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A Warrioress’ Best Friend free porn video
‘No, it’s not made of saronite…’ the teal-haired night elf warrioress tactfully pronounced.
‘ ‘En eye ‘on’t kno’ wat ya want, missy.’ Soft-spoken and ever patient, D’Dea had been trying to get this dwarf weaponsmith to understand her request for a good fifteen minutes. She was increasingly of the impression he already knew he didn’t know how to smith the sword she was seeking, and was merely taking some twisted pleasure in wasting her time.
‘A…felsteel longblade…’ Carefully, slowly, struggling not to be patronizing. It wasn’t in the night elf’s nature, and she was in earnest, she was willing to hold out on the slimmest hope the beady-eyed, calloused, filthy dwarf (was he a Dark Iron dwarf or had he just not taken a bath in so long?) could deliver. ‘It is an Outland weapon. Crafted from felsteel. Reddish-black, slightly curved, broad-tipped, single-edged, one-handed. Can you make it? Or, do you know someone who can?’
‘Eye ‘on’t kno’, missy, ya hafta give me more info’mashion.’
‘How about gold? If you can tell me the name of a smith who can craft this sword, I will give you a hundred gold.’ To the quick.
The dwarf smithy’s indolent eyes lit up with greed. ‘Aye that be easy, missy. Lady Aestu, of course, she can smith jus’ about anything. A real piec a’ work, ‘at one, tho.’
D’Dea felt promise before her. The dwarf seemed to be speaking in earnest. Greed was such a strong motivator for the lesser races. She had heard the name before…not always in the nicest sort of way… ‘So, do you know where I could find her?’ D’Dea’s long eyebrows danced above her delicate lavender features, animated with an almost teenage excitement at the prospect of finally laying hands on the sword she coveted so long.
The dwarf had already turned back to his work – or rather, to balefully turning the molten slag next to his forge over and over. Without turning around: ‘Las’ I hears, she was ’bout th’ land o’ the raccoon folks.’ It took D’Dea a moment to make the connection. Raccoon folks? The Pandaren? Pandaria?
‘Thank you so much, dwarf ally. I shall not forget to give you the hundred gold I promised upon having Aestu craft my sword.’ The dwarf half-turned to give her a last baleful look but did not argue, for all the good it would have done, the night elf, half again his height, had already mounted her pinkish-red drake – one of Alexstrazsa’s chosen – and was flying up, up to the plateau above Stormwind, where the kingdom magi labored to maintain a portal to the formerly-mythical land that was now the latest front for the humans’ quixotic endeavours. It was less than a thousand paces from the dwarf’s anvil, but somehow she suspected that the smithy, caught up in his own petty foibles, had no idea the plateau even existed.
Hunting a person was not so different than hunting a stag. It took patience, diligence, resourcefulness, subtlety and guile. Speed, stealth, and powers of observation. A discreet question here, a bit of observation there, setting rhetorical traps, knowing when to watch and when to strike. Not that it was difficult. The Pandaren were a friendly and gregarious people. They were not fools, but it took little guile to procure information from them as to her quarry. Thirty minutes in this or that bar, dimly-illuminated by red silken lights, pungent with thick beer and loud with the unsettling belly laughs of the Pandaren led D’Dea up… Mt. Kota.
The warrioress guided her drake – stoic and obedient in the face of the exotic grandeur of Pandaria – to land her on a steppe about a third of the way up, a good half-mile above the foothills. It was a picturesque sight indeed. The length of the Western Wall could be seen from its southern steppes, the air was chill and crisp, the snow and ice brilliant, still, unmoving, sluicing down with the slowness of ages from the forbidding peaks of the mountain. D’Dea’s sharp eyes gazed down at the wild savannah of the lowlands, and further away, the terraced agriculture of the valley.
The dry chill of the mountain wind, a south-south-east breeze, was not uncomfortable to the scantily-armored night elf. Her people were accustomed to exposure from infancy, it did not bother them. Their feminine machismo demanded the exposure of their physical grace and beauty – the tendency of other races towards prudishness seemed to reek of self-loathing and unreasoning hostility towards the natural. Not a goosebump appeared on her long, toned, pinkish-purple abdomen and legs, exposed past the limited coverage of her lime-green half-breastplate and armored kilt. Her ears pricked up –
Around an outcropping she sighted her quarry. A draenei paladin, about as tall as herself. Out of her dishwater-blonde hair, ending in a pair of pigtails, emerged long curved horns not so different from the crests of the mountain goats about the steppes of Mt. Kota. She wore a set of ponderous sapphirum armor, fitted with the sort of reinforced knee protectors draenei preferred. The draenei dug at the tough steppe clay with her shovel. Where handle met spade, the stock narrowed to a forefinger’s width, so that the draenei could guide the shovel between the toes of her right hoof. Left and right of the breadth of the bluish-lavender spade – some exotic draenei alloy, the night elf surmised – were a pair of horizontal spikes, allowing the draenei to apply leverage with either hoof to pull the spade back out of the earth.
The draenei did not seem to notice D’Dea. Indeed, her stalker’s instincts were still switched on. Realizing this, she called out – ‘Hello there, ally!’
Aestu released her hoof from the spade and turned. She’d heard of this paladin’s reputation. Conflicted. By some accounts mad, bad and dangerous to know, by others, a misunderstood idealist. D’Dea took in her face and eyes. Aestu’s eyes glowed with the brilliant blue opalescence common to all draenei – she had met many in her adventures, her cute light-blue features were delicate yet rugged, steady and full of character. What would be called handsome, for a woman. Behind the calm expression on her face and cool gaze, D’Dea sensed…exhaustion, melancholy. As if the fire within was a shadow of what it once was.
‘How do you.’ Neat, heavily accented Common. ‘What would you ask of me?’
The jaded impatience of the draenei’s query offended D’Dea’s night elf sensibilities. But she reminded herself – from what she knew, this was a very tried woman – so she replied in kind…
‘A felsteel longblade, Lady. I am told you can smith it.’
‘I can smith…very nearly anything. I can even smith armor purposed for the old Naxxramas. Do you have the materials, on you?’ Boastful. Impatient. Yet matter of fact. Certainly not deliberately rude.
‘Yes, Lady, I do…’ D’Dea took a step forward, handed a sizeable gunnysack to the draenei. It was no harder for the draenei to take the cubit-and-half bag of ingots and ores than it was for her to hand them to her. It was a bit of an adjustment, actually, handing the mass to someone her own height and strength. The draenei opened the bag, gazed in, shook the contents around, making sure they were all there. D’Dea sensed a mental checklist being scratched off.
At Aestu’s waist was a toolbox. She opened it, pulled out a dull metal box, gave it a good whack with her wrist as she let it fell to the ground. The box resounded with disproportionate volume and unfolded into a miniature anvil and forge. Impressive trick. The draenei did her work with a gnomish army engineer’s combination tool – pounding, annealing, trimming, shaping, touching up.
‘I was doing archaeological research. It is a hobby I have taken up in my…active retirement.’ Answering the question unasked.
‘I see. Why an active retirement, Lady?’ The draenei answered to the formal address whether she approved of it or not. Her strikes upon the metal became slower, though, weighed down by rumination.
‘Sometimes…one is fit for…a place and time, a purpose. You grow into it
, and when it’s gone, what do you have?’ Aestu shrugged. ‘This new era doesn’t need such paladins as me.’
‘The Age of Mortals,’ affirmed D’Dea.
Aestu’s cute features hardened. ‘It has ALWAYS been the Age of Mortals. Our destiny has always been our own. It is not the Age of Mortals, it is the age of…the small.’ A pause while the draenei controlled herself. ‘What I offered was initiative. But this era, initiative is not needed. The King issues a call to arms, men show. Some Pandaren post notice of a crisis, men show. But what need is there of those to…go out looking for great deeds to be done? More than just showing up to a queue?’ Her crested blue brow furrowed. ‘That is not needed. I am not needed. So, I…amuse myself.’
‘So you miss the old days.’
‘Miss them? No. Well. They were…satisfying. In the ‘old days’, I was never happy where I was or with what I was doing. Yet somehow, I found purpose in what I did. Even if it made me enemies. I made a few friends too – real friendship, tested friendship. Forged, like a sword.’ With that, Aestu skillfully lifted the sword from the anvil with her tongs and dipped it in a deep puddle. Grabbed it by the blade and handed it to D’Dea hilt-first. ‘There you go.’
‘My thanks, Lady. …How much would be appropriate?’
Aestu shrugged. ‘A hundred gold?’ D’Dea delicately opened her leather pouch and handed over a single hundred-krone piece. ‘Anything else?’
‘Actually…’ D’Dea peered at Aestu for a moment. Took in her calm, straight-dealing gaze, the small ironic smile on her broad lavender lips. Why not? ‘There is something else. Could you smith me…a conical rod, a thumb’s thickness, half a cubit long, with a smooth, tapered tip? The surface must be completely clean and smooth, and the base must be suitable to grip with the palm of one’s hand. Make it out of a lightweight metal, but the alloy must contain no lead, cobalt or quicksilver.’
Did the draenei suspect? Did her people have similar inclinations?
Aestu smiled, amused. ‘Ah, I see. I can do that for you, certainly. You are not the first to order such a thing. No need to be bashful, a toy is a warrioress’ most fun and loyal companion. From my experience, though, it’s better a bit broader than high, with a bulge on one side of the tip and some gentle furrows on the other. Yes?’
‘Ahh… I will entrust myself to your experience, Lady Aestu. Thank you.’ The night elf meekly bowed.
Aestu took an ingot from her toolbox, placed it on the anvil, and, smiling slightly, got to work. D’Dea felt compelled to turn away while Aestu crafted the thing. She heard the clank, clank, clank of Aestu’s combination tool, followed by the hiss of water on elementium. ‘All done!’ D’Dea turned back to Aestu. ‘Thank…’
D’Dea’s shy gratitude was cut short by the howl of a great yeti. The two armored women turned – the eight-foot-tall (and nearly as wide) ape had come up the pass quite silently. The creature roared again, spittle foaming forth from its maw. With a practiced gesture, Aestu bent one double-jointed knee slightly and reached to her waist with a smooth movement of her elbows. In a moment, her sword and shield were in her hands, ready for action. D’Dea’s twin swords flashed into her hands – she loosened her limbs for combat. She would follow the more heavily armored paladin’s lead.
The paladin yelled fiercely in her native Draenic, throwing her shield headlong at the beast to cover her broad slashing charge. The shield returned to her just as she closed to melee and her wide slash landed, raking the beast’s torso and breaking its momentum. She brought up her shield in a defensive gesture as the yeti countered, a mighty punch with a fist the size of a sheep. D’Dea moved up behind the creature and began to hack and slash at its exposed flank and rear. The beast howled in rage, stomping hard, hard enough to bring down a hail of snow and pebbles from the steppes above onto the combatants. The yeti was fierce but not smart – hack, slash, parry, slash, slash, jab – the beast faltered. With its last ounce of strength, it gave one great yell and a brutal double-fisted strike at the paladin, the full inertia of its dying form thrust at her armored blue form. The paladin shrieked in pain. D’Dea vaulted over the corpse, all worry.
What’s wrong with Aestu?
The paladin stood there, bowed over slightly, her long-fingered blue hands clutched tightly around her ears and brow. Her curvaceous, double-kneed form swayed unevenly, drunkenly. Her eyes were distant and full of panic. D’Dea kept her distance, wary. Aestu continued to sway back and forth, her brow suddenly sweaty in the frigid air, tears streaming down her cheeks. D’Dea cocked her head and glanced at the side of Aestu’s brow…saw a hairline crack, about as long as her thumb, running down the base of her left horn, just above her shimmering dishwater-blonde bangs.
‘Give me a moment,’ said Aestu slowly, unevenly. The draenei fixed her gaze on a nearby rock, inhaled and exhaled deeply through her mouth and nose. Tried to evacuate her inner ear and re-establish her equilibrium. Gradually the sweat and tears stopped – still obviously unsettled, however.
‘Will…that leave a mark?’ D’Dea innocently asked.
‘Yes. It will.’ Aestu’s face was a hot silver flush of humiliation. ‘When you lose your moment…get rusty…it’s a hard thing. You feel you’ve lost something you can never find again.’ The paladin breathed deeply.
‘I…understand, Lady. It’s nothing. I doubt I could have handled the beast alone. Thank you.’ The night elf bowed and gestured to the skies for her circling drake to descend, leaped onto the saddle.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ The paladin was smiling again. The crack in her horn was still visible, but the sweat and tears had dried and all D’Dea could see was that irrepressible smile. Aestu tossed the night elf her ‘toy’. Her elven grace failed her, she fumbled for it twice before cupping it against her exposed abdomen with both hands. She’d handled severed heads with less awkwardness.
‘How much-‘ ‘Don’t worry about it. Have fun.’ D’Dea intended to take that advice to heart.
A suitable place for a one-woman getaway. Booty Bay! Why not? The lesser races might have thought night elves had their wires crossed – to the motley crowd of humans, dwarves and gnomes, fornicating outside was to commune with their rejection of the natural environment – a ‘guilty pleasure’ – but for the night elves, life for D’Dea’s people was all outdoor, indoor environments being temples, shops, storehouses, barracks – infinitely less discrete, less natural, than a secluded grove. A wicked place for narcissistic self-indulgence. To indulge in a grotesquely plush, materialistic hotel room, Goblin fashion was…an all but forbidden pleasure.
D’Dea locked the door behind her and stripped out of her armor. Her chiseled yet graceful form – flat tummy, round buttocks, firm conical breasts, wide hips – was still slick with perspiration from travel and battle, torrid from the thick linen insulation of her thorium armor and the wet heat of Stranglethorn. Laid down on the gaudy bed, with its pineapple-and-flamingo pattern, lowered her brown linen thong. She breathed deeply. Prepared herself.
From her supine position D’Dea exerted herself to make a long reach to her satchel, too lazy to get up, enervated by the plush bedding. Pulled out the toy, discretely hidden in a long silk scarf. Examined it a bit. A good piece of work, it was – wider than it was tall, teasing little indents along the base, and a brash, sensuous bulge at its tip. Solid ebon color, solid but smooth, metallic but warm. A lusciously exaggerated parody of a manhood. The night elf woman rubbed it back and forth in her moist hands. Delicately brought it to her lips – kissed it slightly, wet its very tip with her tongue – then brought it down to her other pair. Teased her outer labia with its moistened tip. A delicate push – her taunt womanhood resisted. Fudge.
D’Dea reached down with both hands, kneaded herself with her long lavender fingers, pressed and kneaded, back and forth – she felt her fingertips moisten. She let out a coo. As she continued to work herself, the coo became a deep groan. She felt herself open up. She was ready. Slid the ebon length inside herself.
She gasped at her own reaction. It was so good. So good. Her taunt elven form convulsed in passion, her glutes, toned with chase and battle, pushing up against her excited pelvic floor. If the toy had been the genuine article, the feedback would have been too much for any man to bear. She drew the toy back, and in, and down again, and out, in quick, uneven motions, like sawing through the gamey muscle of a fallen stag. She felt herself grow wet all over – not only in her womanliness, but her breasts, her abdomen, her armpits, all excited and exuding perspiration. She choked on her own breath. More, more. She drew herself in and out, going from teasing herself to desperate gratification, sawing away at her dark purple orifice. She could smell her own scent filling the room with its musky abundance. See, saw, see, saw. Back and forth. From sawing to determined deep pumping. The lump at the toy’s head worked as advertised, it tantalized that rough flat spot just inside her, below her abdomen, opposite her mons pubis. Her inner wall wept spasms of passion. Rougher thrusting now. Rougher. Deeper. All but the full half-cubit length deep. So good…
‘Yo, lady! You want your drake fed, or do I tell it what to do with itself? Ten gold a meal for that beast, but five hundred gold fee for each of my guys it eats if it gets too hungry!’
OMFG!!!
D’Dea cursed. Again. Rose unevenly from the bed, still holding her favorite toy between her legs, she couldn’t let that delightful thing go. She got up just enough to yell at the door. ‘Feed my drake, goblin, bill me in the morning, and don’t disturb me again!’ Her tone of voice said she meant business.
The goblin had some common sense. ‘Fine by me, lady.’ As much attitude as he thought he could have short of endangering his life.
Omg…
Lay back down, back to teasing, teasing…calming down…pushing mental images of violence out of her mind…imagining a third-party point of view on herself, her tall nude form convulsed in pleasure, a picture of night elf sensuality. Gripped one of her firm softball-sized breasts, her magenta nipples firm with arousal.
Back and forth. In and out. Sensuous pleasure. For hours. Sleep came slowly to D’Dea.
Morning. She paid her bill, including the fee to feed the drake. They charged her more than she thought was fair, but whatever – and she tipped them extra, too. Wanted to make sure next time she wasn’t bothered.
D’Dea felt aroused. A bit giddy. Playing with herself and her new friend had been fun, but not entirely satisfying. There had to be a way to make it better…More immediately, she had to do more chores for the Pandaren to replenish her purse.
Her routine began at the Sanctum of Seven Stars. And whom did she notice fiddling with some wires at the engineering bay but the inimical draenei paladin. Her left horn was touched-up with a bit of blue-dyed rubbing cement. Didn’t look half bad. The draenei’s back was to D’Dea, but she happened to turn at just that moment. Smiled.
‘D’Dea. You enjoy life now?’ Chipper through her heavy draenei accent.
‘Yes, I think.’ ‘You think. You need more kick? I see that in your eyes.’ The night elf’s eyebrows shot up with an expression of half-offended innocence.
‘You do, yes?’ ‘C, can you do that? How? Uh, what will it cost?’
‘A bit of gnomish technology. Two hundred gold. A small attachment to the base of your toy, if you like.’ D’Dea swiftly reached into her bag and forked over the toy. Only on second thought did she glance swiftly around at the surrounding crowd of motley Alliance adventurers of all races, who, she supposed, were all caught up in their own business. Or did anyone see her? Glanced back down at the toy. She had cleaned it off entirely. She was sure. Not so sure she didn’t look it up and down nervously at its length, grasped in Aestu’s lithe blue hand. Any wet spots she missed?
Lizbeth
- 15.12.2022
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