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Failure was not something that the Horde could tolerate – not now, when so much was at stake. Such had to be swiftly and harshly dealt with – any weakness, perceived or otherwise, could foster dissent in an already tumultuous time. And the Horde – well, it was not soft and *permissive* like the Alliance. No, such unacceptable *failure* was to be made an example of, to push the masses to obey, to work harder to achieve the goals the warmachine worked so tirelessly towards. And here, now, Nathanos was the adjudicator, the arbiter of punishment for you.
The operative had been under his orders, after all. It was *his* problem to deal with.
He had not, however, expected exactly how much *enjoyment* he would be taking from this… *little example.*
Stripped of all raiments and made to walk on all fours like a *good little mongrel*, Nathanos led the operative along on a lash of leather knotted about you’s neck. He savoured the *delectable* rouge burning upon those cheeks – ah, the embarrassment and humiliation was… palpable. Finally, in the middle of the war camp, Nathanos delivered the *mongrel’s* leash a rough tug, lurching the *failure* forward roughly. Reaching down, he seized a fistful of hair to yank you’s head roughly backwards, forcing the operative to look at the gathered crowd.
“Hearken, soldiers of the Horde,” Nathanos called, casting his eerie golden gaze about the assembled folk of the war camp. Some faces were amused, some blank, some showing a blatant discomfort with the spectacle… a few, he noted, even appeared aroused. Just as he was. “This is what happens to those who *fail* in their mission! Who bring *shame* to our Dark Lady! We do not tolerate failure. We are the *HORDE.* We get results.”
His voice tapered off into a hiss of disdain as Nathanos’ shifted his attention down towards you, squirming in his grasp. “Now, *mongrel*, you learn your place.” The Forsaken’s gloved hand trailed up to grip you’s jaw at the hinge, squeezing hard to force the wretch’s mouth open. “Disgrace. Utter disgrace. Such a useless waste of breath.” With a low, ominous chuckle, Nathanos took a moment to let the tension fester, and then, parted his own lips, spitting a thick wad of saliva right into you’s mouth. "Swallow it, wretch." The Ranger’s tone grew husky, his awareness brought to the fact that he was *throbbing* fucking hard in his trousers. He was glad, in that moment, for his gambeson’s length, to cover the evidence of his straining arousal from view. The urge to reach down and cup himself – give his cock a few teasing strokes, just to find a bit of relief – was strong, though he resisted. Now was not the time.
Such sweet suffering. No less than what you deserved. Roughly – though with a note of reluctance – Nathanos released you’s face and hair, folding his arms across his chest. *That face. Made to take such torment. That body… hm. How can I ruin it…?* “If there are any among you that would… *help* the mongrel learn the consequences of such failure, come forth.”
Yes. Let the masses have their fun. Humiliate you, it would only stoke his desire. He, of course, reserved the right to inflict whatever he wished upon the operative in the interim – and then… well, the public spectacle would be done and over with. All the while, though, Nathanos’ mind raced with all the wicked prospects for a far more… *private* humiliation for you. *That* was what he truly looked forward to – a chance to be as debauched and depraved as he wished, in the privacy of his own tent…
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