<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/c/cf/Olivia_the_cleric.jpg)</div>"Not again," she groans as strong arms direct her in earthy twilight, the way ancient people in caves used to live and fuck. It certainly isn't a scream, is almost under her breath, except that the rough treatment causes her breath to leave in gusts and her volume pitches with it. She remembers the day she was given the white mantle of a cleric-errant and the gentle way her mentor fastened it, as a wild elf inverts it roughly and yanks button from hole to feel into her cleavage. The bandit isn't done at first squeeze like a tavern lecher. She splays the stretchy material in rough fingers, and shimmies it down as a useless white underline beneath the milk chocolate teardrops of her exposed breasts. The intention to come back to these later is clear.<br/><br/>There's a recollection as her soft mouth is pawed with an indecisiveness for which hole to stuff. She recalls the sober talk with her mentor, three years ago.<em>To be young again. Give adventuring men a week in the woods, and they'll take a crack at you. Monsters are going to stick things in you they don't mention in the books. You must decide whether to flourish underneath them like a queen bee, or die for your honor like a worker. </em>It's an easy choice to make, in her mind. When her arms go stiff to hold her captor at bay for a moment, it isn't a refusal. What she communicates is that she needs a moment to become wet.<br/><br/>So she does.<br/><br/>It's easy to lose herself in daydream with only the tiniest of light through the leaves for company. She imagines a lush jungle like this one but tailored to her comfort instead of itchy and prickly and whining with insects. There's a cozy, intimate treehouse immaculately kept by a wild elf mate, yes, a little like this one bunching up her skirts and spilling her heat into the open air, but closer to lovely and well groomed city girls Olivia is comfortable with. Fruit offers itself from the vine, and their treehouse is a nest to three dark half-elven children, happy mediums between Olivia's good sense and a wild elf's unquenchable drive. Each one has been a happy accident, since their desperate lovemaking is the kind infinitesimally unlikely to ever result in pregnancy.<br/><br/>Okay. That'll do. Olivia's arms soften, and she allows the side of her face to be pushed into a pillow of crumbly soil.