Chapter 2 - The Power of a Name

The young kaldorei collapsed, panting from her recent exertions. Sweat glistened against her thighs and the small of her back, cooling her body but drying quickly, thanks to the roaring blaze of the bonfire set in the center of the room. Her gaze wandered over a limited view, as she found herself unwilling to turn her head, to break away from the thrumming euphoria which coursed through her mind and body. She wondered why such a thought would even cross her mind. It had been a long while since an orgasm this good had run through her, hadn't it? A smile touched her lips as she remembered the scream that had been torn from them just moments before.

She realized her lover's shaft was still lodged deep inside her core. Though it had finished spending heat to her depths, its hardness had only slightly abated. Her smile became one of approval. Women may have been as much to her tastes, but she always appreciated a virile man. The woman stretched slowly against the stone surface, parting her legs slightly and inviting him to continue. A gravelly chuckle escaped her lover's lips and caused the kaldorei to feel a moment's flutter of hesitation. It was fleeting, gone again as the throbbing heat sheathed inside her began to withdraw.

She felt the rough caress of a single digit against the puckered flesh of her anus. The prick of something sharp- a claw tip where a nail should have been- just above the taboo entrance. The young woman inhaled sharply, surprise a weak emotion under the euphoria that had yet to fade. She didn't move away though, not even when she felt the void where the man's cock once was. She merely groaned, a sound that covered the faint splatter of his seed and her nectar to the ground beneath her.

The sound became one of anticipation as she felt the scrape of his finger dip to her thighs and gather the liquid, to slather and press more firmly into the bud. He said something to her then, she knew. But it was as though the words came in from a distance, no more than a sense of their content. All that she knew then was the rush of compliance, the way her body arched and pressed her buttocks to his waiting hands and probing fingers. She gasped again as the resistance in the muscle gave way to insistent pressure, admitting her lover's finger.

A hiss escaped her when the claw was felt, but the pain simply added to the pleasure of the invasion. She was aware of breathing heavily, panting, cheek pressed against stone as she held herself still and allowed this man to prepare her. Her gaze wandered again, though there was not much to see; the fire reflected against stone and against her flesh, and caught the edges of shattered glass below her elevated, makeshift bed.

The lazy smile faltered only then. Within the shattered pile of glass was the remains of some fluid. Such a small amount, hardly worth her attention. How she wanted to drown in the rich sensation clouding her mind, to return to the pleasures her lover allowed her, now as two fingers had slid in with the help of their earlier release. Yet the hesitation had returned, stronger this time. And it brought with it a memory.

The struggles of a strong woman, bound, as a vial was pressed to her lips. Much of the fluid she was inevitably forced to swallow, though some trickled down her chin and chest before the bottle was dashed, far too late, to the ground. She felt she should know the purple-skinned woman, who had her verdant hair, her silver eyes. But the name eluded. Who was she?

Who am I? She began to struggle against the surface of the raised stone. To encourage her lover. To get away from him. She understood his next words, ones that followed a harsh laugh. As if he knew what she felt and delighted in the conflict.

"So you fight still. I do love the kaldorei spirit." She softly cried out when the fingers were tugged free, none too gently at that. The sensation sent another pulse of pleasure through her, but this time it only added to her confusion. Footfalls robbed her of the intent to struggle with looking over her shoulder, for he was circling around her. She shivered, momentarily forgetting the panic at not knowing her name, when she felt his damp fingers run up the cleft of her buttocks and the small of her back. The kaldorei's body arched as if trained to the touch.

A small part of her was beginning to fear the truth of that.

But it was the least of nightmares. Against stone, the footsteps echoed oddly, neither bare foot or cobbled boot heel, but the two-count strike of hoof. She remembered the name of the creature before she saw him. But the horror and disgust at having thought him a lover was as distant now as the hesitation earlier. She could not bring herself to be repulsed, though she knew she should. The young woman struggled, at war with herself both physically and mentally. The vial. It had something to do with the liquid she drank. She remembered that now. The woman was her, the unwilling captive. But she still could not remember her name.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the thing that had her in its thrall. Dark brown, shaggy hair - fur- completely covered its (his) legs, bent to animalistic angles and ended in hooves, though he had walked with a grace that would be called unnatural by her in other circumstances. She would have looked up, to a bare torso adorned with tattoos that glowed with faint light - foul spell-work that she had no desire to interpret, to the head and its crown massive horns, bearded features that twisted the nobility of her species to a perversion. Yet she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the turgid length of his cock jutting from his shaggy groin, veined and purple, still obscenely covered with a mix of his spunk and her moisture. The bulbous head still seeped its own lubrication. It was with the first twist of her stomach- faint, gone in moments- that she realized she had tasted him before. Had even savored the privilege.

The satyr looked down at her with a cruel smile, as if he knew what was going through her mind. A prayer to a goddess began to tremble from her lips but was cut short as the creature's hand suddenly entangled in her hair and forced her to look up. "None of that, now," he chided. "You are far from Elune's here." Of course he spoke her language, knew of the kaldorei's goddess. The similarity of the satyrs to her people was more than just a coincidence. But the tear that escaped her that moment was not of this shame or the pain as her head was jerked up to meet the cruel eyes of a fel-warped night elf. It was that moment in which she realized she had virtually forgotten the name of her people's chief goddess. It had only been the creature's words which brought it back.

With his free hand, he caught the tear, leaving behind a streak of their joint pleasure. The satyr released the kaldorei, letting her head fall to the stone 'bed'. Altar, she realized, some fuzzy detail plucked from the back of her mind. "You have lasted a while. Far longer than the male." He stepped to her side, out of sight again. But she knew his presence now and trembled when he remained close. She couldn't find the will to move, although she wasn't bound. "I wonder if your paladin friend will last as long... or longer." He paused, anticipation maybe. She shifted again, caught off-guard. Paladin friend...?

"But that honor will not be mine. I will be content-- ah?" Some noise the kaldorei made must have alerted him, for he paused. "You don't remember, do you." The satyr's tone was amused, bloated with an undercurrent of triumph, a point scored in a battle he was slowly winning. "Bit by bit, your memories will fade. So much of your life is already gone. It will be replaced, of course. You have a better fate than most who fall into my hands." She felt his clawed fingers stroke against the small of her back before they plucked at the edge of soft leather. Only then did she realize she was still wearing a top, one that covered her breasts- and not much else- and was laced in the back. These he set to unwinding slowly.

She was aware he had done this before, many times over, to expose the tattoo he'd fashioned for her, one that lay underneath. She was never shown the design and only remembered a burning sensation each time it had been added to. Each time he added to the pattern and gave her the drink... The young woman's head throbbed as she tried to remember.

"Shh..." The mockery of a soothing hiss came from the satyr. But the beginning of pain abated, replaced by a tingling sensation that grew with intensity. She realized he was tracing the pattern, going over the lines from first to newest. The spell that held her in place, the lines that made her compliant. Whorls, ones that reached such an intensity of sensation that still burned.

"It's been three days," said the satyr. "I would be surprised if you could remember your old name. Do you, my dear?" He reached the end of the pattern then. She knew where it stopped. 

She gasped as he continued to slide his fingers. The mild burn changed to fire as a new line of the spell was etched into her flesh. The shameful euphoria pulsed in and out of her consciousness. Part of her had become conditioned to enjoy the ritual, even as her mind struggled. Her name, he said. She tried to remember her name, but it was hard, so hard to focus. 'M'. Had it not begun with an M?

She moaned in torment, yet held still under his burning touch and allowed him access to her flesh. She feared if she could not remember her name in time, she would not deny the drink as she had before. As precise as a thin dagger, the trace of the stayr's finger seemed to echo a sensation in her mind. She felt another memory lost, knowing not what it was, for it was gone before she had a sense of it. It took all her will not to dwell, to instead focus defiantly on the one challenge he placed before her. 

"M....muh...." Her whole body was beginning to burn, though no place as much as the satyr's touch. As she felt consumed by the fire, one word was torn from her lips. Half agonized, half triumphant.

"MESUNIDE!"

She was not dying. She would not be allowed to die in the satyr's 'care', she realized. But the pain was for a moment overwhelming. As her consciousness faded into the darkness, she heard the creature's dark laughter. She did not need to hear his response to know why he was so amused. Three days. She could not bring herself to rise against him. Her memories, nearly gone.  What power was in the pitiful triumph of recalling her name?

What would she become when even that was gone?