<b><span style="font-size: 18px">Wilderness East of Yartar</span></b><br/><br/>Voluminous red hair dances, teasing across Grull's body as Lydia's head pulses up and down, her warm mouth consuming him time and again. She pauses after eight bounces, to suck as fiercely as she is capable, her cheeks hollowing as her tongue lashes the stiffness trapped helplessly within her. And then she is bobbing again, her pointy elven ears marking her motions in a sea of wine colored hair. This time she bobs only seven times, before her cheeks are again drawn inward, vigorous suction combined with her aggressive tongue to push the captured war chief to new heights. And just when he begins to get used to the sensation, she is moving again, dropping one pulse from each cycle - such that she's always changing her tune one bounce before the orc's instincts will expect it.<br/><br/>Blowjobs were, of course, a tool that cedes all the power and control to the woman. Lydia controls the pace, controls the sensations. And as the carriage slows at the river, she is able to increase her intensity further, with no need to worry about stability. At the sound of the orcs gathering outside the door, her left hand - away from the door - draws a crystal from a pouch, wrapping its chain through her fingers. Head tilting, she drives her tongue into the underside of Grull's orcness as her eyes crane up his body, seeking his own gaze. Pressing into him as he explodes within, his essence combining with the heat and wet of the sorceress' mouth, her tongue grinds against the spurting organ as if milking it, uncaring about the new audience. Or seemingly uncaring, because her crystal-equipped hand twists, invoking the Minor Illusion cantrip ... it's lack of a verbal component convenient under the circumstance.<br/><br/>Once Grull is done, her head lifts. She allows just a single dribble to escape the corner of her mouth, running down her chin, as she glances to the crowd at the door. Thanks to her illusion, her clothes are seemingly in tatters, one of her breasts bearing bruises roughly in the shape of an orcish hand, a similar set at her waist, and a substantial amount of orcish essence seeps down the inside of her thigh from beneath her seemingly ripped skirt. Her eyes wide with seeming fear, she swallows the last trace of Grull's excitement and clutches at the war chief's leg, looking to his raiding party very much like a thoroughly beaten and savagely raped woman. The last thing she needed was his orcs poking fun at Grull and driving him to anger.