Back in Meadowbrook, in her well-furnished imprisonment, Elsa receives a message. It is fragmented, broken, and hazy, but it’s a message nonetheless. All that’s really legible is the sensation, the real, physical sensation, of a cock in her mouth, and the tingly spine feeling of orange eyes piercing her soul.
She shudders, uneasy, unable to stand, and directs herself to the bed, to rest, to breathe. It’s absurdly fortunate for her that she doesn’t know how this message came to her, because if she knew that Kara’s lust for her was so potent it could overcome the nullifying collar still round her neck, well, it would cause her much fear and also other, harder to reckon with emotions.
Elsa’s body trembles like she’s taken a chill. Pink hair falls over her face as she twists, praying to Thala — to a God that doesn’t hear — begging for deliverance, for this strange pressure in her mouth, across her tongue, in her throat, to lift. There’s a wetness between her thighs she can’t account for, a longing, and suddenly she feels empty, waiting to be filled. “No,” she whispers, writhing.
She tells herself that she’s only putting her hand between her thighs to see if it’s real, but the moment her fingers find her slick Elsa can’t help but run them across her entrance — just to see, just to see, I just need to know.
No. Stop. You can’t! It’s a desecration.
Her orthodoxy at last gets the better of her, but the moment she pulls her fingers away she feels the pulse of need, desire, wants nothing more than to put them back, to sate herself.
And then, as suddenly as it came on, the sensation fades, and she begins to breathe normally, the pressure gone from her mouth. Yet, still, even as the moment recedes, there’s still warmth and wet between her thighs, demanding attention. Demanding her attention: the warlord, the brute, the heretic. If she were here…
And Kara’s fantasy is replaced by Elsa’s, and to her shame it is not the usual fantasy of victory and liberation for Meadowbrook, but of Kara kicking down the lush house’s sturdy door, climbing naked into the bed and spreading Elsa’s legs. The rational, dutiful part of her brain tries to steer things right, to imagine her reaching beneath the pillow and drawing out a hidden dagger — but the bestial, lizard parts are excited by this violence, and, most shameful of all, by defeat.
And so the picture proceeds. Kara wrenches the dagger from Elsa, sends it skittering across the floor. “No!” Elsa cries, but then a furred hand is over her mouth, and Kara’s fat cock is inside her, and as she thrusts the heretic locks her eyes on Elsa, taking her in hungrily. She rips her clothes from her, lets them tear, leaves her naked, drools on her breasts, fucks her like the half-wild monster she is. Every thrust stretches her out, rearranges her body and her mind, bends her inexorably towards Kara’s will, moulds her into the perfect disciple, like the pretty farmhand.
And then, a wrinkle — in the fantasy, the fantasy Elsa is desperate to vanquish, one she wants to excise forever, Kara hilts herself and whispers,
“Good girl; I hope she has your beautiful pink hair.” Kara pats Elsa’s belly, uncovers her mouth to force her into a kiss.
The fantasy ends abruptly, as Elsa’s muscles spasm with surging, electric pleasure, and to her horror she finds her hand between her thighs, breaking one of Thala’s most sacred dictates.
A spell, she thinks, as her mind clears. A vile spell from a vile heretic. I am bewitched. She must be stopped, soon!
As for Kara, it all happens as she said it would; the pursuit dies down and the barking of tracking hounds fades into the distance, leaving the two fugitives to wander the black-leaf forest without fear of anything more than the howling wolves whose territory they cross.
“Maynier,” Kara begins, as they walk an old game trail, hiking west, to the Gorfort and Lord Gibbet, who Vaylin has marked for death. “Now’s perhaps a good time for you to tell me what you’re doing here.”
“When Jaika returned without you, I feared for you. You should not be left without support or guard. You are the Prophet!”
“I had things well in hand; you serve Sayla far better drilling her footsoldiers for the coming war.”
Maynier’s behind her, but Kara can feel her head turn down like a kicked dog. “Prophet, I-”
“It’s alright, Maynier. Your passion is admirable. You couldn’t stand to leave me alone, and I appreciate that — even if you went against my explicit instructions. Just don’t make a habit of it, alright?”
“Y-yes, Prophet. Shall we seek shelter?” Really, Maynier just wants a private place to fuck — it was good of her to come out here, she knows that, and she’s certain the Prophet will realise too, just as soon as they stop moving through this dark forest.
“No. We work by night, for now. We will sleep when the sun’s up. Gibbet dies when the moon is full.”
This is the worst thing Maynier could possibly hear, given she’s worked tirelessly to get here — not one of the mounts in Meadowbrook could bear her weight, so the orc ran, jogging across the ground with barely a moment’s rest. “As you say, Prophet.”
Luckily, Kara’s getting better at reading people, and detects the dissatisfaction. “I know I ask a lot of you, Maynier. It’s only because you are capable of so much. You are my greatest warrior — which is why I wanted you there, making others in your image.”
If you wish to make something in my image, Prophet, why not a child? But instead she says, “I thank you. I am only capable of so much thanks to my devotion to you. My faith fuels me.”
Oh, alright, Kara thinks. Fine. She whirls around and presses Maynier against the closest tree. Branches crack and splinter under the orc’s muscled weight, the critters in the canopy beat a hasty escape. Kara leaps up, wraps her arms around Maynier’s shoulders and her legs around her waist — she’s so strong now, thanks to those perks, and there’s no strain as she hangs off the orc, kissing at her face, licking at her tusks. “I know what you want, baby,” she whispers. “So, fine. You’ll get it. I’ll fuck you good.”
“Thank you, Prophet, oh, thank you, I-”
“Shhhhh, I know, baby; I know.” Kara digs her claws into the tree and yanks herself up, swings her legs around Maynier’s shoulders and balances there like the acrobat she is. A giggle escapes Kara — this is fun. Her freed cock comes face to face with Maynier, as Kara, high above her, strokes her hair gently. “I don’t blame you for wanting me, Maynier; you’re meant to. But if you’re gonna get all sulky, I’m gonna fuck your face. Kiss it.”
For a huge, muscled orc, her kisses are surprisingly gentle, surprisingly soft. There’s a slight, almost alchemical chill on her lips, soothing and minty. The attention’s enough to stir her, and once she’s hard the only real issue is this awkward angle she’s insisted on, but it’d be ridiculous for Kara to back down now — and, besides, there’s something intoxicating about literally climbing Maynier like a tree, and really it’s just a bit of bending to get her cock into those cool lips, to thrust, not quickly but deeply, strong legs flexing, tail wrapped round the orc’s neck for balance.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Kara hisses. “That’s a good fucking girl.”
Maynier girds herself, lets her muscles anchor her to the ground, and with one hand on the Prophet’s back to support her and another free to do whatever she wills, she chooses to slip beneath the fabric of her warrior’s loincloth and grant herself physical pleasure — her mind is already sparking with bliss. To serve the Prophet, to make her happy… there’s only one thing Maynier wants more than that, and its a fluffy-eared heir.
She moans around her Prophet’s cock while Kara grunts, thrusting and stroking Maynier’s head like an overloved pet. “After this, focus. One Lord is dead — the other will be on alert. I need you; I need you focused.”
Maynier nods deliriously against the cock down her throat. Anything, she thinks, trying to communicate her devotion with her eyes. Anything.
Kara does not look down to meet her disciple’s gaze though, her face is thrown back toward the dark sky, moonlight painting the curve of her cheek and the graceful arch of her throat.
Look at me, thinks Maynier. By Sayla, please just look at me.
The tri-coloured cat girl moans up into the trees, sending birds skittering, her claws digging roughly into Maynier’s hair, yanking her head roughly back and forth as she uses her throat. Maynier, her own pleasure forgotten, wraps both her trunk-like hands around Kara’s plumply muscled thighs and squeezes beseechingly.
The prophet understands her followers wordless plea, her long tri-coloured hair whips forward as she looks down at Maynier, cooing and stroking the orc’s hard, smooth cheekbones.
“Sweet Maynier; loyal warhound; wolf of Sayla,” grunts Kara, “You want to- to make me cum. Don’t you?”
Suddenly though, the thought of Kara cumming down her throat — wasting the precious seed that could one day become an heir, the dear daughter who feels almost alive already in her imagination — is a horror to Maynier. She stumbles backwards, trips on the hard, uneven ground. The pair tumble to the dirt together. Kara lets out a hiss of shock, tail puffing up to twice the size and tightening around Maynier’s neck, claws digging tight into the flesh of the orc’s scalp as they fall.
There’s startled silence for a moment, in the aftermath of the fall.
“Is something wrong, baby? You almost fucking killed us,” Kara says at last, rolling off of Maynier and pushing to her knees.
“I want to bring you bliss, Prophet; always. But my throat is a waste.” A tiny strand of spittle hangs from her lips. “Please,” she whines, spreading her legs in invitation.
“Strange reason to knock us to the floor, sweet Maynier.”
“Please, Prophet.”
Kara smiles. Maybe she would, if Maynier didn’t want it so desperately. Now there’s more joy in denying her, she knows, and fucking her throat feels like unfinished business. Kara takes hold of her hard cock, glistening with wetness, and slaps Maynier across the face with it.
“Open up.”
“Prophet; Kara; love; I beg of you, pl-”
The slap that comes next is with an open hand, ringing out like the sound of striking flint. Maynier doesn’t flinch at all, just continues staring up at Kara imploringly.
“Open,” says Kara, impatient. Maynier opens her mouth, eyes pleading. “Wider. Stick your tongue out.” The orc obeys.
Kara sits on Maynier’s face, knees firm around her cheeks, so that she has a view of the orc’s strong, gorgeous body. She leans down and wraps a hand around Maynier’s throat as she pushes herself inside, so she can feel as her length fills the orc up. From this angle, she can penetrate much further, and Maynier chokes around the huge cock.
“Gonna cum nice and deep inside you,” whispers Kara, voice light. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Maynier can’t even manage to shake her head. All her focus is centred on not gagging around the eight inches currently being buried into her throat.
“Touch yourself,” commands Kara, and Maynier’s strong, pretty hand obeys immediately, slipping beneath her loincloth. After only an instant, Maynier is moaning into Kara’s length.
“This,” says Kara, working to keep her voice steady as she thrusts. Maynier’s throat feels incredible. “You would call this a waste? Blasphemy. Do we serve the God of Fertility or the God of Passion?”
Maynier, of course, cannot manage any reply. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes as Kara uses her, her own pleasure building despite the fact that she feels like a scolded pup.
“Pleasure is never wasted, Disciple. Pleasure is pleasure. You’re going to cum for me like a good girl, and I’m going to cum down your throat, and you’ll remember, then, who decides your use. You-” a hitch, as Maynier’s throat tightens involuntarily, the orc struggling with the length inside her, “You are sworn to me.” The percussive, wet sound of Maynier’s abused throat fills the forest, and deep down the orc finds she enjoys the discipline, and wishes only that there was a way to have this and to receive the Prophet’s holy seed.
It’s too late though, because — in a moment that the orc has to admit has a beautiful synchronicity — Maynier shakes through her orgasm just as Kara hilts herself and, as promised, spills her cum deep inside Maynier’s throat.