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When she emerged from the sacristy the deafening roar of the crowd plunged to a low hum. An enthusiastic whistle cut through the air, followed by laughter from some and glares from others. Not all were devoted to the Light, but all of those in attendance that evening gave Argent Confessor Paletress their undivided attention.
Paletress smiled, happy to service believers and non-believers alike. Horde, Alliance, none of it mattered. As a priestess and staunch proponent of the Holy Light she radiated an aura of positivity, inspired those around her with both her words and her deeds, did her best whenever possible to heal those who needed healing. Sadly, the thrust into Northrend by the Argent Crusade left far too many in need of her skills, but even worse, just as many were beyond even her abilities.
Greeting both Horde and Alliance with a little wave, she strode on long graceful legs to her position within the pulpit, where each day since the establishment of the Argent Tournament she had endeavored to deliver an uplifting sermon. The tabernacle in which she held service was customarily packed; numerous latecomers huddled toward the entrance, standing attentively and awaiting her words. With little else to do after training, the champions and their squires sought the comfort of her speech and the heat offered by such a large congregation, which was enhanced by cresset fires and on occasion arguments between members of the Alliance and the Horde.
Though both factions faced the harshness of the elements and the might of the Scourge together, those congregated within the nave nevertheless segregated themselves, with Horde on one side and Alliance on the other. They were accurately apportioned in accordance with their respective population sizes, with humans and orcs being by far the most common of those in attendance. Others included night elves, tauren, trolls, draenei and even less spiritual races such as goblins and the Forsaken. But of course, Paletress was no fool. She understood that the majority had their own beliefs, their own values, but she considered this to be a unique opportunity to spread word of the Light and its teachings to those who otherwise would never set foot within a cathedral.
She set her copy of the Libram of Justice before her upon the pulpit, flipped through some pages, and looked up to slowly scan the crowd before addressing them.
“Thank you all for attending this sermon. It’s wonderful to see so many familiar faces!” she began, and her voice, harmonious as lark songs, clear as crystal, drew the attention of all. “Today I would like to touch on three virtues of the Light…”
***
An hour later, Argent Confessor Paletress retired to the palatial quarters of her personal tent, which had been erected near the tabernacle in a manner akin to that of a church annex. The red and white double-peaked tent had been adorned with gold finials and valances, and was spacious, carpeted, furnished, and multi-roomed so that she could provide more private counseling or exclusive sermons to a select few. To suit such a purpose, one half of the tent had been separated by silk curtains, while the rest of the tent was for her own personal use and thus included a bed as well as her individual belongings, primarily books, clothes, and toiletries.
Typically she gave these private sermons daily to those who requested them, although more often than not they constituted a kind of therapeutic counseling rather than a sermon. Given the nature of what they were all facing, particularly those who comprised the vanguard against the Scourge, Paletress was all too happy to aid in any way that she could. The shadow of the Lich King loomed ever-present before those in Icecrown, like a black festering stain upon the heart of all, growing, gnawing, inviting doubt and fear even within champions.
She lit an incense, said a prayer.
One of her acolytes had jotted down her schedule within a logbook in preparation for today’s private sessions. Presently, she snatched up the leather-bound book and examined it. Hastily scrawled within were three names: Gurtog, Brok, and Zanga. Beside their names the acolyte had recorded their race and vocation; all three were members of the Horde and all three were champions taking part in the jousting competition. This did not surprise her. She was popular with the Horde in Icecrown, and those participating in the Argent Tournament had even more pressure upon their shoulders than most of the others did, thus she resolved to work extra hard to relieve them of their burdens.
Closing the book, she tidied up her quarters, brought fresh coals in for heat, lit another incense, and waited for her first patient to arrive whilst reading a book on military medicine. The remedies of the Light were of course superior, but knowledge of more mundane practices couldn’t hurt in a pinch.
The second incense had scarcely burned to the halfway point when the first champion arrived.
Paletress heard him before she saw him. Firstly because he was a tauren of exceptional size, and secondly because the flaps of her tent had been drawn shut for privacy, thus blocking her view of him. When he announced himself she set the book down, stood up, and invited him inside. Brok, whose name she recalled from his description within the logbook, was a tauren champion from Mulgore, and had to duck to slip inside the tent, his big hairy form making her expansive quarters feel significantly less roomy.
“Greetings, Champion,” she said, and her smile seemed to melt the outside chill still clinging to the tauren. “Please sit. Yes, right there. Now, tell me about what’s troubling you.”
“It’s good to finally see you, Confessor Paletress.” Brok replied, shaking his great bull-like head and knocking some snow off. “I’ve been waiting all day to have the chance to talk with you. No, days. I’ve been waiting days. Because… I mean, you’re an inspiration to all of the men here. Myself included.”
“I’m honored, of course, but that’s a long time to wait. You should have come to see me sooner.”
“You’re right, it’s just…” Despite his size, or perhaps because of it, Brok appeared awkward within his seat. His hands warred within his lap. “I’ve been busy with my training.”
“Jousting? I’ve watched a few of you knights practice before.”
He nodded. “I’m trying my best. I’d like to make the Horde proud, but at the very least I hope to beat the Alliance champions… No offense.”
“None taken. I am after all part of the Argent Crusade,” she reassured in a voice sweeter than wine. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”
Brok shifted uncomfortably. “It’s difficult to say.”
“Give it a shot.”
“It started after I began attending your sermons.” At this Paletress raised an eyebrow, head tilting quizzically, but said nothing, and so he continued on. “There is a woman there. She’s always there. Praying. Aiding others. But she distracts me; I cannot focus on my training.”
“This is quite the time to be fascinated by a woman,” she mused. “But love isn’t something we can help, is it? Have you tried confronting her? Perhaps she would be interested in watching you joust.”
“No, I haven’t spoken to her. Well, not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” The tauren avoided her gaze. “Come now, Champion, I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”
“She’s busy. Very busy. I haven’t gotten much time to properly speak with her.”
“If she’s distracting you from your training you will have to confront her sooner or later. Not only for your sake, but for the sake of those you serve with. Please, tell me about her and maybe I can help. Do you know her name?”
“I do.” He paused and looked down at his hands in his lap. “But I’d rather not say.”
“I see. Is she one of your own? A tauren, I mean.”
“Human.”
“That is an obstacle isn’t it? But not insurmountable, so you oughtn’t be dissuaded.” Paletress thought for a moment, then beamed a smile that could make the sun envious. “Is she a champion taking part in the tournament, or a member of the Argent Crusade?”
“Argent Crusade,” he said, speaking hesitantly as if he were unsure of himself.
“Interesting,” she murmured, pressing the tip of her thumb to her lips in thought. “There aren’t many women in the Argent Crusade. Do I know her?”
“Yes.”
“Soldier or priestess?”
“Priestess.”
“A human priestess in the Argent Crusade… When was the last time you spoke with her?”
“Today.”
“But I thought you hadn’t spoken with her?”
Brok looked like he’d seen the Lich King himself. “I didn’t. Not until today. Earlier.”
Paletress’ green eyes reflected kindness and expert understanding. “Brok, I know this girl very well don’t I?”
Reluctantly, he nodded and averted her eyes.
“You’re referring to me, is that it?”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, I don’t mind at all.” Her voice smiled. “In fact, I’m flattered. But if it’s distracting you from your training something must be done. The Scourge will not be as understanding as I am, you know?”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. If all of this effort goes to waste, or if someone fighting alongside me dies as a result of my being distracted, I’ll be too ashamed to live. It will be a great dishonor to myself, to my family, my people, and to the Horde.”
“I see why you are the champion of your people, Brok. To be capable of such empathy toward your peers is commendable, and not something commonly shared amongst warriors, who are too often vainglorious and single minded.” Paletress stood up on long, mostly bare legs. “I cannot fix your problem; like many things in life you will have to fix that on your own.”
She removed her chapeau and then adjusted the long strands of her golden locks. Outside, the cool wind whistled easily, but inside it was warm and quiet, partially because of the coals and fire, and partially because of Confessor Paletress, who without her chapeau wore little more than boots, an Argent Crusade tabard, and a thong. Brok merely watched her quietly, unsure of himself and many other things.
“But I can support you, just this once.” Paletress doffed her shoulderpads, then removed the white, black and gold tabard of the Argent Crusade, and was fiddling with her golden tunic when she stopped and glanced at Brok. Like a statue he stared, dumb, unblinking. “Unless you don’t want me to?” she asked. “I feel this may provide you with the relief you need though.”
“No!” he declared. “That is, go ahead with… whatever you’re doing.”
Paletress nodded and resumed where she’d left off, stopping only when the entirety of her upper body had been laid bare. She was naturally slender, with skin as pure as the white snow of Icecrown save for a birthmark atop her right breast, which swelled together with her left breast beyond her chest like two majestic hills. It was obvious to all who had attended her sermons that, even covered by a constrictive tunic and tabard, Confessor Paletress was busty; but only now that she had shed those coverings was it clear just how stacked she was.
She moved to fold her clothes, placed them next to her hat, and in so doing her breasts swayed delectably, their ample fullness made more apparent by their obvious weight. Small and human though she might be, the priestess had been blessed with two very large and very soft dreams, each of a size sufficient enough to satisfy a tauren’s groping hand.
“This should be fine,” she remarked, more to herself than to him. Then she looked at him, and he looked back, her eyes on his and his eyes not at all on hers. “I’d intended a more hands-on approach, but if simply looking is enough for you then that is okay as well.”
Brok continued to stare at her breasts for another second before her words registered and he bolted up from his seat. “Sorry, I’m just a little surprised.”
“I understand,” she said sweetly. “Please remove your pants, if you don’t mind.”
Beefy fingers flashed to his belt, floundering for a moment before unclasping and removing it. Unhindered, Brok dropped his trousers to the floor and nearly dropped Paletress’ jaw as well. From those plain trousers sprung a thick, animalistic leviathan of primordial proportions, with a long shaft veined by pulsing pipes, a head that flared like a spitting dragon, and a massive sack beneath it all, the virility of which Paletress could only furtively speculate at, but which crossed through her mind accompanied by a trickle of wetness between her legs.
Hanging heavy nearly down to his knees, it seemed to her that Brok’s beastly bovine companion was about as large as he was.
“I see the Light has blessed you well already,” she muttered, gracefully lowering herself down onto her knees before the tauren.
She recited a prayer, or perhaps an incantation, and sought his cock with her dainty hands. They wrapped tightly about it, squeezing, feeling, marveling, taken aback not only by its size but by the way it burned hot, the smooth but strange texture of its mottled black and brown skin, which seemed different and more bestial than other races, particularly humans. Proceeding further, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, his cock shadowing her face, she ran her hands up—up—up—lifting Brok’s tremendous cock while she caressed it, not so much erotically, but the way one might explore an uncharted area of incredible interest, carefully searching and discovering, until she reached the wide tip of his tool which bloomed like a flower from atop his shaft. Her hands ran over the bulky cockhead. Using both palms and fingers alike, she took note of the tauren’s urethra, which was large and gazed back at her like the blowhole of a whale, of the smooth texture, of the pure masculine virility it exuded.
Confessor Paletress’ hands slowly retreated from his girthy cockhead but kept an inextricable grip on him, gliding down his immense pole until one hand remained fisted around the base of his tool and the other delved ever downward to clutch his massive sack, palming it in her hand. This too she studied, her sea-green eyes channeling on his balls as she rolled them between her fingers, until she was satisfied and inclined her head and brought those divine lips to the tip of the tauren’s beefy prick, which seconds before she’d massaged with both hands. At first it was but a kiss, almost chaste, her red lips lightly pressing against the firm meat of his cockhead, and this alone was enough for Brok to expel air from his nostrils like an agitated bull. But quickly her tongue became involved with the kiss, issuing forth and trailing long, curious licks that left streams of saliva in their wake. Then her mouth opened very wide, and Paletress, whose mouth had clearly been blessed with a whole assortment of skills beyond speaking to an audience, swallowed him whole.
“By the Earth Mother,” he groaned, watching her lips strain around his flared bovine tip and then continue on until she’d gulped down another few inches.
Paletress pulled away, a grin teasing at her lips.
“By the Light,” she corrected, then resumed devouring his inhuman bullcock.
Skillfully she bobbed her head, put her hands to use so as to squeeze his cock, fondle his balls, testing her limitations and going beyond them each time she took another inch of thick tauren meat into her gullet. And when the majority of his shaft had been swallowed, tongued down and lathered with saliva until the speckled skin shined, she pulled back—a great distance due to his tremendous length—until his cock dislodged from her throat and flopped free from her lips, shining with saliva and thick, viscous drool.
This hadn’t taken very long, a few minutes perhaps, and so Brok had yet to climax. But the way he looked at her seemed as if he were afraid she’d had enough.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we aren’t finished.”
Confessor Paletress’ milky white breasts had wobbled wonderfully while she’d sucked him off, each bob of her head inducing a sway of her big tits. Now she intended to properly utilize them. Sitting up straight and bringing her chest to the level of his cock, she took each of her bodacious, distracting, tabard-stretching mammaries and smothered his bullish cock between them. The copious amount of fluids she’d licked, kissed and drooled onto his tool allowed her to titfuck him swiftly and efficiently, with an ease of motion that had her ample bosom jiggling and jostling all along the impressive length of his tool. Although the logistics were difficult due to his size, she did her utmost to service him, to take care of him and please him so that he could resume his training without issue, for in her mind this was not just a personal problem but a problem that could affect the whole of their mission in Northrend.
As such, she took her duties very seriously, whether that entailed cleansing the Scourge, purifying blight, or inspiring the troops—by any means necessary. Determined, her fingers clutched tightly at her breasts, indenting her pale skin between those long slender digits, delicate arms pumping up and down, side to side, strangling the tauren’s erect bullcock between the biggest pair of tits at the Argent Tournament. From a distance the Confessor always looked like an angel, but on her knees this divinity commingled with an earthly eroticism almost too much for any man to behold for very long.
Luscious hair cascaded like sunshine over her moving shoulders, her bright face and green eyes transfixed on the tremendous, throbbing task before her. And Brok, who towered over her, could not help but notice the mounting swell of her ass resting upon her heels and the decadence of her thighs compressed by those black stockings.
Paletress concentrated her efforts upon the crown of his cock, wringing it like a wet rag between her breasts, earning groans and bovine snorts from the tauren champion who had not in his wildest dreams expected this to happen. The confessor had always seemed sexually unapproachable, but this seemed to prove the exact opposite, and even now she slid her tits further down his shaft until only the fat, unhuman tip of his cock protruded from the voluminous mass of her tits. Her lips wrapped around it. Full and warm and skilled, she suckled on it greedily, humming appreciatively while she did so, her arms and hands laboring to bounce her big tits on his tool.
Gradually she began to take more of his meat into her mouth. Energetically, like an addict unable to quit or be satisfied, she was soon bobbing her head on his cock, swallowing in great lengths, the titfuck eventually giving way to a proper blowjob as her hands ditched her breasts for his shaft and squeezed; found his balls and treasured them like a sack of sacred gemstones.
A minute elapsed in Paletress’ lavish tent. From outside one could perhaps make out a strange but rhythmic swallowing, wet and muffled, accompanied by groans that could be mistaken for the wind rolling over tall snow drifts.
Two minutes and the groans were louder, more masculine. Wet, lurid slurping perfumed the air. Inside, Paletress had a dual grip on Brok’s cock as she knelt before him, her hands placed one atop the other at the base of his shaft while she sucked him off; and each time she ducked her head her ruby-red lips stretched taut to accommodate his girth, gulping him down until her lips made contact with her hand.
“Damn!” he grunted, hips bucking into her mouth.
In response Paletress mumbled something unintelligible around the dick lodged down her throat, but made no attempt to pull away. Instead she sucked more hungrily, jerked his cock more fervently, blessed every inch of his fat tauren prick with her lips and tongue. Not even another minute and Brok could no longer withstand her oral benediction. He bellowed a warcry, cock jumping and balls churning, pouring his frustrations, distractions, and grievances down Confessor Paletress’ esophagus. Wide-eyed and willing, she took one creamy load directly into her stomach and then retreated so that she could take two more cheek-filling loads of bovine baby batter within her mouth, swallowing all of that thick viscous spunk in great gulps while never letting up on her handjob, working his long shaft so as to coax every last drop from his massive nuts.
After getting her fill she withdrew her mouth from his tool, red lips swollen and sticky with seed. After two more twists of her wringing hands, Brok’s cock twitched and bombarded her face with more cream than a cream pie from a Stormwind bakery. She’d gotten a good idea of how virile he was by the flood of sperm she’d already swallowed, but now it sprayed her face, splattered like freak rain over her nose, cheeks and forehead, trailing white slime over her lashes and dangling from her jaw, oozing down onto her breasts where it coalesced into a reservoir of soupy jism.
“I hope this will have provided some relief to you,” she said afterwards, and then cleared her cum-clogged throat. “As well as reinforced your confidence as a soldier, a champion, and a very virile male.”
“It has. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me,” he said, looking down at her disheveled form. Her hands were in her lap, arms framing her cum splattered tits. A kind, gentle smile showed through the cum on her face. She had one eye closed, while the other blinked rapidly due to a glob of seed that had struck her brow and was now oozing downward. He continued, reaching for his trousers. “Er… your kindness I mean. I will carry your honor to the highest steps of Icecrown Citadel.”
“I’m glad. Now go with the Light,” she said, “for it will always go with you.”
With that the tauren left. Paletress cleaned herself up, dressed, and tended the cresset fire. A glance at the clock showed her first appointment had taken less time than usual, not even half an hour. According to the logbook her next client would not show up for another twenty minutes, so she relaxed and continued her reading of tinctures, analgesics, salves and roborants, learning what she could of traditional healing. As things go with an interesting book, time lapsed quickly. In the background the wind howled, masking the approach of her second client; and so when a voice like an avalanche cut through the solitude she jumped in her seat and slammed the book shut.
“Enter!” she called.
An arm like a tree trunk thrust itself into the tent, pulled back the opening flap, and revealed a brutish orc who promptly stepped inside. He had bushy black hair, sharp tusks and muscles like boulders. Unlike the other orcs she’d seen, his skin was a russet brown. At first this confused her, but then she remembered the Mag’har orcs that had been brought into the Horde through the dark portal connecting this world to that of Outland.
“Gurtog?”
“Yes, priestess,” he said, and his voice seemed to shake the tent. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is mine. Please, sit down.”
He sat opposite her in a tall faldstool, his large body causing it to creak. Briefly his eyes glanced at her slender legs, but she pretended not to notice. A smile accompanied her words.
“What’s troubling you, Gurtog? Or are you here to throw yourself before the Light and pray for our salvation?”
“I’m not quite that far gone,” he said with a grin which faded almost instantaneously. “Do you recall the fight that took place a few days ago?”
“Between all of those squires and men-at-arms?”
“Between the Horde and Alliance, yes.”
“I remember. I wasn’t there, but quite a few men required my healing abilities.”
“Then you see that even now, when we’re supposed to be united against the Lich King, we fight. I worry what we will do after this campaign, if we even survive it. Perhaps one will turn against the other at the first opportunity shown.”
Confessor Paletress nodded sagely. “I understand your disappointment, and it speaks toward your character that you feel that way. But peace is a process, and enmities between enemies do not last forever. There may come a time when both the Alliance and Horde can fight as one, unified by common values and hope for the future. And it is precisely times like these that people like you and I are needed as examples to look up to.”
“I only wish that more were more like you, or like Warchief Thrall and Lady Proudmoore. They should be enemies, yet from what I hear they are friends.”
Paletress crossed her legs, hands folded in her lap. Thinking briefly. “Jaina is not the most devout among us, but she has been a remarkable voice for peace. I admire them both.”
“You remind me of her,” he said, and again his eyes roamed her body.
“Philosophically you mean?”
“Yes, but physically as well. I’ve only caught glimpses of her from afar, but I can tell that she is beautiful.”
“Then I will take that as a compliment, and say that I agree. The Light has blessed her with both wit and beauty, a rare occurrence indeed.”
“Her face is very fair,” he continued, “and though she wears a cloak you can tell even from a distance that she is shapely. Once, I saw her in Orgrimmar. She wore almost nothing, so that her breasts nearly popped out of her top. And her hips…” His gaze fixated on her lower body as he spoke. “Well, as I said you remind me of her.”
“I didn’t know you thought about her that way—or myself.”
“Naturally. From an orc’s perspective you’re both prime breeding material. Back in Nagrand you would each have at least three children by now, although I of course understand the differences between your culture and mine.”
“We are more alike than you realize. Three children would not be uncommon amongst the women of Elwynn Forest or Westfall, especially those married to farmers. I suppose Lady Proudmoore and myself are a bit abnormal in that regard, but with the Light as our guide we must each use our talents for the betterment of our people.”
“But you do desire children?”
“That’s a rather personal question, but I will be honest with you. Yes, at some point. Why do you ask?”
“Well…” The orc seemed apprehensive, a queer trait for someone so large and menacing. At last he spoke, “Like I said, you remind me of Lady Proudmoore.”
Paletress thought for a moment, lips pursed. “And you wish to breed her? If the opportunity presented itself I mean?”
He nodded.
“And by extension, me?”
Another nod.
Paletress mulled it over, fingering a lock of her golden hair. Breeding in general would pose problems for her, much less breeding with an orc. Taken literally at least, it was out of the question. She glanced at the clock, saw that she had plenty of time. The fire and hot coals were doing their job nicely and did not require tending to. Outside, she could hear distant revelry, but no one close by.
“Then I will be your Jaina,” she said matter-of-factly, and stood up. “Please strip. I will return shortly.”
Gurtog stumbled over his own tusks and tongue before blurting, “Did you say strip?”
The Confessor, who had one hand on the silk curtain separating the other side of the tent, turned to address him. “Precisely so. And please, do not dally.”
She disappeared from the orc’s sight then, leaving only the delicate scent of cinnamon and rose behind. Following her orders, he stripped, albeit feeling awkward all the while, and unsure of himself afterwards when he stood alone in the priestess’ spacious tent, his large muscled body at odds with the clearly human quarters adorned with all sorts of religious relics and feminine accoutrements. From behind the curtain he could hear the swishing of clothes and the rustling of a chest, but he dared not peek.
Presently, she emerged back into Gurtog’s side of the tent, naked except for her chapeau, which she had perhaps forgotten to remove, as well as a billowing blue cloak adorned with various runic symbols and lined with a silver binding along the outer edges.
Startled, his eyes widened. “What…?”
“It’s the closest thing I have to the cloak Jaina wears. I believe hers is purple but…” She shrugged, which was a beautiful thing to see given the size of her breasts, then in an instant her deportment changed. She stood up straight, thrust out her magnificent chest, and stamped her staff upon the carpet. “There you are, Thrall! I wish to thank you for aiding me against the ogres. Though you are an orc, and our people mortal enemies, you have gone through incredible lengths to support me. What now may I do to repay you?”
“I—” Gurtog sputtered, utterly confused.
“You are too honorable an orc to say it,” Paletress exclaimed, “but yes! You may have my body. Tonight I belong to you.”
“Priestess,” he managed, “I don’t understand at all.”
“I am an archmage, yet you think me holy. Bless you, and bless me with your seed!”
Paletress flung her staff to the side and pounced on him, knocking both of them to the floor. Gurtog fell unceremoniously, yet he had the wherewithal to ensure Paletress remained safe by landing on his back and hugging her close to his chest. When he blinked next she lay atop him, her lovely face wide-eyed and wild, the imitation of Jaina’s cloak fanned out about them, and her large breasts hanging wonderfully above him. And when she lowered her face to meet his, her breasts squished pleasantly against his chest as she kissed him.
Confused but aroused, Gurtog responded according to masculine instincts that had been honed through countless millennia and subsequently imprinted upon him, holding her soft body against his muscular frame, one hand reaching for her head to direct her mouth upon his own while he probed her with his tongue, the other hand slipping beneath her cloak to palm a handful of the Argent Confessor’s ample behind. Given what little she wore to cover it, he’d had a good idea how much ass she carried back there, but it felt better to finally hold those well-shapen cheeks in hand.
When the kiss broke they were both panting, skin tingling, blood pumping. Emotions running wild. Disoriented, discombobulated. Her face had flushed red from arousal, her cinnamon-rose scent cloying the air. Still in disbelief, he stared up at her, watching as the busty Confessor sat up in his lap and straddled him. The movement caused her tits to jiggle and his cock to twitch. A kiss and the sight of her naked form had been all it had taken to make him hard, his shaft already as erect as Icecrown Citadel and big enough to make her groan when she reached down between her legs and guided it to her thoroughly soaked slit, pressing the thick plug of his cockhead against her opening and slowly sliding down that big Mag’har pole.
“Ohh, yes. Light, that’s good,” she murmured, biting her lip and rolling her eyes, an airy moan bubbling up from her mouth. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be Jaina, she said, “I’ve been waiting for this, Thrall. To feel you inside me. Please… sit back and let me satisfy you.”
Gurtog continued what he’d been doing, staring up at her, mouth agape, unsure of where to look. Above him were exquisite tits round enough to make his mouth water, an angelic face framed in gold, wide healthy hips and a pussy clearly starving for his cock. Beauty crowded his vision, but his cock crowded her insides.
Lowering herself until there was no more dick left to take, Paletress leaned forward to place her hands atop his chiseled chest, fingers spread for stability. Momentarily she grinded herself against him, ass wagging like a dog’s tail, pussy rippling, another moan fluttering past her lips; but then she collected herself and began to well and truly ride him, picking up her voluptuous body and throwing it back down, all the way, bouncing her ass in the bewildered champion’s lap and taking that titanic slab of orc dick to the hilt. Tits swaying, cloak billowing, Paletress rode him just as well as any champion participating in the Argent Tournament could ride a warhorse. At present, blinded by lust and confusion, Gurtog did not question this, but later he would come to wonder just how the Argent Confessor seemed so adept at riding orcs and taking a cock of his size despite being a mere human priestess.
Regardless, Paletress demonstrated her skill without holding back, without affecting innocence or even attempting to appear like a proper lady befitting her position as Argent Confessor. Standing within the pulpit she won hearts and the devotion of her congregation; in motion here within this tent she possessed the sort of beauty that could spur knights to war. In short, she dedicated herself to riding his cock just as well as she dedicated herself to her sermons, and the effect of this on Gurtog was evident. His grunts were strained, his cock pulsed with an animalistic need to breed, the thick veins along his mighty shaft throbbing. The velvety pull of her slick cunt nearly aroused him to the point of bloodlust, as if in battle, but he fought this down and with it the temptation to seize her and take her as he saw fit.
Paletress appeared no less addled. Lust fogged her eyes, clouded her brain. From beneath her chapeau golden hair danced atop her shoulders, down the smooth curve of her back covered by her cloak. Her chest heaved as she bounced, breasts swinging forward then back, two great big handfuls of divinity in motion, while beads of sweat rolled down her neck to trace her delicate collarbone. But above all was the power of her lower body rising and falling, hips rolling, long pale legs and womanly thighs working to fuck herself atop his powerful cock. She was merely pretending to be Jaina Proudmoore, but the pleasure was abundantly real. Of this her moans left no doubt, and if the rumors regarding Thrall and Jaina were true, Confessor Paletress was working very hard to match if not outright exceed those rumors right here in this tent.
In a burst of speed she fucked her quivering pussy on his full length, ass jiggling, face twisting, letting out a coo that morphed into a sultry groan before suddenly her movement slowed. Catching her breath, she sat up and grinded her pelvis, rolled those beautiful hips, hands leaving his chest so as to sensually trace all the way up the curve of her waist and travel further upward to fondle her breasts, which rhythmically swelled due to her heavy breathing. She gave her big tits a squeeze, lifted them, let them drop, mashed them together. Gurtog had been temporarily forgotten while the lewd priestess bathed in pleasure afforded to her by the cock buried in her cunt, but he didn’t care. Her lust was contagious, her demeanor erotic, and when she leaned back to grasp his legs, riding him once more and allowing his fat cock to reach new angles, the look on her face made his cock twitch.
Her green eyes were sinful through the shade of her lashes as she finally channeled her gaze upon him. “What do you think, Warchief?”
He had a perfect view of their joining, of the way her little pink pussy stretched to accommodate his orcish girth.
“Keep going,” he grunted, unsure of how he fit into this roleplay of hers but knowing full well what he desired of her.
“As you command, Warchief,” she purred, her voice sweet and seductive and making his balls tingle.
Paletress continued to wiggle, gyrate and grind herself on his cock for some time. Her pussy had a virginal grip that could make a man fall head over heels for her, her insides clenching tightly around his tool as if she couldn’t get enough of it, as if she needed it to the point of worship. Gradually with every bounce her breath became more ragged, her lyrical voice dripping both honey and lust, reflecting her heightened state of arousal as she slowly became undone, impaled on a fat cock that inched her closer to a tumultuous climax each time she raised her ass and dropped it back down.
Sitting up straight again, the Argent Confessor slowed to an indulgent tempo, rubbed her clit, closed her eyes. Her body undulated like a snake to the tune of an orcish piper, and before very long at all she came. The tension within her shattered like glass, powerful as an explosion, but deceptively, as if to hide it, her body simply trembled and, eyes shuttered, she aired her pleasure by uttering a low, guttural groan. Stuffed to the brim by his big cock, her pussy quivered, rippling around the long meaty rod of orc dick filling her wonderfully, stretching her obscenely. When the wave of her orgasm subsided she opened her eyes again; she was small and radiant and looked more succubus than priestess now.
“Don’t hold back, Thrall,” she said, voice barely more than a tantalizing whisper. “Use me for your pleasure. Use me for the Horde.”
Though her acting was stilted, Paletress knew precisely what she was doing. As such she was not at all surprised when he picked her up and set her on her hands and knees upon the carpet, ready at last to take her as he saw fit. The presence of his huge body behind her made her shiver; she was in for it now and she knew it. More cock filling her up and breaking in her pussy. Perhaps more than she could handle. She arched her back, raised that big beautiful ass hidden beneath her cloak, prepared herself for a good pounding. Her body brimmed with excitement. Hot, needy. Ready to be fucked hard by this champion of the Horde.
Gurtog hiked up her cloak to reveal the ample roundness of her ass, pale and perfect, as well as the dripping pink of her pussy. He slapped her rump with his cock, sending a jolt through her and causing her breath to hitch. The weight of that fine orcish prick promised devastation. She breathed in, sensing his impending arrival, and when she next exhaled he was balls deep inside of her, filling her up, stretching her out, making her pussy spasm-clench-ripple around his massive cock.
“Tight,” he grunted.
Paletress merely groaned, unable to speak. In her head the word Full! blotted her brain like a banner trailing behind a goblin zeppelin. Gurtog didn’t spare any time for her to adjust however; he pulled the majority of that titanic slab of Mag’har meat from her pussy and punched it home, detonating both the banner and the zeppelin and making her see stars instead. Twinkling, blinding, flashing, a spangle before her green eyes as they rolled through an ocean of ecstasy. An agonizingly sweet moan tumbled out of her. Her hands flailed, clawing at the carpet and seeking leverage like overboard sailors seeking life rafts. And still the thrusts came, unyielding and unstoppable, a natural disaster destroying her pussy.
But Paletress liked it.
“More!”
Soon her voice, husky and rich, furnished by deep desire, began to accompany the profane music of her body being absolutely fucked. Completely, wonderfully ruined. The orc’s hips snapped, quickly, mercilessly, striking her ass and making it bounce against his muscular body, the round pale cheeks jiggling violently. While her ass clapped noisily in protest, her juicy cunt squelched around his invading cock, tight and welcoming, the friction of their coupling making her insides flutter. Face down, ass up, mind obliterated, she drooled onto the carpet from both her mouth and her well-fucked pussy.
“Light,” she groaned. Then louder, “Take me, Warchief! My body is yours. Make me your Alliance whore!”
Argent Confessor Paletress wasn’t the best actor, but she could certainly take some dick. Close to five long strokes a second had her grunting like an animal, gorgeous body fertility personified. She was still babbling into the carpet when he grasped the neck of her cloak and yanked back, raising the upper half of her bodacious body off the ground while he continued to beat his cock into her too small and too tight pussy.
“Yes! That’s it, Thrall. Just like that! Breed your slutty little archmage!”
As if possessed, she began to throw her ass back into him. It felt good, but he desired control. To punish the gluttonous priestess, Gurtog spanked her, hard and often, until her big booty glowed with cherry-red handprints and she stopped, too tired and overwhelmed by the hard dicking she was receiving to continue. To him this mattered little; tired or not, he would not be satisfied until the man-teasing, bra-busting, cock-draining Confessor’s womb knew the taste of his seed. Unbeknownst to Gurtog, she desired nothing more.
A whirlwind of minutes passed, in which Paletress lost track of time and Gurtog ignored it, beating her pussy into a dribbling, squirting mess that came hard and came often. Like a supplicant her pussy worshipped him, hot velvet clinging to his plundering shaft. Her squeals filled the spacious tent, mixed with the clapping of flesh on flesh, of her ass bouncing off his pelvis, of their bodies creating more heat than the cresset fire or the heated coals. At some point during their encounter her chapeau had fallen off, lying forgotten now upon the carpet. The cloak she wore to resemble Jaina was as disheveled as her hair, as inelegant as her trembling body creaming and climaxing all over his magnificent cock.
Gurtog’s own orgasm came in a manner befitting an orc: hard and brutal, full force with no chance of stopping it. It was preceded by grunts so bestial they could scare off a lion, thrusts so devastating they could make an Argent Confessor think her pussy had been blessed by the Holy Light. And when he came she came, crying out as virile seed washed her insides and flooded her womb, dousing her pussy as an overflowing river douses the earth, in a rush of sticky white goo that drowned her insides.
“Lok’tar ogar!” she cried, voice shaking, pussy yielding to him. Wrapped tightly around his cock, her pussy clenched and quivered, milking the orcish champion for all he could give. This happened to be quite a lot, and when he finally spent the last of his seed inside her, he withdrew his cock, the size of which had thoroughly plugged her, and allowed a turbulent stream of cum to trickle out of her abused hole.
Exhausted, Gurtog fell back atop the carpet, dazed, satisfied, and still bewildered.
Feeling like she’d just had an entire orcish clan run a train on her, Confessor Paletress’ body trembled. A glob of cum oozed out of her pussy. With her now cherry-red ass wiggling in the air and her head resting on an arm, she weakly mumbled something too soft to hear. A bright glow gradually encompassed her body, and when it faded she stirred, sitting up and reaching for her chapeau. When it graced her pretty head again she stood up, glanced at the clock, and smiled at him, cum still leaking from between her legs.
“I hope this has shown you that the relationship between Lady Proudmoore and your warchief is special, but not unique. All of us can work to build relationships, old and new, between our loved ones, between strangers, even between enemies.” Her smile was radiant. “Perhaps not always the kind of relationship we just shared, however.”
Gurtog looked her up and down. He saw the long smooth legs, the hips that tapered into a tiny waist, the heavy breasts, round and full, with the lone birthmark, and settled on her face, which somehow outshined the rest.
“Thank you, priestess. You’ve given me hope, though your method is strange.”
“We live in strange times,” she said.
A noise outside interrupted them, and at once they sprang into action. Gurtog rushed to grab his clothes, but did not have time to finish getting dressed before Paletress ushered him out of an exit at the back of the tent, his bulky brown body hopping as he struggled to put on his trousers while leaving. Fetching her own clothes, she quickly retreated to the personal side of her tent and waited. There came no further sounds other than the distant hum of evening celebrations as soldiers and champions unwound and availed themselves of the tournament grounds’ facilities. Calling out earned her no reply, so she hurried to clean up before her final client of the day arrived.
This occurred right on schedule, and luckily Paletress had cleaned both herself and the tent up just in time to greet Zanga, a lanky troll taller than a tauren and more teal than a turquoise gemstone.
“Welcome to my little corner of Icecrown,” she said, welcoming the troll champion inside.
“Not so little,” he replied in accented Common. “I see de Argents spared no expense for ya.”
Brushing past her, he surveyed the room with judgemental eyes, light glinting off of his tusks. Not wishing to aggravate the seemingly disgruntled troll, Paletress allowed him free reign to thumb at a tapestry of the Holy Light, inspect a Vrykul drinking horn she’d recently been gifted, prod at a bundle of scrolls, smell an incense, and peek into the other side of the tent. At this intrusion however she stepped forward and gestured to a seat. “It’s late, Sir Zanga, and we both have duties to attend to in the morning. Please, sit down.”
He eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. Sitting down, he said, “Too many duties. But don’t ya be callin’ me ‘Sir.’ I ain’t one of ya human knights. I don’t care for chivalry or honor. None a’ dat piety crap either, or whateva’ else ya humans fight for.”
“Then what is it you fight for?” she asked, taking a seat and folding her hands in her lap.
“Glory.”
“For the Horde?”
Zanga grunted. “And for my people.”
“There is honor in that. Maybe you’re more of a knight than you realize.”
“Is there honor in doing it for women?”
“As a lady myself I’m a little biased,” she said with a smile that showed in her eyes, “but I would say that fighting for your lady or a maid’s honor is very honorable indeed. It’s certainly romantic.”
He gestured dismissively. “I got no lady, and de only ting about a maid worth fightin’ for is her cherry.”
“There isn’t much honor in that, no. But you’re young. You have room to make mistakes, and to grow from them.”
“I been doin’ plenty a’ growin’ since I got ta Northrend,” he said with a grin. “Back at Sen’jin Village there be nothin’ but trolls.” His face twisted in disgust. “Troll women de hardest to please, ain’t never satisfied. But here? Blood elves, night elves, all kinds a’ women, but you humans like me de best, and those maids not be so maidenly when Zanga get through wit ‘em. I tell ya though, it be even betta’ when dey resist. Adds spice to de experience.”
Confessor Paletress’ expression remained neutral. She was privy to much of the gossip that went around camp, and experienced it through her own eyes firsthand, but there were few instances she’d seen or heard of regarding interfactional dalliances. Even fewer involving trolls, which made up a rather small portion of Horde forces at the Argent Tournament. Surely if Zanga had been involved she would know of it. Contemplating for a moment, she adjusted her tabard before looking up at him.
“I can understand why those of my own would be interested in you. I’m curious however to know if I’m acquainted with any of them. Can you tell me of one?”
“Just one? There be a lot more den one, but aye, I can tell ya, priestess. De last I been wit was nothin’ but a little ting, a servant girl who came ta watch us train. I guess she liked what she saw ‘cuz she let me train her not long aftah if you catch my meanin’.”
“I do. What’s her name?”
Zanga hesitated, his expression changing. “Berry. Berry Stormwind.”
Paletress repressed a snort. Instead, she shook her head. “You’re lying, Zanga. I doubt you’ve ever laid with a human before. Probably no one before, period.”
“Wuh—? Ya callin’ me a virgil?”
“A virgin, yes.”
He stamped his feet and gesticulated. “Ya don’t know nothin’. I been wit too many a’ you Alliance wenches ta count. Always in de way of my trainin’, fightin’ ovah’ dis troll meat.” He grabbed his crotch and stood up, looking as if she’d physically wounded him. “Sometimes I take ‘em even if dey don’t want me, but by de end dey end up lovin’ it.”
“Is that so? Night elves, too?”
“All de time!”
“Name one.”
“Forest…Moonnight.” He threw up his hands. “Bah!”
Defeated, he turned to leave, his long lanky figure appearing more withered than it had when he’d first entered the tent.
“Please wait,” Paletress said, standing up. “I did not intend to mock you, and I apologize for having fun at your expense. Sit down, please.”
Zanga eyed her over his shoulder for a moment then reluctantly took a seat, his bravado gone.
“Why make up all that?” she asked. “For attention? To seem like more of a man?”
He nodded.
“You’re a warrior in the Argent Tournament set to wage war against the Lich King. Surely you needn’t lay with a woman to feel like more of a man. And besides, if it’s attention you seek then you have it here, with me, though I’m sure you could find it elsewhere.”
“What ya mean, wit you?”
“I mean only that if you desire a woman then I will fill that role so long as it helps you focus on your training.”
“Ya mean—”
“Yes. Any fantasy you wish. Ravish me if it suits you, and worry not about my clothing for I have plenty of spare uniforms.”
Zanga gave her a funny look. “Ya want me to violate you?”
“That’s your fantasy is it not?”
“Yes, but… right now?”
Paletress glanced at the clock. “Yes, preferably lasting no longer than half an hour. If you need more time we can resume tomorrow before my evening ser—Oh!”
Evidently having heard enough, the troll lunged for her, scooping her up in his arms and fondling her luscious body as if he’d been waiting to do so his entire life. At first he groped her through the fabric of her tabard, but with savage ease he tore it into pieces, followed by her goldweave tunic which dropped to the floor like autumn leaves. With those gone her shoulder pads were next to fall, leaving her utterly nude except for her boots, stockings and thong. Now bare, Paletress’ breasts were on full display, shaped like tears but built as if constructed by the Light itself. Full, heavy, womanly in a mature way that inspired in all men who saw them the urgent need to procreate.
The sight of her large breasts tumbling free of their confinements and hanging like proud heralds of her beauty was enough incentive for him to stop the destruction of her attire and focus instead on palming her tits with his three-fingered hands, tweaking her nipples and eliciting a soft murmur of pleasure from her.
“Ya be serious about this?” he asked, unsure but keeping his hands on her tits.
“I am dedicated to the Light and its mission,” she said, stifling a gasp as he tweaked a nipple, “and by extension, the men who serve under the banner of the Argent Crusade.”
“Get on ya knees then,” he said, planting his big hands on her shoulders and applying pressure.
Paletress did not need to be pressured to get on her knees and suck some dick. She did so willingly. Too willingly. Forgetting the nature of their non-consensual roleplay, she removed his trousers and welcomed his dangling appendage with a satisfied smile, the size of it to her liking. She reached for it but then hesitated, remembering the role she was supposed to be playing.
“Please… please don’t make me do this,” she said, and as before when she’d pretended to be Jaina her acting was as wooden as the poles supporting her tent.
“Do what ya told, human.” Gripping his long, elephantine shaft, he slapped it against her face, causing her to flinch but not retreat from it. On the contrary, she inclined her head to meet it as if on instinct.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, at last turning her face away from it. Though her voice cracked and her eyelashes fluttered, no tears flowed down her cheeks. “It’s too big, I could never fit it in my mouth.”
Zanga seemed more interested in having his pole spit-shined by the priestess than roleplaying. He grabbed her by her blonde head and, with the other hand on his cock, pushed the tip against her lips in a deep kiss that muffled her protests, her words suppressed by long, pulsating troll cock that slid inch by ponderous inch into her mouth. With her red lips stretched tight around his girth, Paletress’ eyes locked on his. Amazingly, she swallowed everything he fed her, further demonstrating her impressive but curious ability to take Horde dick as the troll champion slid that seemingly impossible length of Darkspear snake down her gullet.
The sensation was new to him, and he groaned all the while, to the point where she thought her wiggling tongue, hot mouth and constricting throat might be too much for him. The young troll held his own though, his lean but muscular body flexing, cock pulsing, radiating newfound masculinity that she could see, smell, taste and feel. Like a contagion Zanga’s burning desire spread to her, nearly causing her to shiver. Her clit throbbed, her stomach fluttered. The fact that she was this troll champion’s first only added to her own excitement, but for now she repressed it, and when around half of his serpentine length had been stuffed past her lips she began suddenly to slap her hands and bash her fists against his thighs, remembering again that right now she was to be a fair maiden being defiled.
Zanga said nothing, but noticing her protests, halted the progress of his cock easing down her throat so that she could blow him at her own pace. Paletress took the hint but gave him an angry glare for good measure. Thus, keeping her hands on his muscular thighs for stability, she demonstrated why exactly she had recently become so popular amongst members of the Horde, and why some referred to her as the “Priestess with the Golden Tongue,” which she preferred to her other nickname, “Confessor Cumslut.”
Pulling back, she slurped on the tip of his cock until her cheeks turned inward, tongue lolling, twirling, worshipping, and then her head began to bob, her green eyes as enticing as the sea, daring him to take the plunge and lose himself.
To his credit, Zanga did not immediately blow his load despite his inexperience and the excitement brimming within him. To her credit, Confessor Paletress gave him what would likely be the best blowjob he’d ever receive, diving deep on his long lengthy pole, lovingly varnishing it in a sheen of saliva that made his teal skin shine bright. Her lips caressed him, her tongue teased him, her hands gripped tight his shaft and jerked hard while she positively devoured him. Long noisy pulls of the mouth had her gulping down more dick than a Sen’jin harlot, trailing spit and throat slime all along his erect shaft. Fast, sloppy; slow, deliberate. She worked his cock to the best of her ability, and she had ample ability.
Abruptly, she stopped, his cock falling free from her swollen red lips.
“This is your fantasy, you know. You can be as rough as you’d like, within reason of course. Verbally, physically…” She smiled that signature smile that could light up the room and then took him back into her mouth, gulping down more than half his length before retreating to suckle on his cockhead while her hands twisted the base of his shaft, jerked his saliva-soaked cock, made him groan as if she were exercising an evil spirit from within him. After that she ducked below and treated herself to his balls, making love to them and sucking each oversized testicle into her mouth.
“Ya be real good at dis,” he grunted, testing the waters. “Dey teach ya dis at church or ya learn by practicin’ on de soldiers here?”
Paletress fixed him with a disingenuous glare while she sucked on his nuts, her face partially obscured by his cock. “You’re disgusting. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, returning her lips to his shaft and demonstrating precisely what he meant.
Zanga snickered. “If I knew de Argent Confessor dis hungry for cock I would have made an appointment weeks ago.”
Setting a hand upon her head, he lightly stroked her hair but applied no pressure, allowing her to keep on sucking dick at her own pace. She did so while pretending to hate it, keeping an angry look plastered to her face at all times, yet the way she devoured his cock betrayed her true feelings. Soon, she had more than just a dirty look plastered to her face.
It was while she had those beautiful red lips wrapped around his cockhead and her cheeks were concave from sucking hard on it that he grunted and seized her with both hands. She had a good idea as to what was coming, but her eyes widened regardless, and in the next instant that long serpentine shaft was spitting out hot sticky seed that graced her tongue and made her shiver, bulged her cheeks and made her mumble incoherently. Despite her best efforts to swallow it all, cum began to trickle out of the corners of her mouth, making a mess of her chin. Trolls, she knew, had regenerative properties that enhanced their healing, regrew limbs, and apparently amplified their ejaculate. As such, she kneeled down on her knees swallowing troll jizz for no less than a full minute before he withdrew from her mouth and took aim at her face, shooting white ropes across her features and globs of ooze that burst into silvery-white shrapnel that mussed her hair and dangled off her ears.
“Hold up ya tits,” he commanded.
Paletress, blinded by cum that clung to her face like three layers of cake batter, grasped her bosom and presented it for bombardment. The desecration of her excellent decolletage commenced with another grunt, making a thorough mess of her big tits and continuing on as if it would never stop. She could feel it hot upon her skin, rolling down her breasts like rain, pooling between her fingers. Unable to stop herself, she spread cum all around her breasts, palming her tits, rubbing her nipples, until not an inch of her chest did not shine with a healthy layer of semen.
“Ya look good covered in Zanga’s seed,” he said once he was finally finished. His cock, dripping both seed and saliva, hung before her like an angry python ready to strike.
“You’re a brute,” she replied, wiping the cum from her eyes. “I only hope that you don’t clear off that table and ravage me atop it.”
“Table?” Zanga looked across the room at a sturdy oak table. “I hadn’t thought a’ dat.”
“Good, I would hate for you to use it to defile me.”
Zanga narrowed his eyes, glancing between her and the table. After an obtuse moment of consideration, he strode over to the table and swept it clean of her belongings, sending tomes and quills clattering to the floor. The table was large, solid, and perfect for a quick romp.
“Come here,” he ordered, seizing her by the arm. The little black and white thong she wore soon joined her other clothes upon the floor, scattered into irreparable pieces. “On ya back!”
When she moved to obey he smacked her on the ass which hastened her step and left a three-fingered handprint smarting upon her cheek.
“You repulse me,” she said, settling on her back atop the table, big tits swaying as they too settled into place.
“We’ll see how ya feel once I be through wit’ ya. Maybe ya mind change.”
She kicked at him, but with their difference in size and strength he easily battered her away before grabbing both legs and resting them on his shoulders, her little feet, still snug within her boots, dangling in the air. Below, his cock jutted out like an obelisk of fine turquoise designed to be worshipped. Long, hard, proud, it took her breath away and she was unable to offer anything but paltry resistance when he slapped his cock against her pussy, stretched her around his blunt cockhead, and then shoved forward until her body had been skewered on his prick.
Both of them grunted, but only Paletress felt as if she’d been kicked by a mule. The troll’s cock filled her up snugly, kissing her cervix and making her pussy clench around every inch of that throbbing Darkspear pride. She had little opportunity to adjust to this newfound invasion however; Zanga cursed in Zandali and then, channeling an eagerness found only in the inexperienced, proceeded to rut into her. Quickly, untrained, untested, he blessed her pussy with long fervent strokes that gave no time for adjustment or adaptation, but had her mouth gasping for air and her fingers clawing at the smooth tabletop in search of something to hold onto while her insides were promptly rearranged.
“Light!” she breathed.
What Zanga lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm. Grimacing like a barbarian, his hard muscles flexing and sweat dripping down his skin, the limber troll had Confessor Paletress moaning and groaning in no time at all. Her face flushed crimson beneath the layers of cum covering it, but the mask of troll semen did little to hide the expression of glee upon her face—eyes wide, her red mouth vacillating between squeals, groans, and insincere pleas for him to stop. Each stroke of hard dick into her core fucked her further and further toward dumb, rapturous bliss, her oversized tits flailing almost comically each time Zanga slammed into her pussy.
“Stop!” she hissed, repressing a delightful gasp. “You… you brute! You fiend! You’re a big, disgusting beast. A big… ah… deep… Ohhh, Light.”
Throwing her head back in a silent scream, a tremor ran through her voluptuous body while her pussy rippled lovingly around the cock pounding it silly. Noticing her orgasm, Zanga slapped her pale thigh and fucked into her with short but deep strokes, using her pussy as he saw fit and grinning down at her when she’d regained her composure.
“Looks like ya like it,” he said.
“That’s not true,” she said, but the way she was biting her lip to hold back a moan didn’t help her assertion any.
Zanga slowed and brought one bulky finger to her clit, petting it as he slowly and deliberately bore into her, then withdrew, then bore into her again, watching her little pussy stretch and quiver around his snake-like girth. Immensely long and plenty thick, it was more than enough to make a human priestess’ eyes roll.
“Ya body says otherwise.”
Though he delighted in torturing her, curiosity got the better of him; he had a desire to get the most out of this tryst as possible. So, picking up speed again, he tested not only her limits but his own. At a breakneck pace he hammered himself into her, balls swinging dangerously beneath him, their disproportionate bodies slapping lewdly together, the scent of her cinnamon-mixed-with-sex perfume clogging his nose, fueling the fire within him as he deep-dicked her holy pussy like it would be sacrilege not to. Until the only thing going through her mind was the same thing going through her pussy. Until she was quivering and spasming and squirting, making a thorough mess of the table. Until Zanga could feel his balls churning, ready to blow.
“Gonna cum in ya,” he growled. “Gonna knock ya up real good, maybe have twins.”
“Don’t!” she cried. “Pull out, cum on my breasts instead!”
Zanga shook his head, hips snapping as he delivered stroke after stroke into the Argent Confessor’s defeated pussy. More deliberate now, fucking with purpose, the firm grip of Paletress’ tight cunt around his length only serving to spur him on. “Those fat tits of yours already got enough of my seed on ‘em. But ya womb got nothin’ and it be beggin’ Zanga for a taste.”
Paletress broke out into exaggerated pantomime, fighting against him and voicing futile complaints while struggling against a surge of pleasure, a tension in her belly ready to explode. “Please don’t! I don’t want your cum. I don’t want to be impregnated! I—”
He shut her up by leaning down and kissing her, one hand grabbing her by the back of her blonde head while his large sinewy body blanketed hers. It was a deep and willing kiss, although not as deep as his cock when he plunged it balls-deep inside of her, his cockhead hitting the back of her pussy and his nuts spanking her ass. The kiss broke then, he half-grunting, half-roaring, her groaning pathetically as she came again, legs locking around his waist, body trembling, eyes seeing white. And all the while he held her close to him, shooting thick globs of seed into her, drowning her pussy, undoubtedly claiming her womb unless she employed an herbal or magical measure against it.
As before the amount of cum he spent could be described as nothing less than torrential. Yet this time it flowed in even greater abundance, enhanced by both his regenerative abilities and his overstimulated senses. Paletress, fucked nearly silly, huffed air and uttered not a single sound of protest while he drained his balls into her thoroughly fucked pussy.
After a troll’s handful of minutes passed Zanga withdrew, setting the priestess gently down on the table as he did so. Unplugged, a deluge of cum as if from a great flood gushed out of her, pooling upon the table and streaming to the floor where it created another puddle.
“I’m sorry ‘bout dis. De mess I mean, de sex was fantastic.” He paused. “Are ya alright? I hope Zanga not take it too far. Ya humans so small, and ya told me to—”
“It’s all right, Zanga,” she said, voice gentle and carrying its signature touch of sweetness. “I’m all right. You were a little too good is all.”
He puffed up at this, grinning.
Sitting up, she ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “I only hope you realize now that with or without sex you are a fine troll and a fine soldier. You needn’t play pretend or put on airs because you already are these things, and you were before you set foot in my tent.”
Zanga thanked her as if she had just saved his life, dressed, and then strode out of the tent seemingly ready to fight the Lich King himself. Argent Confessor Paletress, alone at last for the rest of the evening, invoked the Light to soothe her weary body. And as she always did after her private sessions, she ruminated on each experience: the tauren, the orc, the troll. With a sigh she slipped a hand between her legs, worked her pussy, brought her cum-stained fingers to her lips.
“Delicious.”