Forgiving Sins (Futa/futa, non-sexual violence, prostitution, mind control)

Story by TreadedWater

This is a relatively recent story (say compared to my first ones ever, which were actually sailor moon fanfictions I did on Wordpad on a computer with windows 98, but nobody will ever see those because they were awful and I threw that computer out of a window), but it's a good example of the general tone and mood of all my stories because it has just about everything. It's missing lactation, but it just didn't fit into the story.

Or did it? Maybe I need to read this thing again.

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“Vendel’o eranu.”

Verretta swallowed back her apprehension. Just as the words left her lips, she wanted with her whole being to pull them back and keep them, wanted desperately for another chance at that moment, to keep the words from being uttered.

The soft-purple eyes of the night elf laying next to her went wide for a moment, but then returned to their knowing, affectionate gaze, and her gawk reformed back to her approving smile. Veretta struggled not to melt under the seemingly unconditional attention she was being given.

Well, there was one condition, she knew. It was sitting in a large bag on the table across the room, glittering yellow under the dim light of the young moon outside. It was a large sack, and Veretta hadn’t put any consideration to how full it was. She didn’t care—what she needed would not bear the stain of numbers.

It was love that she needed. She needed not to be judged or weighed against others. And here, in Booty Bay, far in the tangle of plants called Stranglethorn, she had found that, for the right price, Veretta could be made to feel very, very loved.

And so now here she was, Veretta Violetgaze, laying in bed with a Kaldorei whore. Her entire body seemed little more than a crude construct of various shades of purple—purple hair, purple eyes, purple skin. She should have made it clear to the mistress of the inn that she wanted a suitable partner, not a gigantic grape with legs, approvingly long and flawless legs they may be.

But the moment the night elf had taken her arm—affectionately, no less—Veretta’s doubts had crumbled. She willingly followed to the bedroom, where her clothing was removed methodically, placed on the floor with all the care and reverence usually only reserved for ruined pelts and bent blades.

Veretta, although now uncovered, letting her long, white hair drape over her shoulders and around her neck, had been careful to speak orcish, lest the other elf understand her, the last words had slipped out of, seemingly, their own will. Her lips quivered even now, and tears welled up at the corners of her eyes, rolling down her cheek and under her nose toward the bed beneath her. The hot liquid felt like acid searing down her pale, flawless flesh.

In a rush, the experiences of her last week came rushing back to her. With trembling fingers, she covered her mouth, hoping to hide her grieving shudder, and involuntarily she pulled her knees up to her chest and began to tremble like a newborn, completely defenseless and so very cold, so very alone.

She was there again, in her post, in the Ghostlands. She hadn’t wanted to be, of course, but things of that nature were never up for debate. She was assigned where her modest talents as a mage were needed. She could remember clearly the workload for the day.

It was simple, it had been so simple, she reasoned. Nothing dangerous, nothing even valuable, just simple things that had to be done. Move this box here, place that scroll there. Everything seemed normal, seemed harmless. So near to the border with Eversong, nothing could ever happen to her here.

Lareena was there again. Her pretty red hair trailed all the way down to her back, a perfect straight through and through. Oh, how Veretta had always been jealous of her beautiful hair, almost as jealous of her beautiful body. More than once she’d hidden behind a box for hours and spied her superior, a trembling hand stroking herself as she eyed the hair and everything it clung to as it traveled down the lithe, delicate frame. She always secretly hoped her senior magister would catch her pleasing herself to the woman’s image, and scold her before showing Veretta the proper method for generating pleasure from her wonderfully beautiful hair, reprimand her before recommending she be made Lareena’s personal, full-body attendant. Even now the thought of being firmly wrapped around the older woman’s finger in every way held appeal such as Veretta had never even fathomed.

But she rejected her own anatomy, her own nature, and she knew Lareena would have. That fear, that anticipation of pain, always stopped her short. Perhaps today, she thought, she would have the courage.

And then the memo

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