She had every malice in her, he was sure, but still left clues for him to follow. Simple warrior, taking refuge in the pleasure, without knowing he was continuing his search for weapons inside her that he might use to further disassemble her. He tried it for as long as she let him, this game of alternating bedsheet disciplines, and had some success with it, judging by the way her sounds and expression changed. She was not some well trained brothel citizen, and didn't know to guard herself from what he intended. It was pleasurable for him too, how could it not be, with her anger hugging his cock, and her slick enticing him deeper. It was the great misfortune of a female body, that they always added their own slippery to the blood he'd drawn. How adorably her toes told him, and how happy he was when she discovered his design. Not even Aryel could argue her own moans.<br/><br/>Like any good cattle, she gave plenty of sign of her intentions when she didn't want to be lead, and he had no trouble fucking her for punishment, too. It was quite a place, above her, when he could finally know her like this. She let it happen inside, subject to his cock, which was a sacrifice to his ego. It did make it more difficult to last, but he was better than her at this, even without his magics. He'd not claim to fly better than her with grown wings, and she had no hope of besting him in the bed. It never helped her that she was so generous with her moans, and that her verbal agony was also perfect, after she had led a group of people away from him. Everything she was, was loss, and Rysalt adored her for it.<br/><br/>And as the color grew on her, and she was sorely pushed toward wrath, he still liked it. Little treasure of emotions under him, but with no real way of changing her fate. She allowed for his palm across her face, which almost had him release into her then, and then shr invited with her lack of initiative that he MUST take her throat too. He obliged her bodylanguage, and thought it was a perfect handle. And her fate was to worship his cock uncontrollably. While he kept her there, neck down, she admitted with her cunt that he'd been better than her resolve, and had rapture at a violent thrust, not a caring one. He laughed quietly, to let her know he'd expected it. He intended to remake her sexual self, and make it so that she would crave for harshness, and couldn't help herself.<br/><br/>He stared down at her, to see what she offered him now. His hands were adamant around her airpipe. If she wanted to think he might kill her while having his fun, there was no argument in the intent of the crush. There was no reason for him to delay anymore, and he started giving her the molten fertility, gasping at the rising urgency and tingling delight. A good few ropes to christen her for him, and then he pulled out of her satisfied quim to move up her body, staying at her chest and leaving part of him there too. He saved a few lines for her face before he was done, and sat by her side, sighing in satisfaction and wiping his forehead merrily. He counted on her being at least a little fatigued, if not by that screeching orgasm, then at least from all the abuse and fighting.<br/><br/>He stroked a horn and looked at her with accomplishment before starting to pull her close to him again. He laid down and kissed unsullied parts of her hair. She'd shown she had no fire left, and he could easily subdue her now, weak from all the day's trials. Ideally, she'd be out cold after so much abuse, but if she persisted, he hoped she'd learned something at all about her situation, and didn't struggle. While his cock had a good helping of her, it was only half deflated against her, always ready for more. It would seem all she ever did was arouse it.<br/><br/>He stroked her spine down to the bases of her wings. "Will you sleep now?" he asked and looked down at her, face concerned, almost fatherly. It was quite clear he didn't think much of his abuse of her than perhaps his right, or even a necessity to make her what he wanted. In that, he wasn't far from a father, either. It was, however, a bit removed when his hand slipped between them, and he cupped the very gash he'd stabbed into, both to punish and please her, like he was worried for her temperature.<br/><br/>"Or are you still hungry?" Maybe, somewhere inside all this acted out insanity, he was leaving her choice of more relentless fucking if she wanted to trade her own rebellion, or a offer or sleep, finally, if she promised to dream and slay him there, instead of conspiring to do it here, in his tent. Either way, she would have to offer up some pride and obedience, but that was likely much of her life from now on. And morning would come, anyway.