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"Wolves," said Robern, as though the caravan hadn't eyes to see them. So great was their number that their deerskin tents consumed not just the initial clearing but also the woods beyond.

Artadriel had smelled them first. The enticing scent of crackling meat wafted on smoke from their thousand cookfires until the forest was hazy as a bog. Her stomach grumbled. It was only half a day's journey from the elven capital and yet it had seemed a week to the princess. Her father had thought it prudent to pay the encroaching barbarians their tribute before they made good on their threat to pillage more than just the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately, he'd also thought it prudent to send his own daughter with the carts of gold and gems and blades as a desperate gesture of goodwill.

A contingent of bare-chested wolves flanked the delegation of only two dozen once they passed beyond the first scatterings of tents on the edge of the woods. By the time they had cleared them completely, half the campsite seemed to be in an uproarious clamor. Certainly happy to see us, thought Artadriel. A wolf strapped in goat horns and pig leather, presumably the liaison, approached her with the intent to speak. Robern amiably intercepted him to translate. Artadriel knew few words of their guttural language and she certainly didn't mean to learn more. The Wylfings were a brutal clan of barbarous beastmen that represented everything her elven lineage condemned: savagery, disorder, nudity...

Robern caught her eyeing the beast's musculature. "He says Ermulf, their chieftain, will see you," he enunciated too loudly to ignore.

"Tell him gladly, and let's be done with it."

Robern shook his head. "They want you alone."

Alone with these animals? the elf thought. Her perfunctory gaze turned back to the wolf's chest. "You know I don't speak well their tongue." Even after Robern's translation, the liaison did not think it an issue. He grasped Artadriel's wrist and yanked her away from the caravan and into the throngs of moving furred bodies. The chiseled beast raised her hand and cheered, and hundreds of his companions answered the call with roars of their own. Songs of elven steel filled the air along with a chorus of austere shouts, but then the bellows of excited beasts drowned out anything more as she was dragged deeper into the mob.

He escort shoved clueless passersby out of their path. Then their destination became clear. A leather pavilion occupied the middle of the clearing, studded with animal bones and set abreast a massive brazier so close to the shelter's open awning that it nearly scalded Artadriel as she was yanked into the chamber.

At the other end of the hall and between a pair of colonnades sat a black beast on a high chair. Ermulf. He was shirtless as all the rest, clad in only a leather loincloth that sheathed two massive daggers shaped like fangs. Furless scars blemished his frame from head to toe, some deeper and darker than others. Her escort pressed her to the floor by his feet and a trio of Artadriel's golden bracelets _clink_ed together in complaint. Never expect an elf to be anything but overdressed. Her lasciviously-revealing raiment of silk-of-silver inlaid with sapphires and bangles of gold emphasized their motley. They were nothing alike.

Ermulf loomed over her with budding curiosity. No wonder he's the chieftain. The elf had tilted her head back to get a better look of him. There was a difference of at least three feet, in the wolf's favor. A single thigh or arm of the black beast was nearly as wide as her chest. Dirt dusted his fur and he looked like he'd never seen a brush in his life. And yet there was something handsome about his mug. Her eyes traced the curves of his abdominals and followed their trails up along his neck. And then she caught his smile and swore her heart skipped a beat. He could be a worse sight. Wolfmen had no hair on their heads and instead manes that seemed thick and fluffy as clouds.

Ermulf barked something out in his native tongue, and both the liaison and a few lingering bannerman guffawed and chuckled, smirking at Ermulf as they waltzed out of the pavilion and slid shut the curtain draped across its entrance.

And now they were alone.

Standing would have been a simple thing, had the beast permitted it. A single paw gripped her flowing golden locks and held her still. "Pretty tribute..." the wolf snorted. Tribute? Surely he's not talking about me. And yet surely he was. The musclebound chieftain slid his loincloth aside to make the matter clear.

Artadriel was not so young as she was sheltered. She knew that men had extra flesh, but never had she a chance to inspect it so closely. Coursing veins entwined around his glistening crimson shaft which had sprung free and clapped against his thigh. The surprise must have been painted across her face because Ermulf was plainly amused.

"We've arrived to parley, not to -- whatever this is." Her cheeks blossomed.

"Elf girl talks much. First time?" he growled. "We negotiate in flesh. Bodies do not lie. I teach you." His iron grip remained steadfast, but the chieftain inched forward in his seat until the dribbling tip kissed her lips. Staring down the twitching crimson behemoth made her cross-eyed. It was easily nine inches long, thick as an apple at the base, and hefty enough that when Ermulf guided her hand to have her hold its weight, she had to employ her second hand.

If this was truly a form of Wylfing negotiation, she'd never heard of it. But there was no ignoring the taste of sex lingering on her lips nor the alluring heat radiating from the beast's groin like a warm blanket on a winter's night. Perhaps her father would be furious -- if he had ever discovered what transpired here. She stared up at Ermulf's toothy grin, at his handsome mug, and licked his cockslit just once.

"Show me," Artadriel said in his tongue.

"Gladly," the beast thundered in her own. He guided her by her hair and delicately squeezed her jaw with his massive digits to part her mouth wider. Even with his help, her lips were strained and stretched into a thin line of pink as Ermulf's cockhead slid forward and then -- with great effort -- delved into the wet warmth of her mouth. It watered at the taste of musk and briny sweat that glistened and beaded on every inch of his throbbing shaft. Mixed with his dripping precum, their joined liquids dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped off her chin in tendrils, splattering against the chest of her silk top in dark splotches. It did not seem refined for a princess to be covered in her own saliva -- and like most elves Artadriel was an ablutomaniac -- but Ermulf didn't offer her a moment to broach the subject.

He began to rock his hips.

His chest was rumbling now, his breathing labored. "Tongue," the wolf demanded. What about it? As royalty she was fond of making orders, not following them. Yet something was different about this... Turgid and blood-engorged, his cock bloated her mouth to the point she looked like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. His flared cockhead slipped across her tongue time and time again. It was trapped. But she could wriggle it, subtly, enough to blindly grind it against a bump on the underside of his pre-spewing prick. The beast quivered in her mouth and stomped his foot.

If she could, she would have smiled. There was something empowering about this allotting of pleasure. He received only what she would give. And so she did again, harder, working the sensitive vein until the wolf was shuddering from head to toe, raking his claws against his high chair. Ermulf clambered to his feet, gripped her hair with both hands, and yanked her forward like a toy.

Artadriel spluttered. His flared tip knocked against the back of her throat, and the elf gagged, coughed, snorted. But the beast did not ease his desire. He waddled closer until her head was forced back. Then he burrowed deep. Never had the elf's throat been so full. Damp balls bashed against her chin with a series of wet brattles. Something else knocked against her stretched lips: Ermulf's swollen apple-sized knot, which seemed desperately intent on locking the pair together. There was nothing the inexperienced princess had ever wanted more. She raked her glittering nails through the fur on Ermulf's thighs to demand it.

A twitch rocked his crimson cock. The hand entwined with her hair shuddered. And then Artadriel could feel a heat bubbling down her throat and seeping into her gullet. But this lasted nary a moment, for Ermulf suddenly pulled her head away and his cock sprang free with an airy glorp. He held her still, decorating her like a painting. Strings of cum spurted against her nose, across her left eye, into her hair, and was hanging and dangling off her cheeks. Is sex always this... filthy? What Artadriel needed at this very moment was a blisteringly hot bath. But then something changed. The taste of Ermulf lingered on her tongue. His heat coated her face. The scent of sex filled her lungs. And for the first time in her life, the princess embraced the discomfort. She curled her hands under her chin to collect the sloughing runoff. She would be clean again. Soon enough. But now was not the time to obsess over cleanliness. Now was the time to surrender to lust.

"Look good," the beast grunted, "but not done yet." A paw gripped her shoulder, another her hip, and then both pushed her down on all fours. He mounted her, heavy as an animal but delicate as a flower. He kissed the back of her neck and nibbled her shoulder while he brushed himself against her slit. This sensation was new. An icy grip seized her heart, which fluttered like a bird in a cage. Artadriel wanted him, needed him, and meant to take him.

"No," she said, "It is my turn."

The beast snorted, but then pulled away and took his seat back on his throne, looking just as amused as he was impatient.

"Then sit on throne," Ermulf boomed and gestured between his legs. His crimson shaft, still glistening, still throbbing, stood proudly in the air. It was waiting for her. And Artadriel did not leave it waiting for long. She climbed atop her throne, aligned herself, and eased down. The fit seemed impossible. And yet they were both too stubborn and determined to back down. Delicate massive hands gripped her waist -- Artadriel was enamored with how such meaty things could handle her so gently -- and they bounced her along. Rolling her hips in alternating semicircles, she loosened herself for him. Cum drenched her face, and yet, miraculously, she'd never felt this powerful.

With Ermulf's help, the tip spread her pussy and delved deep, and Artadriel let out a moan of pleasure so squeaky and high-pitched that the flames of a nearby brazier danced to her shrill cry. The wolf rolled his hips against hers, his hands gradually guiding her down further, deeper, until his bloated knot knocked against her cunt and throbbed. Massive was an understatement. If elves weren't naturally pliable, they'd never have managed more than the tip into the inexperienced woman. Riding Ermulf, she thought he seemed even larger than when he had nearly knotted her throat.

"Your body speaks kindly," purred the beast.

Artadriel arched her back and gripped the armrests, bouncing from tip to knot and back again, working harder, faster, her earrings and bracelets and necklace all bouncing in tandem, playing a melody of metal and gold and silver. And then she was playing a melody of her own.

Ermulf reclaimed his charge. Ivory claws sunk deep into her hips and yanked hard. The trembling knot sank into her pussy with a squelch, and as Artadriel shuddered and squealed in climax, Ermulf possessively sank his fangs into her shoulder deep enough to draw blood. An icy heat shot up her spine like a firework and burst into a spectacular display of pleasure that shook the tips of her fingers and toes. The pair groaned in bliss together, both shuddering, both quivering, until Artadriel's belly bulged with the chieftain's seed.

They said nothing for minutes, basking in the rhythm of their beating hearts and the heat of their post-cloital bliss. Ermulf embraced his elven mistress and idly stroked her hair. "We accept your tribute..." he growled, licking at her tingling scar. "I take back to caravan."

Artadriel shook her head and smirked. "But I am not done negotiating."

Ermulf let out a throaty laugh. "Then we speak all night. Much to discuss." The beast embraced her from behind and licked her cheek.

There certainly was much to discuss. The caravan would have countless questions for her in the morning, but if Artadriel had answers she would not share them. The elves had taught her to appreciate many things: art, dance, fabrics, diplomacy. But never love.

Thankfully she had a new teacher.