista’s grip relaxing, and then releasing, Surielle took several seconds to close her mouth. Eyes focused on the creature, who spoke such… words. Lies. She breathed in, and then wet her lips. Reached up with a hand to carefully rub one of her cheeks, already feeling as if it, both, was bruising from the cruel, uncaring grip.

“Creature,” Surielle said, having allowed a moment to pass. Having gathered herself, just so, beginning the process of rebuilding her well-practiced facade. She was not allowed to continue, much less finish the process. Ista planted her right forearm against Surielle’s collarbone, and pressed her backwards, into the wall against which she had been placed. Not with crushing strength, but with insistence she would have to work hard to squirrel out of. And, crucially, she did not squirrel. Not for anyone.

“The evening turns into night, little creature. Your answer is required. Not empty posturing,” Ista said. She spoke softly, and yet, a little fleck of spittle spun from her lips and onto Surielle’s face, onto the bridge of her nose. “I will lean in, and you have this chance to whisper ‘fuck me’ in my ear. To get what you truly desire, if you will only acknowledge it. Not to the world, not to your city, your guards, your fellow nobles. To no one but me. Only I will ever hear it. Can you gather the strength of character to acknowledge your own desires, girl?”

Again, a crack of lightning lit up Surielle’s mind at the derogatory remark. Girl. Creature. Little. She drew in a breath, ready to spit fire and thunder at the presumptuous savage, not to flee, even, she no longer thought of such things. Rather, to inform the kaldorei of how wrong she was. When the black-haired wraith, chiseled, easily her physical superior, then leaned in such that her ear almost touched Surielle’s lips, the words lined up died on her lips.

Silence.

It extended between them forever, endless, until the moment seemed to slip. Ista did not sigh, but there was a minute movement of her shoulders that told Surielle of emotion she might otherwise have gleaned from the night elf’s expression. Of disappointment, ever so slight. Of annoyance. But, nevertheless, she began withdrawing. Started the motion to do so, and then stopped. Suddenly. Surielle realized too late that she had whispered something. What had she said? No? Not what the savage told her to, but she had said no when the creature withdrew. Why had she said anything at all?

Another moment passed, Ista turning her head just so. Out of the corner of one eye, a black pupil met Surielle’s. Held it, for interminable seconds.

“You cannot say it, girl, can you?” Ista waited for Surielle to respond, but saw nothing, heard nothing. The smallest possible smile crept onto Istaria’s face, then, lips curling into something more ominous than reassuring, for just a moment. She leaned back a few inches, keeping one arm more heavily against Surielle’s collarbone. The other hand came up, rough fingers snaking around a delicate neck, curling, taking control. Applying just a little pressure.

So they stood, Surielle conscious of the weight against her chest. Of the digits pressing on her throat, just so. Of her own breath, now labored, surely just due to the savage’s unconscionable grip of her, the squeezing of her windpipe. Enough to make anyone snap and suck in air more greedily. Caught in the inevitable gravity of a being much larger, much more powerful, what was more natural than to be anxious? To feel the heat of fear – fear, and nothing else – rise and bubble and fight with worry, with apprehension, with--

“Now, girl, you will tell me that you wish me to release your throat,” Ista said.

“The… the others, will… hear,” Surielle whispered. Eyes trapped by those dark wells above her, knowing, somewhere inside, that by saying those words, she had revealed not only that her worry was being discovered, but also that she did not shrink from the promised act itself. It seemed not to matter. She had failed to say the words that would see her released.

“Are you dim-witted, girl?”

“No,” Surielle said, her chin lowering just so. There had been a carefully constructed, impenetrable wall between her and the world, against which all attacks had failed. Always failed. Where was it now? How had it crumbled without her noticing?

“You refuse to answer my questions. Are you incapable?”

“No,” Surielle said, again. In a way that she had not done for many, many decades, she cast her eyes down. Sought escape from the chastisement of someone superior. Someone whose opinion she evidently weighed and found so important as to make her, noble, graceful, important, take notice. Become a shrinking little thing, not just physically, but in her own head. She shook her head, then.

“You wish nothing so much as for me to be the savage creature you have painted an image of in your own mind. In the minds of others. Yes?”

“Yes,” Surielle whispered, after a pause. A finger loosened from around her throat, nudging against, under her chin. Pushing her to look up. Istaria’s eyes were very close. Abyssal pits in which one could get lost, and not a friendly, I-brought-a-picnic-basket-and-tea, afternoon-getaway sort of lost. Surielle swallowed, exhaling a shaking breath which let tingling, sinking, agonizing excitement wash through her chest.

“Do you want me to release your throat?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be fucked?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to hit you?”

“I…”

“Yes, or no, girl.”

“I… I deserve it,” Surielle hissed, after a hesitant moment.

Ista breathed out a sigh, the grip of Surielle’s throat hardening. Tightening. She leaned in, Surielle getting the sensation that the night elf might have used a similar stance to shout denigrating orders and corrections into the face of an underling. If she had ever thought the kaldorei the types to do such a thing. There was no shouting, though. Only breath spilling over her lower face, Ista’s slightly angled face but an inch or two away. Midnight blue ripples could be seen in those deep, endless black pits that were her eyes. The hints of pupils.

“Not what I asked. Are you intentionally avoiding answering, girl, or are you just a stupid bitch?”

“I-- I’m… I want-- Yes,” Surielle stammered, at long last.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Surielle said, her voice so hushed that she was surprised Ista caught it at all. She knew what she had said only because she produced the words, not at all because she could hear them.

“Why do you deserve it?”

“Because,” Surielle said, that first word produced so hastily that it felt as if it stumbled past her lips, ending in a sibilant hiss. Why? What had she done? Or, with all that she had done, all that she had instigated in order to save Silendiel, when, really, she had been nothing more than jealous of what her friend had somehow snatched from that most unlikely situation. “I’m a stupid bitch?”

“Is that a question, girl?”

“No,” Surielle said.

“Tell me again.”

“I’m a stupid bitch.”

“Who deserves to be fucked by the savage, brutal night elf?”

At long last, no more could be squeezed from Surielle, and so she merely nodded. Her waking mind had no more words, and neither did her subconsciousness, it seemed. Nothing came to her. She opened her mouth not to speak, but to breathe, and still found Ista’s finger settling across her lips. A prison of a single iron bar. Shushing what did not need shushed, but then pressing further. Harder. Smearing in a little circle, which encouraged Surielle’s lips slowly apart, creating room between them until Ista could push that finger into her mouth. Between her teeth, where she could have bitten down. She did not.

Had she known what was to come in the next moment, she might have considered biting, after all. But, as it was, the tip of Ista’s fingers rested on her tongue, pressing it down against the floor of her mouth. Lips enveloping the kaldorei’s finger, golden eyes looking up, the symbolism was as subtle as a brick through the window. Surielle had thought more would be forthcoming, and felt herself on the cusp of some sort of protest when, out of nowhere, Ista jammed the finger in. Until her hand could go no further, half stuck inside Surielle’s maw, that finger hammered well down her throat in one, blinding moment.

In the next, her throat convulsed. She hacked, and sputtered, and when the finger was not removed, those involuntary, hard contractions began to squeeze tears from her eyes. Instinctively, she raised her hands, as if their wrapping around Ista’s wrist might deter her. Might make the invading digit withdraw from so insistently trying to make her vomit. But the pressure against her collarbone increased, and a stern voice hissed directly into one ear. Not to soothe. Not at all.

“Shut up.”

Surielle responded by a most undignified, croaking, spit-splattering cough against Ista’s shoulder, which was rewarded by yet another probing, deep push of that finger down her throat. Her chest tensed, flexed, and she fought not to reward the savage with another crude sound. Fought not to reward her with an empty stomach, though that was a rapidly losing fight.

“Shut. Up.”

Ista’s voice was iron. Steel. Unyielding, unreasonable, commanding, demanding the impossible. She made Surielle produce the very hacking, sputtering, **** sounds which she ordered stopped. Surielle found her hands closing around the kaldorei’s wrist, both of them, tugging just so. To no avail. Eyes closed, throat beginning to rhythmically pulse with what she knew was coming. Rising bile. She tried to relax, then to tense, to lock down every muscle in her neck, and jaw, and miraculously, fragile equilibrium then arose, from rasping, bubbling breaths. Ista’s finger remained in her mouth, and several knuckles down her throat. But it was still, provoking nothing more.

Every breath still rasped. Was a tremulous, fraught thing, liable to turn over and reignite the rapid slide towards throwing up, but she held that urge at bay. Just. Very carefully, then, Surielle felt lips move against her tear-stained cheek.

“There. We know each other better now, do we not, girl?”

Surielle’s only option was to do nothing other than what she had been doing. She could not reply, and yet replied with every straining breath, lips aching, spread around Ista’s hand, knuckles just about inserted such that her teeth rested against them. Each gasp was superficial, careful so as to not upset the delicate balance. Each moment an eternity, and yet forgotten in the next, equally important.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Ista withdrew her finger, and hand, and, while Surielle took in a shaking, near sobbing breath, the night elf wiped her saliva-covered digits against carefully painted cheeks. Not entirely satisfied, Ista seized a handful of Surielle’s gown, and used it to dry the finger, and the knuckles. Her whole hand. As if the garment was no more than a common towel, rather than a treasured and unique piece.

In that brief moment of respite, Surielle could have said something. She could have tried to free herself from the arm still against her collarbone, could have stumbled to the door, screaming for help. Her mind, instead, remained empty. Her eyes sank to Ista’s efforts to foul her dress, and then rose to the sentinel’s face. Taking in the wing-like, dark purple facial markings. She had a facial scar, claws seeming to have torn lines out of her right cheek and jaw. The tip of her right ear was gone. She had suffered and survived life, and thrived, and come out the feral creature now before Surielle, who, on the contrary, her lived a life of luxury. Save the scourge, she had never been in danger. Never starved. Never lacked anything but social and political accomplishment.

Breath exploded out of Surielle’s mouth, shimmering globules of saliva accompanying it. Opaque, immaterial, crushing weight settled over and blanketed her mind. Her hands followed instinct, clutching her stomach. Trying to. The savage’s fist still rested there, where it had thumped, hit, sunk in. Her knees gave out, but the arm against her chest refused to allow her to crumble to the floor. For a moment, desperation took over, her body seeming to have forgotten how to breathe. She exhaled. And exhaled again. And again, though there remained nothing. Ista’s eyes commanded hers, and in them, she found a fragment of solidity, and leveraged it into a heavy, wretched, shrieking breath.

Surielle gasped for air again, and again. The ache in her stomach rose to a sharp crescendo, and then began to subside, not to disappear, but to become a dull, warm ache as blood rushed to the area. When was the last time she had been hit, by anyone? Had she ever been hit? She blinked tears away, and, though she ought to spit and hiss and scream at the barbarian kaldorei, she instead merely looked back. Her mouth remained open, shaking breaths entering, and exiting. She only waited for the next hammerblow to land. She asked for it, and it was given.

When it came, it was not as she had imagined it. Not another brutal blow to her gut, but rather, she realized too late, it came in a form possibly more degrading. Ista’s mouth worked for a moment, and then she spat in Surielle’s face. The bubbly, thin liquid impacted the side of her nose, just below her left eye, which she reflexively closed. Ran, then, immediately, down towards her lips, following their contour around to reach her chin. It clung on there, desperately, but the fight was soon lost. So, Ista’s own spit splattered down onto the arm which pushed against Surielle’s collarbone.

A moment of examination, after which Surielle was allowed to stand by her own power, trembling knees just about keeping her upright. Ista, at length, presented her with the arm, and the messy splattering of spittle upon it. Held it up to Surielle’s lips.

“Clean it.”

Finally, she rediscovered some of her former dignity. Invested something into the exchange which Ista might then break down, brutally, to the twisted pleasure of the both of them. Surielle shook her head, her nose scrunching just so.

“Ah,” Ista said. “Finding your spine still present, girl?”

No time was offered for a reply. Whatever it was that Surielle had found within herself, it had done its job. Prompted the savage kaldorei to lean into her role by seizing a painful, inexpert handful of brown hair – no careful gathering of strands, no supporting cupping of the skull, nothing – and employing it to haul Surielle forward, away from the wall, sending her stumbling towards the priestess’ desk. An ordered, cultivated place for but a moment longer, thereafter ruined by her fumbling, grasping hands, struggling for purchase in order to stop her careening forward. Paper, ink, decorations of glass and bone and metal crashed to the floor, an inkwell of some delicate crumbly material crushed beneath her, painting her stomach, her dress, a deep, spreading black.

Surielle planted a slipping hand against the desk, the paper below it crumpling as she struggled for purchase. Worked to find her balance again, locating the edges of the surface with both her hands so that she might more delicately rise from it, without further destruction. To no avail. The snapping reply she worked to build and then fling out choked when she did, purple, rough fingers curling around her throat from behind. They did not merely offer light pressure, but instead took a real hold. A possessive hand worked its way around her, pressing against the spreading, wet stain of ink on her flat stomach, lifting her by that hold as much as by the one of her throat.

Much smaller than the savage. Surielle was much, much smaller, easily held, despite her squirming. Regardless of searching hands finding only strong muscle and huge girth to hold on to – where she might otherwise, primitively but effectively, have grabbed someone by their delicates and squeezed in order to make her point, here, she found Ista precisely as absurdly blessed as the rumors of the kaldorei named them. It was difficult to crush something hard, and thick, when it proved somewhat eager to receive your manipulations, and when you could only seem to get a hold of perhaps half of it.

Ista pulled Surielle back, up, closer. Fingers around her throat rose higher, such that the kaldorei’s digits formed a posture collar of a sort, albeit one that was warm, and somewhat coarse. Her jaw, as well as her throat, was captured, preventing her from opening her mouth much, and so, making screaming for help more difficult still. Not that, despite everything, the notion of doing so really commanded any significant part of her.

“You’re a stupid bitch,” Ista whispered in her ear. “Say it.”

“You’re a stupid bitch,” Surielle said, after a moment. Delighting in the moment of uppity pedantry, her expression twisting into a smile for but a moment. That much, she was given. Fingers then moved onto her cheeks, and pressed inwards, forcing her teeth apart. Forcing her lips apart, eventually. And, most worryingly, making it all the harder to camouflage the needy, steady breaths that came unbidden out of her.

“Any last, pleading words, girl?”

Surielle’s chest shook for just a moment with laughter. She shook her head, to the extent that she could, so thoroughly captured, held fast. All throughout the little performance shared by just them, she had had a hand on Ista’s thigh. On the immense, thick bulge running down it, and so, she had felt keenly the rhythmic heartbeat expansion of its girth. The shifting of the sentinel’s trousers as they accommodated, and then strained to contain that monster.

“Nothing will stop you, savage,” Surielle said. She struggled mightily to maintain clear pronunciation despite the fingers digging into her cheeks, despite the palm and fingers still compressing her throat somewhat. “Do what you wish to.”

“How very cruel and selfish of me,” Ista said. Hissed, into Surielle’s ear.

She might have replied with something. Some quip. Had she been granted the time to utter the words. They would have come natural to her, as they always did – always scornful, condescending, ready to joust verbally. To tear down. No one had ever felt themselves in a position to do what Ista clearly very much judged herself capable of, and allowed to.

It was not a comfortable, cushioned landing when Surielle made contact with the floor. She had not quite been thrown, did not quite fall, but approached that. After having been nudged at the back of the knees, she found them settled onto the edge of a silvery rug, arms finding the hardwood floor in order to stop, to lessen the impact. Ista’s fingers found a firmer hold of her brown locks, and so pressed her cheek-first against the wooden boards. Placed a knee against the small of her back, and then, based on the clinking noise, and then a smooth hiss, removed her belt.

Without even a hint of the grace and respect shown to her at every moment of her life, Surielle’s right arm was captured, her wrist lead to her spine. A well-worn, softened leather belt was wound around it, after which her hand was settled, crushed beneath one of the savage’s knees. Her other wrist was similarly captured, and wrapped up in belt, the two then secured behind her.

“I had the idea that you would be insatiable, creature,” Surielle said, just as a hand once more found the back of her head. Pressed her right cheekbone, her nose, lips, eyebrow, forehead down against the hardwood. “Not… engage in arts and-- and crafts, with your belt.”

A sharp, wet sound. A hard expulsion of air from behind, which Surielle could not immediately place. Ista’s free hand, cupped, then sought what could still be seen of her face. The kaldorei pulled her up from her close encounter with the thankfully clean floor, so that she could hover a few inches above it. Not to allow her to delight in the view, to try to distract herself from the significant weight and girth of that monster cock resting against her, but to press those cupped fingers against her refined features. She saw, then, for just a heartbeat, a moment, what the sound had signaled. Instincts made her close her mouth, and eyes.

Ista had spit but once in her palm, and so, when she ground and smeared it against Surielle’s face, what she was actually accomplishing was spreading and slathering remarkably resistant makeup across Surielle’s features far more than coating her in spit. There was simply not enough of it. Not that that would help, given the insistent, circular motions. Over, and over. Halting once to refresh the spittle, and then again. She was held just above the floorboards when it came to an end, at last, fingers settled over her eyes, nose. Leaving her lips free.

“Most… barbaric,” Surielle whispered, slightly out of breath. “As expected.”

“Shut up,” Ista said. She settled herself more firmly atop Surielle’s peachy, firm ass, spending a few moments grinding that still caged, but no less massive cockshaft down against pliant cheeks. “Very soon, I am going to wrap my arm around your throat, and every time you say something other than ‘I’m a stupid bitch,’ I will tighten my grip.”

When she tried another quip, Surielle managed only a single syllable, then the large hand shifted its undignified hold of her face such that it also blocked her mouth. She could only sigh with exasperation against it, and put on a little show of struggling against the clear sensation of Ista shifting, working her trousers open, and down her thighs. Nails dug into the fabric of Surielle’s priceless dress, and a moment later, a tearing, ruinous sound could be heard. Then, for the first time in her life, Surielle felt the truly titanic girth, the enormous weight of treetrunk kaldorei cock resting against her skin. A hefty, thick burden, smooth, and hard as steel, and excusing itself for not one solitary moment. In that instant, just a little of the playful nature drained from her. Not the desire, but the inevitable, desired end drew closer.

It was clear enough that, somehow, Silendiel managed, again and again, to entertain her own savage, and so, the impossible was clearly, somehow, possible. And yet, Ista’s size was so profoundly obscene that Surielle doubted the tactile reporting of her senses. She wished to turn her head, to say some useless phrase, to plead for the savage to be gentle. Might almost have done the latter, if only to entice her to be anything but, though that seemed entirely unnecessary.

With one hand against Surielle’s head, one against the floor, Ista changed position. Rather than letting her colossal shaft and her heavy nuts weigh down Surielle, the savage raised herself up. Let that broad cockhead drag against Surielle’s back, over her bound wrists and hands, and further down, halting when it came to rest against her ass. Dress ripped apart, legs unbound, she could squeeze them together tightly, or spread them, as she desired, trying first one, then the other. Then the first again.

The settling of that massive, warm cock-crown against the curve of her small, firm butt made her tense up, first, and then relax just so. Heated, sticky seed pulsed in continuous, slowly-flowing drops from the savage warrior, eager as she had to be to pillage and ruin anything civilized before her. So Surielle thought in the moment available to her before just a modicum of downward pressure was applied, prompting her to let out an arrhythmic series of breaths, light, and high-pitched, and then continuous as the moment wore on into another, and another. She shifted, and strained against the belt around her wrists, and tried to move her head, but found it impossible to maneuver at all, Ista’s weight holding her firmly to the floor. Her stomach tensed, tightened, sucked inwards so that she might flatten herself just a tiny bit more, a fruitless, instinctive attempt at escaping, for one more moment, the behemoth clearly seeking to conquer her.

Frightfully little room to maneuver was available to begin with, and what minuscule movements Surielle could make were soon exhausted. So, her ass made room for the prodding, pressing cockhead, expanding around it into a circle, a deepening crater, until the tip of it came to smear, to grind directly against her hole, that continuous flow of pre-seed depositing there, soon making the connection of skin against skin far more intimate. For a little while, at least, that seemed to be all the savage sought. That deep connection.

Not deep enough, it then turned out. Surielle, usually always in possession, or at least within reach, of a quip, of a whipcrack remark, found herself struggling merely to emit the sounds that gave voice to her feelings. The feeling, specifically, of something overwhelming, massively thick, pressing, grinding against her, seeking entry. With more insistence for each passing moment, a rhythm developing to Ista’s movements, actual thrusting. It might have taken hours, days, to slowly acclimatize, to slowly get used to that colossus of a cock, but she was offered none of that. Demand after cruel demand made of her, instead, weight, strength hammering down against her, punching tuneless, thin breaths from her parted lips.

Those breaths developed then into a continuous sound, her thighs, her stomach, her pelvis flattening against the floor, and then having not the merest fraction of room left into which they could flee, her body surrendered. Not slowly, gracefully, but at the next rhythmic, pounding thrust, it gave in. The clenching, tight muscle slipped at last, granting entry to perhaps an inch of that massive cockshaft. A moment later, Ista’s ceaseless thrusts ready to exploit every moment of weakness, that fat cockhead sank in another inch, and then another. Another. Slipping past clenching, constricting muscle, thick seed bubbling and smearing and easing that grinding passage just so, until Surielle’s ass clenched and tightened around the ridge of the savage’s cockhead.

She had thought, then, briefly, that she might be given a reprieve. That her stomach, maddeningly rising, **** to cradle and portray the sheer size of the monster hammered into her, would be allowed to find some peaceful, graceful way in which to frame her. She exhaled desperately, breath rasping in her throat, eyes wide open, staring forward, upward, at nothing. Nothing existed but the hand that held her head down. The huge, thick behemoth, the oppressive sensation, overwhelmed, purging her of thought, of will, of desire, of anything other than experiencing that single moment. Her left eyelid twitched. Ista weighed her down, everywhere.

The next, rolling thrust landed, ramming into her struggling, straining frame. Another few inches sinking in, her beautiful, prim, perfectly maintained belly rising against the floor yet further. Surielle let out something near a yelp, still an octave higher than her speaking voice. Somehow, nothing came out normal. Another hammerblow, her shoulders straining, wrists tugging at the belt. She would have moved several inches forward up the floor, had the savage sentinel not planted that hand on her head, holding her in place.

Another thrust, and, at last, that first barrage came to a momentary end. Weight and strength still allowed Ista to slowly sink one, then two inches of that beast of a cock into Surielle’s ass, even as she repositioned. Rather than settle the hand not occupied grinding the sin’dorei’s face down against the planks against the floor, she instead leaned forward, planting an elbow, then her forearm, against the hardwood. Still raised high, many fat, languidly pumping inches of colossal dick remaining to be buried in Surielle, she nevertheless maneuvered the noblewoman’s head up to rest on her forearm, into a headlock. Bodily pressing Surielle down against the floor, her delicate throat settled into the crook of one strong elbow.

“Now,” Ista hissed, teeth bared, lips curled back from them. “You may feel more ready to do as I say. Girl.”

Surielle understood the words in a distant sense, as if spoken from across a large room. Not specifically aimed at her. As such, her reply was no more than a series of staccato, gasping breaths, each seeming to exhale more air than she had in her lungs. Always high-pitched. Always in disbelief. Her stomach rose. Her stomach. Actually rose. At the sheer, obscene girth of the savage’s brutal, endless thrusts. She tried to turn her head, tried to look at Ista, but failed. Did not know what to say, anyway. What was there to say? Please stop? Please go on? Do both, at the same time, stupid savage? Disbelief fought for control, but each aching, straining moment dispelled it.

Ista rammed herself forward in a single, hard thrust, not a new rhythm, merely another effort at ramming another few inches of that colossal cock into Surielle’s ass. As if her body was mightier still than the persistent, hard efforts of the much larger, much stronger kaldorei now planted atop her, just that once, it prevented that sudden jerk of movement from being immediately rewarded. The strength could not be denied, nor turned aside, but it could, and was, be slowed down. To take Surielle in a few, uncompromising thrusts proved an impossibility, but to build pressure until and past a breaking point, offering her straining form no other choice than to accept that mammoth cockshaft, little by smooth, ceaseless little, that proved very possible indeed. And still, at every passing moment, punctuated by each struggling, disbelieving breath, her previously flat, firm stomach rose. Built a fat, always growing bulge around that enormous, girthy dick.

With that undeniable presence, Surielle did not so much push back against Ista herself as the mere fact that there had to be room made for that thick distension beneath her pushed the sentinel to gracefully allow some space. If only not to obstruct herself in the now steadily hammered, singular thrusts which dissipated their **** only slowly, held in place, so that Surielle’s tight, clenching ass had no other course but to envelop more and more of that monster.

Fingers found her lips, index and middle, and then ring finger, pressing in. Never, ever, in any conceivable situation, could she previously have imagined herself to open her mouth for such a degrading, adventurous, wordless request. In that moment, she did not even think of it as any of those things – barely thought at all. Her teeth parted, all three fingers jammed into her maw, mashing against her tongue, pressing it down. Smearing against the inside of her cheeks, seeming to collect saliva. She should have known, then, what the savage intended. Should have closed her mouth again, in an effort to stop it. But did not. Why did she not stop it?

The warm, somewhat sticky, bubbly substance soon smothered and anointed her once pristine, regal features. No longer any of those things. Certainly not as the kaldorei spent no time, no thought, on trying to in any sense care for her well-being. Her nose rolled with the circular, thorough movements that painted her face with her own saliva, painfully so. Her cheeks momentarily distorted, pulled along. The carefully cut and shaped hairs of her eyebrows stood on end, sticky with her own spit. Her cheeks, already inflamed from the effort and stress of taking that behemoth cock, turned more crimson still from the rough spreading of spit. And, at the end, she was not offered a moment’s reprieve.

Another slam-fucking, plowing thrust, sure to bury another three, colossal inches in her ass, sure to push that monster yet further up her front. An explosive gasp shot out of her mouth, closed as Ista ensured that Surielle’s face looked proper, that breath turning into a longer, ailing sound. Ailing, and yet, she could not deny, at least to herself, that part of her suffered precisely because that treetrunk dick, that brutal, fat kaldorei cock, **** and wrung from her an intense, undeniable note of pleasure. Even that, she was not allowed to savor. Fingers settled in her hair. At the top of her head, not behind it. So thoroughly was she captured in that headlock she she could no longer even turn her head.

The world shook when Ista, having exhausted the cruel, constant, cramming pressure of one thrust, pounded another into Surielle’s ass. And there was more. Somehow, there was more, despite the absurd size and thickness of what had already been hammered into her. More massive, girthy inches to take. More.

More.

Again, and again, the world shook. With aching, irresistible thrusts, which she could not escape from. Even if she had been able to crawl, she could not have escaped Ista’s efforts. Weighed down by the chiseled creature, the savage, taken, exploited. And yet, closing her eyes, managing to tilt her head backwards just a fraction of an inch in spite of the firm grip of her head, Surielle exhaled one surrendering little sound after another. Not in spite of the thoroughly degrading subdual, but precisely because of it. That knowledge itself a source of pain, and of long-sought, long denied satisfaction. Unable to allow herself entirely to unlock that place within, unable to give herself permission, it was only in the arms of the brutish creature who had hit her, who had treated her like nothing – less than a servant, than a person – that she could at last be free. Not allow herself to be free, but be **** into that freedom.

It was in that moment, when that thought found its way past another, hilting thrust, that Ista once more scraped lips and teeth against Surielle’s cheekbone, and hissed. “You’re a stupid bitch. Say it.”

Surielle shook with another titanic thrust, the wetness of a sob rising up from her throat and into her mouth, making her spit taste metallic. That sob never escaped, but neither did any words. Was it merely some performance, getting her to say those words, or did the creature somehow understand her on so primal a level? Was it possible that all that had happened was not just for the satisfaction of Ista’s violent tastes, but just as much for Surielle to find the courage to face herself, to speak, to put words on what she had done to herself for so long?

Again, she shook with the obscene strength of another thrust, after which three more inches of that colossus slowly sank into her molded, shaped ass, now perfectly sculpting around the monster, closer and closer to its base. The points of Ista’s fangs pressed against her delicate skin, further encouragement for her to say what she had been prompted to say. And so, in between babbling breaths balancing on a knife’s edge between brutal, enforced pleasure and overstuffed, pressured pain, they slipped out. A further nudging of those teeth against her, without them breaking skin helped her on her way.

“S—stupid bitch. I’m-- I’m a stupid bitch,” she half-sobbed, finding that Ista still had not withdrawn her fangs.

“Again.”

“I’m a-- a stupid bitch—”

The last syllable of that final word collapsed into mewling, rapid gasps for breath. Somehow, that massive, monstrously fat dick hammering into her had pushed her too far. Too hard. Too close. Rolled sideways just enough that the thick bulge found room, rather than squashing her and it together against the floor beneath the chiseled, heavy physique of the savage, Surielle, head still trapped in that headlock, held firmly, shook at another thrust. Ista no longer allowed the **** of each to dissipate, to sublimate into her, gradually accepted over seconds following each brutal movement as more of that monster cock pushed in. Instead, insistent, steady impacts followed one-another, pressing girthy inches in. Coming ever closer to their bodies uniting.

She squirmed, flexed, arms and hands moving just so. Remaining bound, but even had they not been, trapped beneath Ista’s crushing form, which more and more laid directly atop her. Little of that enormous, thick dick remained outside of Surielle, and for each moment that passed, another obscenely thick inch plowed and pounded into her. Pushing before it, like an absurd scoop, a wave of pleasure which built faster than it could slip away around the sides of that constant command. Without knowing why, without desire to actually escape, she nevertheless wormed and shook and tried to stretch to one side, then the other, but nothing got her any closer to freedom from the brutal creature’s conquest.

It was flight. A kind of desperation not to be free of Ista, but to be free of the shameful conclusion to be drawn from their union. Surielle’s exhalations grew erratic, pulsing, rising pleasure capturing her senses, her mind, each heartbeat that passed making it less possible to squirm her way free of that predatory feeling. She held her breath, and tried to strain forward. In that moment, the savage slam-fucked what had to be one of the final, fattest inches of that colossal cock into her. Surielle opened her mouth, stretched her neck to the extent that she could, fingers and elbow capturing her head, and nothing came out. For an endless moment, nothing came. And then, finally, a straining breath was **** from her throat, her core, her stomach tensing.

Once, and then a second time. A third time, in a terrible, frenzied and yet consistent rhythm, which pounded into existence, to the forefront of her senses, a heat that rose from what felt like the pit of her stomach, blossoming, fluttering outwards from there. Tendrils reached for her thighs, for her chest. Her cheeks, her arms, even her feet. That pulsing fog was beaten down, hammered to the ground just once, when Ista forcefully thrust another of those massively fat inches of dick in, so terribly close to hilting. Hardening the grip of Surielle’s head, of her hair. The heat rose again, unconquerable, rhythmically locking down around that monster that had invaded her, made her display its might so crudely, her stomach bulging, wrapping around it.

Needy breaths spilled from her, unhindered by archaic thoughts of propriety. Of grace, of what was suitable for one of her station. She felt, even as that boiling, triumphant heat ruled all of her, her limbs, her mind, how the savage creature, the kaldorei, pressed the final inch of her monster in, and so, Surielle was taken. Captured. Vanquished. To the tune of high-pitched, near teary, desperately satisfied gasps.

A moment passed. Endless moments, in which she rode the gradual downward wave, Ista seeming content, just then, to hold her fast. A firm grip, brown locks trapped between rough fingers, throat and chin resting upon that steady arm. The savage said something, again. Hissed words into Surielle’s ears, words she could not filter and turn into something comprehensible. Breaths remained shallow, lips parted. Ista repeated. What could the creature possibly want her to understand in this moment? All that could be understood, could be focused upon, was that monster, the incomprehensible girth, nevertheless held in the crushing, tight grip of her ass, molded around the very base of the behemoth. Again, Ista said something. Fangs against Surielle’s cheek. She had to turn her attention to those words. The hold of her throat tightened, just so. The hand that held her hair encouraged her to meet reality again by a slight tug, sending a thousand pinpricks flaring in her scalp.

“Why?”

“Wh-- what?” Surielle dredged her mind, searched for context. Before, not that long ago, she had said something. At Ista’s prompting. In a weak, overwhelmed moment. A struggling moment, thoughts sliding into place, squirming just a little, bodily, as if that might seat that huge, fat dick in her better, somehow. “I-- I don’t… know.”

“You could just have asked for this at the beginning, girl,” Ista said, in her ear. To the air, right next to her ear, rather. “Avoided everything, all the trouble, the worries. Because, what, you were too self-conscious to come to us and ask for this?”

Surielle tried to form a reply to that, but found words uncooperative. Especially as Ista shifted backwards just a little, and then once more settled in, to the root of that monster, weighty balls finding their place against Surielle once again.

She could not, in that moment, truly imagine what her place in the social hierarchy of Quel’thalas’ nobility might have been, had she done as Silendiel did. Had she even admitted to herself that she might have similar desires in the first place. Not that the descent inherent in going to the kaldorei embassy to ask one of them to fuck her like conquered war spoils was something that could at all be countenanced. But how might she convey this to the savage? How, in words she could manage just then, which would not merely get her face mashed against the floor? Was there a reason that the creature would even consider reasonable, rather than making her denigrate herself again?

Thankfully, after a few breathless moments where Surielle’s principal sound was a low, pleased whining at the occasional shifting back and forth of Ista’s bulk laid upon her, the savage seemed to come to the conclusion that her prey either had no good reason, or was not in a state to make her case. And so, rather than demand that Surielle eloquently lay out her rationale, Ista withdrew two, four, five inches of colossal cock, and then hammered them back in. Bottoming out, she came to rest on Surielle’s back, once more. Atop her, crushing her to the ground, still rolled just enough that the moving, thick cockbulge upon her front had the room it needed. Thankfully, too, neither the kaldorei, nor anyone else, could see the expression she allowed herself to make, just then. Bound, and held in a crushing grip, weighed down by a feral, muscled hulk, and helplessly pushed into stupid ecstasy by it all.

Had it not been for Ista’s presence on top of her, the lock and hold of her head, Surielle would have been hauled backwards as another thrust was prepared, and them slam-fucked into her ass. She would have ground back and forth across the floor, but, instead, moved only just so. Her body gave the resistance it was bidden, so as to begin to coax pleasure from the savage, and when Ista’s pelvis once more smacked against Surielle’s backside, both exhaled a strained breath. The kaldorei’s one of raw, rasping pleasure, Surielle’s rather more an emptying of her lungs, after which came a gasp of breath to refill them when Ista immediately pulled back again. Hammered in, to the hilt, again. And again.

A steady pace, not smooth, precisely, but unceasing. The sentinel pulled back, and then halted for a fraction of a second, before hammering back down, and in, with enough strength that Surielle’s body shook from the impact. That seemed to be precisely the point, not a steady lover’s uniting of bodies, but something that, despite inflicting pleasure on her senses, nevertheless sought to exploit her. Extract satisfaction, having conquered her very depths. And then taken them over, and over again.

The fingers wrapped around locks of her hair untangled, and for a moment, she was held only in that secure, if sweltering pressure in the crook of Ista’s elbow. The hand then found her again, wrapping firmly over her open mouth, fingers not even questing to find space within. Seemingly without awareness, her expulsions of breath at the brutal, smacking apex of each hard thrust had developed from mere ethereal, if ardent sounds into something louder. Something that could, perhaps, make it through the door, and down the stairs. To the assembled sentinels, as well as the assembled forces of the city, all waiting for her to come to an agreement with the priestess. What agreement?

It proved a fleeting worry, the next cruel, pistoning thrust cramming that monstrously thick dick into her ass once more, its mental effect much like a careless arm sweeping carefully assembled porcelain off a dinner table so that it fell to and shattered against the floor. Surielle’s cheeks flattened, crimson, surely turning black and blue under the onslaught, and when she tried to reestablish contact with the worry of the previous moment, she could only look towards the door. Mind and eyes foggy, both. What had she wanted? She exhaled hard through her nostrils, against the fingers covering the lower half of her face, as another staccato, ramming thrust crammed into her, Ista once more pushed in to the base of that behemoth.

Again, then, still convinced that it was something she ought to resist, but finding herself able only to mount failing efforts, steadily breaking down with each bottoming out of the savage kaldorei’s huge, fat cock, Surielle found a conflicting lightness rising within her. The fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, at first, something that should have been crushed, but seemed only to take further wing for each merciless, plowing thrust, a prickling, immaterial feeling, not quite mist, not actually lightening anything. Successfully deceiving her body into imagining itself lighter, even as she was entirely aware that she was weighed down by the chiseled, steely muscle of the savage. It did not matter. This time, it was not a pounding, tumbling roll down a hill, but a teary relief, a welcome of something she had dearly missed without even knowing it. Ista’s relentless, mauling thrusts were the harbinger of another orgasm, taking flight at the conclusion of one of innumerable thrusts.

Surielle strained and squirmed, stretching her neck, though it made her throat come to rest more fully into the crook of Ista’s bent elbow. Pleading breaths, pitter-patter raindrops hitting her vocal chords, seemed to come from her without prompting, the light, pin-prick pleasure coming together in one moment, fizzing, bubbling out from her core and into her shaking limbs. Her brows lowered, eyes closed, she gasped futile breaths against Ista’s fingers over her mouth, each steady thrust coiling the airy, fluttering feeling in upon itself, until she had once more been drawn down and into that same pounding pleasure, orgasm **** upon her, allowed to dissipate only slightly between each grinding, hammerblow thrust.

Rasping, growling breathing tore at the air next to her right ear. She still gasped, still helplessly burst with slowly fading embers of pleasure at each thrust, but she had, at least, sunken back down to awareness of the world. Awareness of Ista’s snarling in her ear, of staccato, pistoning, endless thrusts occasionally replaced with mashing and grinding but a few inches of colossal cock into her. The savage was close. Very close.

That grip of Surielle’s face turned from one merely meant to contain her endless, compromising sounds, to one crueler, to no one’s benefit but Ista’s. Fingertips, claw-like nails, created divots in Surielle’s carefully protected, now spit-smeared skin, her jaw and chin trapped, rather than held. In those final moments, she was less than a partner, less than a mere girl, she was prey. Held within the grasp of her huntress, her conqueror, who had only her own purpose in mind, who cared nothing for Surielle, despite having pushed upon her two crushing orgasms. It was that precise quality she wished for, and was granted, as Ista growled, and then pressed bared fangs to the base of her ear. Ran her tongue, rough and saturated with saliva, across the side of Surielle’s head. Some primitive sort of claiming, marking her. For what? Future use, or being discarded?

Ista exhaled in unison with one last, cratering thrust, muscled thighs, pelvis, hefty, churning balls all smacking into Surielle, settling against her in the precise moment in which the savage’s body shook, flexing to the peak possible tension of muscle, the **** of that thrust supplanting through Surielle while Ista’s body, it seemed, had to resolve the apex of pleasure into physical reaction. It was only a momentary pause, but it allowed Surielle to feel a brief relaxing, and then the clamping down, bio-mechanical machinery cruelly forcing upon the kaldorei something that seemed equal parts ache and pleasure as that first, molten, copious load pounded from her. Pumped through that widening cumvein, her monster of a cockshaft thickening just so as that first, sweltering rope of seed hammered through it, and then, at long last, pounded into Surielle’s depths. With bruising, stupendous ****, such that her already bulging front momentarily rose just a little more, at its peak, while that continuous pillar found its new home, the first, fat load already working to make her stomach rise, rippling with the **** just so.

Surielle found one eye twitching, shoulders rising, her head rolling aside just a little. The second, immense load plowing into her, and again, her belly grew from the copious, thick strand of cum hammering in to make a new home. A third, a fourth, a fifth thumb-thick, hard rope bloating her stomach, soft skin pressing against the floor as it filled out around the pulsing behemoth still bottomed out inside her tight, clenching ass, re-shaped, molded around the base of Ista’s monster.

For every strong heartbeat, the savage pumped another colossal load into Surielle, stealing ever more her ability to breathe, to understand what was happening to her body. For each of those pounding, thick cables splattering into her, her stomach grew. In a terrifying, steady manner, to the endless tune of Ista’s growling, straining orgasm. As if the obscene loads were somehow natural, merely another of the thousand, thousand commonplace consequences of the world going on, as it did. The dome of her stomach responding, inevitably, to each searing, rippling pillar of powerful seed merely by rising a little more. And more. And more again.

The savage’s massive, weighty shaft slowly drowned in the immense, ever-growing hill of Surielle’s stomach, and as she remained partially trapped beneath the kaldorei, her stomach swiftly plateaued against the floor. In part. In an odd, diagonal shape, more ellipse than hemisphere, it expanded. Gradually. Slower, and slower, as Ista’s breathing, aligned with the restarted, slight, gyrating thrusts, came under more control. Somehow, the kaldorei still came, those bloating, fat loads without mercy, without end, even if they became rarer. Matched the savage’s breath. Her thrusts.

How long, precisely, Surielle lay beneath Ista, how long she spent ensuring every possible drop of the feral creature’s cum had been drained, she did not know. Where before she had been preoccupied with the feelings of being crushed to the floor, of mammoth cock hilted in her overstuffed ass, of seemingly punishing pleasure, her attention centered instead on the pressure of that enormous bulge on her belly. How it made her breathing shallow, even when Ista worked her way back out, slowly, thrusting a few inches in, but more out. Until, finally, Surielle could roll onto her side, and then to her back. Her aching, bruised backside protested, but the relief of no longer partially lying on the large curve of her domed stomach trumped that pain.

She might have expected any other lover to embrace her, to perhaps try to entice her into a second round, to want to drink, or eat, or do any number of things. Ista, of course, did none of those things. Her conquest finished, her expression settled back into the ever so slight hint of scorn, of condescension, that she had worn when Surielle had first spotted her, in the deepest, darkest corner of the priestess’ chamber.

“You need only come back when you want more, little creature,” Ista said. A few moments spent looking down at Surielle later, she gathered and resettled her garments and armor, and then stalked from the room.

Some things, Surielle came to realize, were more attractive as fantasies than when actually happening. One of these many things was being left bruised, thoroughly fucked, and bulging with the colossal load of a most savage, most brutal, most uncaring kaldorei. She would have to bring someone with her, next time, who could be trusted to be quiet. Who could be trusted to help her, in a most **** position. Not once did she imagine or wish for that person to be Ista – the savage ought to be contained in her role. But, when one had the means, one really need not struggle so. Lie gasping for minutes, only to roll to one’s side, pulling quivering arms and knees in, to rise to all fours, and then, much effort later, to stand.

To Surielle’s great shock, after much time had passed, the door to the priestess’ chambers opened. A small figure, much smaller than Ista, or any of the kaldorei, entered. Blonde hair, golden eyes. A strong sense of self-assuredness to the woman’s movements. It was Silendiel.

Silendiel, who did not sneer, who did not laugh, who did not judge, who did not recoil at the bruising or the enormous, bulging belly, though Surielle remembered those first three things being most of what they had done together. Instead, Silendiel made her way to a comfortable chair, not to sit, but to place a small bundle of cloth. And a folded towel. A second sweeping of eyes over Surielle’s blue, black, reddened, bulging, delicate form. Arms around the lower bound of that massive, sloshing curve, as if she were well past fully pregnant.

“The dress will hide nothing,” Silendiel said, after a moment’s tense quiet. “But this thing, you cannot hide. It is better to own it, Suri.”

With that, with a lingering look seemingly both mildly worried at the signs of welts and bruises, as well as understanding of the ordeal just completed, Silendiel turned and left.

Surielle stood, alone, in the near complete darkness, the dull azure light painting odd shapes along the dome of her stomach. Somehow, she would have to put on Silendiel’s gift. She would have to try to tame her hair, and set right her face. She would have to face the Captain, and convince him that the expulsion had been put on hold. That she had come to an agreement with the priestess. Which she had not, of course. Not really. But she had been invited back, and, once the bruises healed, once she had massaged her pride, she did dearly, shamefully wish to come back. To have another honest, harsh conversation with the savage, so as to impress upon her how unacceptable it was for her to treat nobility in the way she had.

So as to be treated just that way, again.