What a Leader Must Do

What a Leader Must Do

Garrosh Walker Bushscream propped his legs up on desk before him, allowing himself the space to spread the dearth of the prestigious workspace. He was, after all, in the Oval Office. The date was September 12th, 2001, and as the American public reeled from was was to be a true cataclysm unlike they had ever faced before, Garrosh took a long puff on his cigar. This incident was his doing, after all, his new army needed a cause. Conscripting some zealots from halfway across this damnable world was far easier than fighting a battle for Azeroth.

“Cuba Corona,” the cigar label read. He had found them spirited away in a secret compartment built into one of the bookshelves. Reagan’s doing in all likelihood, as the chamber was hidden behind a hollowed out copy of Paradise Lost and Other Poems, the inside of which held a mason jar filled with fetid flesh labelled, “Communist Foreskin.”

Now was not the time to ponder the obscurities of the situation though. Garrosh ashed the rich tobacco into an ashtray that he was told was hewn from the spinal column of Benedict Arnold. Traitors, Garrosh knew all too well the fate of a traitor. So far everything had gone as per Kairoz’s script. Allying with the warlords of Draenor would have been too volatile and isolated millions of loyal soldiers with big promises and questionable follow through. But these United States of America, Garrosh had never even dreamed of military might to this scale. The heart of Y’shraaj was but a child’s breath when compared to these “Nuclear Bombs,” that his chief of staff, Joshua Nazgrim briefed him on. So far the True Horde’s infiltration of the United States government had been seamless. Apparently a cultist group known as the “Scientologists” had attempted something similar decades ago, but was found out. President Bushscream knew better than to reuse a played out plot device that would alienate his constituency, Karoz’s plan was perfect. He construct a Dark Portal in Oklahoma and use the United States Military to launch a full scale offensive against the Burning Legion. He had tracked the dreadlord Tichondrius to Afghanistan, he knew his time to invade was rapidly approaching. A prayer of thanks was uttered under the President’s breath that it was not Varimathras he was facing.

He strolled over to the mirror to admire the disguise. By using the flesh of the deceased president George Bush, along with some foam from a local hobby store, he was indistinguishable from the man whose flesh he wore like a skin tight leotard. At that moment the door to the Oval Office became enveloped in ice. Garrosh immediately brandished Gorehowl from the tactical compartment in his butt cheeks. “What trickery is this?! Reveal yourself and face me like a real Warchi- President!” A mage blinked into the room. Her hair was done up in a cropped, russet colored style and her black pantsuit screamed, “marijuana is a gateway to heroin.” Unmistakably, this was his wife, Laura. The Perplexed President had not recalled this human to be a mage however. His instincts kicked in and President Bushscream leaped with every iota of fury his orcish blood could summon onto the archmage before him.

“It’s always the same with you,” the intruder spoke coldly. With a wave of her hand, a krakenesque appendage of ice careened Garrosh into the floor, severely scraping the centuries-old finish. “For as much of a psychopath as you are, I find it hard to believe you’d forget me,” the false Laura continued. Another tentacle lashed Garrosh’s other arm to the ground, causing Gorehowl to fly wildly and affix itself to the ceiling.”Say my name you pissant.”

The veins on Garrosh’s scalp pulsated with rage as he heaved his weight into the bindings, but two more tentacles lashed his chest to the floor panels. “PROUDMOOOOO-” Warchief Bushscream was cut short by a tentacle forcing itself down his throat. His costume was in ruins, the brown flesh of his chest lay bare at the mercy of Laura Bush... no, his rage gave way to one name, “Proudmoore.” The name wormed its way into the most loathsome recesses of his brain.

Jaina removed the mask, exposing her ragged ragged white locks and bloodshot eyes. Her lips curled upwards to expose clenched, frothing teeth. The freezing mists around her stung at his eyes like the mists of Pandaria, freezing the snot in his nostrils like the wind ripping through Warsong Hold. Two more tentacles pulled Garrosh’s legs apart until his pants were in tatters. The frigid mist was stinging on his butthole. The icy tentacle in his throat began to thrust. He could feel his throat bulging in a synchronized rhythmic pattern.

Garrosh once again felt powerless. Twice, he had his army, and twice it meant nothing in the face of overwhelming force. He couldn’t feel anger anymore, in this moment, the President felt acceptance. Jaina, on the other hand, felt the molten core of hatred in her heart erupt as she froze Garrosh’s penis in a localized ice block. She would have him, alas she would have him, the prey now the hunter. “You downgraded, pissant. Orgrimmar was miles more impressive than this milquetoast pigsty.” She tore the original Gilbert Stuart 1796 portrait of George Washington off of the mantle and admired it. “Do you know who this is Garrosh? This is a real leader, a man who lead with force, not subjugation, grace, not rage. This man is everything you failed to be.” Garrosh’s attempts at rebuttal were futile. “At least you can pretend to be a real leader,” Jaina broke the portrait over Garrosh’s head. Washington’s head was cleanly replaced with the Warchief’s.

He felt the heel of Jaina’s stiletto bury itself into him gum line through his cheek. He couldn’t see through the obstruction of the portrait but a frigid invader lapped at the entrance to his Ragefire Chasm. The woman lorded above him, imposing the brunt of her wrath into his pulsating throat. He had to frantically breathe through his nose to stop himself from losing consciousness. “I am Theramore’s vengeance incarnate, Garrosh,” proclaimed Jaina as she cast her most sinister incantation yet. She stripped off her pants and from her pelvis formed a glacial phallus. Garroshe’s eyes widened, though the siege on his esophagus did not let up. The icy imitation had to be over a foot long and thicker than his considerable wrists.

He had no time to marvel at the size of the glacial member as an freezing wet tentacle forced itself into his anus. Two more erupted from the air and started massaging his nipples. Garrosh’s mind went blank. He was taught, no, he lived by the notion of, “death before dishonor.” How would he face his ancestors after being laid bare by a human, the most detestable pinkskin of all, Jaina Proudmoore masquerading as his fake wife? His only option was to submit to the torture like the prisoner of war he was.

Through the pounding of his anus, he could feel the wrath of the Lich King once again, the deathly touch and aura of hopelessness were overshadowed by a new feeling. Waves of ecstacy shot tough Buschream’s nervous system like a crossbow volley. This shameful denigration of one of his venerated bloodline was… erotic. He bucked his hips as Jaina’s tentacles tunneled deeper into his rectum. The glacier around his cock was become an obstruction, he could feed his arousal building and that witch Proudmoore was denying him release.

The irony was not lost on Garrosh as he felt the tentacle pull out of his ass and the pounding in his throat ceased. Jaina struck Garrosh across the face with her icy rod, “I’m going to turn you from the True Horde to the True Whore,” Jaina promised as she pushed her cryo-cock up against Garrosh’s gaping asshole. Before he had time to process the change he felt Jaina’s tongue cross the length of his once virgin hole. The archmage’s tongue slowly worked and undulated through his depths, caressing every inch of his anus with a forceful skillfulness that could only come from a lifetime of eating ass. Garrosh tried to buck his hips but the tentacles kept him in place, he was her plaything. Just as he dominated Pandaria he would dominated all the same.

As swiftly as it began, the rimming ceased. Now, Garrosh accepted what was inevitable. All of Jaina’s hatred, sorrow, regrets, erupted into the anus of the defeated orc warlord before her. All the demons of Antorus could not match the burning crusade Jaina’s cock was waging inside the asshole of Garrosh. His prostate greeted each pistonesque thrust of Jaina’s titanic ice cock with a resounding blast of pleasure. The tentacle in his throat resumed it’s dance, further humilitating the orc. He was no president, he was no leader, he was a slave, and this woman’s cock was the blood of Mannoroth.

He felt the need to cum well deep inside his soul and began roaring in ecstacy and pain. “You’re wittle cock hurt you fucking pussy?,” whispered Jaina as the length of her shaft continued to abuse the orc’s hole. She looked him dead in the eye, the portrait of George Washington only adding to the immense satisfaction she felt in this moment. “Then beg your mistress,” she cooed as the tentacle slid from Garrosh’s mouth, “tell me that you’re a dirty slut that needs to nut.”  His pride as an orc, his pride as a warchief, his pride as a president were long gone. Garrosh’s mind went blank as he wailed with a fervor that would make even the most decorated Warsong veteran shudder, “I AM A DIRTY SLUT WHO NEEDS TO NUT!” In that instant the ice melted off his cock. The thick ropes of cum that erupted from his cock splattered all over the blade of Gorehowl, further desecrating the once proud memory of Grommash.

“Your turn bitchboy,” Jaina dressed herself and turned to face Garrosh, releasing the bonds, “I’ll see you in Iraq.” With that she vanished. Garrosh inched to his desk and picked up the phone. “Colin, it’s Dubya, you hear Saddam’s got WMD’s?”

FIN