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

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 he