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Velen shivered.

Despite enjoying the comfort of his quarter and their relative warmth, the elder Draenei felt a shiver running through his spine. For the last few years, he had lived in the same quarters as before. A large set of rooms in which he could rest, meditate and pray. Each hall was adorned with either depiction of the Light's grace or paintings by his peers to honor the N'aaru.

Both the life-giving Light and its steward guides had led him to this instant.

And he did not find any solace in their absence.

As he pondered, his hair was slightly pushed away and the neck uncovered. There, on the soft pink skin, was deposited a kiss. Two lips touching and caressing the silky throat, whilst hirsute and calloused hands traced the spine until they cupped his buttocks.

«Did you use perfume? Your scent is divine.» Breathed a familiar gruff voice next to his ears, the suave expiration sending shivers through the Draenei's mind.

Velen's lips moved slowly, muttering a prayer in silence to the Light. A verse that he had recited so many times that he no longer needed to think about, just pray.

«Are you still pleading the Light to offer you an answer? You won't obtain one, Prophet.»

And on those words, the warm caress of the lungs and the palms disappeared, instead replaced by the leaving footsteps.

«Prepare the Prophet for our journey to Thunder Bluff. I want him prepared to leave his kin.»

There, the shivers disappeared.

As if delivered from fetters, Velen took a cautious step on the right and turned. There, he saw what remained of his sanctum in its entirety. Compared to the rest of the quarters, the old Draenei had often considered that place to be his sanctuary: nobody could attain or torment him. The crystalline walls formerly held the blessing in the light and their refulgent presences placated many of his concerns.

But today, only the faint lamps on the wall were able to shed some light on the naked Prophet in the middle of the room, and its attendants.

Two burly orcs who constantly wore their robes and followed him. Inspected him since the first day of the occupation. And who now awaited for the Priest to acknowledge them before their inspection.

And unable to oppose them, Velen faced the duo.

Long known as the leader of the Draenei and constantly clad in robes, many could have pictured the pink-skinned Elder as frail and soft. But the truth was quite the opposite.

His frame was large and square-shouldered, supporting long arms covered with grizzled hair. Each limb ended in calloused hands that reached down to his waist. His torso, sprinkled with similar hoary hair, was defined by dry muscles and chiseled abs.

Even his legs were described as powerful, tense coiled muscles which could spring in the second and supported the alien who towered over the orcs.

But what riveted their attention was not his might, nor the natural pose the Priest took. But his manhood. An equine-shaped penis hidden within the folds of its sheath, whilst the large testes of the man were hanging in a leathery scrotum. In that account, his organs were adorned with grizzled hair but devoid of any filth or sweat.

And it was those bushes the orcs explored, their hands running inside and scouring the sensitive part of the Priest while talking among themselves in Orcish.

Unable to fight back, the Draenei had to observe and see those perverted cultists speak and seemingly joke and laugh at him. Their orcish faces, accursed by the green of fel, were as aged as he was only they bore perversion. Along with grins as one of them produced a poultice they applied on his genitals, spreading it until the texture changed to a peculiar cream. Never before had the priest felt so humiliated, by having his organs massaged that way. And he loathed them for this deprecation as they spread that preparation along his lower belly, his testes, and even his taint.

Those calloused hands scoured and explored until no hair was left uncovered. After which, they produced blades: small like shivs, but whose edges were sharp and ominous as they approached his nethers.

«Wait! What are these for? As long as I submit, I and my kin are not to be harmed!» Ultimately spoke the Prophet, his coarse voice resonating.

With a wry expression, both orcs and Draenei faced one another in consternation. Regardless, one of them broke off and grunted, then spoke. In a Common that was almost unintelligible due to the accent.

"You don't need them. Do not move or else, old goat."

And like with an iron grip, he clutched the genitals of Velen. With the precision of a surgeon, the attendant pulled on the skin and weighted the organs. He pressed and pinched the softened orbs without any care for the Draenei's well-being. Neither for the complaints or mewlings from the Elder whose balls were pulled down brutally.

The Draenei squirmed, and his skittish attitude was visible with the constant clops of the hooves against the sturdy ground.

Slowly, the blades approached. The Priest bit his lips, his pale eyes fixated upon the serrated edge that approached his soft scrotum. He performed another prayer to the Light and... Snik!

In one swift motion, the blade pushed against the skin.

Then slid along it, merely grazing the scrotum as it cut through the hair.

Snik!

It continued, starting again on the stretched part of the scrotum to lower around the testes, cutting and shaving any hair on the path. The orcs' hands were old, but their talent was undeniable as they worked. In the hands, the organs were turned and observed while stripped of hair, leaving the orbs exposed.

Next, the attendants left the glabrous scrotum and directed their attention to the groin, taking care to start from the lower belly towards his sheath, though not once did the metal graze it.

But their talent was not enough to still the mind of the Prophet, making him wince whenever the blades danced and collected their due. His hooves did not move that time, but horror was imprinted on that face even as they progressed to the taint.

Until they stopped. There, with tufts of hair on the ground, the Prophet's genitals had been shaved, revealing all the details of his male anatomy for everyone to witness and see.

Like it had been required.

Soberly, one of the orcs left and returned with one of the former garments of Velen. Although obvious modifications had been made and requested, especially visible with the cuts on the lower layers. But still, he had to wear it and put it on, the Prophet felt all the more ashamed.

Usually, those robes were there to hide his body, conceal his form. But here, they had been altered so they exposed his now-shaven genitals to the crowd, likewise to his firm rear.

How long this humiliation would go on?

Ever since the Horde won over the Alliance in the northern Seas, the Exodar had been occupied and many perceived it as an insult. Insurrections were almost constant, though Velen could barely hear the faint echoes. Locked up in this ivory tower, the Draenei was provided comfort, books, and food to keep him placated, docile. Every so often, the same Tauren would come up in his quarters. His coat black like coal, he would state the purpose to the Prophet and give a discourse to follow. Sometimes, it was about peace during challenging periods, other times about the necessity to help the Horde. And it was through gritted teeth and motivated by harsh threats he followed the orders.

«Let's... I can face them.»

He muttered in one breath, as the orcs had finally installed the pauldrons, each giving a cursory glance to the Prophet and his form, then retreated. In their wake, they were instantly replaced by a cohort of Taurens.

Their coats were dark like the night, wearing strokes of red war paint on their faces despite the victory of the Horde. And those young soldiers were almost prancing, showing off their armor of leather and steel with arrogance. Akin a badge of pride. As much as Velen was wearing his robes in shame, especially when the large beasts sneered at him.

«The Prophet is not small. Has your pecker seen the light before?»

One of them jested in an uncouth Common, whose sole distinctive feature was his harness decorated with feathers.

«Nah, praise be the light but jack off in shadow. That's what they're taught.» Replied another who bore a large claymore in his back. «Well, it has to be out. The handlers did a great job.»

Unwilling to respond to their constant assault, Velen walled himself in silence. If he had to endure their cussing, he could simply let them flap their gums.

During their walk through the corridors, the Taurens maintained a close distance from the Draenei, forming an almost impenetrable wall or a prison. However, their jibes changed and returned to their native tongue, the Taur'ahe, though the laughing fits were as frequent if not more.

Beyond the tension to be surrounded by enemies, their attitude uneased the Prophet as much as any movement of his hands inevitably drew an intense gaze from this entourage. They were not here to defend him, but merely to ensure his utter humiliation. Would he attempt to extend a hand or conceal his modesty.

And it seemed clear from their path they wanted him to be entirely exposed. They were not following the underground tunnels, and their route directed them away from the entrance of the vessel-turned-city.

Despite the crash of the Exodar onto Azeroth, the ship had kept most of its inner structures intact, making it mazelike for the foreigners. Although, they evidently followed obvious orders and turned when required, often exposing them to humbler habitations so servants and workers witnessed him. And their appalled expression was enough to tell his walk of shame would not relieve the occupying forces.

Even in those small pockets of life, the cohort was not enough to swat away the proffering hands.

Ultimately, their path finally took a direct turn... And the claustrophobic walls of the Ship gave way to the Trader's tier, the most prominent place within the city following the occupation. Mostly populated by Draeneis, the place had also become the prison for Night elves refugees who tethered on the hope Velen would liberate them aswell. Yet, here was the Prophet as he was forced to descend the marches on the tiers.

This market, every wall, and habitation within the Exodar were to herald a renewed beginning from the Draenei. No longer to settle, to be threatened by any foes whether Sargeras or his troops. They never thought the danger lived on Azeroth, or their home would become a prison for the horned kind.

Horde soldiers flanked the path down to the exit of the Exodar, a long pathway overlooked by many a platform, overpopulated by his flock.

All could watch him in this obscene procession. Their leader with his genitals exposed, his pride reduced to a decoration he could not conceal to the eyes. The believers cried or shouted, some surviving exarchs directed their scornful glance at his escort. But Velen felt it, the flood of fear and horror. His people sought comfort, reassurance, peace. He was undertaking all those humiliations for them, for their survival, whether he desired or not. They could understand, they could wait, they could just... Have faith. If he spoke.

And as he inhaled, preparing his lungs to speak up once more, a hand covered his mouth. Hairy and calloused, the Tauren brutally quelled his voice before fitting a gag in his mouth. The coarse textile was rough against the tongue. But his thoughts were for his kind that was roaring from all their bottled-up anger and horror. They were up in arms, brandishing what little utensils they possessed. This chaos, he could stop it if given the opportunity. Frantic, he leaned and attempted to pull on the clothes. Yet, his world fell into oblivion right as someone slugged him.

When the prophet woke up, it was with a splitting headache unaided by the lamp hung above his head. And as he moved, Velen discovered he was no longer in the Exodar but rather a cabin, or a brig. Wooden ceiling and floor, some steel plats reinforcing the walls and onto which were attached lamps. And his sole comfort was in the presence of the small couch he was on, along with a desk on which was a pen with stacks of papers.

From afar, the Elder overheard the cries of busy dockers, and orders being given for a shipment to be loaded before their departure. He even had a glimpse and overheard they were all late.

Beyond that, his world was reduced to a standstill. No oscillation, no sounds coming from the corridors, or cries from the seafaring birds. As if they had never touched the water.

And assured of his balance, Velen took a step out of his bed... Only for his world to shake and tremble. His ears ringing, his sight blurry. And in an instant, he was finding himself shambling towards the opposite walls while groaning in pain. Until a voice halted him.

"I asked my soldiers to protect you, and yet they failed. I am sorry you are to leave your kind in such circumstances."

The voice was gruff, deep, and it resonated across the large lit room in which Velen was in without a hint of an accent. And in an expenditure of energy, the Draenei's eyes roamed the room, grazing the place without sensing any presence. Until one appeared, a form coalescing from the shadow, a massive shape extracting itself from the walls. Then, shuffling, it set foot in the room and gained consistency. Treads of dark energy were still attached as the Tauren merely stepped in proximity.

His stature was evidently masculine, though the details were difficult to observe due to the ebony fur covering that body. From hooves to horns, the massive bovine was a creature of the night, complemented by its black robes made of dyed canvas. Although exceptions were noticeable with those icy eyes, and the odd white patterns painted onto that face.

Nonetheless, the Tauren's demeanor was relatively peaceful... Or utterly confident as the creature approached after having appeared out of nowhere, and rose a hand to reach the prophet's jaw.

"Don't touch me!"

Retorted and recoiled the Priest, backing himself against one of the wooden walls. All things considered, he could not defend his skin. But the old Draenei was tired of being manhandled by the Horde, being dragged from one demeaning task to another. And his ire had only been stirred, not unleashed.

"You have been toying with me for weeks. And then, after your thug slugged me! Do not approach me!"

In response, the Tauren extended both hands to show open palms, in a univocal sign of appeasement.

But even that could not make Velen forget how that monster of shadow. Each of their encounters had been a torment, a moment in which the man almost molested the Prophet.

And even now, the Priest felt the tingle of his skin where the Tauren had touched him earlier. Where Natas Grimtotem had touched him.

"Having you knocked out in front of the crowd was not my desire. Right now, the Exodar is in turmoil and many guards are attempting to repress any potential rebellions. I would not have undone my work willingly."

The tone of the Tauren betrayed desperation and for a moment, the bile in Velen desired to escape, and jibe at the large creature. But there was no purpose in doing so, except childish mockery.

"Then allow me to return inside the Exodar, belay the request of Thunder Bluff and-"

"This remains impossible. The relative protection you've been granted is thinning. Many are questioning the interest of your presence. Of the Draeneis, and yours Prophet."

Reasoned the Tauren, the calloused fingers finally pressing the beard of Velen, grazing that chin.

"Your stunt at the procession makes it all the more necessary for you to comply, and for me alter our plans."

"Stunt? Plans?" Velen extended a hand, almost to hit the Tauren... Only to halt himself. Natas was not a fighter, but hitting would surely spell a disaster for his kind. This creature had consistently been toying with him, scheming and pulling strings.

"You should have let me handle this. Now, the remaining course of action left is to comply."

"Or?"

It was a direct question, but the answer of the Tauren turned out to be a second hand lowering. And caressing the shaved groin of the Elder, who was all the more frustrated to be reminded of his current situation. He had not changed robes, and his attire was leaving everything breathing.

"Or you will bear the weight of your kin's slaughter."

"Is that a-"

"This is not a threat, not from me, Prophet. You are not stupid, far from it. If I sought to shed blood, I could have done it before. No, the situation is more complex and you have to play the exact role you have been bestowed."

And there it was. With the calloused hand against his groin, the Prophet sighed and bottled up his fear along with the shivers. There, his face hardened and the hands hid behind him.

"Listen to your every whim?"

"Listen to my every whim, yes. And become a proper wife for a chieftain."

The words were unexpected, and seemingly the Bovine had been able to read the expression of Velen's trait as he began to smirk, then laugh.

"What? You truly expected something different? You are no leader, not anymore for Thunder Bluff.

Your name is merely what they seek to assuage power over the northern isles. Marrying you to someone's daughter or a woman was a waste."

He stated, dismissively of the aghast Elder, while playing with the large scrotum of the Draenei before sliding a thumb against the sheath's folds.

"Those who are eligible have no affection for you and your kin, and no leader in their right mind would have over their child to you."

There, the large thumb began to push in, and intimately caress Velen. As much as it was intrusive, stealing winces from him.

"If you want the Horde to honor and protect your precious flock, you must obey."

There, the thumb began to circulate within the sheath, teasing the tip of the old Draenei who attempted to still himself. Mantras, prayers, exercises... He sought to find peace despite the lustful touch of Natas, despite those lips being so close, those blue eyes enthralling.

In a groan, the creature advanced and their lips met. Not in a delicate and soft kiss like a Draenei courtship, but here it was a brutal invasion.

The Tauren was collecting his due. With the touch of his tongue, he pried the lips of Velen open and pushed inside. He desired to invade, to torment, to tease. Moreover, any attempt of the Priest to resist was met with the thumb rubbing and circling his urethra until he gave in.

In this conflict of will, one enjoyed a clear upper hand. But the Elder desired to fight, to oppose before his mouth was filled with the massive tongue of Natas. Which wrestled with the smaller one inside, then pushed beyond the uvula in a tense kiss.

A kiss in which Velen had no say, no option, no way to move away. Even now, it felt his breath being reduced to a trickle whilst the brute pushed further, fought against the esophagus in an struggle to invade the submitting being.

And to sway him, as another finger slid within the sheath of the Draenei and played with his underside until the tensile flesh began to give way to the cock. There, like extracted from a pouch, removed from a sealed coffer, the organ grew and expanded.

At first, it was the flared tip that expanded beyond the limit of the folds but soon came the length itself along with the median ring until the base of the organ finally pushed through. Finally, at a length of nine inches, the shaft stood proudly and upright.

From the wide urethra escaped a constant flux of precum that coalesced, then fell from the organ directly onto the ground while releasing a intense earthy aroma. Aroma from which Natas filled his nostrils as he pulled his tongue out of Velen's mouth.

And with that, the relative lull of the room broke. The old Draenei reached for his throat and couched, unable to retain his composure while his lungs burned and were filled with fire. All while the Tauren looked down on him, and grinned, and grabbed, and stole his due.

In the form of a touch, a caress, as the calloused hand lowered towards the groin of the wheezing Prophet and began to stroke the organ, the firm digits wrapped around the cock.

"You will have to work on your stamina, Prophet."

Stated the Bovine, right as he grabbed the chin of his interlocutor while carefully handling the beard.

"But you already have the base, and no reflexes."

"W- Why are you doi-" Sputtered the Draenei, before he coughed. Only next did he restore his composure and a circumspect gaze. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because..."

Trailed the Tauren, releasing the organ coated with precum to trace his way along its length, slowly drawing a line that led back to the groin. Beneath the touch, the recently shaved skin seemed all the more sensitive. As if something was awakening whilst the digits danced in rounds and rounds, ever so delicately following the steps of a waltz only Natas grasped.

"I have a vested interest in your kind, in you Prophet." Whispered that man, his sultry breath deliberately close to those lips. "And that you may not interest those presumptuous idiots with your form. But you can fulfill a function, taught to do as asked."

There, the Tauren smirked, and those blue eyes... They seemed colder than ice, than winter, than the void.

"Remember, Velen, I will take care of you."

And with that, the fingers withdrew.

However, they did so by leaving a gift to the prophet. If his groin was now devoid of any hair, there was a decoration in its stead. Seemingly dark as ink, though shades of purple could be noticed with an indirect angle, a pattern had been drawn onto the priest's nethers.

A circle, spiraling from the center of his groin only to grow, extend, expand. For it to halt at the base of the equine shaft. There, it moved up the half-hard organ to fade away.

A detail Velen noticed, and frowned. There, he looked once more at the bull that was stepping back with that smirk, that guile.

"Do not touch me again! Curses be of you!"

"Oh, I won't need to. I know you desire it, Prophet."

"Curses be of you!"

His voice croaking, the Prophet reached for his throat with one hand whilst the other pointed at the bovine who bowed out. The head lowered, the arms extended, tendrils of shadow grew from the ground to enrobe him and cloak him until the form become a shade. That instant, he disappeared.

Merely to leave behind a token.

A representation. A statuette shaped in the like of a Tauren's manhood, the cock proudly standing from the ground along with the testicles. Its vibrant blue color was only matched in intensity by the sweet pink of the Draenei who approached it. And kicked it away, in an outcry of despair.

In the cramped room, whose walls were of wood and metal, the Prophet found no sleep.

A part of him hoped for his insomnia to hail from his pain and woes, from the threats lurking. But the truth contrasted with his thought, more perverted and visceral. As he rolled onto the small bunk that had been given to him. Whether on his side, back, or belly, he sensed it. The throbbing.

And a mere gaze downward proved the sensation to be true, and all the more embarrassing.

There were no reasons for him to feel it that way, he had grown out of those meaningless desires millennia ago. However, blood was pumped into his cock by a frantic heart, maintaining the organ in a half-hardened state. And dripping. Constantly, needlessly dripping, and soiling his bed with fluids. The worst was if he had not steeled himself, even the faint touch of the blanket was about to make him explode.

And now, he... needed it. He needed a release. His pent-up testicles were almost looking bigger, tauter to his eyes. And they were burning, incandescent hot even.

With a tender hand, he reached for his genitalia. The left hand cupped his scrotum, the right his cock.

With his palms, he slowly pressed the bloated testicles, squeezing them ever so slightly to increase the sensations. Gradually, he was to kneed further, knowing how resilient they were. Then, the hand moved and two fingers formed a ring around the base of the scrotum. And he pulled them, gripping his groin whilst dragging down on his balls.

And while he did all that? The other hand worked that shaft in length. Up and down, down and up. The rhythm, the tension, the pulse. Beneath the palm, each beating resonated and ran through his nerves to his brain. The impulse was there, alive and eager, desiring more.

Whenever Velen squeezed the base of that cock, it produced another massive bead of precum which then fell on the scrotum he massaged and coated.

Steadily, he picked up the pace and the gentle touches and strokes grew into a frenzied grip, of skin being pulled from the flared tip to the base.

The room itself was filled with the noises of the wet claps from his hand meeting the nethers, and his heaving breath.

Ever so slowly, the quickening back and forth would result in grunts and moans from the mature man, but devoid of release. Any pleasure, any ejaculation. Instead, it was akin to an endless well, in which he poured desires and actions, not once to be rewarded.

Velen could press and tug, squeeze and massage, but that was never enough. Never enough for his mind, for his organ, for his body. The touch could bring forth pleasure, but no satisfaction.

And there he was, restrained despite the freedom of his action.

He rolled, bit his teeth, imagined. But nothing could tip the balance, push him over the edge. Rather, he stood there in a cacophony of his own doing until the fingers were pried off the cock to instead reach his shaved taint.

And for his eyes to dart upwards, for his cock to spray and spit more precum. Distanced from the organs, it was as if his taint had become a delightful source of pleasure, one that increased the more he inched away from the genitals. Until Velen left it all together while resting on his knees, the old fingers deeply inserted between his legs.

The digits progressed, forward and onward, until the taint gave in to a crack, and there a way. A path, shameful and terrible, he trailed to his asshole which became the focus of his attention.

At first, the calloused digits only explored the surrounding. Circling, they avoided direct contact with that sinful pleasure. But, the Prophet gave in. In a breath, the rim was touched. Touched then pressed, then tugged. The soft wrinkled flesh dropped any resistance beneath the pressure, expanding only to retract in accord with the Priest. Whenever he felt boisterous, the rim gave way and let it advance. On the opposite, it was a slight tug that followed the finger until the muscle abandoned.

But never did the Prophet stop during...

Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Days?

In the cabin, with only the artificial light and the absence of sound, his only tempo was the beating of his heart.

And the throbbing of that cock that sought release. One he could only imagine by fitting the first knuckle inside the orifice. Kneading the left cheek with one hand, Velen inserted the finger deeper though it was still imperfect. Length could not satisfy him, as he fumbled and failed in a quest for pleasure.

A second finger helped, causing more tension inside the sphincter. But it was only with a third he truly sensed it.

With the digits settled in, he finally uncovered it. A spot, a glans, a sensation. The Prophet caressed and stroked. Like a jewel, worked by time and effort, Velen sought to carefully handle that precious pleasure. But the more he grazed it, the more enticed he grew. Again, this was not enough. The drumming of the fingers was not enough, would never be.

There were no options. With a desolate expression, Velen averted his gaze away from his body. And there, still present was the dildo that had finished its course hours ago. Black like the night, it stood there as an insult and a taunt. One Velen approached with cautious steps.

«Wh- What am I doing?» He asked out loud while picking up the toy and admiring it. Made of an unknown material, the cock-shaped object was cool to the touch even though it irradiated a sort of warmth.

The veins along the length were delicately defined, and Velen almost perceived the throbs from the reproduction when he deposed it on the ground, the flare turned up. «I- I... I am better than this.»

He stated, the voice filled with doubt and envy. Saliva dripped from his mouth, precum from his cock. The Draenei was burning, in heat, his skin scalding hot. And despite his desire to leave it behind, to walk away, to never see the dildo... Velen began to squat.

The powerful muscles tensed and worked as he lowered himself, the glutes pulled apart by the tension.

And there, the dildo was given its first kiss. The anal ring opened up, the toy self-lubricating at the touch of the body. A body eager and earnest to receive that makeshift organ. There was no resistance, no pain, as if... As if it was fated, and this horrified the Draenei.

His face flustered, Velen pushed further, enjoying the ridges of the cock sink within his rim, pressed against his inner walls. He rode on, aware of his deprecation and shame. But he could not stop, not now, not yet. His cock implored him, his balls were about to explode, and that toy... It was too divine to abandon now.

Perhaps later, perhaps when he was finally relieved.

Although a part of him knew he would not. A thought the Prophet had silenced by biting his index. In opposition to ruminating, he instead focused on experiencing the median ring going through his tightening hole. Or the flared tip that kept rubbing his prostate, squeezing it.

This, this was perfection.

Delight, pure and unadulterated pleasure.

The idle hand shifted, driven by a need unknown of the Prophet as he rode on... And began to clutch and grip his cock once more.

But here, at this moment, there was something. Within his grasp, the throbbing had grown tenfold. And, he stroked. He stroked and pushed, lowered himself in grunts. Akin to a rutting beast, Velen pushed down and extended himself.

He thought, thought about doing something more, about reaching for more... But then.

The Draenei ejaculated.

Not in a puissant roar, not in ecstatic moans, or a cascade of cries. It was a simple... Release. Pressure liberated. Needs fulfilled. Instant stretched over time.

In one moment, it was as if all that pain had vaned. Replaced and erased by a flood, swept away by the crashing tidal waves of a long-sought orgasm. Which coursed through his legs, spine, head. For a moment, he almost forgot what the world was until he breathed.

He inhaled loudly, filled his lungs. Before the old Draenei looked down onto the constant stream of cum pouring from his flared cock. It pulsed with all that pent-up desires and in doing so, it released rope after rope of cum. Until the wooden floor was a stained canvas unto which he had drawn a blotch of seminal fluid.

Witnessing this, he sighed... And groaned, his face red.

"What have I done?" He muttered while putting his hands behind him to raise his hips, extracting the large fake organ from his plump cheeks. And in a loud "schlurp", it fell.

Ashamed.

The Priest was only able to describe his state of mind with this word. How he felt about himself when reminiscing of those days spent in that cabin, that cell. Velen knew their ship was traveling and fleeing the Exodar, but he had no idea how.

Despite the hours, he overheard no movement from the waves, and only a slight tremor could be perceived through the walls.

Beyond that, he was left with his thoughts and the tool given.

He had stacks of paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink to record his ruminations. But his mind was called to something else. This never-ending lust and desire, constant and pleading. The dildo was still on the cabin's ground, mocking and criticizing him. He had used it once, then twice... Afterwards, the Prophet no longer counted, though his ass constantly ached in its absence.

Stains after stain were smeared onto the wood, while his digits grew more audacious each time and he felt the thirst... Even his nipples were not exempted from that curse that had been embedded in him by Natas.

In those days, the circling mark seemed to grow whenever he fingered himself. It was a curse, deprecating magic. However, Velen had no powerto undo it, even to oppose its influence. And during a moment, Velen thought he would occupy his last days, slaves to his lust. That was until the door opened onto an orc. Squat, his shoulders large, and his leathery brown skin tawned by the touch of the Sun. His gruff expression was amplified by his hirsute beard and those judging brown eyes. Without really looking at the nude priest, or sniffing the scent permeating the room, he grunted an order: "Follow".

No consideration, no respect. Only a sneer from the gruff creature, who turned away and compelled Velen to follow. Albeit the Draenei now sported a flustered expression as he had not changed since waking up in the cell.

That time, the Prophet did not even attempt to cover his modesty. He followed with some uncertain steps until he stood outside his cell, in a guarded corridor. As they progressed through the halls, Velen noticed the number of soldiers clad in steel or leather who patrolled the place.

But as they passed by the mess, the latrines, and the barracks of the crew, the Draenei finally saw light at the end of the corridors.

A soft zephyr caressed his cheek, bringing an air that had not been heated by the body of a small garrison and rebreathed. Pure air, sought and desired. If he had not been certain of the retribution, the Elder would have then rushed to the exit. Instead, he followed diligently until they were outside... And watched the expanses of the sky above them, on their left and right... Then below.

Standing on a deck, Velen did not see any sea or body of water like he had been expecting. They were not navigating on the oceans; they were flying through the air with only the soft pulses of the vessels' engines to carry them above the tumultuous clouds.

And without acknowledging the orc, Velen slowly stepped toward the bow of the ship, afar from the constant ruckus of the sailors, almost absorbed by the vision.

Before him, the horizon stretched as far as the eyes could meet: populated by clouds whose colors gradually shifted from white to orange. The light of the sun dimmed and dwindled. Slowly, the celestial body was devoured by the curvature of Azeroth.

But for the moment, this dying day gave the Draenei a glimpse of the world's beauty after spending what seemed like an eternity in his cell.

The old hands caressed the wooden railing, and he sensed the steady hum that he could never have understood before; silenced by the sailors pacing on the bridge or in the depths of the vessel.

"Fancying a dip?"

Prompted a voice not far, it startled the Prophet. Not soft-spoken and sultry like Natas and his kind, or hoarse like the orc who had led him. There was grittiness in it, along with a sort of amiability.

But its origin was of a goblin. Green-skin like the orc, the balding sailor bore a few strands of hair on his chin in an attempt at a beard. Though the grizzled sideburns were quite a sight. The man's face was not one marked by grins and joy, although he smiled at Velen.

"If ya'd be kind to take a step back, 'therwise Natas might crush me."

And a step back, Velen did not take. Though he removed his hands from the railing and faced the creature. Who instantly whistled and jeered, the eyes gleaming in the direction of the Draenei's current vestment.

"Well, dear Prophet, now 've seen almost anything." Stated the goblin unashamedly, even going as far as slapping his knee. "That'was true, ya're being prepared like a bride too, I right?"

And of course, the laughter of the green skin riveted the attention of the men, those who had superbly ignored the Priest before.

The same Priest turned, giving no honor of a word to the green skin. Instead, he was contemplating the door leading to the entrails of the vessel. And the orc beside him, who was already uncrossing his arms and sighing, not surprised Velen desired to avoid this situation.

"Wait wait, big Pink skin. Ya're going back to your brig? Without windows, light, or air? You're not crazy, aren't ya?"

The same gritty voice asked, though there was no jeer or sneer, just a prompt, a line of questions. And to his shame, the Prophet clenched his hands. Was he crazy to return there? Was he even sane to stay there, or believe he could remain himself?

"Oi. Durn, go take yaself sum' meat and leave the man, 'wanna talk." started the aged goblin anew, with the orc glancing towards Velen then behind him. Before he sighed and the promise took him. Durn was his name then.

In a growl, the taunt man quickly strut away, under the gaze of the sailors who just as swiftly jumped back to their work, as if whipped by an unknown presence.

And there, Velen turned towards the Goblin. He noted the angry glance directed at the crew, which dulled and soothed into a face of regret, then back to a mask. A smile.

"Don't play hard to get big Priest, everyone but Natas knows ya're going mad in that room. Everyone does."

"You said too. As if, I am not alone to have been consigned to your ship, captain, and forced to experience this farce. Is that true?"

For a moment, it felt like the world went to a standstill, despite the wind brushing the hair of the priest or wrestling against the sheer weight of the ship. The brown eyes of the Goblin avoided the Prophet's modesty, as the small man tapped on a crate.

"'Name is Rayn. So it's fair for ya, since I know yours. 'You fancy a story?"

"I am not looking for a st-"

"'You fancy a story, or back to the brig?" Cut Rayn, his tone intransigent but devoid of animosity. And Velen's silence was the answer, therefore he continued. "Good. Ya know, I wasn't a captain for a big ship like this. I worked on a ship, but on the seas, much like me wife. She and I worked on ships until we got enough for ours. Our little boat, house even. She gave me three sons and a daughter, precious little buggers but they moved on. Aaaand we lost our home during the war."

The voice of the man was melancholic, and his expression pensive as he looked up at the sky above.

"... This is it?"

"Nay. " Retorted again the green skin, tapping the crate once more. "Me wife lost one of her legs, and don't want her to return to danger. Me? I got an offer. With the war, there was not enough captains. Lots of ships, lots of soldiers, barely any captain. But I refused, refused 'til they asked me this. 'll be the captain of a flying ship, built for anything but fighting. And 'll have to do anything, so long it helps for peace. Fancy offer, fancy promise."

He continued, looking to the dwindling light of the sun, to the clouds turning purples.

"Aye, 'know that was begging for trouble, but I want me peace, like any here. Ya're not the first, nor the last. 'Had to bring fancy names, proud people who screamed bloody murder for what Grimtotems Taurens does to them. Shit, Thunder Bluff is not the same since they took over. But they're working for peace."

"This is not real peace if my people is-"

"If under threat, ye. But that's nasty here. Ya're a fancy name, you could've found a way to make it all end. Ya can make it work. To be fair, Natas is a nice bunch. 'Bit of a bastard, 'tad of a cunt, but nice compared to others. He'll treat you like slave, mold and eat ya, then spit your body out like a good princess."

And sobering, Velen felt the cold air rush against his exposed ass and groin. Sensed the chilling touch of the void, as the sailors were now working to light small lanterns on the bridge.

"I... I can't let him do that to me. Yet I must be strong for my people, protect them."

"Yeah, pink skin. Ya're fucked either way."

And just like that, silence fell.

They did not utter a word until they overheard the stomping steps of Durn returning to them, the squat orc who had scornful eyes for Rayn.

"'Aye. It's time for ya to return to the brig fancy name. 'pefully, my men managed to clean and fresh up your place a bit." Stated the Goblin, suddenly standing up and stretching, his legs moving towards the bridge.

But by the light was Velen flustered as he heard it. Men, sailors, entering his room and finding this. His hands clenched, and he looked down.

"Me crew is used to this shit, and worse."

And just like that, Rayn's steps led the man away... And left Velen alone, if not for Durn who waited for him until he followed him back to the maze. To his room.

The place had been cleaned up as promised, but a rare addition had been offered to the Prophet in the form of a bathtub. The mere presence of the warm water filled the air with humidity and a hint of comfort. It was absurd or stupid, but after wearing the same clothes for a long period, the Draenei was quick to shed his vestment and climb in the tub, scrubbing and cleaning himself until the water turned slightly opaque and lukewarm.

But as he slowly extracted himself from the bath, his eyes were drawn to his robes. No longer there, they had already been replaced by another vestment and other gifts from his captor: one small jar filled with a odd cream, a razor blade. And finally, another bigger toy from Natas onto which was attached a small sign: "Stay prepared".

Following his first excursion on the bridge, the crew quickly removed the used bathtub the day after only to leave Velen on his lonesome.

As expected, his new robe had received the similar modification as the former, his modesty forever exposed by the same perverted Tauren.

Alone with the toy, the razor, the cream... And his constantly peaking libido, which no amount of masturbation could resolve. In truth, it seemed to be more and more absurd to try to masturbate as the old Draenei knew... And experienced his orgasms from riding the dildo gifted by the Tauren.

But each time, it seemed like his erection hanged lower, or his ejaculation did not reach as far as his first here.

After the outing, and the bathtub, Velen had almost hoped for his situation to fall into a sense of normalcy. But not... Not as he was left to ruminate in his room once more, unaware of when he would be freed, freedom dangling in front of him... Then offered with a demeaning candor.

To busy his mind one moment, Velen examined the other gifts. From the jar of cream, he quickly deduced it has been the same product that had been spread on his groin in the Exodar. And it was to help in the shaving of his pubic hair, which was already starting to grow back.

That along with the razor did not prove difficult to infer the request of Natas. One request he had to fulfill.

He inhaled. The hands trembled. It was almost as if he had taken too much cream on his fingers to apply the soft paste onto his groin, observing it cover most of his nethers. Then, he passed the blade, taking pain not to graze his skin with his trembling hand.

In vain.

In a movement, the blade's edge slid and hit, tracing a small wound on his groin. And from it dripped the ruby liquid. The sight, the view, the pain. For a moment, Velen kept his hand away from the genitalia... Before another set of fingers slid onto the wound.

Black like ebony, calloused, hairy, they were already covering the small wound. And followed by a warm breath against Velen's neck.

«Be careful, Prophet. This body of yours is a treasure to handle carefully.» Stated Natas, as if he had appeared out of his shadow.

Not willing to give in to his fear, to the tremor that already shook his hand, Velen adopted a stoic expression.

«Have you been spying on me?»

«Not spying, I would not dare to corner you in a false sense of danger. I am ensuring myself of your well-being. Any scrapes, any wound, I know it all.»

Whispered the large Bovine in the Draenei's ears, while taking the blade off his hand to resume the work. And where Natas had laid his hand, the cut was no longer.

Despite their size, the fingers worked meticulously to shave the genitals, whereas the arms kept Velen unable to move and flee. Would he move or try to escape, the blade's edge was enough to produce a large wound if not a lethal one.

Therefore he stayed, watching the creature tug on his half-hard cock, playing with the sheath and even pinching it so Natas would not chafe the skin.

"You do not strike me as voluble, for a leader, Velen."

"A proper orator knows the value of saving his words."

"Hah!" Suddenly roared the Bull who pressed his chest against the Prophet's back, who was all too ashamed to sense the bulge of the creature close to his cheeks. Did the Bull notice the tip of his cock was already damp with precum?

"If you won't speak, may I? Our trip across the sky is to be changed soon. There had been skirmishes way south, but Thunder Bluff is growing restless. Our course may be adjusted."

He shoved the Prophet's equine cock aside, to reach the testicles. There, the large fingers tugged relentlessly on the scrotum to taut the skin. But each movement made the Prophet wince, tremble, shake. And drip... Drip precum like a wanton.

"Why- are you telling me this?"

"Just to state you will no longer be restricted to this room. I understand how a terrible host I have been, so few accommodations are to happen." The answer followed a long caress from the blade. Beneath it, his taut scrotum revealed each detail of the egg-shaped testicles... And the chafed skin was the only barrier between the blade of his genitals.

In this instant, Velen retained his breath... And looked above his shoulder, facing the Tauren's eyes that had been fixated on him, on his features. He had been gauging him all along.

"But if you desire, I can leave you to your cabin. The guards heard how busy you have been with my gift." And there, the Tauren grinned.

KTUNK!

Velen jumped as the blade fell and planted in the hardwood, his eyes looking down. Down to his properly shaved genitalia... Then to the bull hands that were already moving upwards, crawling until they reached both his chest. And cupped it.

Against his warm palm, the pecs seemed more round and less muscular, while the radiating warmth seemed... Pleasant. Natas even started to circle his index around the now erected nipples.

"You almost are a natural Prophet. Do you understand that?" Whispered the male, his mouth moving to deposit a kiss on that silky neck.

"A natural what? And will I truly be free?"

"A natural whore. And yes." Another peck, another caress as the fingers were now rolling and pinching the soft nubs, stealing away whimpers from the Priest.

The Priest looked down as he was molested by a Bull. And despite his strength and name, he was powerless to fight it. Unless he was to lose his people, and the meaning of those sacrifices. He exhaled and sensed how the kiss had stopped. The hands had left his nipples to give a swift caress on the asscheeks, leaving them burning. And then, the presence of Natas vanished.

"Sleep well, Prophet. I will see to your care."

The elderly Draenei could not tell what he understood of his host or the ship he was in, as he followed Durn through the familiar corridors.

As soon as the Draenei had woken up from his inconstant slumber, it was to hear the orc knocking on his door and asking for him to get prepared. The task was trivial, as Natas was to choose his clothes and he was not shying away from exposing the Prophet. A part of the old Draenei was even pondering if walking without any clothes would be different, as they constantly saw, smelled, pointed fingers at him.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost did not notice Durn stopping his course, and bumped into him as they halted by a door.

"Here, you will start." Stated the orc with his same prose, his hand raised. And with his closed expression, it was clear he had nothing else to say. Behind him was the last corner before they were outside, yet Velen had to attend to something. And in a sigh, he turned to the door and opened it.

Right as he passed through the threshold, the Draenei was a waft of sultry air carrying a considerable scent... Pungent even. The place was poorly lit, yet he had to walk forward since Durn closed the door on him.

And there, he was to do something. It was a ploy, a moment of humiliation prepared by Natas, surely... Therefore the priest advanced through what could be described as rows of beds, hammocks, and little coffers until a lamp in front of him was obstructed by a form.

A man, or so he thought, who was leaning over a table but seemed already aware of Velen's presence as he turned up the magical lamp, and look over his shoulder.

"Ah 'mon! 'Been a long time'since we got us a fine whor'."

As the Troll spoke, he turned and closed the distance between the Prophet and what seemed to be one of the sailors. Although another way to describe him was a monster. Most of the Trolls were lanky from what Velen knew, but that one had a frame bulging with muscles. Massive arms, large legs, heavy torso, he bore scars and tattoos like one would collect days in their lifetime. Symbols of the Horde, or slavery, of conquest, the large blue-skinned Troll grinned at Velen with one broken tusk and a milky white eye. The other, green, danced up and down upon the form.

"Aw! Ya're like a twig! Are dey crazy, ya're too old mon!" Laughed the Troll, even though they were almost chest to chest. But it was there Velen understood where the heat came from... Along with the musky scent.

Unable to pry his eyes away, Velen observed the large loincloth bulging with organs bigger that what it should have been, swinging like pendulums.

"Eyes up here. Ya're in for ya first lesson."

"What less- URF!" Retorted Velen, looking up only for the powerful Troll to grip him by the side, pulling him and hauling that body before their lips meet. It was not a gift, a soft offer, it was ravishing.

The lips meet and forced, one to open, the other to close. And the Priest was not opening himself to the creature, denying it access. Though his opinion held no base, no strength. As he tried to maintain his jaw closed, a cry ofsurprise opened it just as well.

A mere finger, a second ago, had pushed between his cheeks and punched inside his hole. And from there the massive tongue assailed the throat of the Prophet who gurgled and winced. But not in pain, never in pain.

He had been expecting his first penetration to be painful, or for his throat to be on fire when the tongue pushed beyond the uvula. But there was no string, just a faint sensation coming from both entries as his throat bulged, and his rim opened to the knuckles one by one.

There was no pleasure, no pain... Only numbness condemning Velen to think and fear, his mind veiled by the lack of air. Before the kiss stopped and he suddenly breathed in. And sensed how winded he was after that kiss.

"Heh. Natas prepared ya well, slut. Ya should be proud!"

That was earnest, as much as someone could be by praising their captors to have prepared their holes for abuse and taking. In that, Velen frowned and was red in the face, until the finger reached one spot. One place from which the brutal abuse turned into a caress. Calloused as they may, the digits squeezed and massaged a spot and from it came warmth, satisfaction, delight even. Velen sought to silence his voice, but he could not stop the moan to escape his now-opened lips. Or to refuse the kiss imparted by the troll who kept pressing and pressing.

Up until he felt his genitals pushing against the troll's loincloth.

"Ya know, that's what I like with ya. All of dem, strong and mighty, but always afraid of liftin' da finger! Dey may hurt my family, dey are dangerous. And so angry, yet once I touch dis." Chuckled the mastodon of a man. "Dey all melt and beg for more. Ya beg?"

But Velen did not beg, although his biting lips were enough to provoke a roar from the Troll. Who suddenly snatched his loincloth away.

"Good! Ya have fight! 'Makes it funnier!"

But any fighting spirit was to recede and fade before the creature's groin. A cock long like an arm, testicles heavy akin to boulders. And a might that could wreck Velen if desired. The composure of the Draenei faded, all the more as he dared to take a step back... And was rewarded by a sudden grapple.

For half a second, Velen felt himself lifted and pulled from the ground, his hooved feet kicking around, only for his knees to prompty meet the floor, then his arms and face. The contact was brutal, but not as expected. There was pain, but the pumping blood of the Elder was not there for his wounds. But his horror as he experienced the Troll's hands on his hips, his tail before he pulled it away.

The Prophet braced himself, he gritted his teeth. Any movement was met with a smack on his cheeks. Even the mere movement of the tail would provoke through the room with a loud "SMACK!" before the sailor returned to his observation and seemingly admired the grizzled and reddened cheeks, natural lubricant now coating the hole.

And he began.

Not in love, tender whispers, and shared desires. It was taking, stealing, pillaging. For the man aligned his uncut cock with the swollen rim of the priest, positioning it before he rushed in. Alike to a battering ram, the cock pushed and thrashed against the clenching walls, in grunts shared by both individuals. For Velen who was holding his belly, sensing the sharp pain of the penetration despite the dulled sensations. For the stranger who was eager to rut and fully plunge his cock inside, merely to encounter resistance.

And the Draenei clenched. He gritted his teeth, tensed himself up, in an attempt to ward the invasion. But what could he do, besides exacerbating the pain stinging his stomach. Sweat poured on his forehead; his jaw and arms ached because of the tension he maintained. Even screaming seemed an impossible effort, for his opened mouth was shut by the violent thrusts, and his outcry drowned in saliva.

And then, he gave in.

The muscles relaxed, his head lowered and disappearing in the cradle of his arms, protected from the abuse and the light. He was taken, abused, ruined. The Troll was just using him, and he saw no pleasure nor satisfaction. Sure, his prostate was teasing his mind, appealing to his basest instinct. Even his hardened cock sought release. Beyond? There were just sore muscles, heaving breaths, tormented guts.

He prayed it to stop.

That was a frivolous thought, for a man who had escaped war and conflict for so many years, only to be rewarded with this. Fucked like a whore, a bitch, in a squalid room bearing the scents of lustful men no different than the troll, than him.

The sailor was of course commenting, criticizing, and mocking. But Velen did not heed, instead focusing on... Nothing. Until the hammering of his guts ultimately stopped. The throbbing cock remained in him for a moment, then a wave of warmth filled his guts that soon became a bloating sensation.

A smack was gifted to the cheeks, then the cock was removed. And nothing else.

For minutes, hours, days... Or so Velen thought, he stood there. His thoughts empty. The loud familiar steps of an orc inched closer.

"You want to go outside?" Asked the gruff voice, offering only a hint of empathy to the Prophet who lifted his reddened eyes.

"I will... return to my room." He articulated, each word followed by an inspiration.

After returning to his room, Velen had simply sat down against the door, his head heavy with fear and exhastion.

«You train, then you can go out.» Had asserted Durn on their path to the cell, hammering a terrible revelation. The arrangement was another way to torture and torment him. With a hand rushing to his sweat-covered face, Velen stilled his breath and listened.

Since he had come to that ship, there had been no meditation. Moments of peace outside, sometimes, somehow. Short quips.

But this outrage was... He no longer desired to go outside, or even leave that prison. He desired peace, calm, not the wrecking pain of his legs.

But before he could find it, someone knocked on his door.

"Here your meal, Pro-phet."

Stated a voice, familiar and at least sympathetic. But the Prophet did not want to hear him, he desired to be alone. A desire opposed by his rumbling stomach. He was hungry despite the mere idea of having something in his stomach made him almost throw up.

"Give me a second." The Draenei stood up, and wobbled a bit, until he managed to turn towards the door and open it.

Behind it was a Tauren, towering over him much like his peers. Though, unlike Natas, his fur was white like ivory and his blue eyes truly shone with empathy as he carried with attention the plate. Today's meal seemed to be some starch, along with a pitcher of water and another of wine, while a small grape stood on the side. A frugal meal, but Velen had never been spared by privation.

"Be blessed Gorhn. You may leave." Stated the prophet with his stomach already churning, a meal was a bad idea.

"You feeling alright, prophet?" Asked the Tauren in a tentative of Common, his voice genuine as he handed the plate but made no effort to step away.

"I am tired. Bless your soul for asking for it." Answered the Prophet, already gritting his teeth as he took the plate to carry it towards the desk. His legs were about to falter, his arms breaking. But then, he felt a presence on his back... And the two large hands took the plate away to place it on the desk themselves.

As expected, Gorhn had taken the opportunity to approach, and his unfeigned grin of him was almost comforting.

"Sorry, you... Seem very tired." Tentatively stated the Bull, fidgeting with his lips like he was biting them. "I heard for... Zohgo. Sorry."

Velen raised an eyebrow, then his breath stopped... The world came to a halt.

"You heard about him, Zohgo? In the barracks?" He asked, with a shy nod answering. "By the light. Who else knows it? Everyone?"

And the Tauren nodded again, but he raised an index.

"It... Is normal." He said. Only for the appalled expression from Draenei, along with his form slumping on the chair, to make him raise both hands. "Wait! Wrong! Wrong! Sorry!"

Even then, Velen reached for his face to hide his expression.

"When prisoners go to Thunder Bluff. They... Zohgo is doing this, the captain closes the eyes and is paid."

"Paid by who?"

"People... Shne" Gorhn raised a hand over his head, making it hover above him while pointing his fingers. One thing Velen observed through his fingers.

"Above?"

"Yes! People above the captain."

And the shoulders of Velen slumped all the more, his elbows on the table as he massaged his temples.

"I... Thank you Gorhn."

"Sorry, Pro-phet."

The Tauren remained there, fidgeting with his tail.

"I... Can help? Ask for a bathtub? Rayn always offer."

Still reclining on the chair, the Prophet no longer knew what to say. Especially as he still felt it... Even the semence of the man in him.

"It... is not necessary. Gorhn, you should leave this ship. You should not participate to this-" Tentatively said the Prophet, encompassing the whole ship with a distraught hand.

"Can't, Pro-Phet. This my home."

"Mulgore is not yours? You talked to me about it with such reverence . You seem so eager when talking of it."

"Not... Not anymore"

Ashamed, the bovine suddenly hurried to the door and closed it behind him.

In his departure, the room felt silent... Empty. But not devoid of shame, of the walls closing on Velen as he diverted his gaze towards the plate. He was hungry, starved even... But the mere thought of eating was making him sick... Sick. Sick like those plans of Natas, that perversion with that Zohgo... And this whole hell!

In a fit of rage, with adrenaline filling his veins, the old man stood up and stomped in the direction of Natas' dildo. The sole object of the monster before he kicked it off with all that energy Velen possessed. And then stumble, unable to keep himself steady.

"I assumed he made a number of you, but not that far."

Velen merely growled as he sat down like a child, his hand hiding his face. Not now, not at this moment. He did not want to see Natas, though he knew the Tauren was behind him, after inevitably appearing from the shadows.

He was there to gloat, obviously, and the old Draenei was not in a state to weather any further assault on his ego.

Instead, the massive creature sat down beside Velen. And the Prophet inched a bit further away, unable to look at the bovine covered in dark tatters.

"It is my fault. I sought to streamline your progress on the ship. I cannot delay our route any longer, as Thunder Bluff is requiring our presence, us both."

"Delay? Streamline? What is? An attempt to compare me to someone's craftsmanship?" Scoffed the Prophet, his voice breaking. "That is prepo-"

"That is the truth. Velen."

The remark of Natas was unexpected, laconic as he turned towards Velen and grinned, though the Draenei could not tell if it was emphatic or another way to taunt him.

"You are my craftsmanship. And I cannot delay our advance, as I have already used all options. Even Orgrimmar announced a wide clearance for us to arrive in Mulgore, meaning there are no excuses left. And you, you are to train until we arrive."

Extending a hand, the bovine seemingly made the same dildo appear in his palm as if pulled from a well of shades. All under the circumspect gaze of Velen. Then, he pointed to the marked groin of Velen.

"I attempted to provide you a better path, but it would take weeks if not months. Zohgo was another option of mine. Though I did not know of his cruelty. I am sorry you had to suffer through this, but this is merely the beginning."

"... And if I refuse? If I just accept I will be tortured by you and curses and not raise a finger? You have tormented me well enough for m-"

"It is the same threat as before. No chief will accept an union with you, your people will have no protection. And fate has never been shown clemency towards your kind."

In this instant, the Bovine inched closer to the Prophet, and a calloused hand pushed against the grizzled beard.

"I aim to change that. Prophet Velen. The Divine, Ageless One, Harbinger of the Naaru." Whispered the dark-coated Tauren, enumerating titles that held no sense anymore. And the hand guided the wounded men to press their lips together. A movement Velen attempted to stop and reverse by pulling from the iron grasp, only for a hand to move closer to the exposed groin of the Prophet.

"I will make you the finest bride any Tauren may desire, and your kind will no longer be exposed to danger."

The whispers of the Bovine turned into a tender kiss. Another that invaded the privacy of the Prophet's mouth. Velen braced himself, shut his eyes... And moaned with the hand caressing his genitalia, the digit going from the base to his cock to the tip. Slowly, ever so slowly in a sort of exploration. With the median ring being stroked and teasing, then for the veins to become the focus of the attention. Ultimately to end on the index stroking the flared tip.

To his shame, he was at least satisfied he was not used like a mere toy, fucked and discarded. But the meticulous exploration was akin to a dissection, his body exposed to the whims of a perverted man who had made his life hell in the Exodar and beyond.

A man corrupted by the shadows, with a certain lust for power... And an odd one for the Elder. Where Taurens and others mostly despised him, he seemed almost... Possessive. And reopening his eyes, Velen saw once again the discarded dildo from the Priest until he looked down. And watched something slither from the palm of Natas to his cock. A tendril, as black as the night, that pulsed with corruption and desire. A monster of corruption that not only coiled and danced against his flared tip, but entered his urethra. However, he perceived nothing. No pain, no torment, no suffering.

The sole sensation was the sweat pouring on his forehead and beneath his clothes while the tendrils pushed further and further, making his cock almost bulge.

"I will care for your needs." Chuckled the Bull, giving up the embrace and kiss to focus on what mattered.

And to impose on Velen that unholy touch that spread and coiled further until it reached the base of his cock...

The world of the Draenei crumbled. Ecstasy was a word he had repeated again and again while talking about the Light's blessing.

But here, it was a divine touch, his lips bit, while his innards were wracked with waves and waves of pleasure. Wherever the tentacles progressed in his prostate, they spread their shape inside to the inner walls of the organ. They radiated warmth and a jolt of delight that coursed along each limb, making his legs squirm and fingers clench.

His eyes danced behind their lids, unable to focus as saliva poured from the lips of the Prophet. Only for Natas to lean on and lick it... Then kiss the Prophet as their lips met and embraced. Tongue met tongue, saliva was exchanged... But more than that, pleasure was given freely.

The Draenei's chest lifted and lowered, filling with air and emptying itself of the moans and whispers, while the tsunami of pleasure grew.

The tendrils pushed deeper, it seemed even to coil and take a turn before the warmth descended, lowered down... And then spread towards the scrotum, dividing itself in two. There, the Prophet felt himself losing touch, his legs and fingers numb. Even if he desired, he was incapable to stretch a hand, to ply a digit, his body refusing to take any order and instead giving. Feeding. Gorging the mind of the man in a feast of delight, of his flesh twisting and opening.

Of course, he remained conscious and aware of the corruption he was exposed to, the horror of his genitals invaded by the tendrils.

But what opposition could he give?

His body devoured by warmth. He even had to remember to breath. He experienced the slight tensing of his skin, the sensation of the bovine's hand brushing his beard. Everything felt better, everything felt worse.

And then, it happened.

A sting, a fire, an inferno. A torrent of lava pouring into his scrotum, pure light.

When Velen woke up, it was no longer on the ground or in the small room he had been bestowed formerly.

Instead of close walls and a lack of decoration, the room opened to the large expanses of the sky, welcoming light and clarity in what could be described as a captain's cabin. The bedding itself was of delicate purple-dyed cotton, and the pillows were filled with down.

But what struck Velen was how he was feeling cleaned in this instant, despite what he remembered... Or simply the touch of the textile as he put hooves on the ground, and admired the rest of the place filled with cabinets, brimming with trophies... And almost hiding in plain sight was Natas, seemingly writing something with a plum. His attitude was dismissive of Velen's actions.

Especially as the Prophet took a step and almost stumbled, as if his body was different, his weight had shifted between this... Intense moment, and now.

And ashamed as he was, Velen looked look down at his groin, almost expecting a sign of mutilation. But there were none, although the skin of his testicles was tauter than he remembered. «You are almost missing the view, dear Prophet.» Resonated the voice of Natas, the laconic tone riveting the gaze to the Bull. Who tilted his head to the left, towards one of the windows, pointing at the view outside.

Towering above the world, above one of the highest peaks of Azeroth, Nordrassil. World tree by name, its root spread over and carved the mountain... As much as goblins and other creatures were carving its bark, collecting the precious sap that was to be used in diverse draughs for the soldiers of the Horde.

Nonetheless, the robust tree remained standing despite the assault it weathered, defying the mortal races to take it down, to annihilate such a monument to nature's glory.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Asked Natas, his voice moving closer with each step.

"It is." The eyes going from the leaves, then back to the root, the old Draenei noticed the camps installed in the tree's shade or the building made of steel that cropped up from one of the ridges.

"This is a shame the archdruid is no longer able to protect such a feat of nature." Added the Grimtotem, sighing. "He and his kin corrupted our ways, but his actions remain awe-inspiring. Nonetheless, we will replenish our tanks shortly, and then follow a direct route to Mulgore."

And then, it struck Velen.

"You told the truth. You did delay our arrival by... Days. We should have been in Mulgore days ago."

In response, the Tauren chuckled as his clothed body was awfully close to Velen. There was no contact, but the warmth emanating from Natas and his steady breath was enough to tell his presence.

"I am not lying to you. My interest in you is unfeigned, even if circumstances force my hand."

"And... Why bring me here? My cell has been well enough during the travel."

In return, there was a scoff. Then a hand cupped the bare cheeks of the Prophet, massaging them.

"You are right. I desired to offer you a modicum of... Comfort. As the next days will be harsh on you."

"... More than before?"

"More. You are to be trained to be mounted like a wife, whilst the new Tauren customs can be... Harsh."

Then, the Dark-furred Tauren turned himself towards the large door leading to the room, inhaling. "Gorhn, you can enter."

And just as the order was stated, given, the door opened slowly and a massive figure entered. Naked and utterly ashamed as the creature moved with his eyes low and the body concealed behind those arms.

"Pro-phet. Natas"

In the light of the wide room, it was impossible to confound the male that had been handing plates and trying to chat during all the week with Velen. A gentle and servile soul who had even tried to offer some comfort to the Draenei yesterday.

However, this scene was utterly shameful. For Velen, feeling blood rush to his cheeks and face, and for the poor Tauren seemingly hellbent on bowing and hiding his body, though some details looked odd and peculiar.

"Gorhn. You did fight the Grimtotem? Is this right?"

Inquired Natas in Common, a grin on his face while his voice was brimming with authority and brazenness. Whilst the other Bovine seemed to be struggling with his choice of words.

"Yes."

"How many did you kill before we caught and sentenced you?"

"Seven... I kill- I killed Thoras."

"Ah, Thoras. Do you know what he did, Velen?"

The Draenei, now involved in the discussion raised an eyebrow... But muttered nothing, he denied and shook his head.

"He was the storyteller of the Grimtotem, the upholder of our legacy. We are not ageless as you are, and our stories die with us... In the conflict for the Horde, or by betrayal. Stop hiding yourself, the Prophet shall see."

For a moment, the blue eyes met with the pearly white. Both were ashamed and naked. But nothing like Velen had thought to see.

While most males Taurens were of muscles, Gorhn was of curves. His hips were wide, his belly round... But more than that, it was the pure adulteration of manhood he represented. Each breast was heavy and sagging, their swollen nipples pierced with solid rings, whilst the round belly sported a mark from the Horde intertwined with a rune the Prophet could not read.

Those signs were portending of a threat, and Velen merely had to lower his eyes to note the shrunken bits of the Tauren, of this equine sheath reduced to a nub with only the tip poking out... And an empty sagging scrotum.

Instantly, as the eyes wandered down, the expression of the Draenei shifted to horror, then fury as he turned to Natas.

"Is this a th-"

"Shh" Interrupted the only individual in the room that still wore clothes, while raising a finger. Next, he pointed to the eunuch.

"How many soldiers did you kill on the battlefield?"

"I... Don't know."

"How many?"

"... A lot."

"Draeneis?"

"... A lot."

The Prophet kept frowning, but his seething fury was now silenced by a dreading sensation, by an unknown fear as Natas seemed to be in utter control of the situation. His voice was poised and authoritative. The lone confident male in this room.

"Yes... A lot. See Velen, you may have sympathy for your enemy now that he is down. But that brave soldier killed for the alliance, more than he can tell us now."

The lips of Velen remained sealed, though his eyes did utter the same question... Why.

"If you want the Taurens, the Horde, to have pity on your kind and preserve what you have, be weak. You must look pathetic, weather the humiliation."

There, the large Tauren approached Velen, his warm breath caressing the soft neck.

"Whenever we were strong, the Horde attempted to cull the numbers of the Grimtotem because we were not aligned with them. Only once we accepted the offer of the Bloodhoof we were spared blows. But just as we looked powerful once more, and the Bloodhoofs dwindled, many raised arms. Gorhn is no different that his peers. Now, this relation of strength applies to you and me."

The fingers ran against the nipples of the Priest, teasing it. And just as the old Priest began to tremble, the hand retracted, and so was Natas.

"From now on, Gorhn will become your guide, you will wear nothing... Both of you. And Zohgo will see you are well-trained. Perhaps you will find solace in those shared moments."

Velen had thought to scream, insult, and curse at Natas.

Ultimately, whether he liked it or not, he had to follow what was required of him. Not only was he vulnerable, but solely his presence was ensuring the survival of his kin.

And here, in that ship, it meant being degraded.

In their walk of shame, none talked. Leader and Warrior slowly walked, their hooves hitting the wood, until they reached for the same squalid room as before, where the same troll awaited with a grin... And an erect cock.

"Ahhh, wife and slut. Both are back? Good, good."

Velen froze, but the Tauren walked then crawled, giving a kiss on the enormous erect cock, his eyes kept low while those lips danced and embraced every centimeter of exposed skin.

"Sooo, Prophet! 'wan't to gimme a good kiss?"

And in a breath, Velen stepped in.

Smack, smack, smack!

Velen barred his teeth as he heard his unfortunate companion squeal and whimper, the asscheeks almost raw from the imposed breeding. Far more used to Zohgo than he was, Gorhn endured a beating that almost made Velen recoil. Whenever the Troll thrust his hips forward, the massive body of Gorhn jolted.

His cries were loud and clear, but they were not detering the Sailor from abusing and railing the Eunuch as if it was nothing. He was even picking up the pace. And slapped and smacked those asscheeks which would have turned bright red, if not for the fur covering them... And the cum.

The stamina of Zohgo seemed endless, a well of fluids from which he poured within both of them, only giving some respite to one for emptying themselves, while the other endured anew. But, Gorhn seemed to appreciate the treatment and his small cock was leaking like a faucet whenever the troll abused them. Which was constantly, ever since it had been decided Velen should learn to submit.

On their day of arrival to Hyjal, they had been sent to Zohgo... And each day they would return together, only for the Prophet to be dragging his poor body to his new quarters that were further than before.

He had even thought of it being a folly from Natas, although willingly healed back his body and soothed the pain when he returned, promising it would end soon. Yet it would not, as each day was to pass in the squalid barracks.

However, Velen was almost relishing the moment he would see Natas again. Not the face... But at least, seeing him meant to rest. And the...Tendrils.

Even thinking about them made the Prophet drip a bit of precum as he looked down on his body. To glance at his budding chest or his half-hard cock. It was now impossible to err in the comparison between who he was before the occupation and this moment. Before, he could have thought himself crazy. But his body was changing with each day, and even Zohgo had been complimenting his tits.

And his ass, mostly his ass. Mostly his ass that was dripping, leaky, constantly filled with cum... Always in heat, burning like a volcano when the Troll was not voraciously railing him.

Even now, the Prophet was biting his lips and reaching for his round buttcheeks, peeking a finger against the crack and-

"Hey whore! Dis pussy wants som' meat?"

More than a question Zohgo barked at the Draenei to drag himself closer. His voice stopped the thoughts of Velen who jumped and jolted, unable to still himself while he crawled. Closer to the beast, the Troll who had relentlessly fucked him, who stood still... And grinned.

Below him, Gorhn moaned and groaned, the eyes closed but not unconscious.

"Com' here! Give your mon' som' love." Jested the sailor whilst he smacked the butt of the eunuch... And pulled out from it in a loud schlurp as the ass seemed keen on keeping that cock inside, and cum was splattered all over the floor.

A display of perversion Velen attempted to erase from his mind as he approached the Troll, and felt the large hand grip his face in another of those throat-filling kisses. But his lungs were full, his heartbeat under control, his mind prepared. The tongue pushed and invaded, pressed the uvula, and beyond. Once more, his throat ached from the inside and his neck bulged due to the tongue in him. And again, the sailor's fingers crept and explored his cum-coated inside, pushing through his larger cheeks to get a grip of that rim.

The muscle was easy to tug on, and the tensile flesh no longer resisted the curved digits. It was then easy to push and crawl in, for knuckles to rub against the swollen hole that was growing more sensitive by the day.

Beneath that brutal Troll, Velen moaned and felt his cock harden once more. His body trembled, and he felt his heartbeat accelerate, almost bursting in his chest as his lungs burned.

The hand was relentless, pushing and almost crushing his inside as three digits were now inside him. They pressed his button, massaged his prostate, jabbed it. Each movement stole shivers, caused his belly and ass to clench. Even his own hands clutched the air only to release it when his vision clouded. Clouded, faded, vanished. His thoughts veiled, his cock spurting fluids, his legs trembling.

And then, breathe.

The Prophet gasped, then inhaled, coughed, reached for his throat. And was pushed on all four besides the one with whom he had shared this torture.

Facing those blue eyes filled with regrets and apologies about his situation, facing that mouth that was there to kiss his jaw and then cheeks while he sought air.

"You do great, Pro-phet." Whispered Gorhn, his voice soft like silk, before their lips joined, and only them.

Kissing a Tauren, in a way, was easily more difficult than a Troll or one of his own. But the Eunuch was gentle and caring, obsequiously even when it came to marks of affection perfumed with cum. Though he was giving those tokens. Even now as he caressed the now-sagging chest of the priest. "You will... Be a good wife."

He commented, taking less time to pick the words that time, as one nipple was pressed and pinched... And made Velen quiver as much as the hand still wracking his asshole.

"Oh yeah, 'bitches. Go on, kiss dose nasty mouths."

And there, they kissed.

And moaned, while the Troll behind them was now working on both holes: of the eunuch, soft and always welcoming; of the Prophet, with its inexperience but silky flesh.

Both trembled in unison, while the Troll ensured that the sluts were given the same opportunity: round caress against the prostate, pressure applied over the oversensitive glans. It was their little g-spot within reach, the way to turn their deep and formerly arrogant voices into pathetic mewlings, as they both worked together to silence one another.

Their beards coated with saliva, cum, and sweat were almost joined while their expression mellowed. And it was perhaps a moment of fond madness, but he saw their eyes humid with tears and love, their anger and fury gone for good.

And in a grin, he crushed their prostate, squeezed them good.

Velen and Gorhn could no longer unite and kiss as their bodies simply fell on the ground, shaken by the sudden torrent of lust and orgasm that ran through them. Below them, their bellies were bulging... And their cock spraying the ground with watery precum for one, whilst the other's consistency was not far from it.

The face hiding behind his arms, the Prophet trembled and broke into tears as the orgasm washed over him, taking away his strength and resistance. As he merely had to peek through his beard to see his shaft spurting cum each time the Troll squeezed his prostate and stole his breath.

And then, it stopped.

The pleasure, ecstasy, the orgasm. Leaving only the wracked body of the two sluts that fell on the ground and their fluids, moaning and groaning whilst they stumbled and attempted to recover.

"Ya good, Prophet! Natas will see ya, assuredly!"

A statement assured as the light was shed upon the Prophet and the Eunuch, though only the former raised his eyes to meet with Durn. The squat orc was looking at him with a sniffy nose, as he was surely smelling the reeking scent emanating from both sluts and the room.

And lowering his eyes, the Prophet slowly crawled and stood up, sticky fluids dripping from almost any part of his body. A mere day with Zohgo was enough to make him look like the filthiest whore, and even an orc who seemed equanimous to everything despised him.

The lips trembling, the Prophet did not even attempt to hide his malehood, nor his erected nipples, he only scratched his arms as his cautious steps led him outside the room... And he turned towards the last door until they were in the exterior.

"I... Natas can wait." He uttered, stepping in the opposite direction of Durn, and shambled towards the door, using the wall as a crutch.

Ever so slowly, Velen advanced until he heard the whistle of the breeze and the cold metal of the handle in his palm. There, the lungs were filled with something clean, cleaner than he was as he stepped outside. No longer did the Draenei care as the workers and sailors were looking at him, most in disgust. They could see his body, it was what most would be ogling in his future to come. But he struggled against his legs to keep a regalian posture while walking towards the bow. Towards a familiar face that would always be there at that time.

"Shit! ... Well, Velen, ya look like shit! Zohgo 'gain?" Prompted Rayn, his raucous and surprised voice awfully low for that captain.

And to answer, Velen nodded. His legs ached too much for him to answer as he finished to narrow the distance between them, then leaned over the railing.

"Ya know, I could give a word to Zohgo, or try to. 'Shouldn't be like this, not for ya. Ya've been fair and square, for what I can tell."

"No, but thank you for this kind offer. It would put you at odds with Natas, and maybe expose your crew at risk. I just wanted to see you. Or see the closest I have of a friend here."

And the goblin laughed, his hand slapping his lap shaking Velen to his core. But even then, the old Priest was almost... Content with that laughter.

"Ya have terrible friends, Prophet! 'Isn't terrible?"

"Is it, Rayn. My future days appear to be quite lonely."

"Well... Ya and me should do something for that!"

Just like that, the little man jumped off the crate and scurried away, leaving Velen along on the bow. There, no sailors dared to approach him as he looked at the horizon. So far from the sea, and with a lowered altitude, the Draenei could perceive the ground below.

Only a few hours ago, Natas had revealed to him how they had passed above the Stonetalon mountains, and would be in Mulgore by tomorrow. Already, he saw the massive mesas forming a natural wall between the land of the Taurens and the savage lands of Kalimdor. If he squinted, the campfires and lamps revealed themselves to him, like thousands of fireflies hiding in the dark as the day died down.

"Her' Prophet. And don't try to jump on me, don't ya?"

And the truth was that Velen almost jumped when surprised, only to see Rayn who was handing him a bottle while holding a flask.

Ale, something of poor quality that would never grace his table when living in the Exodar or on Argus... Even Draenor. In a way, he missed those former moments of relative peace... And the pungent aroma of the ale was enough to remember those to him, promise him a relative euphoria as he drank and filled his stomach.

He could have stopped, but he emptied the whole bottle and sighed. Only to note the Goblin sporting a broad grin, with a flask raised.

"'Was about to toast in our friendship, but ya downed that bottle."

"... We are still toasting. Here. To your long life!" With a smile, Velen leaned forward and clinked his bottle against Rayn's.

"Heh, to our last night. I won't be with ya tomorrow, since... 'have some issues with Thunder Bluff since Grimtotems took over. But my heart will be with ya."

The arms sprawled over each side of the bathtub, Velen listened to the relative silence of the room and observed the candles burn down. His mind lost in the contemplation of the flames.

It was this or direct his eyes over the room assigned to Natas, whether to the desk filled with notes and books surely in a language he could not read. Or the trophy cases brimming with stolen artifacts from his peers and other enemies of the Horde.

Weapons of legendary origins, antique parchments filled with undecipherable wonders, or even mere parts of someone's body. The Prophet was still fighting his nauseous guts, trying to forget the sight of a Draenei's horn.

Everything in this room was a remembrance of the alliance though despoiled and ruined. Even the windows had assuredly been crafted by a Human, due to the delicate arrangement of steel and glass. The beauty still permitted Velen to observe the absence of mesas as they had fully entered Mulgore.

"Is there something on your mind?"

Ever so cautious, Natas talked and inquired whenever the Draenei remained silent for too long, giving him no seconds to himself. In this instant, Velen felt the fingers pressed on his shoulder while another was holding the wet sponge against his back.

Most of the filth on his skin had been cleaned off with the first fill of hot water, and they were already at the third. But even the victory of perfumed oils over the scent of cum did not stop Natas in his assault.

"I am just pondering on my purpose."

"Hmm hmm." Mused the male behind him, breathing down his neck in an attempt to be sensual.

"From all those years in exile, I did not expect the Light to guide me down this path. And without its guidance, I can barely imagine what awaits me. I will be a trophy."

"This is truth. Arm up."

Ordering, Natas released the shoulder to instead lift the arm of the Prophet and keep it that way, he then plunged the sponge beneath the armpit and used it to clean the priest's skin.

"I will become someone's wife as you wanted so dearly." Murmured the old man, his face down. "I will surely be kept away from servants, forced in isolation. Maybe I will be given the opportunity to read some books, entertain myself, as I will be locked up..."

The sponge stopped, but Velen continued.

"This is the least painful I can guess, as I could be everything in Thunder Bluff. You have been uncouth to expose me to this truth, but I do not loathe you for it. I will be exposed to more indignation than what I have suffered. It is possible I will grow used to them, the likes of Zohgo?"

The supporting hands fell, leaving Velen to wonder... And pry his eyes onto Natas who remained pensive, whilst the arms moved to embrace and encompass the Draenei.

"Velen, you are more important than you can imagine. You won't be a mere trophy, to be encased and never to see the Light. On that, I promise you. But you will endure."

Stated the Bull, his hands caressing the softening chest of Velen, cupping one of them whilst the other had its nipple stroked by an uncaring thumb.

"You will have to endure more, much more. And then, you will be happy."

"Like Gorhn?" Hissed the Priest, unable to imagine the promised alacrity. In the hands of the Taurens, he was to be tormented. Or end like Gorhn: impotent and unable to fight back. Even when Zohgo beat him, ruin him, the eunuch would beg for more.

"Geldings are different from you and me. They were criminals, filled with rage and anger, this is how we aid them. Taking the seed of wrath away, leaving only a proper member of society."

"This... Is what you're doing to me."

Carefully, the cupping hand moved with its palm up, revealing a tendril that grew from it. Flesh fused, corruption taken root... But it seemed kept in control, maintained.

"Yes. Because to the eyes of the population, everyone from the Alliance is a criminal. Sparing you now would lead to further pain once in your new home."

"And yet, I am different from a... Gelding? In what part?"

The Prophet was inquisitive, almost cold, as the tendril vanished and the hand lowered, going below the water to caress his softened belly. The defined abdominal had disappeared, leaving only soft flesh to be caressed and cajoled by the Tauren.

"You are not a creature of anger but of reason, you are subjecting yourself to this for the betterment of those you have the responsibilities of. Fret not, you are not to become a simple witness but you will take part in the integration of the Draeneis within the Horde."

"... And for that..."

"And for that, you must endure and pay the price. Tomorrow, you will be mated and taken like a wife. But only once you no longer bear the seed of wrath, you will be united and be given leniency."

"As for my peers, the souls I have guarded against the Legion? My devotees?"

"Perhaps they will find solace in your protection like you will find some over the years. Prophet."

There, the Tauren leaned over him and grunted, granting the Prophet a kiss on the neck... And another, repeatedly.

By his touch, Natas was eroding a wall, a barrier Velen had thought to establish.

Even if he did loathe the Tauren in a way, he had been kind and if he was speaking the truth, if all those cautionary examples were real. The Priest sighed, lowering his arms. His hand meeting with those of Natas, but not to restrain it.

"If your words are truthful... My freedom and influence lie in this body? This appearance?"

The prophet almost scoffed, whilst he touched the rough digits of the bovine, enjoying their warmth, and following their stroking motions.

Before he gave the Tauren the time to answer, Velen continued and pressed on the hand, guiding it below.

"Do what you must, Natas."

He stated while the calloused hands of the Tauren were on his genitals, on his cock that had never returned to its sheath since his first day here... It almost felt normal, despite the constant swings and sensitivity.

"I would prefer to do it here and now, rather than in front of a crowd."

And there, the kisses stopped.

The respiration against his neck grew louder, more intense. Like a hurricane attempting to hold its breath but failing. And the fingers moved, grazing over the cock to instead lower to the testes, caressing the shaved scrotum and feeling its weight, pressing it.

"This will be... Ours." Muttered the bull, almost reflective, until his tone hardened. "On your hooves, so I can witness it."

A few seconds passed and the Prophet was now dripping over the wooden floor, his drenched beard and hair sticking to his body. Despite the altitude of the ship or the seemingly lacking isolation, the air was pleasant enough to be comfortable even naked or wet.

And there, the Priest stood and shivered but not for the cold. Once again, the caress of Natas was over his backside, but the male was in front of him.

His piercing cold eyes were examining each detail of the Draenei, akin to an ageless sculpture, wrought by time and experience. A diamond of pressure, perfect beneath its rough outlook.

"You are divine, Prophet."

The laughter following it could have hurt Velen, but this was no sarcasm from Natas and he knew it now. There was a yearning from the Tauren. Of the man who sought to keep the distance whilst his body closed it. The lips descended and pinched the right nipple, liking it for a moment. But the fingers and hands remained motive and danced around the hips of the priest until they stopped on the front. They touched the glabrous groin, descended to caress the folds of the useless sheath. And then moved up.

Already, the blood of the priest pulsed within the shaft, bringing it warmth and life, making the organ harden but not stand upright... Not anymore. Instead, the organ weighted down and oozed its watery precum. Each suction on the nipple forced the nub to extend and stole a moan from Velen who glanced. His budding chest was already a source of pleasure; one Natas was keen to cover in kisses and affection, despite grizzled strands of hair sticking to his muzzle.

"Natas, is this how- Hh!" Began the Prophet, soon to be silenced by a sudden bite on the flesh. A bite that stopped in a second, replaced by a lick... And a growl.

"Let me do it my way. I want this moment to be memorable for you."

And there, Natas resumed his exploration although the pace seemed faster or at least, earnest to satisfy the "need" of Velen.

The hands left the length of the Prophet, descending towards its base, then the scrotum. They massaged the leathery skin and rolled it, leaving no instant for the testicles to rest. Ever so touched, stimulated, caressed, the organs seemed to heat within the grasp. But no glance allowed the Priest to see what was happening down there. Every so often, he would dare to tilt his head and torso, only for a bite to force him back into position and in silence.

But never would the mouth stop, never would the lick halt as the face moved up. Seemingly, the Tauren was giving up on the nipples to move upward... And the digits downwards, until their purpose was fulfilled, and the churning testicles ached for a release.

Just like that, Natas stood up and smiled, his exposed tongue dripping with saliva as dark as ink, before he forced himself in Velen. But even with his sore throat and his conflicted feelings, the Elder accepted the gift.

His eyes closed, whilst he was guided in a tight embrace, and through it to take a few steps. Steps he followed blindly until the tongue receded, the caress subsided. And the Prophet stood in front of a mirror.

Over the days he had spent here, his hips had widened though his torso and musculature remained the same. His face was no different, but the changes were there. His tongue sported the form of an upside-down leaf on it. His chest had grown heavier with the days and the caress of Natas had left concentric circles around his nipples. Over the crevasse separating the breasts, multiple strokes had been applied. His belly was now devoid of a mark, along with his hanging down cock and groin. But his testicles were a canvas covered with vines stamped upon the pink skin, encircling the scrotum.

And behind him was the same Tauren, smiling and holding his shoulder, letting him admire.

"There, you are ready for it?"

"For... Is it done?"

There, the bovine shook his head in denial and grasped the hand of Velen to direct it down. In a way, it seemed so alien to feel the palm pressuring him to masturbate and caress his cock. But guided, he began to do it.

His cock jolted in delight, precum flowed out of the wide urethra. The mere touch was enough to shock the priest to his core, but the caress was. It was divine. Perfect.

And the mere stroke turned into a violent pumping, wet sounds filled the silence as precum slicked between his fingers and coated the pumped shaft.

"The... light." He whispered, only for his mouth to be silenced by a tongue. His jaw maintained. The Prophet moaned inside the mouth of that man right as he ejaculated. For his organ sprayed cum, tracing white lines over the wooden floor and the lower part of the mirror.

And yet, the pleasure never receded. It grew, heating and electrifying. The Prophet could not stop himself from grasping the large organ, his refractory period non-existent.

His mind drowned in pleasure, each sensation from his glans to the base being amplified tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Even his testicles, ever so churning and heating, were providing a jolt of satisfaction whenever the scrotum clenched and another ejaculation wrecked the body of the priest.

It was pure pleasure, delight, and he kept masturbating.

Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. From regrets and horror, a part of him knew this was wrong. But how could he stop, or voice his terror? So he pumped, moaned, and whimpered. Molested by his own body and will, whilst other's hands worked behind him. Calloused knuckles hooked the swollen and sensitive rim, then for another set of digits forced their way inside. There, the Tauren provided more pleasure by the gland that echoed that madness.

At some point, Velen was unable to tell from where he enjoyed such pleasure. His cock, red, and swollen? His testicles, clenching, and low hanging? His prostate, stroked and teased? His nipples he had been pinching all that time? Or his mouth, filled by the presence of someone else?

And he kept pumping, watching as the ejaculation decreased in intensity; as the white cum lost its intense viscosity and became more translucent; as the traits of fluids stopped further and further from the mirror. All until his ejaculations were nothing different than leaking and pouring precum, his cock hard... And yet, no longer able to push any more seed outside.

There... There, Velen was freed. And his tormentor whispered in his ears.

"You have done it, Velen."

"You can do it, this is no different than... Before."

Unable to be joined in another prayer, the fingers of the prophet danced over the garb he had been bestowed for his arrival to Thunder Bluff.

After his body had been wrecked by the relentless orgasms, Velen had fallen asleep merely to wake up in the same bed as the night before, without the presence of Natas.

Instead, it was two different people who had greeted him to the waking world, two other taurens who did not sport the coal-like coat of the Grimtotem. Their faces were hardened, but their bodies were an example of the treatment he would have to undergo, with their curves and swollen bellies. Former men, like Gorhn... like Him.

And it was to their tutelage he had been entrusted.

Or at least, he had become the plaything of their puissant arms.

Like a doll, he had been prepared and decorated. His nipples, still paraded the concentric circles, were sporting two heavy golden rings weighted with green emeralds. His belly, devoid of tattoos just yesterday night, now bore the sigil of the Horde painted upon it with wide strokes.

Amusingly, they left his genitals devoid of attention. It was his face they focused on, adding more gold, more ring, more decoration. One ring for the nose, one piercing for the tongue.

Perhaps the Taurens could have done more, as they discussed and chatted among themselves in Taur'ahe, their words foreign to the Prophet. They even pointed at his hooves, though those displayed no sign of wear and tear, and they would do alright on this day.

And then, they nodded and put the garb onto the priest. Made of the most delicate blue silk, its allure amplified by his translucence and lightweight, the clothes stood in stark contrast to his former robes. Still, he wore the veil covering his mouth along with the delicate wrapping over his shoulders and his chest. The sole remnant of comfort was in the skirt cinched around his waist and covering his backside although his front had no coverage as if it was necessary for the Prophet to never be_dressed_.

A part of him despised it, but then he could do nothing to it.

He could have done nothing more in all that conflict with the Horde, in the occupation of the Exodar, and this long travel.

"Das a pret'y bride!" Suddenly, the voice of a certain Troll stole Velen to his thought. On the threshold to his room was Zohgo, though he wore a loincloth. The difference in attire struck the mind of the Draenei who cocked an eyebrow.

"Heh, don't worry, mon. I'm here to say goodbye to ya, ya're a pret'y whore." The troll stated, with a threatening grin.

"I assume you will miss me?"

"Nah! Not at all! I have me own bi'ch! All ready, 'proper, and toget'er." And with that reply, the Troll extended a finger, revealing a ring Velen never noticed before. But he did not have to guess to know who was wearing its counterpart.

Perhaps Gorhn would change his mind or attempt to flee this ship, but Velen could do nothing for that poor sod.

"Then. I guess this is a goodbye. I hope I will never have need of your services again."

"Pwah, you will get back to me. No on' can beat Zohgo in bed', but you squealed good last night."

And he laughed, laughed as he ridiculed the Prophet, who kept a stoic silence.

"Oh, don' be coy. I be messin' wit' ya! Gorhn wan'ed to say bye but dese legs, dey can't work now, ya know?"

And there, Velen frowned, only exacerbating the cruel attitude of the troll who saw fit to slide his loincloth a bit, exposing once more that massive cock that seemed already half-hard. A gulp provoking-sight. Before the Draenei recoiled and made a farce of himself to the Troll who was already taking his leave. Remained Velen, flustered and alone once more.

In that room opened on the world, on Mulgore, on the villages popping here and there in the shade of Thunder Bluff. Cautious, the Priest admired the sight of this land teeming with life and almost untouched by the sacrilegious destruction of the Horde. It looked like a peaceful Haven, and a part of him wondered if, in his captivity, he would be allowed the leisure to tread those paths.

A rumination stopped by the familiar hand on his backside.

"This is your home, now. Once married, you will familiarize yourself with our land" Simply noted Natas.

"This is beautiful."

"It is. Well, most of it. You only see the center, but the southern reaches had changed due to the war with the Alliance. But let's not preoccupy ourselves with that. Come, Thunder Bluff awaits."

And his eyes pried away from the windows, Velen followed and moved on. His path led him close to the room he had occupied and had... Sullied. Then before the barracks in which he had suffered enough. It was almost odd to not see Durn flanking him, although he had heard that most of the crew were enjoying their shore leaves.

But even then, what about Rayn? As they finally stepped outside the vessel, there were no traces of the captain though the concern quickly vanished as the Draenei glanced in the direction of Thunder Bluff landing platform. On it, and beyond, stood a crowd composed mainly of Taurens, then of orcs, trolls, and goblins, which seemed hellbent on defying the resistance of the wooden platform. But by some miracle, it held on despite the intense agitation of the crowd as he descended the ramp.

Step by step, anchored by the warm hand of Natas against his back, Velen could not grasp a word from the crowd that surrounded him. Some seemed to shout at him, with a raised fist; some seemed more keen and full of praises for Natas who harbored a cocky grin; and some simply roared to the sky, enjoying the electrifying atmosphere.

And as wood gave way to dirt then gravels, Velen relied most and most upon the presence of the Grimtotem. He went as far as narrowing the distance. The Draenei could barely comprehend anything, everything was deafening, mind-numbing.

Were they looking at him? Or lecherously observing his details? What about the duo they represented?

Of course, they knew he was the Prophet but what were the Horde expecting of him?

Therefore, he remained stoic. Under the pressure, Velen steeled his jaw and weathered the gazes and voices, his hands free of tension whilst he donned a mask of stone. And his eyes focused forth, towards a clearing maintained by a procession of guards. The men clad in armor were the only thing separating the crowd and the clearing, those in it... And by extension, Velen in a few seconds.

In its center stood a platform, a wide wooden stage upon which many Taurens were already seated: each bearing distinctive markings and a different coat, a majority being males though some were females and scowled at him.

In truth, all of them looked at him with a varying degree of spite, and it was almost surprising that any of them wanted him.

"Are they all here?" Asked the Elder, his voice just loud enough to be heard by his companion.

"Most. Some are represented, but you will be married today." Answered Natas, pushing his hand to force Velen on a brutal pace.

One in which he could have stumbled, fallen, or humiliated himself. But he did not stumble or fell, but he was still humiliated as the grand Prophet being forced to walk naked in front of a crowd. To be judged by a council who looked down at him like he was mere meat.

From the massive taurens proudly bearing their antlers adorned with feathers, to the smallest bovine with their red coat, accounting for the burly Taunka, almost all tribes were represented; but the Grimtotems. The one who took over Thunder Bluff and replaced the Bloodhoof as leaders.

And there, Velen glanced at Natas as he spoke and grinned.

He uttered one sound, incomprehensible to the Draenei, punctuated by the drums.

A dead silence suddenly flooded the large city, the immense crowd, the infinite gathering. And Natas talked in his native tongue.

Of course, nobody elected themselves to translate, or attempted to speak in common. Instead, the orator talked and everyone listened.

Though Velen noticed something besides the voice. How Natas frowned at the reply of one of the chieftains, and how his hand pressed further against the Elder's back.

The way the blue eyes suddenly turned to one of the females, and an accusatory finger was raised.

It was a discourse in which the Grimtotem seemed eager to produce answers after answers.

Until there was nothing left. The mouth agape, Natas then frowned and turned to Velen who witnessed that uneven breathing.

"You have to prove yourself, Prophet. Steel your mind and endure."

Offered the mouth as consolation, whilst the eyes were filled with scorn. An emotion the Draenei had rarely seen in the eyes of his captor during all the times they had to share.

And the bull stripped. Not calmly and cautiously, Natas simply ripped his robes like a beast. He pulled on the textile until it was shredded, shedding layer after layer before the silenced crowd.

There was no beauty, no sensuality, nor even precaution while he did this. Until the Grimtotem finally stopped, heaving and holding the last remnants of the belt while nothing was left to cover this body.

Accustomed to the robes, the Prophet compared the bull to what he had imagined of him.

Hulking and powerful, the male was still displaying a pudgy belly that did not stop him from moving. His torso was covered in scars which seemed to be the results of flagellation rather than the toll of the war.

Beneath the clothes, there was no adornment nor gold to entice the eyes... Even down between the legs, though he needed none there. Between those thighs rested a leathery dark scrotum whose scent was for the moment faints but reminiscent of what Velen had experienced by the hand of Zohgo, with a hint of earth and dirt.

Each testicle could easily fill one hand of the Draenei, though the most important sight was the equine shaft of the bull which slowly grew out of the sheath. Black like ebony, its flared head was already covered with unguent, the skin shining in the light of the day.

Already Velen observed the veins throbbing beneath it, unable to pry his eyes away while the organ arose. And he gulped, loudly, as not even Zohgo could have compared, nor the toys that had been bestowed.

The sheer size was enough to cause him to tremble, and almost quiver, his temples dripping with cold sweat. Until his skirts were lifted, and a finger plunged within him.

"Don't clench."

Again did the Grimtotem whispers within Velen's ears as he stepped behind him, pushing the pink tail aside until he had complete access to the rump. And the large hands spread the cheeks, revealing the hairy sweaty hole, exposing the gaped and soft rim. For a moment, thumbs were pressed against it whilst Velen tried to lock his knees and stilled himself.

His face was to be a stoic mask, a cold facade as the Tauren joined their hips, rubbed his length against the crack, and then the opened hole.

Just the mere contact was enough to sense the pulses traversing the length or the heat radiating from it. A delightful sensation that disappeared, replaced by the grazing of the flared tip rubbing against his testicles, then taint, and finally asshole.

Pressed against the orifice, the organ almost hid it, as the head was bigger than what the rim had taken before. And just the slight pressure applied made Velen gulp, and shiver. Horror, Humiliation, Despair. The old Prophet looked at the council before his eyes, considering their expressions.

Many harbored a shameless jubilation, others a stoical expression... Frantically, Velen sought support, help within the crowd, or a reassuring presence.

But all watching, expecting something, anything from him.

"Breathe." In a soft murmur, the warm exhalation of Natas was on his neck, followed by a kiss. The hands over his hips, the Bull was leaning over him, and ready to take the Prophet, but he was waiting.

And finally, Velen exhaled. He emptied his lungs of all that air he had been keeping during that time, letting his composure crack. And his body squirm.

There, the Tauren pushed.

Steadily, without any brutality or violence, he merely forced his shaft inside the hole. The pain was sudden and intense, mind-numbing even. But it soon receded as the bull stopped and let the inner walls adapt, progressive in his approach.

Natas awaited the hole to relax, then pushed again, giving time for the pain to recede and subside... So only was left the numbness Velen was intimate with. And the pleasure.

The warmth spreading in him, the pressure swelling in him.

"Natas." Groaned the Priest, the jaw released of pressure and the whisper flowing out.

His eyes were half-closed, the sunlight blinding in this instant as he felt himself stumbling and tumbling, his knees falling.

But then, the pressure inside his ass disappeared along with the weight of his body. Just as suddenly, his whole changed and lost its balance, until he found himself with the hands of Natas wrapped around his knees while his back rested against that mighty hairy chest. Exposed, displayed, lifted by the Bull who was now given the leisure to impale the Prophet upon his length.

"I- I can't"

"Yes, you can."

The voices, his voice, seemed so distant for the Priest as his body was now wracked by mere sensations. Perhaps he was retreating inside, hiding purposefully.

Perhaps he feared was what to happen, was what to be of him. And Velen hid and smiled. His composure broke, whilst pleasure overtook him. Whilst the Tauren bred him.

His gut taut by the mere size of the cock, Velen merely had to look down to see the throbbing length beneath his skin. Beneath the sign of the Horde. As the Tauren thrusted that ass down until the Prophet was seated, and the cock sheathed.

And steadily the bull picked up the pace as those vigorous arms hefted the Elder, divesting him of his pleasure. Only to offer it back, with grunts filled with promises, and a shock traversing his spine.

And again, the Bull repeated his action, before the crowd.

For the mind of Velen, everything was going at a leisurely pace, infinitely slow as the deprived spirit became a witness.

The Draenei admired each small pulse within his cock, watched the organ drip, and release its precum onto the platform but never to rise. Or watched the bulging cock disappear only to surge stronger and mightier than before, plucking another part of Velen's mind.

And from there, he lost control of his voice and mouth.

Saliva dripped, moans escaped.

And Velen experienced the delight and pleasure of being used. Their hips meet again with force, the testicles of Natas hitting his pink backside with abandon. It was not a punishment, as the slapping of those organs resonated in that large space, but merely an act of a male against his bride and female. The Tauren was taking him, breeding him, until his cheeks were red and his ass filled.

He fastened his eyes, feeling the warmth flooding his guts and never stopping. Soon, the bulge disappeared beneath the taut skin as the sigil of the Horde swelled and became prominent, as cum escaped his rim.

Nevertheless, the breeding continued, harsh and brash against his prostate that was toyed with. Teased, pressed, and squeezed. He was milking him, giving him all pleasure though Velen did not need it.

That pinkish cock was just dripping and leaking, as waves of delight crashed through his numbed mind. It seemed so absurd, so degrading... And as the large tongue of the Tauren forced inside his mouth, kissing him, he could not pry his eyes from his manhood that remained soft... And merely spilled precum.

Slowly, the Prophet reopened his eyes although his world was reduced to a vision black as the night. In his mouth throbbed the length of another warrior, whose shivers and quivers told him he was about to release his tension.

And so obliged to the male, he gave his testicles a firm grip until the hand behind his head pushed him against the groin, forcing him to close his eyes as cum was poured directly into his mouth.

Trained, Velen stilled himself until the grip released and the flow ceased. The male carefully pulled the length out of his throat, feeling the tip pressing his uvula and then tongue. Before he was finally capable to close his jaw and watch the bull above.

This young male was one of the most promising warriors of the Grimtotem, and as such, it was the duty of Velen to help him release any tension that may poison his mind.

Priest, Leader, Prophet... Then whore, perhaps concubine. Velen was no longer the one who ordered and pleaded, but simply ensured the pleasure of the tribe that owned him, of his husband's tribe. In this, he was their bride, to all of the males who sought his wisdom and merely mouth.

"An'she watches over you." Croaked the Priest in an attempt of a blessing, his Taur-ahe better by the day.

"Mu'sha protects you." Replied the young bull, his face still adorned with warpaint as he left the hut bestowed to Velen and his kind.

And in a sigh, Velen lifted himself from kneeling to standing on his hooves, leaving behind the familiar toy in a loud _schlurp._The Draenei followed the young male and traded the inside atmosphere, filled with incense and cum, with the fresh air of Mulgore. Then to be blessed by the sunlight beaming above Thunder Bluff.

Used to the added weight of his large waist, belly, and chest, Velen moved swiftly on the streets. No longer a curiosity, much like the other Draeneis that now lived here, the inhabitants still saluted him as an important figure.

In return, he saluted them whilst moving towards the Great tent, detailing how the city had changed with the newfound peace. Criminals from the War, from the Alliance, were not exempted from punishments for their crimes but many found solace in becoming the wives of the Taurens. For those selected few were given the chance to participate in the re-population of Mulgore and the lands farther south. And perhaps, many like Velen would build a new life.

The Exodar would remain the religious capital for his kind, many of whom stayed to rebuild but also participate in the war effort for the unification of Azeroth. For too long, there had been wars and the scars of it, of failed leadership, scoured the whole world.

It seemed stupid but a more pragmatic part of Velen appreciated his people were given a chance rather than be stamped as the enemy. Though, he knew who to bless for those opportunities.

But just as he wondered and slowed down, a large cupped the bare cheeks of Velen and then moved around the waist to grasp his wilting manhood, a shadow of what he had possessed.

"I hear songs of praises about you, Velen. Your mouth is doing wonders for our tribe." Whispered the sultry voice in his back, the same that had consistently pushed further down that path. There was a way for them all to coexist.

"Do you want an example tonight?"

"I do." And once more, their lips joined.